By Gene Weingarten
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday , April 15, 2000 ; C01

MIAMI, April 14 –– It is different here, beside Elian's house, behind the barricades. It's a different world. People seem to be
speaking an entirely foreign language, and that's even if you understand Spanish.

Here, Fidel Castro is not just a dictator, he is Satanas. Satan. Janet Reno is not merely the enemy, she is a bruja. A witch. And
above all, the finger-wagging videotape of Elian Gonzalez lecturing and taunting his father was not remotely disturbing. It was
not manipulative. It did not, as much of the country seems to think, suggest coercion.

"I think it was completely real and very spontaneous," says Lourdes DeLos Santos, 49, a medical secretary.

"It was very good," says Mercedes Andrade, 68. "People can see what the child is feeling. Now we know, it is what we were
waiting to hear."

Others shout their agreement. Everyone here is shouting, not just out of passion, but to be heard over the roar of the torrential
rain. The downpour began 15 minutes ago, and some people on the periphery of the inadequate tarpaulin overhead are already
shin-deep in water. They are undeterred, not by the rain, not by the talk of the imminent approach of INS SWAT teams (there
is always such talk), not even by the electrical cables from the satellite trucks that snake through the water in which the people
stand.

They are here to put their bodies in the way of armored personnel carriers, if need be, to prevent Elian from being taken.
Electrocution would be comparatively painless.

Some of these people have been coming daily since last December to man--and woman--these barricades. Heledy Fleites, 53,
arrived recently to her accustomed spot two days after burying her father. "I had to be here," she said, in case they came for the
boy. Elian will be tortured in Cuba, she said, to reprogram him. "Castro uses electroshock."

Rosario Ferrera, 44, is certain that Elian is speaking his mind on the video. "I believe that child knows the difference between
living in liberty and in an oppressed society," she said. "All I can say is I left this country when I was 6 years old and I
remember things from Cuba. I remember being in fear of speaking my mind. I remember my mother telling me to be careful of
what I said in school." A 6-year-old, she said, is very capable of understanding what is around him.

Ferrera says she does not care if the child was coached on what to say. Elian's Miami family, she said, "is desperate, and would
probably do anything to see that he is not sent back." Because the stakes are so high, and the potential damage to Elian so
great, she said, "anything they do is fair. Anything."

People at the barricades speak in absolutes, and if they seem particularly intense, it is because each of them, to one degree or
another, seems to carry a personal story of suffering related to the Castro regime.

Here is a woman who says her father spent six years in Fidel's prisons. Here is a woman whose mother sent her to America
alone when she was 12, because it was the only way. Here is a man who said his brother died in Castro's jails.

"OIGAN!" screams a white-haired man in a lawn chair. Listen! He's got a radio in his lap. Everyone falls silent. People strain to
hear. A stir goes through the crowd. Someone reports that the announcer said the police are going to arrest Lazaro Gonzalez,
Elian's defiant great-uncle! But this turns out to be a false alarm.

Now the man with the radio is screaming something else. He is bellowing at the top of his lungs, so loud that heads whip
around, even in this group, even with the roar of the rain. He is shouting at a reporter. He is shouting that The Washington Post
supports communism. Now he is shouting that Elian's mother signed her son's parole in her blood. "How dare we play with the
future of the kid!" He is shouting so loud he loses his voice, convulses, and his face purples. He recovers, takes a deep breath,
and then starts screaming again.

His name is Miguel A. Concheso, and he is short and sturdy and looks older than his 54 years. When he calms down he
explains that he came to the United States in 1980 in the Mariel boatlift and works as a cook in a Little Havana restaurant. He
says he spent 12 years in Cuban prisons, from 1963 to 1975. His crime, he said, was a common one in Cuba: He violated La
Ley De Peligrosidad. That means he was guilty of "dangerousness," which is a crime. In his case, he says, the crime was
opposing the policies of the Castro regime.

When he is not having vein-popping conniption fits, Concheso is a charming man. He apologizes for his outburst. For some
reason, he explains, this Elian Gonzalez case has really gotten under his skin. How can we send the boy back?

The people behind the barricades were depressed three days ago, but with the injunction from Atlanta, temporarily prohibiting
Elian's removal from the United States, they now say they have hope again. They are nursing this hope like a baby. There is a
festive feeling in the air today, despite the rain.

The man who is walking toward the barricades is carrying a hand-lettered sign that reads "America, Get Ready for a Miracle!"
The i's are dotted with hearts.

Rolando Millet, 39, is a telemarketer. He was only 1 when he came to the States from Cuba, and considers this his home. He
apologizes for sounding so corny, but says that he loves America for the opportunities it gave him, and will defend it with his
life. He has been coming to Elian's street every day because, he says, he "wants to be counted." He is confident that the
videotape of Elian will be seen as a positive thing. That America will look at all the people like him gathered in the streets and
will conclude that their numbers are so strong, they must have a good point.

"This is a good country with good-hearted people," he says, "and they will say, 'Maybe those crazy Cubans have got something
there.' "

                                 © 2000 The Washington Post Company