By ELIZABETH LUSCOMBE
Shortly after our arrival in August, my colleague Ronaldo, a witty and strikingly handsome man in his early 30s, christened me, suegra, which means mother-in-law in Spanish.
It grew to be a fitting nickname, given how many young men shared their interest in filling the role of beau or future husband to Rachel, my soon-to-be-18-year-old daughter.
Ronaldo had lived in Montreal for a year and enjoyed practicing his English with us at lunchtime; we'd met his wife and enjoyed seeing how happy they looked together.
A few weeks ago, as he left the university and walked to his parked car, Ronaldo was shot and killed.
Rachel and I, having left the building shortly after he did, were among those to find him dead. Arriving as we did, too late to render aid of any kind, we were badly shaken by the grim truth of how quickly things can be forever changed.
One week before the shooting took place, extensive work and construction began to the only road leading to the university. This made it necessary for those of us who drive to work to park our vehicles some three-quarters of a mile away, at the bottom of the hill. It was here that Rachel and I would find Ronaldo after his fatal encounter with the gunmen.
Throughout the Sierra Norte region, one sees the effects of alcohol abuse in the adult male population. Aguardiente, a moonshine made from the agave plant -- the same plant from which tequila is made -- is sold in bars and along roadside stands. Women do not customarily enter these areas or consume alcoholic beverages themselves.
On market days, many of the men accompany the women to town, gather with others to drink and can later be seen passed out along the road or walkways. Rachel and I have grown accustomed to the sight, as, unfortunately, it is a common one.
It is for this reason that we initially mistook Ronaldo for another such individual.
As we walked down the hill to our parked car that day, we encountered elementary school children gathered, talking and staring at something. We heard two women speaking in Totonaco, the indigenous language here, their voices filled with agitation and fear.
We did not realize that the man we could see lying crumpled on the ground ahead of us was not another drunken individual but Ronaldo.
As I glanced at him, one of the women said to me in Spanish, "He's already dead."
It was only then that I allowed myself a closer look and registered all that was really in front of me -- blood, his car keys, the contents of his pockets scattered a few feet away.
The woman said she'd arrived after he'd been shot and that he had asked her to please help him, but now it was too late. He'd been shot five times. Only one of the shots struck a critical area. We're told he might have lived had he received prompt attention.
We were without electricity that day, which made calling for help impossible. The woman indicated that she'd already asked someone to go alert the police and send an ambulance, but it would be some time before they arrived, both being several miles away.
Classes at the university were suspended for two days.
While it's true that incidents of this nature can, and do, happen all over the world, seemingly all of the time, it is difficult to find oneself at the actual scene, unable to shield a teenage daughter, or oneself, from the emotional trauma such a situation presents. How acutely aware we became of the physical distance that separates us from our usual sources of support and comfort.
Rachel and I continue to talk about all we saw and experienced that afternoon -- how powerless we felt, the images that are indelibly etched in our minds, how we have no choice but to walk past the spot where we found him as we come and go to the university.
The police are close to wrapping up their investigation. Ronaldo's death was reportedly a murder-for-hire, resulting from his ex-wife's inability to let go.
No matter the culture, we are all conversant in the emotional pain that swirls around tragedy and loss.
