In a quiet corridor of a Chilean coastal city, the story of stolen childhoods is still unfolding. Kyle Adler, now 36, realized that the child he thought he was had been absconded from his birth mother, Ana Maria Navarrete, when he was 9 months old. For years, his sense of self was fractured—he could tell he had been adopted, but only the mystery of where he truly came from would ever reach a satisfying conclusion.
Adler was raised in a wealthy Chicago suburb by his adoptive parents, Mike and Connie, who loved him as their own. They kept no record of the circumstances that had led to his adoption, and only after their deaths in 2022 did Adler pursue questions that now touch another world entirely.
His inquiry began in 2017 when he stumbled upon the Facebook group “Nos Buscamos” (We Search) while searching online for “Chilean birth mom search.” The group’s founder, Constanza Del Rio, confirmed that Chile had lost more than 20,000 children through illegal adoption programs, many of whom were taken from poor and indigenous households. The Pinochet regime, Power‑less Indigenous people and the impoverished were specifically targeted as part of a broader strategy to erase dissenting communities.
The first clues came from Navarrete’s own memory: a 19‑year‑old single mother in Coronel, an industrial town 319 mi south of Santiago, who signed her son’s birth certificate as Marcos Antonio Navarrete. Flexible employment had forced her to let a caregiver, hired to keep the infant while she worked nights at a fish shop, give him to a priest. The priest, acting on a network that included adoption agencies, judges, nurses, and immigration officials, arranged for him to be taken away by an American couple.
Navarrete never received a face‐to‑face apology or restitution; “those years after were some of the worst years of my life,” she told the AP. The injustice, she explains, was never prosecuted and remains a stain on Chile’s history.
At the time, Adler was an overachiever craving purpose. The shock of legally “owned” status forced him into an emotional upheaval that required “years of therapy.” In 2022, though, he felt ready to finally chase his past.
DNA tests from MyHeritage, the Israeli genealogy firm that partners with Nos Buscamos and Connecting Roots, proved a match between Adler and Navarrete, who is now 56 in Santiago. The test “made it official” and gave both a tangible link to a broken heritage.
Connecting Roots, founded by Tyler Graf, a fellow adoptee who had himself reunited with his birth mother late in life, has worked with Hernandez to bring more adoptees under the radar. Graf’s mission has become a personal crusade: “Now it’s time to mend these families and bring everyone back home so they can see where they came from.”
The day the two finally met, March 15, 2026, was a bittersweet ceremony of tears, shared myths, and the blazing light of hope. They both wore white as a sign of renewal. Adler slipped his face into his mother’s hair, a gesture of reclamation that echoed the sounds of ‘chi’–the long wind that genealogical scholars say once charmed the spirits of pre‑colonial peoples. Navarrete noted that in Miami she was “so happy to be finally meeting him, my dream has finally come true” while also acknowledging that the reunion rekindled the pain of decades of loss.
During the week they spent together—at the beach in Coronel, the hospital where Adler was born, and the house from which he was taken—they collected a copy of his birth certificate and met his siblings. In Santiago, they toured the items that had survived since the day of his birth: a framed graduation diploma, childhood photographs, and a pair of baby shoes that had survived years of neglect.
Language did not impede the connection. Connecting Roots hired a translator, and with the help of modern apps the conversation continues beyond the Paris‑Cox border, allowing Nk Native Staples to hear their voice and sign the “Voice of the Indigenous” at the UN’s Human Rights forums.
The legal battle, however, remains unresolved. Human rights lawyer Jimmy Lippert Thyden González, himself a victim, is preparing a lawsuit that could reach the Inter‑American Court of Human Rights. The Chile government has remained silent, but Navarrete is working with a law firm to seek criminal charges for those involved—expecting jail time for the facilitators of her son’s abduction.
This reunion, like many that have yet to happen, represents more than a family. It speaks to a collective right of remembrance for indigenous communities that continue to heal the ghosts of a dark dictatorship. Crisis of identity, forced separation and the public denial of truth have rippled across generations.
Kathryn L. Galeon, an indigenous scholar in Chile, says: “Reconnecting our children to the land and the people who raised them is both a cultural and spiritual imperative. When they come back, we heal; when we let them go, we die.” In Adler’s case, the hope is that the next decade will bring the full restoration of family ties and a re‑affirmation of indigenous rights in Chile’s new political climate.
As he was told when the flight landed in Santiago: “I’m not just the son you lost; I’m the son you found. I’m back to being your son.” For Admiral and his mother, that means more than the tearful farewell by the arrivals gate. It signals a new dawn where stolen children find their roots, indigenous justice is declared, and stories of loss are finally let into the light of shared community memory.
Adler was raised in a wealthy Chicago suburb by his adoptive parents, Mike and Connie, who loved him as their own. They kept no record of the circumstances that had led to his adoption, and only after their deaths in 2022 did Adler pursue questions that now touch another world entirely.
His inquiry began in 2017 when he stumbled upon the Facebook group “Nos Buscamos” (We Search) while searching online for “Chilean birth mom search.” The group’s founder, Constanza Del Rio, confirmed that Chile had lost more than 20,000 children through illegal adoption programs, many of whom were taken from poor and indigenous households. The Pinochet regime, Power‑less Indigenous people and the impoverished were specifically targeted as part of a broader strategy to erase dissenting communities.
The first clues came from Navarrete’s own memory: a 19‑year‑old single mother in Coronel, an industrial town 319 mi south of Santiago, who signed her son’s birth certificate as Marcos Antonio Navarrete. Flexible employment had forced her to let a caregiver, hired to keep the infant while she worked nights at a fish shop, give him to a priest. The priest, acting on a network that included adoption agencies, judges, nurses, and immigration officials, arranged for him to be taken away by an American couple.
Navarrete never received a face‐to‑face apology or restitution; “those years after were some of the worst years of my life,” she told the AP. The injustice, she explains, was never prosecuted and remains a stain on Chile’s history.
At the time, Adler was an overachiever craving purpose. The shock of legally “owned” status forced him into an emotional upheaval that required “years of therapy.” In 2022, though, he felt ready to finally chase his past.
DNA tests from MyHeritage, the Israeli genealogy firm that partners with Nos Buscamos and Connecting Roots, proved a match between Adler and Navarrete, who is now 56 in Santiago. The test “made it official” and gave both a tangible link to a broken heritage.
Connecting Roots, founded by Tyler Graf, a fellow adoptee who had himself reunited with his birth mother late in life, has worked with Hernandez to bring more adoptees under the radar. Graf’s mission has become a personal crusade: “Now it’s time to mend these families and bring everyone back home so they can see where they came from.”
The day the two finally met, March 15, 2026, was a bittersweet ceremony of tears, shared myths, and the blazing light of hope. They both wore white as a sign of renewal. Adler slipped his face into his mother’s hair, a gesture of reclamation that echoed the sounds of ‘chi’–the long wind that genealogical scholars say once charmed the spirits of pre‑colonial peoples. Navarrete noted that in Miami she was “so happy to be finally meeting him, my dream has finally come true” while also acknowledging that the reunion rekindled the pain of decades of loss.
During the week they spent together—at the beach in Coronel, the hospital where Adler was born, and the house from which he was taken—they collected a copy of his birth certificate and met his siblings. In Santiago, they toured the items that had survived since the day of his birth: a framed graduation diploma, childhood photographs, and a pair of baby shoes that had survived years of neglect.
Language did not impede the connection. Connecting Roots hired a translator, and with the help of modern apps the conversation continues beyond the Paris‑Cox border, allowing Nk Native Staples to hear their voice and sign the “Voice of the Indigenous” at the UN’s Human Rights forums.
The legal battle, however, remains unresolved. Human rights lawyer Jimmy Lippert Thyden González, himself a victim, is preparing a lawsuit that could reach the Inter‑American Court of Human Rights. The Chile government has remained silent, but Navarrete is working with a law firm to seek criminal charges for those involved—expecting jail time for the facilitators of her son’s abduction.
This reunion, like many that have yet to happen, represents more than a family. It speaks to a collective right of remembrance for indigenous communities that continue to heal the ghosts of a dark dictatorship. Crisis of identity, forced separation and the public denial of truth have rippled across generations.
Kathryn L. Galeon, an indigenous scholar in Chile, says: “Reconnecting our children to the land and the people who raised them is both a cultural and spiritual imperative. When they come back, we heal; when we let them go, we die.” In Adler’s case, the hope is that the next decade will bring the full restoration of family ties and a re‑affirmation of indigenous rights in Chile’s new political climate.
As he was told when the flight landed in Santiago: “I’m not just the son you lost; I’m the son you found. I’m back to being your son.” For Admiral and his mother, that means more than the tearful farewell by the arrivals gate. It signals a new dawn where stolen children find their roots, indigenous justice is declared, and stories of loss are finally let into the light of shared community memory.
