Gaby Oshiro

Gaby Oshiro was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and grew up in Treviso, Italy. Gaby got her love for visual arts and music from her parents. After fine arts school in Treviso, Italy, she started her own research through music, painting, and macrophotography and merging it all together in art installations. She is always looking for that elusive hidden beauty that can’t be seen with the naked eye. Check her website and blog.

Updated March 2016

politics es

Takashi - Parte 1

La noche del 21 de abril de 1977, catorce hombres armados vestidos de civil invadieron el estudio de abogacía de mi padre Oscar Takashi Oshiro y de su socio Enrique Gastón Courtade. Los obligaron a subirse a un Ford Falcon y arrancaron para un rumbo desconocido y sin retorno.

Aquella misma noche mi mamá, Beba, como todos la llamaban, mi hermano Leonardo y quién escribe estas líneas estábamos en el octavo piso de un departamento ubicado de la Avenida Acoyte 222, en el barrio porteño de Caballito. Algo estaba hirviendo en la cocina; la mesa estaba lista para la cena …

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politics en ja pt

Desaparecidos Nikkei: Reappeared in the Argentinian Conscience - Part 2

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My family went through a difficult time. It’s not like you could go to the police and ask for their help in finding my father; they were complicit with state terrorism. I am not sure how my mom did it all, but she managed to find other relatives of desaparecidos. She would leave during the day and come back late at night. My grandmother Teresa and I would keep looking through the window shutters, waiting to hear my mom’s car so we could go downstairs to help open the heavy metal garage door for her. …

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politics en ja pt

Desaparecidos Nikkei: Reappeared in the Argentinian Conscience - Part 1

On the night of April 21, 1977, fourteen armed men wearing civilian clothes went to my dad’s office and took him and another lawyer. They put him in the back of a Ford Falcon (the chosen cars of the military/police) and they sped off—that is what some witnesses said.

That evening my mom Beba, my little brother Leonardo, and I were in our eighth-floor apartment on Acoyte Avenue. Something was boiling on the stove. The table was set, but I don’t remember having dinner that night. There was something going on. My mother was nervous and she was not saying …

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