The Eternaut: How its creator chose violence and was made a saint by the K

In Argentina of convenient myths, few have been as dangerously exalted as Héctor Germán Oesterheld. Creator of El Eternauta, a brilliant author and talented screenwriter, yes. But also: propagandist of subversion, organic intellectual of Montoneros and a key figure in the construction of a violent narrative that pushed an entire generation into the abyss of Marxist guerrilla.

Far from being a mere artist persecuted for his art, Oesterheld was an ideological operator. In the 70s, when Argentina was burning between bombs, attacks, and kidnappings, he did not hesitate to put his pen at the service of the bloodiest armed organization in the country's recent history.

He wrote pamphlets for Montoneros, celebrated armed struggle, and actively campaigned in favor of a totalitarian project that dreamed of taking power by force. That was not a mistake, it was a choice.

But in the country of the narrative, Oesterheld ended up becoming a martyr. How? Thanks to Kirchnerism, which in its eagerness to monopolize the past, made this radicalized militant a “symbol of popular resistance.”

The same Kirchnerism that rewrote the 70s as a struggle between revolutionary angels and military demons, whitewashed Oesterheld's Montonero past and transformed him into a perfect victim for the altar of the “30,000.”

Nothing is said in that hagiography about the fact that Oesterheld chose to involve his own daughters in the armed organization. All four ended up dead. The family tragedy was not an imposition of “state terrorism” as is mechanically said, but a direct consequence of a suicidal militancy that fed on class hatred, Guevarist delusion, and the epic of useful death. Where was the responsible writer? The protective father? He was writing for the guerrilla.

And now, in 2025, comes the Netflix series. With the blessed seal of global political correctness and the approval of local progressivism, El Eternauta returns, not as a work of science fiction, but as another vehicle for the whitewashing of the armed left.

In this version, the character Juan Salvo is an allegory of the just militant, the one who resists absolute evil (the “Them”), which could well be “the military,” “the liberals,” or any form of order that prevents the advance of the revolutionary paradise.

The series is not art: it's propaganda. There is no context, no debate, no responsibility. The Oesterheld they want to sell us is that of the victim writer, censored, kidnapped for thinking. It is never mentioned that he chose to be in hiding, that he contributed to the Montoneros machinery, that his words fueled the armed struggle. The narrative erases everything, conveniently.

This is how the Kirchnerist memory industry works: with screenwriters who died by the weapons they applauded, with young people who “dreamed” and planted bombs, with parents who led their daughters to death and were later canonized. And now, with producers who turn that into streaming series to export the myth to the world.

Oesterheld was not innocent. He was an ideologue of violence who used fiction as a battlefield. His figure should be remembered not as that of the tragic hero, but as a warning: intelligence doesn't vaccinate against fanaticism, and the pen can also kill.