Day 5; The first of the two longest days in my life

This (day 5) is probable the first of the two longest days in my life... those who went through a similar experience will have some very bitter memories. Thos who did not, perhaps will never fully understand what goes on in a child's mind at a time like this. Or an adult's, either.

DAY FIVE; May 9, 19962

VI

Needless to say, none of us slept much that night. We all wanted to savor every minute we might have together. There was the impending feeling that we may never see each other again. Unfortunately, this overwhelming feeling of loss as far as ever seeing my grandparents and most of my family again came to be all too true.

The morning of the 9^th, my mother, sister and I walked around while my grandfather was making some rounds and phone calls. Ever “precavido” (someone who plans ahead) he was laying the ground to be able to deal with any unforeseen issues. Little did he know then how much this would help the next day.

We just wanted to feel the air, see the people, the places which would be imprinted in our memories. There was the park across the hotel, with the statue of Jose Martí. In a way, it was like the park at home, except bigger. The capitol building, just a couple of blocks away, a reminder of times gone by when Cuba was still a relatively free republic. Some ice cream from a coffee shop a couple of doors down the block. A walk down San Rafael Street, a main street full of shops and boutiques of a soon-to-be bygone era. Even then, many were already beginning to show the empty shelves which would be the norm in the years to come.

We were really killing time, dreading the moment in which we would actually have to start the journey. On our way to the airport and beyond. We knew that once that journey began, there would be no going back, and there could be no guarantees of any kind. We knew this; we just could not comprehend what this meant exactly.

Early in the afternoon, while we were putting our small suitcases together there was absolute silence in the room, each of us lost in our own thoughts. This was going to be a really long afternoon and night; how long they would be, there was no way of anticipating.

At 4pm we piled into the car and started a journey that still seems to go on, simply with many detours happening along the way. For us, who lived in a small city in the center of the island, the airport at Havana was the gateway to the rest of the world. Although a medium size airport as far as capital cities go, at ages 15 and 14, it looked huge and foreign. There was a line of people forming under a small sign which simply said “Those who are running away from our revolution”. Since we were indeed leaving, we figured this was our line and, besides, it was the one with the most people.

By 6pm we had made it to the head of the line, with our mother and grandfather alongside.. After the papers were presented, revised and stamped (the first of many stamps which would be needed) my sister and I were sent to the door which would take us to the waiting room and, when our family went to go with us, they were stopped and simply told by the armed guard: -“Say good bye now, you will not be with them again; you go in that door over there”, pointing his finger at a smallish door about 10 feet away. At this moment, began the separation

VII

LA PECERA.

This room merits its own heading and space. Pecera in Spanish means, literally, “fishbowl”. If you talk to anyone who left Cuba in the 60’s as an exile leaving his/her family behind and mention the phrase “la Pecera at Marti Airport”, a cloud of bitter memories will immediately come to that person’s mind.

As we came through the door from the outside, we found ourselves in a big room. In many ways, very much like a large rectangular waiting room in any airport, anywhere. However, there were two basic, but major differences. The back wall, where the door we had just come through was a big, closed wall. On the right side, as we came in, was the glass wall and doors which opened to the outside, to the airport tarmac. The open space in the center of the room was occupied by several rows of chairs, facing the front of the room. So far, so good. However, the remaining two sides made the difference between this waiting room and any other, in any of the (too) many airports where I have waited for a flight since then. At the front of the room, where you could expect to see some sort of desk with the bureaucrats who would check the papers, that was exactly what you would see. Except that the papers desk was a relatively small one, placed between two other larger desks where armed guards sat. Four guards, plus two more at the door. Each armed with an AK-47 which, in the case of the sitting guards, were laying on top of the desks, where the phone should be. If their intent was to put fear into the hearts and minds of two kids who were there alone, they certainly succeeded.

However, the wall which earned the room the infamous name “Pecera” and an indelible place in our collective memories was the fourth wall. As we came into the room, there was this side of the room, on our left. This is the area which normally would be open to the inside of the airport, where those who came with you would stand and talk or communicate with you, until the actual flight time when you actually went to the plane or, in international flights, until you cleared your papers and went to an inside waiting room. Normally, it may be marked by a waist high rail, or a division of some sort, indicating that those on either side could not physically cross to the other, but were still able to communicate. In the case of this room, instead of the open space which one would expect to find, there was a floor to ceiling clear double glass wall, soundproofed. The only break in the wall was a small door (also glass) at the end of the room, next to the tables.

On one side of the wall, my sister and I. On the other side of that see-through, but impenetrable wall, our grandfather and mother. It was now 6:45pm; we had about 15 hours until boarding time, assuming all went well. Then again, one begins to learn early in life that nothing should be so assumed.

We cried on this side of the wall; our mother did the same on the other side. Our grandfather, whom I knew only too well, did so within his soul. He was not a person who would normally let his feelings get the better of him; especially negative feelings, but his eyes said it all. This was a last insult to the families; it was not enough they had to split, not knowing if there would ever be a reunion. We would look at each other all night without being able to touch or talk. The impression was deep and very long lasting. Eventually, we found a couple of chairs next to the wall and sat in them, looking to the other side and holding on to our little bags… they were all we had at that moment.

As the hours ever so slowly went by we felt tired, hungry, alone and scared. Scared as we had never felt before. We could not stop shedding tears; my sister next to me and I was trying to be the “older”, strong guy and not succeeding completely. Eventually, we fell asleep, sitting on those plastic chairs.

It would not be the last time we would fall asleep crying in the next few months.