TURNING THE BEAT AROUND

By TAMMERLIN DRUMMOND/MIAMI

To most of the world, Gloria Estefan is a pop superstar, the goddess of salsa, the muse of Miami. But in the city dubbed Little Havana because of its large Cuban-exile population, Estefan, 40, is more than that. She is the emotion-laden embodiment of the Cuban-American dream. Her family fled Castro's communist regime when she was just two years old, and today thousands of Cuban exiles celebrate her success as though it were their own. Gloria, they exult, is the "glory" of Cuba.

But last week Miami's beloved daughter found herself under attack by many of the same people who once adored her. On Spanish-language radio, she was blasted as a pro-communist traitor. Fellow Cuban exiles threatened to burn her CDs in the streets of Calle Ocho, the main drag in Little Havana.

What started the fire? The Grammy Award-winning singer had written a letter to the Miami Herald in support of a volunteer who was kicked off a Metro-Dade arts board. Peggi McKinley was fired for saying officials should end their ban on Cuba-based artists performing at county-sponsored events. As a result of the law, the French-based organizers of a major Latin American and Caribbean music conference had threatened to abandon Miami as a future venue, a move that would cost the city millions of dollars. "As an American," Estefan wrote, "I am frightened to see our most basic liberties being trampled on in the march for political gain. As a Cuban American, I am embarrassed that non-Cubans might think that we are all of a narrow mind."

Estefan was stung by the resulting criticism. But she couldn't have been too surprised. Politics in Miami is controlled by older, hard-line Cuban exiles who oppose anything that even slightly hints of dealing with or accommodating the Castro regime. They routinely compare Fidel Castro to Adolf Hitler, and liken the plight of exiles from Cuba to that of Jews who perished during the Holocaust. Moderate Cubans often practice self-censorship in order to avoid the consequences. In the past Estefan has generally kept a low profile. But she said that this time she felt compelled to speak out. "I understand the hardships that we from Cuba have experienced," she wrote. "But for this reason we must defend everyone's freedom, even if it means personal pain."

Cuba-based artists, who are considered ambassadors of Castro's revolution, are frequent targets of exile wrath. When jazz pianist Gonzalo Rubalcaba performed in downtown Miami in April 1996, a crowd of 200 demonstrators spat on concertgoers as they tried to enter the theater. Three months later, a few days before singer Rosita Fornes, 74, was scheduled to perform at a popular night spot, someone threw a Molotov cocktail through the window. The concerts were canceled, and the restaurant, Centro Vasco, a Miami institution, was shut down. "They feel like they are in a situation of war," says Miguel Gonzalez Pando, a Cuba researcher at Florida International University, "so any dissent is tantamount to treason." In the U.S., so is denying a person the right to free speech.

--By Tammerlin Drummond/Miami