Independence Day

Today we fire up the barbecues, pop open beers, and splash around in backyard pools. Friends and family gather to celebrate the birthday of the freest and most incredible nation in the history of this world. The fact that what the founding fathers did on this date two hundred and thirty-two years ago still endures is a testament to the human spirit’s desire to be free and choose its own destiny.

Although we celebrate the true spirit of freedom and independence on this day, in reality, every day in America is Independence Day. As citizens and residents of this country, every single day we get to partake of the freedom that was fought for, attained, and defended by millions of patriots over this country’s history. Throughout the turmoil of a civil war and the countless attacks of those who despise this nation’s freedom—both military and ideological—America has held steadfast to the principal that all men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; a concept that applies to not only Americans, but to all citizens of this world.

While we enjoy another day of freedom today, let us not forget those that gave their lives in order for us to have it. And while we enjoy another day of freedom today, let us not forget those who have never enjoyed a day of freedom.

My First Year: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

A year ago today, I started this blog to share with the world what has been, for as long as I can remember, a flame burning inside me; my love for my Cuban heritage and for Cuba. It has been quite an experience, and one I could classify as the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The Good:
Since my first essay a little over a year ago, The Tribe of Cuba, I have had the pleasure, and the honor, of meeting some incredible individuals. From former Cuban political prisoners, to people from all over the world who have never seen Cuba yet feel an incredible allure to its amazing history and its more recent and tragic past.

It has been nothing less than astonishing to speak to a person who has suffered the indignities and humiliation inflicted upon them by the totalitarian regime in Cuba. Their anguish is such that I will never be able to fully comprehend what they went through. And yet, their eyes still sparkle when they speak of our homeland. And in those that have taken up the cause of Cuba’s freedom for no other reason than the pursuit of justice, I see a dedication to freedom and liberty that is the basis for what is right in this world.

From the two extremes and between them, I have experienced what is a true love for freedom.

The Bad:
But these epiphanies were not all pleasant. Along with these wondrous revelations came the painful shock of the suffering inflicted upon my Cuban family. On a surreal night in July of 2007, the pain of my Cuban brethren became more real than ever. I realized that those who had fought, had struggled, and had paid the ultimate price for their freedom were not just names on a page—they were Mothers, Fathers, Sisters, and Brothers. They ceased to be strangers, and in what could only be described as an existential experience, they became my mother, my father, my sister, and my brother.

My newfound connection to my Cuban heritage not only brought me closer to the joy of being Cuban, it also brought me closer to the pain of being a Cuban.

The Ugly:
Along with the joys and the pains of my year, came the ugly realization that in this world some truly contemptible individuals exist. Along with the hundreds of e-mails I have received in support of my blog, and the many extraordinary people I have met these past 12 months, I have also come in contact with some despicable individuals. These are the ones that feed off of human suffering, and in particular, the suffering of the Cuban people. They all try to hide behind different facades, but there is no façade that can hide the reality of their vile existence. 

Their goal has always been to discourage me, but they are unable to comprehend that it is they who give me the greatest inspiration of all; while there are those that are willing to help a murderous regime oppress the country of my forefathers, I will not cease to tell the world of the injustices taking place on the island that should be my home.

I alone can only do so much, but as the great Cuban Apostle, Jose Marti, said: “It is a sin not to do what one is capable of doing.”

Freedom Does Not Exist

As first published 2/18/2008 on Cubanology.com's Cuba Report

For nearly half a century the Cuban Diaspora has fought against the oligarchic tyranny in Cuba that has oppressed and denied the citizens of the island the most basic of human rights. From the battlefield to the halls of the UN, Cubans that have escaped the island prison have struggled to restore freedom to their homeland and bring an end to the reign of terror imposed by a vile dictatorship. On the island, however, very few are willing to lift their voice in dissent. The regime’s extensive and brutal repressive machinery is justly to blame for this, but there is another tactic used by the regime that has proven to be just as effective in silencing opposition.

Many years ago I had a discussion regarding the situation in Cuba with an older Jewish man from New York. A successful and wealthy businessman, this gentleman had traveled the world and had seen and experienced things many could only read about. He commented that although he admired my passion for freedom in Cuba, he did not believe that the majority of Cuba’s 11-million plus inhabitants felt the same way. He explained that he came to this conclusion based on the fact that the most often voiced complaints he had heard from residents on the island had been regarding the lack of consumer goods, clothing, and food. Few were the times, he added, that he had heard a Cuban complain about the lack of freedom. Based on this he surmised that Cubans were happy with the police state they lived in—they just wanted to enjoy some of the luxuries the rest of the world enjoyed.

I listened respectfully to this man because I could tell his opinions were not based on politics but on what he deemed to be a logical assumption. When he finished, I asked him a simple yet pointed question: How can a Cuban on the island that has never known freedom, let alone what it represents, know he does not have it? He knows he wants food because his stomach is growling. He knows he needs clothes because he is naked and cold. But if he has never experienced a free moment in his life, how would he know he is missing it?

The man raised his hand to his chin and looked to the side while he pondered my question. After a few moments of silence he looked back at me. He struggled at first to find the words to form a response, but in the end he acknowledged the reality of what I had just told him. The same logic that had helped him form his original opinion of the situation in Cuba had now given him a different outcome.

It is often said among those of the Christian faith that the most harmful lie the devil has ever told humanity is that he does not exist. Much of the same can be said for the despotic dictatorship in Cuba. The cruelest and most evil lie the regime has ever told its victims is that freedom does not exist.

Motivations

It was the way in which my parents raised me. They taught me about my heritage and what it meant to be Cuban. Never did a doubt exist in my mind of who we were and where we came from. Not until adulthood did I fully realize the sacrifices they made to give us a normal life in this land of exile. Like so many other Cubans, they fled the oppression and persecution that took over their island and came to the United States seeking freedom not just for themselves, but for their children also. They battled to overcome the language barriers and the many obstacles they faced in a new country in order for their children to grow up in a free society. My parents did this for us, and although they did their best to hide the pain and difficulty they faced each day away from their native Cuba, they also made sure that we never forgot her. 

It was the experiences I lived through growing up in the heart of the Cuban exile community. The stories and the laughter I heard of a bygone era left an indelible mark upon me. I feel at times that I could not have been any closer to my Cuban heritage if I had been raised on the island. The people around me—from my family members to neighbors and friends—were not only Cuban, but they also lived as Cubans. They taught me how to laugh in Cuban, how to cry in Cuban, and perhaps most important, they taught me how to argue in Cuban. They also taught me how to love and respect the great nation that took us in. Not once did I ever hear anything but praise and adulation for America, and the only envy they ever exhibited was for the freedom they enjoyed here that they sought for their Cuba. The most lasting and inspiring lesson they taught me, however, was the true meaning of perseverance. Even after forty-seven years of exile, I can still see the sparkle in my mother’s eyes when she speaks of Cuba.  

It is that yearning deep inside that calls out to me every day of my life. Some days it is not as loud as others, but it is never silent. I can never ignore it, nor would I want to; it reminds me of who I am and where I came from. It is a desire that I know will never be fulfilled, a hunger that will never be satiated, until I set foot in a Cuba free of tyranny. Only then, when I see the streets I was supposed to grow up on, and see the landscapes that were supposed to make up my childhood memories, will I know that I am finally home. On that day, along with tens of thousands of others like me, I will laugh the way I was taught, and I will shed tears the way I was taught. 

These are but a few of the things that motivate me to speak out and write for the cause of a free Cuba. I can understand how the concept of loving a country I have never seen might seem incomprehensible to those who have not experienced what I and so many others like me have experienced. And perhaps they will never be able to fully understand what we feel. Nevertheless, the lack of understanding among those around us does not make the yearning any less intense. Like a broken heart, it is a pain that only the heartbroken can understand. 

Yet the yearning for Cuba is a gift we all carry within us. A gift we were given at birth. A gift which was carefully and lovingly cultivated by our family, and in many instances, the only thing they could give us.  

— El 8 a las 8

Click HERE or above to find out what it's about.

H/T Fantomas

— Memories of Manolo Reyes

Yesterday, a face and a voice from my childhood passed away. Dr. Manolo Reyes, one of the first Spanish TV news broadcasters in Miami died at the age of 83. Since 1968, Manolo Reyes brought the news into my home in a language my parents and grandparents could understand. He was respected, admired, and my mother always said that if Manolo Reyes reported it, it had to be true. 

With only one television in the house back then, my siblings and I were at the mercy of my parent’s viewing whims. Sometimes we would get lucky and mom and dad would leave us alone to watch whatever we wanted from the vast selection of the four channels available, but they never missed the newscast on channel 4 with Manolo Reyes (there were actually 5 channels, but channel 2 was, and is, public broadcasting and forgive our uncouthness, but Masterpiece Theatre was just not our bag). 

Unfortunately, the news of his death brought back these and other long forgotten memories. Memories of my childhood; of my home in Little Havana; of the smell of my mom’s black beans sh-sh-shi-ing in the pressure cooker. Recollections of dinnertime—always together as a family at my father’s insistence. It is unfortunate that I do not remember these trying, yet happy times more often. And it is regrettable that it takes sad news to bring these memories out of hiding. 

- New Year - New Look

As we kick-off the New Year, I decided to make some changes on the website. I still have a long way to go, but I hope most of you will like it.

Have a great New Year and remember; this is the year for Cuba!

- The Last Noche Buena

Tonight, the 24th of December, 2007, will be a special night. Not only because the family will be together to share the great food and spirits that accompany Noche Buena, but because I truly believe that this year will be the last year we all toast, “Next year in Cuba.”

This Noche Buena will be the last one where a vile dictatorship keeps families apart. This Noche Buena will be the last one where exiled Cubans who have spent more years in exile than in their own land will shed tears for the horror that has stricken their island home for so many years. This Noche Buena will be the last one where the conversations will be dominated by the Cuba that once was, instead of the Cuba that will be. And most important of all, this Noche Buena may very well be the last one where our brothers and sisters in Cuba will have to commemorate this cherished Cuban tradition in secret.

On the 24th of December, 2008, a different toast will be raised. No longer will we offer a hopeful toast to the coming year. Instead, we will toast Cuba’s newfound freedom and the final end of tyranny. For many of us, this toast will be partaken with family members we have not seen in decades. And for many others, such as myself, we will toast with family members we have never met.

Tonight will be a special night indeed for it will be the last time we proclaim Cuba Libre with the hopes that it will someday come to pass. Next year, we will all shout Cuba Libre because for the first time in forty-nine years, it will be.

CAMBIO – A short story by Alberto de la Cruz

The noise and commotion awoke four year old Mariela from her afternoon nap. She rose from her small bed in the cramped bedroom she shared with her 17 year old brother and with her frayed stuffed dog held tightly to her chest, she opened the door and peeked out into the living room of their first floor apartment in Havana.
            She noticed the dinette table had been pushed up against the couch and one of its chairs had been knocked over on its side. She then peered further out and saw the front door open to the hallway. Voices were coming from the street through the doorway and the open windows facing the street.
            Mariela then stepped out into the living room. The voices all seemed unfamiliar, except for the voice of her older brother, Ricky. She then heard her mother yell above the din.
            “Ricky, don’t be afraid of them! They are nothing but cowards,” she said.
            Mariela began walking toward the window to see what was happening outside when she saw a round white band laying on the floor in the middle of the room. She stopped in front of it and picked it up. It was the rubber bracelet with letters embossed on it that her brother had been wearing on his wrist earlier in the day. She wondered why he had taken it off, but then she heard a scream that sounded like her mother.
            “Stop hitting him, you animals! You bastards!”
            Mariela felt a pain in the pit of her stomach and ran out the front door of the apartment and into the hallway. She looked out and saw her neighbors standing outside the entry to the building, blocking her view. With her stuffed dog held to her chest and the bracelet still in her hand, she walked out, pushing her way around the legs of the people standing in front of her.
            Once she got past the line of spectators, she saw a van parked in the middle of the street with its back doors open. She then saw her brother, his face bloodied, being carried away by two large men wearing police uniforms and then thrown into the back of the van. Then she saw her mother try to run after him only to be slapped across the face and knocked to the ground by another man who stood by the open doors of the van.
            “Mami,” Mariela cried out.
            She tried to run to her mother who lay on the street, but she then felt two hands grab her from behind and haul her back into the apartment building. Mariela began to cry, yelling out to her mother while the neighbor from across the hall, who grabbed her and now held her in his arms, tried to calm her down. She writhed and pushed against the man’s chest trying to break free, dropping her stuffed dog, but the man maintained his grip on the little girl.
            The crowd that had gathered at the entry of the building then parted and in walked Mariela’s mother, Carmen, her lower lip swollen and bleeding from the blow she had received moments earlier. Carmen saw her little girl being held by the neighbor. She rushed to her, and took her from him. She held the crying little girl close to her and stroked her hair trying to calm her down before walking back into her apartment and closing the door behind her. She stepped into the kitchen and with her daughter still in her arms, grabbed a dishtowel and wiped the blood from her lower lip and chin.
            She then walked into her own bedroom and sat down on the edge of her bed, placing her little girl on her lap. She continued to hold Mariela, rocking her back and forth until the she finally stopped crying.
            Mariela leaned back to look at her mother and then reached up to touch her swollen lip. Carmen tried her best to manage a smile and grabbed her hand before she could touch it.
           “What happened, mami? Why did that man hit you? Did Ricky make him mad?”
           “Don’t worry, my angel; it’s nothing like that.”
           “But why did those policemen take Ricky away?”
           “It’s just a misunderstanding and they wanted to talk to him. He’ll be back in a little while.”
           “But Ricky forgot his bracelet,” Mariela said, holding up the white rubber bracelet she still held in her hand.
           “You can give it to him when he gets back, my love,” Carmen replied with a smile.
           Tears began to well up in Carmen’s eyes as she looked at the simple white rubber band in her little girl’s hand.
           “What do these letters on the bracelet say, mami?”
           “Those letters say CAMBIO, my angel; change.”
           “Why does it say that,” the little girl asked, examining the embossed letters on the bracelet.
           Carmen could not help but to wonder the purpose of that word herself. Ever since her young son came home the night before and showed her the bracelet, she knew that sooner or later, trouble would accompany it. She tried to convince her teenage son not to wear it in public, but just like his father, his stubbornness would override any of her pleas. Her son was well aware of the consequences his actions would bring after witnessing three years earlier the violent beating and arrest of his father, Ricardo. Weeks after the arrest, Ricardo was tried and convicted of anti-revolutionary activities and sentenced to five years in jail.
           Mariela was too young to remember, and had only seen her father a few times in her life. Eighteen months into his jail sentence, he was transferred to a jail on the other side of the island. The trip to visit him became too far to take such a young child. But Ricky had made the trip with his mother every time. And each time he saw his father, the torture and lack of medical attention was more evident. And with each visit to his languishing father, the young boy’s resolve and resentment grew stronger.
           Life had not always been so complicated, Carmen reminded herself. Before the birth of their daughter, she and her husband had led, for the most part, an apolitical life. They were neither supporters of the communist dictatorship in Cuba, nor were they detractors; they knew that picking either side had its consequences. Their conscience would not allow them to cheer on an oppressive regime like so many of their friends and neighbors did, but their desire for a peaceful existence precluded them from publicly showing their discord. They had both learned to live that way from their parents who had been around when the revolution took power, and had chosen to remain in Cuba.
          They lived like this for the majority of their lives, finding ways to make ends meet with the meager jobs they were given by the state due to their lack of political connections. Then Mariela was born, and everything changed.
          She remembered the day Ricardo held Mariela for the first time. While the tears streamed down his face, he proclaimed that his daughter would not grow up to become a jinetera; a prostitute selling her body to foreign men in order to put food on the family table. He had seen the daughters and wives of many of his neighbors and workmates take up this vile, yet profitable, vocation, but he could never allow his own daughter to fall into that trap.
          Of course, both he and Carmen would teach Mariela that such activities were not an option, but he also understood the lure of quick and easy money. He had already seen too many nice and decent young girls fall prey to the temptation to provide for their families in any way they could. He also knew that the problem did not lie in the way these girls were raised, but in the system they were living in that made such an act a viable solution to their misery. From that day on, Ricardo was no longer apolitical. And soon thereafter, Carmen understood how important it was not to stand by and watch a repressive regime destroy their family.
          It began with passing out pamphlets calling for the end of the dictatorship. Ricardo then began making contacts with other dissidents on the island and his acts of opposition became bolder. But only a year after starting his crusade to bring an end to the tyranny in his country, an infiltrator in his group provided state security with his name, and the names of several others, as traitors to the revolution. Within days, all of the men were arrested and soon after, sentenced to jail.
          Now her son was following in his father’s footsteps. But as painful as it was to watch the beating and the arrest of her own son, the same way his father was beaten and arrested, she knew there could be no other way.
          She remembered the first time she saw Ricardo after his arrest. She had gone to the police station everyday for three days, and they would turn her back without any information other than that her husband was “being processed.” On the fourth day, the police allowed her to see him and led her into a windowless room where she found him huddled on the floor in one of the corners, shirtless with his torso covered in bruises. She threw herself to the floor and on her knees in front of him, held his face in both hands while she gave him a gentle kiss.
          “Oh my God, Ricardo; look at you. What have they done to you?”
          “What are you talking about, I’m fine,” he answered with a half smile.
          “I knew this wouldn’t be worth it,” Carmen said. “What good is all of this if you’re not going to be around to raise your children?”
          “You must be strong, Carmen,” Ricardo replied, the smile now gone from his face. “You have to be there for Ricky and Mariela. Don’t worry about me—take care of them.”
          “Don’t say that! You have to stop this. The kids need you! I need you!”
          “The kids and you don’t need me as much as you need your freedom and your dignity. I will do whatever it takes and pay whatever the price to give my family, my country, its dignity back. Don’t cry, my love; my only regret is not having done this earlier in my life.”
          Carmen buried her face into Ricardo’s shoulder and cried. It pained her to see her husband in such horrid condition, but she knew there could be no other way.

          “Why does it say CAMBIO, mami,” Mariela asked again, interrupting Carmen’s thoughts.

          She smiled and looked into her daughter’s hazel eyes. They were Carmen’s mother’s eyes. Every time Carmen would look into them, she would remember her own mother, Luciana, who died years before Mariela was born. Luciana had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and at first, all the doctors assured her that the cancer had been found early enough that her chances of survival were good. She went back home and waited for the call from the hospital to schedule her surgery and treatment. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months without a call from the hospital. All her local doctor could tell her was that it took a while to get an appointment for surgery and that they would call her as soon as a slot opened up.
          It was then that they realized their apolitical existence would be the hindrance to Luciana receiving the medical care she needed. None of them had any high level friends to call and ask for a favor, nor could they contact the leader of their block’s Committee for the Defense of the Revolution for help; they were considered bad citizens and not real revolutionaries. The system in Cuba was reserved first for those who were true revolutionaries, so Carmen’s mother had no choice but to wait for treatment.
          By the time she was able to get into a hospital for surgery, the cancer had grown and spread to her lymphatic system. It was no longer operable, and two months later, at the age of fifty-nine, Luciana died a painful death.
          Carmen grabbed the bracelet from her daughter’s hand and looked at the six letters embossed into it. The letters formed the Spanish word CAMBIO, which means change. A simple one word message that held the solution to the almost half-century long darkness that enveloped her country. Only one thing could bring light and liberty to her homeland: CAMBIO.
          “The reason it says CAMBIO, Mariela, is because it is what must happen in Cuba.”
          “Why, mami?”
          “Hopefully, my angel, by the time you’re old enough to understand, you won’t have to worry about it.”
          Carmen then pressed her daughter’s head to her chest and held her little body close to her as she began to cry. She looked down and saw her tears dripping onto Mariela’s shirt. She knew things would get much worse for them and the country before they would get better. She also knew that the only way her daughter would be spared the misery they had all endured, there had to be CAMBIO in Cuba. There could be no other way.

 Author’s Note: This short story is a fictional account based on true and actual events that take place in Cuba on a regular basis. The characters in this story are based on a culmination of real life Cubans who have shared with me their individual stories of repression and violence at the hands of the despotic dictatorship that rules Cuba today. This story may be fictional, but there are tens of thousands of true stories, similar to this one, that have taken place in Cuba since 1959.

- C A M B I O

- A Thanksgiving Gift

The Past is history,

The Future is a mystery,

Today is a gift—that is why it is called the Present

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and may the next one be celebrated in a free Cuba.

- The Cuba Inside Me

I have never felt the heat of a Cuban sun on my face.

I have never felt the sand of a Cuban beach between my toes.

I have never been in a small cafetería hidden in the backstreets of Havana and ordered an Ironbeer y Frita Cubana.

I have never enjoyed a cold Tropical beer on a Sunday afternoon at the Tropical Beer Gardens on the banks of the Almendares River.

I have never been to a farm in Pinar del Rio and listened to a Punto Guajiro while waiting for the lechón to be done.

I have never walked up to my grandmother’s house in Herradura during the early evening and smelled the blossoming jasmines she planted by her front door.

These are all recollections that belong to the friends and members of my family that came before me. Unlike them, I was born in the United States and have no memories of Cuba—all I have are black and white photographs and some treasured moments they have shared with me. A tyrant separated my family from their memories, and that same tyrant separates me from my future memories.

Some people have asked me how I can have such strong feelings and dedication for a country I have never seen. The answer is simple, though hard for some to understand: Cuba is not just an island in the Caribbean—it is a part of my very being. It lives inside me.

I could have been born anywhere in the world, but I still would have been born a Cuban.

The BUCL campaign for the Invisible Ones had a candlelight vigil on Monday, July 9, 2007. The experience affected me more that I ever could have imagined.

Mothers, Fathers, Sisters, Brothers

I stepped up to the podium and looked down at the list of names written on the piece of paper before me. While I adjusted the microphone with one hand, I brought the lit candle I held in the other closer to the page so I can read the names in the dim light.

Along with three other individuals, I had been asked to read aloud some of the more than 300 names of men, women, and children that are being held as prisoners of conscience in Cuba’s jails. We are all standing together in front of Versailles Restaurant on the famous Calle Ocho in Miami and all around us are over one hundred people, candles in hand, assembled for a candlelight vigil in recognition and support of these innocent victims of a despotic regime.

Clearing my throat, I read out loud the first name: Heriberto Castillo Sánchez 

I continued to the next name, but for some reason the first name remained stuck in my mind. Did I know this person? Did I know someone who had the same name? 

Trying to concentrate on the task at hand, I continued down the list but now every name sounded familiar to me. To my knowledge, I had never met any of these people. The knot that formed in my stomach, however, said something else. The names on the pages before me did not belong to faceless strangers—they belonged to the members of our Cuban family. I may have never met any of them, but the realization of who they are became clearer than ever to me: These people are our mothers, our fathers, our sisters, and our brothers. 

I struggled to finish reading the names on the page and then I flipped it over to the next page before moving aside to allow the next person to continue. Taking two steps back, I looked around at the people that were standing all around me. The eerie glow of the candles gave the whole scene a surreal aura, as if it were all a dream. My thoughts drifted off for a moment while I tried to imagine the perpetual and unrelenting nightmare the persons on the list endure day in and day out. The thought of that twisted the knot in my stomach tighter still. 

The last name was read and a call was made for a moment of silence in commemoration of all the Cubans on the list as well as those who have suffered and those who have perished fighting for Cuba’s liberation. I lowered my head and closed my eyes in their honor, thanking them not only for their valor and sacrifice, but for also bringing me closer to my Cuban identity. 

There has never been a question in my mind regarding the reality facing my Cuban compatriots, but never has their struggle and their suffering felt so tangible to me. This event served as an epiphany of sorts, giving me a taste of the bitter cup these innocent victims and their families must drink from every day. There is no way I can imagine the true pain felt by these brave men and women, but for an instant, I could feel within the deepest parts of my soul their humiliation, their torment, and their oppression.  

I have never felt so close to my heritage as I do now. This bittersweet experience has allowed me to feel a stronger connection with not only the legacy of my own family, but also with Cuba, its people, and its heritage. The anguish I felt that night as the names were read aloud might have been transcendental, but it had a purpose; it gave me a fuller understanding of the heartache these brave and courageous Cubans feel as they languish inside a prison within an island prison. 

For whatever the reasons may be, the world has chosen to not only ignore these innocent victims, but they have also chosen to overlook the tens of thousands ruthless murders committed by Castro and his revolution. The world may choose to look the other way and ignore the atrocities perpetrated by a vile dictator in an effort to avoid dealing with an uncomfortable reality, but those who have to live under Castro’s tyranny do not have that luxury.  

Nevertheless, we must continue to say their names aloud and shout to the world who they are and how they are suffering. The world may elect to ignore us, but those who are being tortured and tormented in Cuba’s jails will hear our words. Just like the way their suffering transcended time and distance and touched my soul the night of the vigil, our voices will transcend the walls of repression surrounding our imprisoned Cuban countrymen and keep alive the dream of freedom we all carry in our hearts.  

Our continued love and support, wherever we may be in this world, will find its way to them. And it is this love and support that gives them the hope and the courage they need to continue their noble and valiant effort to oppose the tyranny that has enslaved Cuba for nearly fifty years. 

One day it will end, of that I am sure. And one day, a memorial will be built somewhere in Cuba listing the names of all of the mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers who were imprisoned, tortured, and murdered by Castro’s regime. 

One day I will stand before that memorial and read those names aloud.

__________________________

For photos, videos, and more information regarding Bloggers United for Cuban Liberty, click HERE

- Free Press has a Price: NBC will broadcast The Today Show from Cuba. Just what did they pay for the privilege?

As NBC’s The Today Show prepares to broadcast live from Cuba, I have to wonder what promises and guarantees to portray Cuba positively the network made to the island's dictatorial regime. With the recent expulsions of foreign journalists by the Cuban government for not reporting about Cuba in a “positive light,” I sincerely doubt either of the tyrannical Castro brothers would allow a pseudo-news television program viewed by millions of Americans to take place on their island prison without some kind of assurances. So, while hundreds of prisoners of conscience languish in Cuban jails, and the eleven million plus residents of the island are denied the most basic human rights, will NBC seek the truth behind the atrocities that take place on a daily basis in Cuba, or did they pay with their souls for the privilege of broadcasting from Havana?

- Read the rest HERE -

- Querida España: Una carta del corazón, al país que me lo rompe una y otra vez.

¡O, España!  Me has defraudado tantas veces que ya he perdido la cuenta. He tratado—Dios bien lo sabe—de perdonar la tierra donde nacieron mis antepasados. El único país fuera del mío que he visitado y donde me he sentido como en mi casa. Tú hablas mi idioma, eres la base de mi cultura, y sin embargo me rompes el corazón una y otra vez. Tú fuiste la cuna de mis bisabuelos: Asturias, Galicia, Tenerife. Más para ti, no somos más que niños insolentes que no merecen respeto ni dignidad. La isla donde mis abuelos y mis padres nacieron dejó de ser tu colonia hace más de 100 años atrás, pero ante tus ojos aun somos esa villa traidora del nuevo mundo bien merecedora de tanto dolor y muerte.

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Oh, Spain! You have disappointed me so many times I have lost count. I have tried—God knows I have tried—to forgive the country where my ancestors were born. The only country in this world, outside of my own, that I have visited and felt as if I were home. You speak my language, you are the basis of my culture, and yet you break my heart time and time again. You were the birthplace of my great-grandparents: Asturias, Galicia, Tenerife. Yet to you, we are nothing more than insolent children not worthy of respect or dignity. The island where my grandparents and my parents were born ceased to be your colony over 100 years ago, but in your eyes, we are still that treasonous outpost of the new world that you found deserving of so much pain and death.

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Many years ago on cable TV, Cheech Marin, of Cheech & Chong fame, hosted a comedy special featuring various Latino comedians. The special featured up and coming Latino comics as well as some that were already established. My memories of that special are vague, but one skit in particular remains vivid in my memory. An Hispanic version of Moses, carrying with him the sacred tablets inscribed with God’s commandments, began to tell the story of how he led the Latino tribes to the promised land: the United States. One by one, this Moises started to name the different Latin American nationalities that had followed him as if they were the tribes of Israel. The list contained the usual countries, the names interspersed with jokes while he motioned to his left, pointing to the imaginary masses behind him. I listened to the list, waiting for Cuba to be named and right when I thought it would be ignored, he motioned to his right and said, “…and on my right, we have the tribe of Cuba.” The line was received with laughter and applause; the mostly Latino audience understood the joke. Cubans, it is commonly said, are not like the rest of the Latinos—they are all right wingers.

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