May 3, 2005

"Year of the Bolivarian Alternative for the Americas"

My dear nephew Elián,

I hope you forgive me if I consider you as my nephew. More than five years ago, you became part of the family for every dignified Cuban when all of them, according to their age and circumstances, decided to support you, each with a different bond of affection. At that time, I had the audacity to make you my nephew. I couldn’t make you my son, because you already have a really great dad.

Now we find ourselves in similar circumstances, and all kinds of messages are coming to us from Cuba, bringing affection, and telling us that we are the sons, or grandsons, or brothers of some worthy compatriot. Since you are one of them, I would like to take this chance to tell you that you can adopt me however you like. In whatever capacity, you will always have a friend in me.

I was inspired to write this letter by one of those messages I mentioned, which arrived to me over the radio waves. It’s about something you read out at the Anti-Imperialist Tribunal, on the fifth anniversary of your reunion with your dad after five bitter months.

Your clear, pure child’s voice took me back to those terrible days that I lived, from within the impotence and anonymity of a jail cell, every second of the orgy of resentment that was emptied out over you. I don’t know if it would be worth telling you about that some day. Maybe it wouldn’t be worth it.

I prefer to relive the glorious moments of that struggle. The presence of your two noble grandmas who – under the most adverse circumstances – just by being themselves, made the first hole in that intrigue set up with so much force, resources and corruption. The arrival of your family and that beautiful smile of your little brother, like a bad omen for your kidnappers. Your dad’s unshakable and incorruptible dignity. The image of that happy reunion. Your return to the homeland.

All of that came to mind as I listened to you, filling me with happiness. Then, as if that weren’t enough, you mentioned the name of my daughter, Ivette.

It was then that I decided to write to you, to express my gratitude. Thank you for your sensitivity and for remembering my little girl. Thank you for reiterating for me that the future that we are fighting for will justify all of our efforts – in Cubans like all of you. Thank you for contributing to the certainty that we will return; that one happy day, Ivette and I will begin down the route that will take us to knowing each other.

When that day arrives, I hope to be lucky enough to meet you. Meanwhile, in my cell, there will always be room for the affection that this daring Cuban professes for you, the same one who one day took the liberty of declaring you – by personal decree – his nephew.

With a hug from your uncle,

René González Sehwerer