In Argentina, activists of all ages are working to keep the memory of past human rights abuses alive, as the older generation of activists, known as the Mothers of the Disappeared, gradually pass on their roles. These women, who lost children during the country's military dictatorship in the 1970s and 1980s, have long been central to the fight for justice and remembrance. A key question remains: can the memory of such painful events stay strong when the people who first carried it are no longer present? Ana Paula Balacrini, an 80-year-old activist, walks on May Square with a cane decorated with a ribbon in the colors of the Argentine flag. She has been marching with her companions every Thursday for more than fifteen years. In her home, 15 kilometers from the capital, there is a room dedicated to the history of the Mothers of the Disappeared. Ana Paula shares these stories with her family, friends, and younger generations. She often speaks with young people, such as at her grandson's football club, and proudly shows a photo of him, who joins her whenever possible. Her focus is on the younger generation, especially Hebe, a six-month-old baby named in honor of the Mothers' leader. Ana Paula smiles at Hebe and takes her hand. Hebe's mother, Jessie, has brought her to these gatherings since she was just 1.5 months old. Jessie is a member of the Mothers' University and believes that some things are experienced rather than taught. She hopes Hebe will grow up to be a militant, learning to fight and understand the world. Jessie adjusts her baby carrier and begins the march, rocking her child. Hebe, unknowingly, carries the legacy of her mother's words: "I believe in a fertile memory, a memory lived in the present, never frozen in the past." At the end of the march, the group gathers near a pavilion. A man takes the microphone, and despite the sound being too loud, no one seems to mind. Maïté, 20, listens intently. She has been a militant since she was 15, initially involved in the fight for the legalization of abortion but soon realized that each struggle leads to another. She explains that she feels a duty to engage with a government that does not grant essential human rights. Although none of her family members were affected by the dictatorship, she feels personally connected. She believes that if she had lived during that time, she or her peers could have disappeared. For her, memory is transmitted not only in the streets but also through culture, including music, cinema, and social media. However, she notes that screens can inform but often overwhelm the mind, spreading more hate and individualism than a sense of belonging. She wants young people to look up and be present in the real world, not just on screens. Despite this, she remains hopeful about her generation, stating that the Argentine people never sleep. This Thursday is another example of that resilience. Even if they are few today, they are there, and they will be there tomorrow. This fragile hope may be where the fight continues. On May Square, the suffering people are everywhere. A banner reads, "The lack of work is a crime," held by all the activists with one hand. While this weekly march remains that of the Mothers, it has also become a gathering for an entire people, exhausted from fighting, forced to survive in a country that has been eroded by economic and social crises for too long. A weakened but optimistic people: "Here, there is only love, never hate," says Ana Paula before taking the train back home.