Remembering Juarez

They were in high school. They were in college. They were between the ages of 13 and 42, post-partying after a soccer game and celebrating a birthday. They were shot down in cold blood this past Sunday by gunmen who barricaded the street with their cars, infiltrated a concrete house, moved from room to room with guns held high, and let the bullets fly. Some 14 are dead; more are critically injured. One was named Adrian Encino, 17, a recently state-honored academic light, who died in his grandfather's arms.

Someone was looking for someone who perhaps testified in a recent trial. That's how one version of this story goes. Someone was looking, and so, of course?, a murderous rampage.

They call Juarez one of the world's most dangerous cities. The bloody border city, they say. The murdered women of Juarez, they remember.

Five years ago, I was there. Five years ago, the children of Juarez gave me some of the greatest happiness I've ever had—the greatest sense of purpose. They gave me the beginning of a book I'd write, a book about finding unexpected beauty in cities far from home.

I am sickened and saddened by the never-ending bad news of Juarez. 2,600 people murdered there in 2009. And what does this most recent massacre bode for 2010?