Out of Cuba Part One

[Look below to see the Spanish translation]

I’m guessing few Americans understand the reaction of pro-Castro Cubans to the Mariel boatlift. They had no problem with their leader filling the streets of Miami with Cuban prisoners and misfits. Murderers and other violent criminals, prostitutes, the mentally ill, the mentally handicapped weren’t serving La Revolución. But I was not one of those. I was a good kid, well known and well respected around my neighborhood in the quiet, lovely colonial town of Cienfuegos, the place we called “The Pearl of the South.” I’d never been in any kind of trouble, I’d done well in my military service, and on the eve of the boatlift, I had been chosen to travel to East Berlin to learn how to use wheat processing machinery that would help produce food for Cuba. My neighbors loved me. I was a fine, upstanding young man, an example to the community. I was going places. But when my friend, Chamizo, and I learned about the boatlift, there was only one place we wanted to go.

Chamizo came to my house on April 20, 1980 and asked me if I was aware of what was happening in Havana. Yes, I was aware. But I told him to say nothing in my house, and that we should go to the park where it would be easier for us to talk. It was a sensitive topic.

When we got to the park, we agreed that we would go to Havana and try to get into the Peruvian embassy, the place where those leaving in the boatlift had gathered. We did go, but we didn’t have much luck. They had closed the doors and were not admitting anyone.

That was bad enough, but when I got back to Cienfugos, things took a turn for the worse. I was walking in the square when I ran into my girlfriend. She had heard that I’d gone to Havana, and she new the reason for my trip. She let me know that she was not happy. She began to call everyone in the neighborhood and tell them what had happened. Immediately everyone came out of their homes and cornered me in my house. They began something that had become commonplace in Cuba as the boatlift took shape.

They were called acts of repudiation. Pro-Castro people sought to punish those who wanted to turn their backs on Cuba. The neighbors who had once seen me as such a good kid and great example, now saw me in a different light. They began to shout at me and insult me in any way they could. But these acts of repudiation frequently didn’t stop at verbal insults. I’d seen people beaten, sometimes very badly.

I was terrified. When I heard the anger in the voices of the neighbors who had once loved me, I knew they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me. But I was scared, too, for my father—a hard working man who did his best to teach me, even though he wasn’t home much—and my four sisters—maternal figures in my life since my mother died when I was twelve. I couldn’t let anything happen to my family.

The only sort of weapon I could put my hands on in the house was a machete. I told my father that I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but if people broke into the house, I would do what I had to do.

The neighbors yelled and threw things at the house for six days. I hadn't cut my hair since I'd gotten out of the Army several months earlier. My neighbors began to chant:

“Moisés, you long-hair you!
Get yourself to Peru!”

If I was no longer a good Cuban, they wanted me gone, but before I left, they wanted to hurt me, to punish me for betraying La Revolución.

Finally a military bus came through the neighborhood to collect people for the boatlift. But it didn’t come to my front door. To get to it, I had to run. I had to run as fast as I could and be as nimble as possible, to slip past my neighbors.

So, when I left home, I left running. Had you asked me at that time, I would have said—happily, foolishly—that it was the last time I’d be running in fear.