The day is July 21, 1961
A
fairly typical morning for me... a typical morning for any child of six
in Cuba.
I
awoke to the beautiful sunny skies of Havana and a breakfast of “Café
con leche” and bread. At the table sat my mother and maternal
grandparents, as the traditional Cuban home often included several
generations under one roof.
But this was not to be a typical morning.
My father, a political prisoner, would start his day at La Cabaña, a
Cuban prison, possibly the worst of its time. Several of his friends
had been executed at the “Paredon”...my father’s fate was yet to be
determined.
My paternal grandparents dropped in for breakfast. It would be the last
time I would see my grandfather, Manolo. He wouldn’t stop crying. I
did not know why.
It would also be my last time on Cuban soil. Of course, Mom had only
told me that because Dad was in jail, it would be best if I spent the
summer in Miami with my uncle, aunt and cousins.
And so, after breakfast, my mother and I left to Jose Marti Airport for
my first airplane ride...... An 11am Pan American flight to Miami.
Once at the airport, my mother was told by one of Castro’s “Milicianos”
that he had sold my seat on the flight to another passenger for
$500.00. My mother now believed we would never be allowed to leave
Cuba.
He ordered us to sit and wait in an area of the airport known as “La
Pecera” (The Fishbowl). The whole time we sat there I could see my
grandparents on the other side of the glass. They cried.......my Mom
cried....I cried, but there was to be no more contact between family
members.
Finally, the “Miliciano” returned and told my mom that we could both
board the plane, but that I had to sit in her lap during the flight. We
were the last to board.
As our plane took off for Miami, my mother again began to cry. She
cried during the entire flight. This too was to be the last time she
would set foot in her country of birth.
I
can only imagine her worries, separated from her husband and her parents
– Never knowing if she would see them again.
I
can only imagine her fears, starting a new life in foreign country with
her 6 year old son, with a dime in her pocket, and enough clothes to get
us by for only a few days.
We landed at Miami Airport at approximately 3:00 P.M. My uncle and his
entire family met us at the airport, and drove us to his 2 bedroom
apartment in little Havana, located only one block from where I would
run my campaign for Mayor of Miami 40 years later.
After “Café con leche” and some more bread (now called Cuban bread in
Miami), all nine of us went to sleep in this small apartment not knowing
the fate that awaited us all.
Indeed, July 21, 1961, turned out to be a typical day.
It was a day I will never forget........ A day that changed the course
of my family.....and a day symbolic of Cuban families in exile, bound
together by the hope that one day soon, May 20TH will be a
day when we can all celebrate the true freedom and independence of Cuba.
1961
Carta de Manny
Diaz
Alcalde de Miami
El 21 de julio del 1961 fue una mañana típica para mí¼como
lo hubiera sido para cualquier otro niño Cubano de 6 años de edad..
Me levanté bajo un bello cielo
habanero soleado y como desayuno, nuestro típico café con leche y “una
flauta de pan.” En la mesa, mi madre y abuelos maternos, típico cuadro
de una familia cubana.
Pero qué lejos estaba¼de
ser ese día¼una
típica mañana más.
Mi padre, prisionero político en
la Cabaña, temida prisión cubana y donde muchos de sus amigos habían
sido fusilados en el sangriento y fatídico “paredón.” Su propio destino
aun era desconocido.
En la mesa mi abuelo paterno dejó
su desayuno y yo no sabía que sería ésta la última vez que vería a mi
abuelito Manolo¼El
lloraba...pero yo no sabía el porqué.
Hoy también era mi último día en
el suelo Cubano, mientras mi madre con lágrimas en los ojos me decía que
seria mejor que fuera para Miami con mis tíos y primos¼ya
que mi padre estaba en la cárcel.
Después del triste desayuno,
salimos para el Aeropuerto José Martí, en Rancho Boyeros, de donde salía
el vuelo de Pan American para Miami a las 11 am. Pero qué lejos estaba¼sería
un vuelo sin regreso.
Un miliciano de Castro le dijo a
mi madre que había vendido mi asiento a otro pasajero por 500 dólares –
lógicamente, tuvimos que esperar y rezar.
Nos ordeno que nos sentáramos en
la pecera, salón de cristales, totalmente separado y desde donde podía
ver a mis familiares..solo verlos...pero aislados ‑ Mi madre pensaba,
que nunca podría dejar a Cuba..
Al final y tras maltratos, el
miliciano se dirigió a mi madre y le dijo que ya podíamos abordar el
avión, pero que tenía que llevarme en sus piernas, ya que no había mas
espacio. Fuimos los últimos en abordar.
Cuando despegó el avión, mi madre
de nuevo comenzó a llorar, todo el viaje lloró, era la última vez que
vería su tierra natal.
