You could see it in her eyes, the way she looked away, shifting her gaze toward the village square, the place where it all happened. She had surely told the story many, many times over the years — first to family, then to friends, then to others outside her immediate circle, and finally to the trickle of tourists who make their way to this place, people who, like me, come here to El Mozote with a mix of anticipation and trepidation — eager to learn, but afraid of the things we will be told. As she recited the story, her mouth speaking the words mechanically, running through the terrible facts and figures and the well-established storyline, those eyes still bore the sadness… [read more]