After the Black Spring

When I awoke on the morning of July 8, 2010, in the Guamajal Prison in Villa Clara, I couldn’t have imagined that five days later I was going to be landing at Barajas International Airport in Spain, accompanied by five of my comrades.

I joined the political civilist youth movement in 1991. Curiously, what I remember most from that period is how my apprehensions led me to disguise myself with a hat and glasses when traveling from my town of Artemisa to Havana to meet with other activists. These feelings of fear, defenselessness, and even blame, are common…

I went to prison for practicing independent journalism in Cuba. As soon as you get there, you must prepare yourself to narrate the horrors of the hellhole you’ve ended up in. And Cuban prisons are horrendous. But the horrors start not one step back in the penal tribunal, not two steps back with the police…

On March 18, 2003, our people endured one of the worst episodes in Cuba’s history. The peaceable political dissident community, human rights defenders, trade unionists, and independent journalists, along with representatives of the emergent and democratic civil society–74 men and one woman–were the victims of the most absolute, merciless, and cruel government power.

When I wake up and sense my husband’s body next to mine, I ask myself if I’m dreaming or if it is true that he has returned to our home.Eight years have passed since 75 Cubans were uprooted from their homes for thinking differently than the governmental discourse and having the courage to express it…

On March 18, 2003, I got up early as usual, connected my shortwave radio receiver, and tuned into a number of radio stations in the south of Florida in search of the day’s most important news. As always, the radio interference was brutal and made it hard to hear. Still, I had to make the…

The clouds of exile are twice as bitter. Being forced from your birthplace and into legal limbo in the land of your grandparents where you’re met by complete official abandonment only deepens the wounds. My gloominess has nothing to do with the affection and solidarity shown by the Spanish people, especially the citizens of Madrid.…

I was born beneath the yoke of a tyranny, now more than 50 years old, in which prison is the only destination for its deterrents. I first came across this destination in 1997, when I was sentenced to five years in prison for the alleged crime of committing an outrage “against state security.” In Cuba,…

It was about 4 in the afternoon on July 8 when the official assigned to me at Toledo Prison, where I’d been locked up for nearly five years, came running to get me. He was in such a hurry that that he tripped and almost fell to the ground. “Saludes, we’re going upstairs,” he said,…

The president of the tribunal looked to his right and said, “The prosecutor has the floor.” With a serious voice he pronounced the sentence: “The prosecutor ratifies the request for perpetual imprisonment for the accused, Victor Rolando Arroyo Carmona, for acts against the independence and territorial integrity of the country.”