Moving On, Never Forgetting

            I felt a sense of hope burning within me for the first time in months as I walked briskly against the night air, my friend Mercedes at my side. The sky was clear, and dreams seemed to be taking flight, even as we approached that crowded area of the Plaza of Three Cultures. Instantly, we both recognized numerous friends and acquaintances, and wasted no time before delving into many different conversations.

            “Do you really think they’ll listen to us, Pedro?” Carlos asked me, smiling, even though his eyes expressed a different emotion, “After all this time of tuning us out-you really think that they’ll take into consideration our grievances?”

            I shrugged my shoulders slightly, unable to give an answer. No one spoke for a time after that, each thinking silently about whatever weighed on their minds.

             October 2, 1968 (the eve of the Olympic) could possibly be an end of protesting for all the many students of Mexico, including myself, who had set out at the beginning of that year to seek social reform in the country. The government had, up until now, denied us even a simple hearing-except for when they ruthlessly killed some of us, accusing them of “communist conspiracy”. It was absurd, but their violent retaliation only added fuel to our fire-we became even more determined to fight for justice in our own country. As college students, we felt that we were on top of the world; invincible. Nothing could deter our resolve, and, after the “murders”, even more people joined us, from other students to the Mexican working class. Our cause became stronger, and, as a result, we had finally achieved a meeting with the government officials-they were going to listen to our pleas. Tonight was our night.

            After some more idle chit-chat, the mass of people began to quiet down upon seeing a man step up onto a platform. Our eyes focused, locking onto the nicely dressed official—he seemed to return our stares with a placid grin, which held no real feeling. I could see behind his plastered mask that he was terrified of something: us perhaps.

            “Ladies and gentleman, I welcome you all tonight. This is your time to speak, and we will listen.” The man glanced around, as if expecting something, but then continued, “I know you have fought for a long time now, and we have not listened… but we’re here now, and our ears are opened wide…”

            He was sweating profusely now, and I could clearly see his eyes darting here and there. He was shifting uncomfortably. People began to rapidly interrogate him, throwing their burdens out and exclaiming their grief. We all began to join in, shouting for reform and asking for the Americans to be kicked out from the Dominican Republic, which they had invaded earlier in the year. Our voices rose into the air, mingling with those long sought dreams.

            We were united then; bonded together by a common goal and a prospective future.

            How suddenly the shouts evolved into screams, and how soon the loud ringing of gunfire muffled them. I could see them descending all around us, weapons aimed into the peaceful crowd. One by one, our numbers fell, and chaos reigned over my mind.

            “Carlos!” I heard Mercedes voice, its shrill and terrified tone piercing to my soul, etching forever into my mind, “Carlos, what’s happening!” She clung to me, but I could not speak. I only looked at her and began to run, dragging her behind.

            I’d never seen so much crimson before—it stained everything. And still, the sounds of gunfire continued, bullets whizzing everywhere around me. I ran as fast as my legs could possibly afford to take me, never letting go of Mercedes trembling hand.

            Zip.

            I heard a bullet strike behind me and a pained scream, choked out before it could ever fully form. Mercedes hand also slipped from mine, and I knew what had happened. Turning around, I was met with my worst fears, as her body now lay crumpled lifelessly on the ground. I stooped over, trying to force something from her motionless lips, but nothing came. Mercedes was dead.

            And then a thought struck me—hundreds of students like myself had been killed before under the pretense they were conspirators. Could this be the same case? A government trap, luring us here, only to extinguish our flames of hope?

            But now, more than anything, I had to escape. I had to get out of there alive. Once again I took to running, pushing through a mass of terrified people. A mass that was rapidly dwindling as more and more fell by the second.

            God’s hand must have guided me out from the depths of that hell, as I soon found myself standing running down the street, too afraid to look back and determined to keep moving forward. And even when I had run far away, I could still hear the noises—those terrible, bone chilling noises. And only then did I realize that I was alone—none of my friends were there with me.

            From there I went home, and all I could do was climb into bed and cry. Right then, only sleep would bring me peace.