The Empty Gaze

A remarkable story showing that even when children kidnapped from their parents by the Trump administration as an intentional deterrent have been reunited with their parents, the damage is severe:

Hermelindo Che Coc learned his son was coming home and immediately began to prepare for his arrival.

Nearly two months had passed since he’d seen his 6-year-old boy after they were separated at the border while traveling from Guatemala to seek asylum.

On Saturday, the father mopped floors and washed bed sheets at the home in the L.A. area where he was staying. He cooked a big pot of chicken soup, his son’s favorite.

“I want him to walk in here and know he’s home,” Che Coc said. “I’m his papa and we’ll always be together.”

Their reunification at Los Angeles International Airport later that evening would be among the first in California, as the Trump administration tries to meet a court deadline and reunite nearly 3,000 children it separated from their families in a zero-tolerance immigration policy. Many of the children and parents are Central American and are expected to eventually make their way to L.A.

t home, time seemed to drag as Che Coc waited for his ride to the airport. He went over in his mind the first words he would say to his son. “Welcome, my boy.” “You’re with me again.” He bought him a blue Spider-Man blanket, a couple of shirts and shorts, and some sandals with bright yellow happy faces.

But no amount of planning could have prepared him for the empty gaze he’d find in his son’s eyes as he swept the boy into his arms.

Jefferson Che Pop, a playful boy who loved racing tiny cars across the dirt floor of his Guatemala home, stood stiff, staring vacantly at the gray carpet, then at his father.

[…]

When he looked up, his eyes were vacant, lost. He didn’t reach for Che Coc, didn’t lift his little arms to hug him.

“Papa,” Che Coc cried. “Papa.”

He lifted his son into his arms and took him to a lounge set aside by the airline for the reunion. There, on a leather sofa, Che Coc kissed his son and held him tight. The boy remained stiff and expressionless.

His arms, stomach and back were covered in a rash. His right eye was bruised red. He had a cough and a runny nose. He was much thinner than he was two months ago.

Che Coc was shaken. He unbuttoned Jefferson’s shirt, inspected him all over and rubbed and scraped his son’s dry, discolored arms, as if his fingers could wipe his skin clean.

“This is not how I gave them my son,” he said, crying. “My son has come back to me sick.”

We are being ruled by unbelievably horrible people.