Now, in the midst of all the heated rhetoric surrounding Elián's case, I can only return to one of the first questions that occurred to me when I saw his image flash across the TV screen. Would his voice ever rise high enough? Could it?
How on earth, I wondered, would he ever overcome the various mobs seeking to claim him as a trophy for their own impassioned, even fanatical causes? In the midst of all these self-serving parties, I thought -- and still do -- that he should be allowed to choose where he can best live his life. And if this country thinks so little of his words and returns him to Cuba against his will, then we might as well admit that the solution we have chosen is no different from kidnapping.
St. Elian: This mural in Miami, near Elian's home, virtually deifies the boy. It includes images of angels, Jesus, the Pope, the Statue of Liberty, and, somewhat improbably, President Clinton.
St. Elián: This mural in Miami, near Elián's home, virtually deifies the boy. It includes images of angels, Jesus, the Pope, the Statue of Liberty, and, somewhat improbably, President Clinton.
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I can only wonder what the future holds for Elián. If nothing else, I hope that he never faces the same distrust, the same questioning of people's motives that plagued me when I was kidnapped by my father. It's a feeling you never really shake.
When my mother came back to the States with my sister and me, she agreed to let a local newspaper tell our story. My mother wasn't media-savvy, just exultant that she had managed to get us back safely. But I was still shell-shocked that my father wasn't here, that he never would be here because of the federal warrant for his arrest, issued in case he ever thought of returning. There would be no more weekends at his apartment in D.C. No more Hindi songs to sing together. No more Sunday-morning breakfasts at McDonald's. I was glad to be home, but I still wanted "Papa."
When the reporter came by, my mother began telling how my father hit me, which only began in India.
"Mama," I said, "let's not talk about the abuse. It's too scary." In adult jargon, that was the closest I could come to saying, "This is off the record."
My request didn't register. The reporter printed my words. They made her story.
A photographer was also there. He wanted to take a photo of my mother with my sister and me. I hated the intrusion. I wanted to mourn the loss of my father alone, away from people, whom I had now come to distrust. Before complying, I went upstairs to my room and grabbed two dolls. When I came downstairs, I readied myself for the camera by shielding most of my face from the lens' glare. That was the best I could do to protect myself.
I feel for little Elián now, because for him, there is no place to hide.
