Jimper/Book One/Prologue

PROLOGUE

From a practical point of view, life is a rather simple proposition. We all are born basically the same way, and inevitably, we all die. Its what we do between those two points that make us differ from one another. Here, between those two points, I wait. This is my moment, my very own defining moment. We all have a defining moment in our lives. Some people barely notice it, but its invariably there. It could be something as simple as seeing or hearing a work of art that moves us or listening to an inspiring story. It could be something completely different and as plain as a word we said at a moment when we should have kept silent or an act we committed in an instant and without much thought. There are some for whom this moment is the catapult to a higher destiny. For others, it is the fall into an abyss of regret and guilt. For a few people, that instant signals the end, but some live a lifetime afterward to ponder what could have been done differently in that split second, how we could have changed that forlorn moment that defined us forever, that single act that changed us so deeply, so profoundly, so fundamentally. Was it a triumphant moment or was it a mistake? Only time will decide. Yet, given the same circumstances, we probably would repeat it all over again without much hesitation, whether the results were positive or negative. The fact remains that we are who we are, and we will respond to the same stimuli in basically the same unaltered, almost automated fashion over and over again. After all, man is the only animal that would stumble over the same rock twice. In the end, the events that take us to that instant become wretchedly irrelevant by the simple irreversible nature of time. Even so, I know deep inside there was no other choice for me. At least, that is what I will tell my conscience for years to come in a futile attempt to subdue the torment of knowing I will be damned for eternity just for doing the right thing, for doing what has to be done. Thou shall not kill.

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Jimper/Book One/Prologue As I pressed my finger against the trigger of the old gun, the hammer violently struck the back of the cartridge, making the gunpowder explode and propelling the bullet through the barrel and into the forehead of the terrified man. All I could selfishly think was how I, too, was dying in that very moment. How my soul, the essence of who I was, had instantly changed. How I was left there looking at him falling, still alive yet already dead onto my feet without uttering a word, his look of horror the lone apology for all his crimes and the bitter reward for the single sin I had just committed. Leaving me suspended in that lonely, sad and so miserably irrevocable moment when my life changed forever. For all the others you will not harm, I whispered as I walked away into the darkness of the Havana night. Every fiber in my body wanted me to run. Run away from those dying eyes, even though I knew how futile it was trying to escape them. They would stalk me wherever I went from this moment on, until my own death. Many years later as I slept comfortably, liberated at last from his physical persecution, I would still wake up in the middle of the night, screaming in horror as I dreamt that I strolled the streets of Havana surrounded by my loved ones and suddenly realized I was trapped there again, not able to leave, and his eyes coming to hunt me! I walked a bit slower now, under the trees lining the street, alone in the immense city mostly asleep at this late hour. A few blocks away I realized I was still holding the gun in my hand. Crouching down near a sewage drain, I smashed it against the curb and dropped the pieces into the drain. The scene from The Godfather where Michael Corleone walks away after committing a murder and disposes of the weapon as he was told to do, flashed in my mind. Funny how the mind sometimes has a mind of its own. But I wasn't content with just disposing of the gun. I wanted to destroy it to prevent it from killing again, perhaps to reassure myself that I could not kill again. I am nothing like the movie character. At least not until this moment, this instant in a lifetime, this turning point that would forever change the way I see myself. My name is Daniel Gomez-Mendieta, but everyone simply calls me Danny. I am twentysix years old and the elder of two sons, born into a loving family and heir to an incalculable family fortune. Three months ago I was the youngest student ever to graduate Magna Cum Laude from the Havana School of Medicine.

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Jimper/Book One/Prologue But that wasnt a joyous occasion. I never wanted to be a doctor anymore than I wanted to be a murderer. And those are only two more on the very long list of the things I never wanted to be. A list that begins with: be afraid. After a brisk walk, I approached for the last time the house where I was born. I looked at it from across the street knowing I would never see it again. Nor the house, my parents, my little brother, or any of the people, things and places I grew up loving. I must abandon everything I love forever in order to save myself. And I feel like a coward, a quitter. I convinced myself the underlying reason of my escape was to grant this request from my suffering mother so she could have a reason to live, a small ray of hope that may cut through an eternity of misery and hurt and would allow her to go on fighting for all of us. But it still feels selfserving and excusatory. How could I leave them behind and not feel guilty? The house sits on four acres of land in a quiet corner in Miramar, the plush suburb of Havana. It is actually the largest of a two-house complex built by my grandfather in the late 1940s. Tasteful in the old style of the great European houses and opulent like many others in the area; surrounded by a greystone and ornate iron wall ten feet tall. Most people described it as a mansion, but I had always known it as my home, currently a sorry shadow of its former self after twenty years of neglect and disrepair. It differs from the neighboring houses in one sinister detail: at the front gate an armed soldier occupies around the clock, a crude military garret made of cinder block. He is not there to protect us. He is there to keep watch over us, to restrict our movements and to prevent my father from ever leaving the confines of his own house as dictated by decree from the government. And thats the way its been for the past twenty years. But we would never accept it as normal and we would never delude ourselves. Even though only my father is forbidden to leave the house, we are all prisoners. I crossed the street and approached the gate, triggering an automatic reaction from the guard who, recognizing me, waved me in with the habitual arrogant disdain of an insignificant mind empowered by the brute possession of a firearm. I went rapidly up the hill on the cobblestone-paved driveway that ran through what were once lush gardens, now an overgrown jungle of weeds and half dead plants after years of neglect. Then turned right before reaching the main entrance and going toward the side of the house where the service door used to be. Page | 4

Jimper/Book One/Prologue This has been our way into the house since the guards nailed shut the grand carvedmahogany doors of the main entrance many years ago. Once dedicated to deliveries and the house service, the side door opens up right into the kitchen with its mostly unused wood burning oven and rustic pine table. The table that used to accommodate the many people in my familys service and that has seen us, of late, join together many nights hungry but united by an indescribable love and an intractable resolve. I walked around in the dark and easily found the door to the old breakfast room, avoiding the scarce furniture and reaching the corridor leading to the grand foyer with an imposing black marble staircase and Baccarat crystal chandelier which had not been lit since I was a child. On the other side of the foyer, doors that lead to the library opened with a slight squeak. The almost full moon flooding the room was all the light I needed for my eyes, so used to darkness from the constant power outages. The room was covered with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases but most of the books were long gone, taken away by guards like so many other things. By the window, the massive, hundred year old mahogany desk that belonged to Grandpa was facing me. Behind that desk he sat and ruled the country when he was called a hero, or Mr. President. Before he became labeled a traitor to the motherland and dispossessed of everything he owned. The old grandfather clock in the corner, one of the few mechanical things that still worked showed it was twenty minutes past midnight. I walked around the desk and sat on the old, soft leather chair where my grandfather had died many years ago when I was still a small child as I slept on his lap. On the desk was a small calendar with pictures of the Cuban countryside. I turned the page and revealed the current date. Tuesday, May 20th, 1980. On the back of the calendar page I wrote: I would see you all again someday, where there are butterflies. Inside a drawer I found an envelope with the document I needed and a small amount of cash in dollar bills, the product of one last sacrifice my mother had made for me. I put everything in my pocket and then quickly got up and walked out of my home forever. I had enough money for a taxi. But there were none around, as usual. I had grown used to walking as the only mode of transportation in Havana, so I walked down the street to nearby Fifth Avenue and made a left turn heading west.

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Jimper/Book One/Prologue Traffic was very light and I walked on the street absent-minded until a very loud horn brought me back to reality. To my surprise, the car, a 1956 Dodge, stopped and the driver blew the horn again. I walked to the window and recognized one of my med-school classmates. Hey, Danny! I just saw you walking by and stopped to say good-bye. Im leaving this shit hole tonight. Im on my way to Mariel. Before he could react, I was sitting in the passenger seat. I hope you dont mind the company. Thats where I am heading too. The old car took almost three hours for the sixty mile trip and it was huffing and puffing when we finally arrived at the outskirts of Mariel. The seaport town was asleep at the early hour and we went through it undisturbed. In the distance we could see the two chimneys of the biggest structure in the region and one of the Comandantes brightest ideas, the brand new asbestos-cement factory. Another epic achievement of the Revolution that would solve, once and for all, the need for building materials necessary for the construction of housing for the workers. The car died a mile past the town and about two miles short of the port. We left it right on the road and Paquito, my classmate, left the keys in the ignition. Someone will fix it and keep it, he said almost mournfully. Then he turned and blinked repeatedly as he continued, I have many memories of that car, especially the back seat. But I cant take it with me. And it really doesnt matter anyway. I am going to buy me a Cadillac when I get to Miami! He made me smile. I had always been skeptical of the stories of riches waiting to be taken that propelled people to brave the ocean as the only way to reach them. All the riches in the world would not suffice to make me leave my loved ones behind. But economic necessity was not my reason for leaving. I started to walk toward the port and Paquito followed me. A few minutes later a military patrol in an old jeep stopped us and after the customary check of I.D. papers, they directed us to a post about half a mile away. As we got closer, the activity increased. A few hundred people were waiting by the military post at the entrance of the port. At the same time, army troops were patrolling the perimeter, some of them with trained dogs.

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Jimper/Book One/Prologue A chill went through my back when they first asked me for my passport. The officer took a look and directed me toward a roadside clearing, where a group of people stood. "Wait over there with the others," the guard said coldly. The same guard checked Paquitos ID and ordered him into a patrol car that rapidly whisked him away. I never saw Paquito again. The most likely explanation was that the guard noticed the Dr. before Paquitos name on his ID and sent him to jail, as it is illegal for a medical doctor to leave the country. He probably ended up in prison or serving as a military medic in the Angolan war, to which Cuba sent numerous troops. It was about four-thirty in the morning when a bus stopped to pick up our group. The officers carefully searched everybody as we boarded the transport. Some people still carried watches and jewelry, others had family pictures or important documents. The soldiers allowed the immigrants to take only the necessary papers for the trip, nothing else. They confiscated everything else into their own pockets. I had hidden my money between my toes inside my socks and it survived the search. When we were all aboard, the bus started moving. But to my surprise, we didn't drive toward the coast. Instead we went east, toward the town of Mariel itself. Afraid to ask what was going on and raise suspicion I just kept silent and prayed for the best. A few minutes later, the bus went through a very well guarded gate, stopping a few hundred yards past it, next to a small shack. They ordered us to disembark and form a line. The strong sea breeze told me we were very close to the ocean. A lieutenant read some names from a list and half a dozen people stepped forward. They were people with relatives from the United States waiting for them on the boats. They were taken back to the bus and driven away. My name, of course, was not on the list and I was herded with the others past the cabin into a fenced area. It was a rocky stretch of coast about twenty by forty yards. The waves were hitting hard against the rocks, covering everyone with a salty coating. There were about two thousand people standing in that small space. Only with the dim light of the new day did I fully grasp the gravity of my problem. It could take me days to get out of there and by then they would surely find me. Some people told me they had been there for three days, most were complaining about the lack of food and water. A few women with children had been given the choice spot, under the lonely tree in the center of the area, where they were sheltered from the waves at night and the blistering sun during the day.

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Jimper/Book One/Prologue Every once in a while, an officer would come and read from a list. After calling about one hundred names, he would stop and the lucky ones would leave, only to be replaced half an hour later by roughly the same amount of new people arriving in the buses. It was only several weeks later that the arriving buses started bringing inmates directly from the Combinado Del Este Prison and from Mazorra, the psychiatric hospital. But for the moment, the majority of those were people with relatives in Miami or people like me, just trying to escape Cuba. With every roll call, there was a swift shifting of positions by the remaining people to occupy the choice spaces. At about three-twenty in the afternoon, the first water distribution of the day began and that caused a near riot. Everyone wanted to be the first to get a ration and justifiably so after an entire day without a drink under the ninety-five degree sun. After a short while, the guards left, leaving the majority of the mob thirsty and angry. We all had blisters from the sun and swollen faces from mosquito bites, especially the numerous children. Many people had cuts and some, more severe wounds from the guards' bayonets. That night, when the guards came for another water round, some sandwiches were also brought and the fight was brutal. Some of the older children pushed their way to the front of the line, trying to grab the sandwiches from the guards. Then, five soldiers with trained dogs appeared, followed by several more carrying assault rifles with bayonets. At a signal, the dogs attacked the crowd. In the stampede that followed, the people in the front of the line, most of them children, were bitten by the dogs, while people in the back were pushed into the ocean by the retreating mob. Even after the crowd complied and stood back, the guards kept inciting the dogs to attack. Finally they left, taking with them the rest of the rations. The night brought some relief from the horrible heat and though impossible to sleep for lack of space, we rested the best we could by leaning against each other. Most of the families tried to stay together. The relatives and friends of the wounded tended to them. I went around applying makeshift bandages to the bleeding children and when the news got around that there was a doctor helping, the demand for my services increased drastically, keeping me busy for the rest of the night and making me nervous about attracting too much attention. The next time they had a feeding, around noon the following day, the grateful father of one of the children I had treated brought me a small container with water and a small portion of a sandwich. I accepted the water and drank a sip from the cup passing the rest, back to the man's children. I refused the food. Page | 8

Jimper/Book One/Prologue "I could not eat knowing they are hungry, I told him as I pointed at the children. I was beginning to lose track of how much time I had been at the Mosquito Beach, the name some people had given that hell-hole. Suddenly, shortly after sunset, a large amount of people were called at once and I vaguely heard the name Pedro Lopez called; it was the name on my fake passport. I pushed my way to the front of the line and presented the document to the officer who directed me to the waiting bus. As I was leaving, I passed by the man who had brought me the food. He grabbed me by the arm and whispered in my ear, "Let the world know we are here, please." I nodded and kept going. The bus began to move, this time directly toward the bay. A few minutes later as we drove around a curve, the bright, full moon illuminated the dancing silhouette of hundreds of ships anchored in Mariel Bay. For the first time, I dared to believe it. I was going away! The bus stopped by the entrance of a pier and they unloaded our group. Two other buses had arrived before ours and a line had formed. The line ran to the front of a tiny garret in the middle of the pier, right about where two shrimp boats were docked. Atop the boats, American flags were floating merrily in the evening breeze. One by one, the people in line went into the little shack through the front door, rapidly coming out through the side door directly to board the small ships. There were about two hundred people in line ahead of me but it took only a few minutes before I made it to the post. The person in front of me went inside and came out the other side a few seconds later. A rugged voice called from inside, "Next!" I eagerly walked inside the cabin with the documents in my hand, freezing solid at the sole glance of the man in uniform sitting behind a desk. I could not possibly remember his name, but the memory was vivid in my mind and in a flash I relived one more time an instant a few months earlier when I was arrested by the G-2, the secret police. Sitting behind the desk was one of the men that came for me that day. Without looking at me, the officer asked for papers and I complied. He took the passport, read the name and wrote it on a book. He took an ink stamp from the desk and pressed it against a page of the passport. He then closed it and gave it back saying mechanically, "Out that door and into the ship, Citizen Lopez." Just as I leaned forward to grab the passport, the man looked up.

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Jimper/Book One/Prologue Instantly his face changed. Pushing back his chair he stood up and walked around his desk, hands on his belt. Lucky me! What have we here? Have we changed our name lately citizen Mendieta?" "I don't know what you mean." I lied. "But of course you do. Don't be silly. What do you suppose they'll give me for catching you, Daniel Gomez-Mendieta, trying to escape under an assumed name? A house in Miramar? Or maybe a new 'Lada' automobile? Oh! At the very least a promotion, for sure." I looked out the window at the shrimp boat full of people. Some of them speaking to each other in English began to release the boat from its moorings. I could hear them talk, they were that close! The officer saw my look and unbuttoned the pistol holster on his waist. "Don't even think about it Mendieta, I don't want to have to shoot you." I could smell the acrid salty sea air and in my mouth, it tasted like freedom. Yet, I was lost. I was caught and I had to remain imprisoned and would most likely be executed. Freedom had been a two-minute mirage that now lay at my feet, crushed by the selfish and insignificant ambitions of another man with a gun. An uncontrollable rage overcame my reasoning, the kind that can only surface when you have absolutely nothing to lose. "I know you don't want to shoot me," I muttered softly but resolutely, as I looked straight into his eyes, "but you are going to have to do it if you want to stop me. I am going to walk out there right now and get on that boat. To stop me you are going to have to shoot me in the back, right in front of all those people out there. There are many Americans in those boats who will go back to their country and tell everyone what they saw unless you shoot them, too. Maybe your masters will give you a medal, or maybe you will just provoke an international incident. Are you ready for that? Are you ready to shoot all those people out there if they protest your brutality?" The astonished soldier, neither used to, nor prepared, to have his authority challenged, did not move an eyelid. "I didn't think so." I whispered, as I opened the door and walked outside, my legs trembling. I jumped onto the ship with the help of a man and only then turned around to look back. The officer was standing in total disbelief by the door, his hand still on the gun. The boat started to move away from the pier slowly.

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Jimper/Book One/Prologue I looked again the officer, his arms crossed over his chest, a slight smile on his face. I nodded in a good-bye gesture and the man responded with a military salute. He then went back inside his office and closed the door. The boat slowly made it past the hundreds of small vessels anchored in the bay. I held on to the banister so hard that my knuckles hurt. At the mouth of the bay another shrimp boat and at least four smaller pleasure boats were waiting to form a small flotilla. The Cuban authorities had drastically increased the dangers of crossing the strait of Florida by grossly overloading each vessel. The fifty-foot shrimp boats were carrying about six hundred people each. Most people on the shrimp boats were down in the freezer, the compartment below deck where the freshly fished shrimp would normally be deposited and kept fresh with ice, but those on the deck flocked to the stern to get the last glimpse of their beloved Cuba. As the last sign of the coastline disappeared on the horizon, I sat alone against a rail on the bow, looking toward the open sea. I could not look back. I knew very well what I was leaving behind. Years of pain and suffering, hunger and horror, a hopeless life of shame and fear. The constant harassment and abuse at the hands of people like the man I had just killed. I was also leaving behind everything I ever knew and everyone in this world I ever loved. I didnt need to look back to remember them, for I could never forget. There are roughly ninety miles of sea between the north coast of Cuba and the Florida Keys. Ninety miles of the most treacherous waters in the world called the Strait of Florida, but for those trying to leave Cuba by sea, it might as well be The Gates of Hell. From the moment Castro restricted the travel of Cuban citizens abroad in the 1960s, thousands of people have tried to cross the Strait of Florida in different types of rudimentary vessels ranging from fishing boats to inner tubes. During the summertimes calmer seas, an estimate of twenty to thirty people a day, every day, tried to escape Castro's grip. The most conservative estimate is that only one in four makes it past the Strait of Florida. The cross winds that sweep the rough, shark infested sea form a natural barrier more effective and terrifying than the infamous Berlin Wall. But many of the people who leave Cuba and make it to Florida say death in the ocean was preferable to living on the island.

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Jimper/Book One/Prologue That was the general feeling aboard the Maribel and the Sea Turtle, the two frighteningly old and overloaded shrimp boats carrying more than twelve hundred Cubans to freedom that morning. Only the crew of the decrepit boats knew of the dangers they really confronted. Both captains had chartered their boats to Cuban-Americans in Miami for ten thousand dollars each to pick up the Cubans' relatives. But Castro's people had loaded their vessels with hundreds of men, women and children they neither knew nor asked for and pushed them to the perilous crossing. As soon as the boats were out of the protective barrier of the seaboard, the winds started sweeping them, making every passenger seasick. The Maribel with a better radio system led the group followed by some six smaller pleasure boats and the slow and much overloaded Sea Turtle. We inched our way through the increasingly rough sea, heading north-northeast directly for the Florida Keys; it was the Captains idea to call the US Coast Guard for help as soon as we were in international waters. But the wind from the East kept pushing us toward the Gulf of Mexico, forcing the skipper to maneuver constantly to just stay on route. Two hours into the trip, a Cuban fast boat approached the convoy and ordered the captain to stop. The American ignored the request and continued. The gunboat then fired a burst of shots across the Maribels bow and conveyed by loud speakers their intention of sinking the vessel if they didn't comply with the stop order and allow them to be boarded. The captain frantically kept calling the US Coast Guard asking them to intercede, but the answer from the USCG was chilling. "Maribel, you are in Cuban waters, you must comply and stop the vessel." With no other alternative left, the captain stopped his engines and prepared to be boarded. As soon as I realized they were coming aboard I made my way to the captain who was surprised that I spoke English fluently. "My name is Daniel Gomez-Mendieta and it is me they are after," I said. "If they find me they will either kill me, or take me back. I'd rather die than go back." "How do you know its you they want? OK, never mind. Nobody is taking you anywhere, son. Not if I can help it." The old man signaled me to follow him down to the freezers. Hundreds of people were crammed in the dark and humid aluminum bowel in the center of the ship. Pushing people aside, the captain reached for a cylinder one-foot in diameter, which was used to deliver the shrimp from the fishing decks to the freezer. Lifting it with one hand, he signaled me with the other. "Hurry, Page | 12

Jimper/Book One/Prologue they'll never find you here." I slipped inside the narrow tube and the captain lowered it again to floor level surrounding me with darkness. Instinctively knowing what was going on, the other refugees circled around the tube, almost completely covering it from view. The captain rushed up to the deck just in time to greet the boarding party. The three men who came aboard were all carrying AK-47's and their leader flashed a picture in front of the captain's face. "Have you seen this man?" he asked. It was the mug shot from when I was arrested weeks earlier. The Captain chewed on a cigar butt and mumbled "Nope." The soldier, not impressed by the captain's attitude, ordered his men to search the vessel. The scrutiny took almost three hours, but was in vain. They finally left, boarding their fast boat and going directly to the Sea Turtle where they repeated the same routine. It was already past midnight when they suspended their search and sped away on their boat. The captain came down to the freezer to let me out of hiding and asked me to come up with him to the small bridge. He offered me a bottle of water and, seeing my hesitation, insisted that I accept it. "It is hard for me too, seeing all those hungry, thirsty people down there," he said. "But there is not enough for everyone and it would only make things worse to try sharing it. The best I can do for them is to get them to safety as soon as possible. After pausing for a second, he continued. I don't know what you have done to piss those people off," he said, with a smile, referring to the Cuban soldiers. "But here I am in command and you have nothing to fear. Please drink the water and try to rest for a while. The soldiers may still come back and then God knows how long you will have to hide inside that tube. Besides, if the weather worsens before the Coast Guard can reach us, I may need your help translating orders to your people, or even in maneuvering the ship." I drank a sip of water and muttered a thank you. The man nodded and sat next to me for a much needed break. "I have no right to endanger you with my presence here." I said. "You are no more danger to us than the weather, kid. If they didn't have you they would find another excuse to harass us. Its not really you they are mad at; it's all these people leaving that are driving them crazy. As I said before, I don't know what you did back there and I don't really care. After all, it's not like you killed somebody. I looked up into the captains eyes and he started to sweat, understanding the silent look. Page | 13

Jimper/Book One/Prologue "Oh no!" he said, wiping his forehead with his shirt, eyes wide open. "He was a colonel with the secret police. He tortured and killed people who were against the government." I tried to explain, the words shooting out of my mouth like gunfire. "And you killed him? There?" The incredulous captain asked pointing toward Cuba, where the lights from the patrol boat still circled around near the horizon. "Yes, I killed the bastard, but that's not why I'm leaving." Was my unrepentant answer. "It's a'ight kid. It's all right." He whispered, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I am sure he probably deserved it. There is going to be a whole lot of that going on in your country when your people finally decide not to take it anymore." "I don't know. Fear is a powerful tool of repression." "Yes, but you can only live in fear for so long. Look at yourself, fear didn't stop you from doing what you had to do. Better yet, look around you. Do you think they are not frightened?" the captain said, pointing at the hundreds of Cubans on his boat. "They are here because they would rather die than live in fear any longer. That gunboat and the guards cannot scare them anymore. When people reach that point, freedom can't be far behind." "I hope you are right, Captain. But I can't avoid feeling Cuba has just the tyrant it deserves. You see brave people leaving, but I see cowards fleeing the country they should fight for, and that includes me. My great-grandfather would be ashamed of us all. He fought so hard for our country." Wait a minute. I recognized the name when you mentioned it, was your great-grandfather the President Gomez-Mendieta? Wow! I am old enough to remember him well. He was a real hero. Its an honor to have you onboard, son. I was deeply touched and beaming with pride. All the painful humiliations we endured for years, brought on by the mere sake of carrying a name suddenly became a badge of honor with the recognition of a stranger. My voice trembled with emotion as I openly spoke of my family for the first time in my life. My family has fought so hard for so long to better ourselves and our country. It has been a long time. Five generations since my great-great-grandfather Manuel came from Spain in a ship probably no bigger than this one, one hundred and thirty years ago. He could not have foreseen that we'd still be immigrants after so long. It's ironic that he came to the New World empty handed, much like I leave now. I am leaving in search of freedom. All he wanted when he came was to find a job and better his life. But he found so much more. He found a homeland. He found Cuba. Page | 14