Comment MIAMI — Jose Carlos Melo had never protested before the hot July morning last year when Cubans began demonstrating in a small town outside Havana. Within hours, people were calling for a demonstration in the capital. With his mother’s blessing, the restaurant manager stepped out to join the thousands who shout “Freedom!” and “Done!” Melo would be threw tear gas and pushed to the ground. But on Instagram and in television interviews over the next few days, he recounted it as the happiest day of his life — a turning point that seemed to mark a before and after in Cuban history. What followed was more complicated. State security agents were lurking outside his home. His mother was pushed out of her job. Police arrested Melo, 27, three times, threatening to press charges that could lead to heavy prison time. By December he decided there was only one way forward: Go to jail or run away. “So I left,” he explained, to Miami. Cubans, fractured by the pandemic and fueled by social media, confront their police state A year later internet-fueled protest rocked Cuba last July 11, many who took to the streets are now defecting and joining one of the largest exodus from the island since Fidel Castro launched the revolution in 1959. Some are activists who have been detained, threatened and harassed. Others are teachers, farmers and parents of young children who decided it would be better to leave as the economy continued to tank, the state failed to enact major reforms and Nicaragua lifted its visa requirement, making it easier to travel there. The exodus is draining the communist state of much of its youth at a time when the country’s population is growing at its slowest rate in six decades. It also poses a challenge to the opposition, as some of the most vocal leaders for change are leaving the island. In Miami, meanwhile, new arrivals are struggling to make ends meet — many don’t have work permits, rents are high, and families are trying to accommodate the new arrivals on couches and air mattresses. Wilfredo Allen, a lawyer in Miami, says he receives 20 to 30 emails a day from people who are thinking of leaving Cuba, waiting at the border or already in the United States. He calls the movement “unstoppable.” A defining aspect of the newcomers: “Almost every Cuban I’ve dealt with is young. And they leave because they have no hope.”
“Homeland and Life” Estimates of how many people marched last summer range from 100,000 to half a million – a tiny fraction of the island’s 11.1 million population, but a significant fraction in a country where mass protests are rare. Demonstrations range from major cities like Havana and Santiago de Cuba to towns like Aguacate, where a few people gathered in a square to shout “Patria y Vida!” — Homeland and Life, a work with the revolutionary slogan “Patria o Muerte”: Homeland or death. The days that followed were exuberant and terrifying. Melos’ audio shows openly express dissent on Twitter Spaces attracted hundreds of listeners. Activists formed a group called Archipiélago and began planning another march for November. International media interviewed young, disillusioned Cubans and asked if the island was on the brink of a new revolution. But the repression had already begun. US-based human rights groups Cubalex and Justicia 11J say more than 1,400 people have been arrested in the wake of the protests. A year later, an estimated 700 are still behind bars. The most common charges include public disorder, contempt and rioting. Several dozen people have been tried in military courts. Two of the most prominent inmates – rapper Maykel “El Osorbo” Castillo Pérez and artist Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara – were recently sentenced to nine and five years in prison. Cubans who participated in the July protests now face stiff penalties For many others, however, the consequences were less public. Melo’s landlord kicked him out of his apartment and his internet was repeatedly cut off. Saily González, 31, who ran a bed-and-breakfast in the central city of Santa Clara, said pro-government mobs threw eggs and rocks at her home. State security agents kept Eliexer Márquez Duany, 40 — a rapper known as El Funky, who helped write the protest anthem “Patria y Vida” — under strict house arrest. Yet, many continued to organize and push for greater economic and political freedoms. “After July 11, I couldn’t take it anymore,” González said. She channeled her frustration on Instagram, where she posted videos calling for the release of the jailed protesters and, separately, organized two protests. Then came November. A day before the planned Archipelago march, security forces blocked access to and from the home of team leader Junior Garcia. Stuck inside, he reached out a hand carrying a white rose out his window — and left for Spain a few days later. Others, including Melo, were prevented from leaving their homes. Some protest leaders, taken aback, turned the crowd away going out, considering it too dangerous. Cuban security forces clamp down on planned nationwide demonstration “It’s hard to make the road when your leader is gone,” Melo said. “And everyone on the street was a police officer. You see people with guns — you don’t go down the street. “People were afraid.”
“Please don’t let me die” Garcia’s departure was followed by others. Rapper Denis Solís — member of the San Ysidro artist movement whose Conception 2020 sparked an earlier rebellion — fled to Serbia. El Funky left after getting an invite to the Latin Grammys. YouTuber Dina Stars — who was detained while doing a live TV interview last July — went to Madrid. The teenager caught in a viral photo waving a bloody Cuban flag on July 11 is also in Spain. In Cuba, a desperate search for a glass of milk But most of the young Cubans who leave arrive in Miami — the city of exiles. More than 140,000 Cubans have been detained at the Mexican border since Oct. 1, according to U.S. Customs and Border Protection, usually after long journeys that begin with an expensive flight to Managua. The exodus has eclipsed the massive boatlift of 1980, when Fidel Castro opened the port of Mariel to anyone who wanted to leave — and 125,000 people did. The poorest today continue to flee by sea. U.S. Coast Guard officials have intercepted more than 2,900 Cubans since Oct. 1 — far exceeding the 838 in the previous fiscal year. Yariel Alfonso Puerta, 27, set off on a makeshift sailboat made of sheet metal and wooden planks a day before he was to stand trial for insubordination following a protest last July. His mother said “I’m not sure how he floated.” The US Coast Guard stopped the Puerto in international waters. He was transported to a cutter with a cell phone containing a video showing twelve secret agents forcing him into a white patrol car and a letter. “I’m going to the United States on a raft because I’m scared,” he wrote. “Please don’t let me die.” As Biden eases Trump’s sanctions, Cubans are hoping for an economic upturn Miami to which the immigrants arrive is a city where even middle-class families are steadily being squeezed out. The median asking rental price in May was over $3,100. Income inequality is comparable to that of Panama and Colombia. However, family ties and the allure of a city where Spanglish is the lingua franca have drawn many. Arleti Relova, a 29-year-old former teacher, lives with her cousin in an efficiency apartment in Miami. The space is tight, but he thinks it’s better. “In Cuba, you don’t even have detergent to wash your clothes,” he said on a recent morning as he stood in line with other Cubans outside a social services agency. Now Relova and others have a different problem: They still can’t work. While many Cubans are released into the United States after brief US Border Patrol detentions, most must wait months to apply for and receive a work permit. In the meantime, many take jobs in car washes and factories. Most cannot legally drive — or buy a car. Even prominent figures like El Funky rely on friends to get around. In a cloudy spring evening, he set the stage at La Tropical, a brasserie in Miami’s Wynwood neighborhood, modeled after one founded in Havana in 1888. He was one of three artists involved in “Patria y Vida” still living in Cuba when the song was released last year. Cuban Americans young and old gathered in front of the stage to sing together. El Funky started his set wearing a Miami Heat jacket, but by the end of the show he had taken it off to reveal a T-shirt with the image of El Osorbo, his incarcerated collaborator. Márquez says he is still not used to life in Miami. Shortly after arriving, his father died. He takes solace in knowing that his father, watching from afar, watched him accept two Grammys. But he described himself as “struggling.” He has not made any money from “Patria y Vida”. To do that, he says, he’ll have to join a US artist licensing organization — which requires a Social Security number, which he doesn’t yet have. These days he lives in a tiny, spartan apartment. When he comes out, people recognize him and cheer him. “I feel good because everything I did, I did it with my heart,” he said. But “Inside me, I feel sad.” Ted Henken, a Cuba scholar at Baruch College who has written a book about the island’s digital awakening, notes that technology allows angry citizens to spark a protest in days that would previously have taken months to organize. But that doesn’t mean they have the tools and strategies to change the status quo. “It’s a bitter lesson in some ways,” Henken said. “Because the July protests took place without almost any central organizational entity, personality or set of demands.” THE…
