The AMIA (Argentine-Israeli Mutual Association) building on calle Pasteur 633 is probably the most secure structure in Buenos Aires. Its only presence on the street is a high reinforced concrete wall and two blast-proof steel doors. On the other side of the wall, past the security guards and metal detectors, is a tranquil courtyard.

Afternoon sun slides through the first fresh leaves of spring, mottling shadows over a group gathered around a radio transmitter in the gardens of the psychiatric hospital J.T. Borda. Patients, health professionals, visitors and musicians sit on yellow plastic beer stools under the trees, the grim concrete buildings of the hospital squatting prison-like behind.

“The massacre is a nail in the heart of the country until it comes to light,” says Francisco Nazar. He looks directly at me, not scared to speak out about the killings that have been virtually covered up for the past 60 years.

Every year, 19 million women and girls worldwide face the deadly consequences of unsafe abortion. Nearly 70,000 of these women will die, and hundreds of thousands will be left with debilitating injuries as a result.

Winter 1972. The dictatorship of Lanusse is slowly losing its grip on power, and protests by left-wing organisations, trade unionists and students are becoming more and more frequent. The call for elections and a return to democracy is getting louder, and the country increasingly polarised.

Numbers are sometimes such a hard thing to work out. So abstract, so lost in translation that they seem hard to comprehend in a practical way. What does half a million people really mean? How can we imagine that amount? We couldn’t possibly picture each single person and we would have to settle for a blurred impression of a big mass.

Saturday 21st April: as was his routine, Eduardo Córdoba left home for a rehearsal with the Bolivian folk music group Sikiri Sartanani. On this particular Saturday however, Eduardo was never to make it back home. Later, following a non-violent altercation of words with a bus driver, he was shot and killed at the doors of his local police station.

A slogan that has been oft-used in Argentina in recent times is ‘Nunca Más’ or ‘Never Again’, whether referring to the disappeared victims of the military dictatorship or the horrendous loss of life in the Cromañon nightclub fire, and this same sentiment is the raison d’être of one museum in Buenos Aires.

With the daily bustle of writing news roundups and reviews, it is often easy to forget people have died for journalism. Thirty years ago, on 25th March 1977, journalist Rodolfo Walsh was shot dead in the street one day after he had penned the ‘Open Letter to the Military Junta’.

1974. The height of the turbulent years of the early 1970s, where left-wing and right-wing factions with polarised ideologies clashed regularly. A left-wing trade unionist, 27-year-old Ramón Pablo Videla, is arrested. In the ensuing years he will be tortured, lose his wife to a brutal military dictatorship, and eventually regain his freedom after a decade in jail.