which is worse?

I stood there in the midst of the summer breeze in front of the large, double paned window, frozen with the same feeling I had that night- the last night I saw him.

It was somewhere on that curve-ish path that winds itself through the main street of the theme park. I remember holding the hand of my mother's friend who so kindly extended her generosity to my brother and I, allowing us to tag along with her family that day, insisting that every child should go to Disneyland. It was beginning to get dark. That perfect time of day in the park when the sun just finished setting and all the night lights come on, illuminating the tiniest of details that you somehow missed before. Maybe it's because in the summer heat you beg for shade as you wait in line for hours before receiving the fulfillment of wrapping your fingers around the bars in front of you, as the worker makes his last check that everyone is buckled in. Or maybe my five-year-old eyes just enjoyed all the bright colors of the lights as they dashed around sign to sign and ride to ride. But something made it more enjoyable to wait in the beginning hours of darkness around the park for me. It was then, with Splash Mountain to my left, that I saw him. It was the first time since "the incident". He seemed so happy with his other family that it infuriated me. Part of me wanted to run over and kick him, step on his foot, or maybe give one good punch to the back of his knee, anything at all to make him feel the pain of abandonment and hurt that he has selfishly imposed upon the three of us, leaving us in agony before fleeing to his get away car with her in the passenger seat.

But I did nothing.

I don't think I even told anyone that I saw him that night until years later. I just stood there- helpless and silent- like I did the night of "the incident".

"The incident" happened one year earlier. My brother was to my right, also inaudible except for the tiny whimpers between the tears streaming down his face that he wiped immediately, refusing to let anyone see that he had an ounce of sensitive emotions in him, even at the age of six. I stood next to him, muted and wide eyed, confused at what had just happened. Both of us looked down at our mother who screamed for help, paralyzed with pain because of him. I was in my pajamas, ready for bed.

It's eighteen years later and these images crash into me like an blindside sack knocks the wind out of a quarterback. Again I am in my pajamas, on a late summer evening, with the lights above me revealing an all too familiar scene. Only this time, it is not my family in the privacy of my front yard. And not even my home country but a land that I still realize I neither understand or connect with fully. But there I was, three stories above them, watching the chaos of a domestic violence dispute happening in the middle of the street. I feel the rage of unspoken questions and anger slowly make their way from the knot in my gut, up my chest, to that tiny spot in the back of my throat. This is the first time they have every made their way this high. They are so close to spilling over. They want out. Her screams get louder and louder, the sounds of their fists clobbering pound harder and harder. People pass them constantly in small groups pretending that nothing is happening. Four drunk men sit watching in between their sips of vodka on the bench below my window when they came out. The screams that have been bottled in for years flowed out in the native tongue of the people below me, with a sort of intensity that almost scared myself had I not known the tiring process it took to muster them up.

"STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! LEAVE HER ALONE! GO HOME NOW! SOMEONE HELP HER!" I shouted.

The street became silent and her crying stopped. But it only lasted a moment.

The drunk men below yell at me to go inside and mind my own business.

I decline.

A younger couple of teenage boys, finally come to break up the fight that had been lasting a good five minutes by now.

My throat burned from screaming so loud. It felt as if the tiny cords had been melted like a hot plastic wire.

Though I wanted to feel satisfaction for finally gathering courage to shout all the words I never said as a child, I just couldn't. Instead, the sense of accomplishment was met with a question.

Which is worse- hiding abuse in the privacy of your own home or make believing that nothing is happening when evidence is right before your eyes, calling for help, from the middle of a street?

Either way, in these cases, silence is useless.