Blog: Action News Jax reporter Lorena Inclan's experience as a Cuban-American

Being the daughter of Cuban immigrants has always been a source of pride for me. Those who know me know how passionate I am about my heritage and about the plight of Cuban exiles. I’m the product of a community that has always fought for freedom. A community that didn’t leave Cuba because they wanted to, they left because they had no other choice.

The topic of Fidel Castro often came up in my home. For as long as I can remember I have known his name and more importantly I have known what he did. My grandmother despises him so much she refuses to even say his name instead referring to him as “el loco”, the crazy one, or “el diablo”, the devil.

To understand why such strong words are used you have go back decades, you have to look in the eyes of the Cuban exile community and what you will find is nothing but pain and suffering.

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I was fortunate enough to be born free in Miami where my childhood was marked by countless trips to the airport to receive family members who fled the island like my parents did in 1985. I remember my parents working up to two jobs to not only feed my brother and I but to make sure there was money left over that we could send to our family still living in Cuba so they too could put food on their tables.

My dad’s mom and sisters came during “The Mariel” boatlift and my mom’s parents came in the 90s. Three of her brothers and their families followed over the years. The fourth, of the five siblings, came on a raft. I’ll never forget going with my mom and grandma to a building somewhere in Miami where there were lists posted on the walls. For weeks we would go and try to find my uncle’s name on the lists. Finally, we found his name. It was the only sign we had that he didn’t drown in the 90-mile stretch of ocean that separates us. He was picked up by the Coast Guard and taken to Guantanamo Bay where he would spend more than a year before being allowed to reunite with us in Miami.

Those family reunions at the airport were heart wrenching. I was a child but I remember my mom embracing her parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews so tight as if never wanting to let go because for years they were forced to let go. That separation, that division among families, is what Castro wanted. It’s how he controlled his people. It’s how, even after death, his grip remains is so strong families can’t freely speak over the phone for fear of being picked up by Cuba’s state security.

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My dad was a veterinarian in Cuba. He left the island first, my mom and brother followed months later. First arriving in Panama, then El Salvador and then finally Miami. My dad tucked away his medical degree from the University of Havana in a cabinet when he got to America and grabbed a mop and broom instead. For him, cleaning buildings in the United States was better than being a doctor in Cuba. He would eventually earn a degree in radiology but he never quit his cleaning job.

My mom has worked in the service industry her whole life. She often tells me how much she loves the United States because it gave her opportunities Cuba never did. My mom was born and raised in the height of communism. She always tells me the story about how the government took evaporated milk away from her as soon she turned 7-years-old. Evaporated milk was the only kind her body could assimilate at that age. She grew up without a decent pair of shoes, or clothing and spent many nights going hungry.

I’m beyond proud to be the daughter of Cuban exiles. Their sacrifice is what pushes me to work hard because they didn’t go through all that suffering for me not to succeed.

Most of my family knows what it’s like to be assigned a “libreta de abastecimiento”, a meal ration book. They know what’s it’s like to be called a “gusano”, a worm, for refusing to be a government sympathizer. Which by the way, if you didn’t pledge allegiance to the government you would be blocked from seeking degrees for “better-paying” professions even if you’re valedictorian.

My grandparents know what it’s like to be spied on by their neighbors. Castro’s Cuba created what’s called “Comites de Defensa de la Revolución”, Committees for Defense of the Revolution. These committees were in every corner; they were made up of your neighbors whose task was to watch your every move in order to make sure you weren’t supporting the opposition.

One-day in 1961 Cuban state police ran sacked my grandparents’ home looking for “anti-revolutionary” evidence and took them, along with their two sons, to jail. My mom wasn’t born yet but her two older brothers were. They were kids but they too were taken to jail and deprived of food for hours until my grandmother was finally let go. My grandfather had to endure three days of questioning and death threats from government police. He was fortunate enough to be let go but that experience changed him. From that moment on, their only goal was to survive long enough to get out of Cuba. So many others who dared to go against the government were murdered by firing squad if not jailed for decades.

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Yes it’s true, Castro overthrew dictator Fulgencio Batista but he replaced his regime with a totalitarian government that has lasted 57 years. He stole the Cuban revolution from true patriots who actually wanted free and open elections. No, education is not entirely free on the island because the government forces you to undergo “La Escuela al Campo”, mandatory labor camp for students. Yes, healthcare is free but God speed if you ever have to go to a hospital. Remember to bring your own blankets and even medicine, if you can find any. If you’re lucky the bathroom in your room will have a toilet if not get used to hovering over a hole in the ground and to top it off it’s widely known that even doctors are paid about $20 a month.

We must never forget that in 1996 Castro ordered combat pilots to shoot down two unarmed civilian planes carrying four U.S. citizens known as “Hermanos al Rescate”, Brothers to the Rescue. In the 90s, at the height of a massive exodus, this group would fly the Florida straits throwing food, water, and other necessities to rafters.

I had the honor of interviewing National Book Award winner Carlos Eire years ago. He was one of 14,000 kids whose parents put them on planes by themselves so that they wouldn’t grow up under Castro’s rule. They were called “Pedro Pan”, or Peter Pan, flights. Eire never saw his father again. He eventually became a professor of history and religion at Yale University. He correctly stated that the only country in the world that is similar to Cuba is North Korea, but who would want to vacation in cold and dreary North Korea?

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The tropical paradise of Cuba is much more alluring. But I can assure you; Cuba is far from a paradise. It’s an island with starving people, decaying infrastructure, political prisoners, no religious freedom, no freedom of speech, or of the press, or any of the freedoms we take for granted in the U.S.

So yes, the exile community in Miami is rejoicing over the death of Fidel Castro. His death marks the end of a long and painful chapter. But Cuba’s book is still being written. The exile community recognizes that his death won’t bring any immediate change because the fact is that Raul Castro has ruled the island since his brother ceded power in 2006.

What the exile community is cheering for is that for the first time in decades there’s hope. My uncle’s father-in-law who was a political prisoner tells me “his death is the beginning of the end”. Cubans are extremely resilient; it’s the only way they’ve been able to survive. Castro stole their homeland, took their businesses, he destroyed families, he perpetrated a massive fraud upon the Cuban people promising to help the poor and instead made everyone poor and helped only himself.

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So yes, thousands if not millions are celebrating his death because the only thing we should be lamenting is the fact that Cuba remains an oppressed nation with no basic human rights. I wasn’t born on the island but I feel Cuban just the same. While I didn’t live through the atrocities my family did, their pain is my pain. I feel it every time I hear their stories and it shakes me to the core.

I am the proud daughter of “gusanos”.  I am a journalist who can work freely in my field because our founding fathers protect that right. I am proud to be an American. I thank my parents for having the good sense to flee an oppressive regime so that my brother and I could have a better life. Most of all, I am forever grateful to my country for opening its doors to my family.

Cuba will one day be a land of liberty. I pray my grandparents and parents will be around to witness that dream come true. I wish my dad’s mom was still alive to see it. But for now, I am comforted by the fact that my children will be born in a world where there is one less ruthless tyrant.

Viva Cuba Libre.

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