I spent both Saturday and Sunday at the Cuban Memorial helping Maria Werlau of the Cuba Archive. Together and along with a couple other volunteers including Jorge from The Real Cuba, we took testimonials from folks who had family or friends die as a result of the castro regime. It would be impossible to accurately describe the gamut of emotions I felt throughout the two days and there isnt enough bandwidth to write and carry all of the heartbreaking recollections I heard this weekend. There are a few moments, however, that touched me deeply, and which I will try to relate to you in the next few days. I can’t help but start with the following:
There were almost ten thousand symbolic crosses placed on the Tamiami Park field this year. Each with a name of a victim, the date of his or her passing and the location. The way these symbolic tombstones are placed, and the way they appear before you remind you somewhat of Arlington National cemetery, except, of course, that the loved ones these crosses represent are not buried below the crosses that bear their names.
Still, though, people knelt in front of the crosses and talked. They prayed. They brought flowers and photographs. They placed cards and notes. They wept at the feet of these symbolic crosses just the same.
The first testimonial I took down was from an elderly man, possibly in his late sixties. We had forms that asked all the pertinent questions: Loved one’s name, any nickname he or she may have had, place of birth, date of death, location of death and a couple other questions such as additional information or or pertinent information relative to the person’s passing.
At the bottom of the form we’d fill out the information of the person giving the testimonial.
I filled out all the information about this man’s loved one’s death and then asked him his own name. Both he and the person he was giving testimonial for had the same last name.
“What is your relation to the deceased,” I asked. “Brother, cousin…?”
The old man looked up at me, pursed his lips and swallowed hard. His index finger tapped nervously on the table and his eyes began to water:
“Era mi papa.”
