By Sister Ann Rita Centeno

A poor mother in a Chilean barrio shares her grief with the author.

I wish I could forget that evening of September 4, but how can I? Early that morning Manolito was in a good spirits. He wanted to watch a football match of his favorite team on television but since there was no electricity in our area he asked permission to watch it at his sister’s house, which was only a block away. He washed himself – my Manolito liked to be neat and clean always- combed his curly black hair and was just ready to leave the house when he asked me, Mommy could I used you jacket tonight? ‘ But you have your own jacket,’ I replied. But he insisted and so I let him have his way. ‘And Mommy,’ with a big smile, ‘Id liked to borrow your rubber shoes too,’ How could I refuse him?

And so off he went, my fine-looking boy, clean and well groomed and merry as a cricket. He was picking his best friend across the street and the two of them were going to watch the match.

I remember Manolito telling me, ‘I wont be long, Mommy, so don’t go to bed without waiting for me.’ You see, every night before going to bed, my little boy would put his arms around me and kiss me and tell me with great confidence,’ when I grow up I’ll look for a job and then you wont have to be selling candy in the marketplace every day, Mommy.’

There were some young boys at he street corner that evening and Manolito and his friend, Jorge, stopped to greet them, singing a song with them as they were went to do. But Manolito never finished his song. Suddenly, from nowhere, there were the sound of gunfire and Manolito, my lovely Manolito fell to the ground, dead. A bullet had gone to his left eye.

My treasure is gone. My son, my pride, my joy is dead. Why? Oh, why? Why he had to die? He was so young, so innocent, so full of life. He was so good-looking, and always well groom. No one saw my little boy go to school untidy. He would always get me to press his shirt and pants. For the Independence Day Celebration in September I always bought him new cloths and shoes. He always so smart my lovely son.

On the spot where he fell dead, the people have made an animita (a little shrine) for him. It is made of cement and blue tiles. People have come to that shrine to ask favors of my Manolito, and it seems that he has helped them. I find some money offering and letters of gratitude left in the box at the shrine. And look at the flowers, sister, aren’t they beautiful? And the lighted candles, so many of them. I don’t know who lights the candles but Manolito’s shrine is always aglow.

I have this constant pain in my heart. At night I see his face, and I hear him saying, ‘Mommy, Mommy when I finish my studies you won’t work so hard.’ My husband, you see, left me when Manolito was just a year old. He left me with nothing. I didn’t have bread to feed my children. Anna was five and Elsa was three when my husband fell in love with another woman and decided to live with her. When he left, all we had was a bed and a makeshift room. When it rained we were drenched to the bone. I remember feeding my children with toasted flour mixed with water and that was all we had for a days and days until a neighbor found me a job working with a family.

I had to put my children in an orphanage. The two girls stayed there all the time but I collected Manolito every night coming from work. I was four years working with this family when I decided to sell candy in the market. I have a little basket and I go around the market everyday selling sweets. Every morning before I leave the room, I fall on my knees and pray to God to help me sell all the candies so that I’ll have the money to buy bread for my children. I know that God listen to me because I always come home after selling everything in my basket.

Manolito is little my treasure, my love, my all, he is gone. The pain that is in my heart, how can I take it away? I couldn’t even help him when he was lying there all over covered with blood. The police wouldn’t come. Emergency clinics are forbidden to send out ambulances to rescue victims. My God, why did he have to die? He was innocent. He was singing and dancing, my lovely boy, and all he wanted was to watch a game on television. My heart is bleeding and I can’t stop it. He is gone forever; my Manolito, and I will never see him again.

‘Iris,’ I said your little boy lives in the heart of those who are unafraid to walk with the poor. Your manolito, your little pearl, your treasure, gives strength to all of us who are struggling here to give birth to the Risen Lord in the midst of violence.’

My hands, clasping hers, have become wet with the tears falling down in her cheeks.

Sr. Ann Rita Centeno, from the Philippine, is a Columban Missionary in Chile.