Ana
Margarita Martinez
Date of Exile: November 11, 1966
I
was six years old when my mom, my grandmother and I left Cuba during the
Freedom Flights Exodus. I was so young, yet I remember the sadness. I
would never again see my paternal grandmother, or my cousin Juanito who
was practically a brother – he passed away at the young age of 33.
Thankfully, I was able to see my adoring paternal grandfather, Osvaldo
once more during his brief visit to Miami in 1984, as well as my uncle,
Juan, who visited in 1994 – he also passed away a few years later at the
age of 54. So many loved ones left behind: aunts, uncles, cousins, and
friends. I didn’t want to leave. Of course not! Not to an unknown land,
unknown customs and an unknown language. Havana was home. Gone would be
the trips to El Malecon with my grandmother and my cousin Juanito. I
would miss the visits to Tio Delio’s finca and to my maternal
great-grandparents’ home in Las Villas where we had get-togethers with
great-aunts, uncles, cousins, and many other extended family members.
We’d be all alone – mami, abuela, and myself. I’d miss my neighborhood
friends and summers in Varadero Beach. But I would never miss the
indoctrination, the pressure to become a “pionera” (which I never did), or
the oppression that possessed the Havana air. We left everything behind,
but not the hope of returning to our loved ones soon.
I
remember very little of our few hours in Miami. Everything is a blur. We
boarded another airplane that very same day. It was the month of November
and it was cold in New York. A new life began in a free place, but not
free of hardships. My grandmother and my mom were off to factories, and I
was in a new school where only one classmate partially understood me – her
parents were Puerto Rican. In my mind, we had left the Havana sunshine
for the New York cold. It was dark and cold, not sunny and warm. We’d
left family and friends for strangers who didn’t understand us or speak
our language. But there were no “pioneros”, no bearded men in army
get-ups sounding off an eternal discourse, no “libretas de abastecimiento”
(ration cards), and no oppression in the air.
I
am forever grateful to my mom and my grandmother for their courage. I
wonder sometimes if I would have been brave enough to do the same – to
leave the familiar, the security of family and friends, and venture to the
unknown as they did, and as so many others did. Thanks to them, I grew up
in a free country.
My
story doesn’t end there. Mami and abuela spared me from the “voluntary”
work, from the horrid camps that all children in Cuba must attend, from
the indoctrination, the persecution, the abuse and so many unthinkable
things that are commonplace in Cuba. But they couldn’t protect me or
prepare me for what was to come. In 1992, the monster caught up with me.
Juan Pablo Roque disguised himself as my knight in shining armor. Little
did I know then that the man that promised to love, honor and protect me,
was exactly what I had escaped from in 1966.
God
has a way of turning evil into something positive. Sort of like making
lemonade.
I
truly pray that this Antonov AN-2 which has been transformed into a
wonderful work of art, representative of the two sides of the Cuban people
– those who reside in a prison island and those who live in freedom –
serves as an inspiration for our community; a symbol of the freedoms that
we must help to preserve in the United States, and continue to work
ardently to accomplish in Cuba and in every enslaved nation.
