English Script Request

Underneath the brilliant bloom of this self-consciously European city, with its wide boulevards, its elegant double-doored mansions, its flower stalls scenting every corner, was the stench of corruption and of fear.
The many television channels, apart from military music and messages, showed only steamy soaps and when you hit hopefully on a passionate discussion program, it was always and only about football.
Soldiers in elaborate dress uniforms, marched round in what seemed like an endless changing of the guard.
Whenever I was there, there always seemed to be a ceremony of blessing for them by Catholic clerics at the metropolitan cathedral in the corner.
There, among the gorgeous uniforms of a corrupt regime and the equally gorgeous and glistening vestments of a compliant official church, the only symbols of truth and justice were the white head-scarfed figures of the "Mothers of the Disappeared", running the gauntlet of the military every day, walking round and round with dog-eared photographs, to bear silent witness to their abducted loved ones.
"New blood and the new world would win," they said grandly. They had branches of Harrod's, of Claridge's. I stood down at the docks in Buenos Aires, late one evening, and I watched as the first Argentine prisoners released by the British made a firth(?) of return home.
I'd seen them go to war, all bands and blue and white flags and cheering families. They came home, unfated(?), heads down, were hurried onto buses and were driven away.