I remember we would crouch every time we heard the bursts of fire from the American soldiers' rifles, as we lived on the other side of the avenue then called 4 de Julio, just a glance from the Tivoli Hotel. On one of those occasions when I lifted my head, I saw several people carrying an injured girl whom they had brought down from the Multi building contiguous to the San Ramón building where I lived. In those sad January days of 1964, I was only 12 years old; I lived with my parents on Calle M, San Miguel, a working-class neighborhood bordering the old Canal Zone, inhabited by blacks, mestizos, and Indians—that's what they were called in those times. They took her away. I remember her hair was very, very black. Rosa Landecho LIVES in my memory, and at this point, I am sure she will accompany me until my final day. I had never spoken of this fact before, but neither that image nor that January day of 1964 has ever been erased from my mind. They were running with her to put her in a vehicle. I never saw her face.
