Humor Amid Pain

Two nights ago I took the twenty minute walk into the town of Acteal from the Maya Vinic compound, on the outskirts of the same town. The views looking northwest to peak after peak in these highlands of Chiapas were breathtaking, as the sun was going down and the clouds began to alight with various oranges, yellows, and reds. I finally came upon the sacred ground along the main road where the monument to those 45 women and children killed in the massacre of 1997. The monument, as I mentioned before, took the form of a candle, whose melting wax formed the ghostly bodies of those killed. Apparently, it was fashioned after one presented in Tiananmen Square to honor those killed in that massacre in China.
I walked down a steep flight of stairs to a leveled piece of land along the slope. There was an open auditorium, with five or six half-circles of concrete steps/seats, that faced a level surface where there were a couple wooden crosses and some vinyl signs hanging from the wooden frames of the tin roof above. The signs spoke of the struggle for peace and justice. As I approached a small church to the side of this amphitheater, a young man approached me. With the softest of voices and a dazzled look in his eye, he introduced himself to me and shook my hand. He asked what I was doing there and when I responded that I was only exploring and was going to pay my respects in the church, he asked if he could join.
Still a little credulous of who this guy was, I allowed him to come with me and we entered the barren church and sat there in silence for a little while. After several minutes, I got up off of my knees (there were no chairs in the church) and proceeded outside. He followed and asked me if I would like to visit the old church. I said sure, and he took me around back to the edge of the leveled land, behind the new church, where there stood a very small hut, made of wooden planks taken directly from a cut of trees, bark and all, and an earthen floor. Through a very small door we entered and sat there on a pew, taking in the surroundings.
After a little bit, the man, Manuel, began to recount the story of the day of the massacre. He pointed out to me the bullet holes that were still present in the wooden planks that made up the walls. He told me how nine of his family members had died that day. He told me how at the end of the shooting, he was buried under three of his siblings, shot through the head and chest, dying above him. I wondered if the bullet hole sized scar in his forehead was a token from that day, and whether or not this token was what now affected his soft, almost inaudible speech. Manuel told me a story of the last words that his sister spoke to him; of the two things she requested of him: to remember to smile, and to take care of his parents and those in the community. Little did she know that their parents died as well that day.
It had been a long day for me, and the emotion of my day and of Manuel's story got to me - I began to choke up with tears. As we sat there, outside the old church, standing over the beautiful scene of the sunset and the mountains, and this land where the people have been nothing but warm and welcoming to me, I wondered where such pain, misery and evil could possibly come from. Sensing my despair, Manuel pulled me close to him and we embraced for a moment. Holding true to the second favor that his sister had asked, he told me not to fret. He then told me a joke to cheer me up. That Manuel could look back on those moments in his life and have the spirit to encourage and bring cheer to another is something I will never forget. I will never forget that moment, that church, that man. I'm not exactly sure why Manuel happened to be walking in that space that day the same time as I, but I have a feeling it was no coincidence that he was there to touch my heart, and touch my life - and possibly mine his.