Journey Back Into The Vault

Day 1: Saying Hello

A Longing to Know

On May 16, 2016, I arrived at Miami International Airport looking to board the early flight to Havana. Barely four o’clock in the morning, dozens of passengers were already in line for processing at the American Airlines check-in counter. Most were Cuban Americans returning home to visit family members; others were simply going there for a good time. Fifty-six years after leaving Cuba, I was returning to the land of my birth in search of my childhood memories.

I settled at the rear of the line and waited for my turn to check in with the airline official. There was hope and wonder around me that morning; everywhere I looked, people were smiling. Most passengers in line were carrying inordinate quantities of suitcases and assorted bags with them. Some were even taking small air conditioners, undercounter refrigerators, and television sets as well. They were bringing much needed clothing, daily necessities, medicines, and appliances not found in Cuba today for their loved ones back home. A grandfatherly looking man, traveling alone, was carrying a rather large and cuddly teddy bear. It made me smile. Some young boy or girl was about to be very happy once he cleared Cuban Customs later this morning.

After checking in the one small bag I was bringing, my wife, Pam, and I headed toward the TSA security checkpoint knowing full well that once we got there I would be continuing on my journey alone. My trip to Cuba would not include her. I could not totally open myself to the raw emotions I was certain to face during my journey of self-discovery if I simultaneously felt the need to shelter her from my pain. We walked in silence—our emotions expressed only by the tight grasp of our hands.

Once we reached the queue for TSA security, it was time for us to say goodbye. Careful not to show any unintended emotions that might cause her distress, I raised the wall I often use to mask my feelings and gently assured her, “Baby, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

She stared at me in silence and mustered a feigned smile as tears swelled from her sad green eyes onto her cheeks.

“Please don’t cry,” I said, “I will only be gone a week.”

“I am not crying because you are leaving,” she responded.

“Well then, why are you crying?” I asked.

“Because I know you are finally going to find the answers you’ve always needed,” she said. “I’m only happy for you.”

She understood.

“Smile, You Are in Cuba”

The flight from Miami to Havana was short and uneventful. Engulfed within an eerie state of calm and filled with countless dissimilar emotions, I dulled my surroundings and kept to myself. Less than forty-five minutes after leaving Miami, we were flying over Havana’s northern coastline; for the first time in fifty-six years, I could see the land of my birth below me once more.

A few minutes later, our chartered aircraft landed at Havana’s José Martí International Airport and roared down the arrivals runway until ironically coming to a complete stop just outside the same, seemingly unchanged, airport terminal from where my father, mother, brother, and I once fled Cuba amid much pain and confusion. I had come full circle.

I sat frozen in my passenger seat waiting for the aircraft’s door to open and thought about the life-changing events that led to my parents’ decision to flee our homeland, the overwhelming grief and sad goodbyes with family members on the day we left, the chaos defining our last hours in Havana inside this terminal, and the anticipation I felt as a nine-year-old boy to fly on an airplane for the first time. Most of all, however, I thought about how, after all these years and two previous failed attempts to return, I was finally back in Cuba, anxious to start the search for my long forgotten Cuban childhood memories.

Once the aircraft’s doors finally opened, I exited the cabin and climbed down the airport’s mobile ladder ever so slowly, never taking my eyes off the tarmac on Cuban soil below. Once I reached the last step, I looked curiously at the first sights of Cuba around me, hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath of nostalgia, and spiritedly stepped on Cuban soil once more. Not wanting to give in to the overwhelming emotions suddenly pouring over me, I dulled my senses again and convinced myself I was fine.

I followed the other passengers toward the terminal I still associated with so many varying emotions and walked through its ancient exterior doors directly into the Cuban Customs holding room. Once inside, I hurriedly joined the rear of one of the several tidy international passenger arrival queue lines already formed and prepared to meet with one of the once-dreaded olive-green-uniformed Cuban Customs officials.

Looking around the room this morning, I smiled at the realization that the place once synonymous with my family’s painful departure from Cuba fifty-six years ago, now represented a welcoming portal into what promised to be a homecoming week of reconciliation, discoveries, and closure. Today, the anguish of my last day in Cuba had given way to the hopes and wonder of a returning son.

The quiet and orderly Cuban Customs holding room at José Martí International Airport was a pleasant and calming surprise this morning. Everyone around me stood unusually still, moving only to make eye contact with the others in queue. No one spoke or even coughed—all stress and anticipation channeled into a most unusual silence belying the many long queue lines already formed. The walls of the spartan holding room were bare except for a photograph of Raúl Castro and an official-looking government poster depicting a female military officer holding her index finger in front of her lips with a sign printed in large capital letters below her image that read “DO NOT RAISE YOUR VOICE.” It was my first experience with Cuban crowd control—the uncomfortable silence in the room proved it was working.

A few minutes later, it was my turn to meet a most unexpected and welcoming olive-green-uniformed female customs agent. Noticing my hesitant and quiet demeanor, she sighed and demurely asked me to stare into the security camera. I complied with what must have appeared to be an awkward expression.

“Smile,” the pretty customs agent said, “you are in Cuba.”

I told myself I was fine and smiled. She smiled back. I thanked the customs agent and walked slowly into the baggage claim room to retrieve my suitcase. I claimed my bag with the blue ribbon and baseball tag I always use when I travel and excitedly proceeded toward the arrivals terminal’s exit doors. Cuba, I realized, waited for me just outside those doors.

Soon, I was about to face my Cuban past.