I went to Cuba on Friday. That is, to the airport in Havana. There, immigration security stopped and questioned me. Their focus was on a story I had published in The Wall Street Journal 23 years ago.
That was the last time I visited Cuba. And yes, they had stopped me at the airport and shipped me back to Miami.
History repeats itself in Castro’s Cuba. It seems to go with the system. On Friday, seven hours after my arrival I was again shipped back to Florida.
But what could they be afraid of? Maybe their own weaknesses?
In a time of openness, which they badly need, the system still throws punches at the “enemy.” Maybe it’s an outdated burocratic bloat. Whoever cleans up the dirty sheets just missed mine.
And why? Nobody would tell me. They themselves didn’t know. They were following orders.
So here was an 82-year old journalistic warrior refused entry to his own country when all he wanted was to re-live las ilusiones that he believes are there again. Simply because he could not forget the beautiful expectations of the real revolution he lived through in 1959.
Family were kept waiting. Friends and colleagues frozen from reunions long-planned for a 10-day visit to my hometown and other sentimental places in the island. .
But hope prevails. You wanna know why? Because it’s a survival trick for so many Cubans, young and old.
Because la esperanza es lo último que se pierde.
Because those octogenarians, not me, are disappearing. Not only from the face of the earth, but from the minds and imaginations of most Cubans.
And the younger ones who learned their aberrations are knowing better.