A child’s right to be forgotten

Somewhere out there, there is an old photograph of a very young child standing completely naked, showing the marked signs of a most unusual medical condition.

I met that child when she was well into her old age, one winter afternoon over a decade ago.

Mariana (not her real name) had just returned from the cemetery where her husband is buried. Dressed all in black, her hands clutching a small-change purse wrapped in a clear plastic bag, she regarded me warily when she saw me waiting by her front door.

‘I am not Mariana’, she protested when I greeted her by name. ‘I am her sister. What do you want from her?’

But I knew she was Mariana. There were dark circles under her droopy eyes, just as in the photo that had accompanied the news of her medical case several decades earlier. Her hands trembled as she tried to unlock the door to her crumbling plastic-roofed shack.

I explained that I had just finished reading a recent book about ‘her sister’ and that I only wished to