Third World Mona Lisa

The photo took on a life of its own.  Much like the secret smile of da Vinci’s masterpiece, those piercing green eyes held a plethora of mysteries.  The subject, a twelve-year-old girl wearing a red scarf around her head, was captured on 35 mm film, rather than oil on poplar.  The film was sent off to a laboratory for processing and cleaning and finally delivered to the publication that owned all the rights to it, with no consideration taken for the rights of the girl portrayed.  Only her identity was kept hidden, an oversight - or perhaps the girl’s family’s choice - rather than an attempt at keeping her life at the refugee camp secure.   Even the photographer did not learn her name when he decided to ask her to pose in front of his camera, knowing only that her eyes were meant to be immortalized.

There was no stopping the photo’s debut to the world, nor the impact it had on the lives of subject and creator.  It didn’t take hundreds of years for the photo to be recognized for the prize that it was, unlike the painting that it resembled.  It didn’t have to yellow with age, its corners warped and bent, before someone saw its worth.  It spent no time in a museum before it captivated its audience.  

The photographer, in his one-track mind, had no way of knowing its significance.  He had no way of knowing that, with one snap of his Nikon, a series of events would be set in motion that changed the lives of both photographer and girl forever.  How could the photographer guess that those haunting eyes would create waves, not only in the world of photography, but in the first world society that they were introduced to through the photo’s publication?

How could he know, in the years to come, after he found her again, that his third world Mona Lisa would be endangered by having her face shown to the world?  How could the woman the girl had become know the impact her famous doppelganger would have on her future?

Many years would pass after her likeness’ initial release into the wilds of first world society, when the strange man with the camera came looking for her, that she would be introduced to the picture that had made them both famous.

Her Kodachrome clone became an instant favorite, breathing new life into the magazine on whose cover she was published; as well as cementing the career of the photographer who would go on to have his works displayed over and over again around America, Europe, and other first world countries.  For decades, it would remain one of the magazine’s most recognizable covers and the photographer’s pride and joy.  

Yet the question remained: who was this third world Mona Lisa and what had become of her?

Whether it was his own curiosity or because the world demanded an answer, the photographer began looking for her again, eager to learn the identity and fate of this young woman who put a spell on any who saw her piercing gaze.

He searched for years, returning to the place he first saw her; the refugee camp where she went to school.  With every visit, he reached out to those that might know where she was.  

Many women claimed to be the girl.  Men claimed to be her husband, trying to fool the photographer; perhaps with the idea of seeking the glory of being his subject.  Or perhaps they believed the strange traveler with the camera would be willing to give tribute to his subject by way of money.  If they knew the consequences of being a famous woman in their country, would they have denied the fact with their dying breath?

Finally, almost two decades after he first met her, the man with the camera found her again.

For the woman, life had not been glamorous or kind.  Years spent hiding and running from soviet rule had hardened her.  Years that should have been spent on an education and to learn to better her situation had been spent instead learning the role of wife and mother.  Only a couple years after her face was introduced to the world, she was already married and starting a family.  She never settled in one place for long, always searching for that one place that she could finally call home.

Her beauty had been softened with time, even as her skin had been toughened by the sun and years of struggle; but her eyes, those sharp angry eyes remained.  And so, in the interest of introducing her once more to first world society - this time with a name to put to her face - the photographer took one more photo.

Her future exploded.  Now a public figure in a society where women were to be concealed, she was subjected to the whims of the men who ruled her country.  She moved and moved again, using any means necessary to give herself some form of security.  A false identity card sent her to jail for a time, though it was the only way she could survive living in a neighboring country.  She was sent back home and for a short while, she was welcomed.  A house was given to her by the government and she was given special consideration by the magazine who had changed her life.

More than once, the photographer tried to better her living conditions, even going so far as to offer her family medical care and provisions.

All of that ended when the country that she called home once again folded under the control of a suppressive government, not soviet rule, but strict religious doctrine.  Now, because of the mortal sin of having her picture taken, the woman was in danger of losing her life by being in the public eye.  So, one final time, she left the place she called home, begging for sanctuary from the very people that had been captivated by her so many years ago.

As she looks out her window at the secular lives of the first world, I imagine she asks the question, would she ever be able to return to her homeland?  Would her world ever allow her the choice of living her life in peace?  Or had that been taken away so many years ago, when a man saw her eyes and wanted nothing more than to take her picture?