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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.
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