Exile and Freedom
"The truth will set you free."1 —I told my neighbor—. The immigration officer said it to me after the interrogation, and it stuck with me. Those were his words as he handed me a parole for myself and another for my son. I didn't even know it was a biblical reference. It was September 2016, and we were fleeing from Canada.
Just three weeks earlier, I had finished three years of chemotherapy, with little supervision. In Quebec, public health is neither public nor healthy, and I was an aspiring immigrant with no right to get sick. Escape flights to Cuba kept me alive: I would get my pills, receive my IVs, my baby's pediatrician would see him, and then back again to the struggle for a better future in that "first world" we must reach at all costs, for our children. We still tell ourselves that today, far from them.
I wasn't afraid because, although I feared for my life, I knew I was breathing due to a power greater than I could comprehend. A power that dragged me half-dead from Canada to Cuba, and put me back on my feet—the power of a God I did not know but whose existence I intuited because of the demons that hunted me while I was dying. During the 16 days I hovered between life and death without medical attention, I had many visions. I call them visions, but they were real; I just don’t know how else to describe another dimension. There was no light in any of them. When you have seen demons, you ask yourself: What could mere mortals do to me?2 Who could have imagined that I would be judged by a mortal as powerful as Fidel Castro and that having a tattoo that says "freedom"3 on my hip would be a reason to be separated from my son?
The joy of surviving made me even more naive than I already was. When I was an opponent of the regime on the island, I believed we were going to overthrow the dictatorship; otherwise, I wouldn't have done it. In the enthusiasm of being alive, the same thing happened—I forgot that the world is full of cruel human beings, just as cruel and powerful as the agents of Castroism, but in America. I don't know how, but the joy of surviving leukemia made me overlook this variant. I was too happy to be alive and able to hug my son. Disappointment was everywhere, and going back was not an option.
Obama abolished the "wet foot, dry foot" policy; then Trump withdrew protection for abused women... and there I was, not knowing what the truth was, longing to live in freedom with my son, putting my hope in the land of liberty and in the Cuban exile community... So naive, as if the Canadian public health system had not been enough of a lesson. In the wrong place, at the wrong time, just when mercy is running out in the Christian nation, where everything is in abundance and yet nothing is enough.
My son was deported by a federal judge to a country where he had no papers and where we had been denied permanent residency. So much power to be subject to a UN law, to be handed over to the International Court of Justice in The Hague... those people over in Geneva, whom no one elected, who write laws they do not review and that affect the entire world.
Because of this failure, we had to wait five years, change our status and get a new citizenship each, before we could see each other again. The truth is that to be free is to be free in spirit. And just like in Cuba, almost no one is free in the free world. The only difference is that here, people sleep in their wealth and do not realise it. This is a strange place. It reminds me of the time of the Judges; America needs a Deborah.
All this reflection does me good, and my neighbour looks at me with a mixture of pain and sympathy. You are such a strong woman, she says. For a moment she forgets where we are, the hard chairs of the social security office and the thick air of frustration that surrounds us. She seems torn between asking something or just continuing to listen. For a moment, she forgets that we are here... That was the idea, for her to forget, because she feel like she is dying, and no doctor will tell her what it is, nor give her any treatment.
We've been here for two hours, my neighbor and I. I am with her because she cannot communicate with the system. My friend is a New Yorker, and I adore her. She has had a belly like a nine-month pregnancy for three years, but at 62 years old, it is certainly not a baby. They charged her $1,800 last year plus the monthly premium, and she still has no diagnosis. This year, since she hasn't been able to work, the doctors bounce her around, and no one sees her. But she can't take it anymore; she needs to have her abdomen drained again—it is about to burst. And here we are, she and I, in line, thinking about how hard things are getting for everyone. I tell her my story, she listens and understands.
A baby crawls on the filthy floor. Finally, they call us by our number. In reality, apart from the Lord, we are just numbers in this world. Everyone in this place is so sad that the walls seem soaked with tears and a grey haze lingers. I speak English for five seconds, and they look for a Latina to assist me because the American came with a spokesperson and nobody wants trouble. I finally understood what was happening. My neighbor is 62 years old; she got sick too soon. Not even her doctor’s letter is enough for the system: the federal government won’t help her until April 2026. I think I misunderstood, but she shouts next to me: I'll be dead by then! With teary eyes, I say in Spanish: "Entonces van a esperar a que se muera?" The response is that she should apply for Medicaid through the state. I inform them that we just came from there and they remain silent. It’s the same old story, just like in Cuba.
I get up dizzy, and she follows me, muttering. A Cuban family without an SSN asks me for help filling out a form. They are seated at the window, but no official is assisting them. The mother, with tears in her eyes, tells me they don’t speak English and they have been told that everything is in English or they can’t fill out anything, and no one can help them. She shows me her papers—I don’t understand because of the wording- it is done on purpose so we do not understand- I don’t think they have status. I don’t know what to tell them. A community lawyer costs at least three thousand dollars, and if it's free, it's at the cost of your soul.
There is no one to help us. None.4
- "And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." — John 8:32, KJV 1960
- "In God I trust, why should I be afraid? What can mere mortals do to me?" — Psalms 56:11, NTV
- “For the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” - 2 Corinthians 3:17, NTV
- “As it is written, 'There is none righteous, no, not one; there is none who understands, there is none who seeks God." - Romans 3:10-11, NTV
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