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Miami’s Cuban Exiles Celebrate Castro’s Death Miami’s Cuban Exiles Celebrate Castro’s Death
(about 3 hours later)
MIAMI — This time it was true: Fidel Castro had died. MIAMI — This city’s Cuban-American community erupted in the middle of the night and took to the streets of Little Havana to celebrate. They banged pots and pans. They sang the Cuban national anthem and waved the Cuban flag. They danced and hugged, laughed and cried, shouted and rejoiced.
Miami’s Cuban-American community erupted in the middle of the night and took to the streets of Little Havana to celebrate. They banged pots and pans. They sang the Cuban national anthem and waved the Cuban flag. They danced and hugged, laughed and cried, shouted and rejoiced. The seemingly eternal vigil for the death of Fidel Castro, a man who had profoundly changed the lives of hundreds of thousands of people here — dividing their families, taking their property, imprisoning and sometimes shooting their friends and relatives, wrenching them from their homes and their country — was over. Finally.
The seemingly eternal vigil for the death of a man who had profoundly changed the lives of hundreds of thousands of people here — dividing their families, taking their property, imprisoning and sometimes shooting their friends and relatives, wrenching them from their homes and their country — was over. Finally. “I owe this to my dad — this going out and celebrating,” said Isabel De Lara, 67, a former banker who came to Calle Ocho — Eighth Street — to join in the jubilation. She wished her father, who is dead, could have joined her.
“I owe this to my dad — this going out and celebrating,” said Isabel De Lara, 67, a former banker who ran to her car when she heard the news and drove to Calle Ocho — Eighth Street — to join in the jubilation. She wished her father, who is dead, could have joined her. It has been more than five decades since Ms. De Lara stepped off a plane alone, from Cuba, sent here at age 12 by parents who feared for her future after the Castro revolution. For her and so many others, Mr. Castro’s death was a watershed, for he embodied the revolution and the heartbreak that followed.
It has been more than five decades since Ms. De Lara stepped foot off a plane alone, from Cuba, sent here at age 12 by parents who feared for her future after the Castro revolution.
“Him dying represents the end of something awful that happened to us,” she said. “It’s actually him — not anybody else — who caused this. It’s because of him that we lost our opportunity to have a life in our country.”“Him dying represents the end of something awful that happened to us,” she said. “It’s actually him — not anybody else — who caused this. It’s because of him that we lost our opportunity to have a life in our country.”
Like thousands of others, she joined in the impromptu conga line of catharsis in front of Versailles Restaurant on Eighth Street, the unofficial headquarters of Miami’s Cuban exile community, where members have always gathered to swap opinions on the latest developments in Cuba over cafecitos and pastelitos. Waves of other Cubans also came, fleeing to Miami and other cities, transforming not just their own lives but the city itself, gradually turning it into the unofficial bilingual capital of Latin America. With the goal of ousting Mr. Castro and establishing democracy in Cuba, early exiles built a degree of political and economic clout that outstripped their relatively small numbers.
So many people showed up, including scores of young people, that the Miami police, at the mayor’s request, closed off several blocks to accommodate the celebration. Focusing first on local politics and business in the 1970s and 1980s, the exiles and their children, led by the powerful Cuban American National Foundation, catapulted into national politics and influence. They gained the power to tilt presidential elections toward Republicans and sway American foreign policy against appeasement with Mr. Castro.
“I believed it this time because it was Raúl Castro who said it, not the Cuban exile community,” said Mayor Tomás Regalado. After years of preparations for this moment, he was out on Eighth Street on Friday night celebrating with the rest of the crowd. “It was important to take the struggle outside of Eighth Street to Washington,” said Jorge Mas Santos, the son of Jorge Mas Canosa, the man who spearheaded the foundation and was seen as the leader of Miami’s exile community.
“As mayor, we knew this was going to happen and we were kind of prepared, because you never know,” said Mr. Regalado, who was born in Cuba. “But this is spontaneous. There were thousands of young people, and Cubans of all ages, that I was surprised showed up. I was talking to them and they said, ‘It’s because of my father and grandfather.’ They were all victims of Cuba.” That influence continues today. The American trade embargo on Cuba is still in force, requiring the vote of a Congress that is reluctant to remove it. And the presidential campaign saw two Americans of Cuban descent — Senators Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz — run for the office this year.
Cuban-American lawmakers sent out a flurry of statements about Mr. Castro’s long-awaited death. But in the last decade, the pro-embargo, hard-line grip on the minds and votes of people in Miami and elsewhere has weakened, creating divisions among Cuban-Americans over how deeply to engage with Cuba and its people.
“Today, a tyrant is dead,” said Representative Mario Diaz-Balart, a Republican whose aunt was Mr. Castro’s first wife, divorcing him before the revolution. “Although his totalitarian dictatorship deeply scarred a once-prosperous nation, his death ushers in a renewed hope that the Cuban people finally will be free.” With Mr. Castro dead, some of the hard-liners are pushing for retrenchment and hope that President-elect Donald J. Trump will crack down on Cuba now that the regime has lost its father figure. Others say that this is the perfect time to flood the zone with more people, ideas and goods. Raúl Castro has opened the window slightly to economic reform, travel and American influence. Now that his older brother is gone, he will be freer to make changes, they argue.
Facebook exploded with celebratory messages — “Viva Cuba Libre.” But the oldest and most vehement exiles — the historicos, as they are called — are dying off in large numbers. Their children, while still passionately opposed to Mr. Castro, are open to closer ties with the Cuban people as a way of stoking change. (Even Mr. Mas Santos is part of this group.) And their grandchildren know far less about Cuba and Mr. Castro; many are more intrigued than outraged. At the same time, recent Cuban arrivals, while deeply disenchanted with the Cuban government, want to see and help their relatives on the island, above all else.
For Cuban-Americans in Miami and beyond, particularly those old enough to remember the revolution, the death of Mr. Castro is the beginning of the end of a painful journey that set their lives on a completely unexpected path. Many arrived in a segregated Miami with little money, no command of English and no idea when they would be able to return. Many of them died here without ever returning. Those shifts in attitude have been translated in Washington. Two years ago, President Obama surprised Cuban-Americans by announcing a series of changes. He re-established diplomatic ties and made it easier for Americans to visit and send money and goods, and also for American businesses to establish a foothold.
“We have moved from a politics of passion to a politics of realism,” said Andy Gomez, a political analyst who was a senior fellow in Cuban studies at the University of Miami. “We are going to be passionate for the next 72 hours. But the realism is that the transition has to come within the island. The leadership has to come from within the island. I don’t think anyone in South Florida thinks they will be president of Cuba, and if they do they are fools.”
But Saturday was mostly a day to celebrate. Overnight, thousands, including Ms. De Lara, joined an impromptu conga line of catharsis in front of Versailles Restaurant on Eighth Street, the unofficial headquarters of Miami’s Cuban exiles.
So many people showed up, including scores of young people, that the police, at the mayor’s request, closed off several blocks to accommodate the celebration. For many, Mr. Castro’s death provided a form of closure.
Erick and Janette Revuelta stood outside Versailles toasting Mr. Castro’s death with small cups of Cuban coffee. They had come from the St. Augustine, Fla., area to celebrate Thanksgiving with family.
Mr. Revuelta, 38, came to America by raft when he was 16, along with his father and two brothers, in 1994, just before President Bill Clinton signed the agreement with Cuba that allowed refugees to stay only if they reached dry land, the so-called “wet foot, dry foot” policy. His mother immigrated several years later.
Vivian Garcia-Montes Castellá, 75, was 19 when she came to the United States from Havana, thinking her stay would be temporary. In the early hours of Saturday, she wept after hearing the news, changed out of her pajamas and joined the caravan to Little Havana. She danced in the middle of the street, hugging strangers, as car horns blared, then ran into her nephew.Vivian Garcia-Montes Castellá, 75, was 19 when she came to the United States from Havana, thinking her stay would be temporary. In the early hours of Saturday, she wept after hearing the news, changed out of her pajamas and joined the caravan to Little Havana. She danced in the middle of the street, hugging strangers, as car horns blared, then ran into her nephew.
When it started to drizzle, the party kept raging. But there was an overlay of sadness. Ms. Castellá knew so many people who had waited for this day their entire lives, and many of them had died before it came. “There was such sadness to think of all the people, and what everyone went through, and the people who aren’t here today to celebrate and witness this,” she said. “My brother who was in the Bay of Pigs, he couldn’t enjoy it the way I am. The people they killed. The people who drowned on the way over here.”
But there was an overlay of sadness. Ms. Castellá knew so many people who had waited for this day their entire lives, and many of them had died without knowing that Mr. Castro had finally left Cuba. “There was such sadness to think of all the people, and what everyone went through, and the people who aren’t here today to celebrate and witness this,” she said. “My brother who was in the Bay of Pigs, he couldn’t enjoy it the way I am. The people they killed. The people who drowned on the way over here.”
In Miami, the post-Castro convulsion had long been talked about, rumored and planned for. Once, the city and county had a contingency plan to address a possible mass exodus of Cubans from the island to Miami; that is no longer anticipated. But many schools have a Castro-is-dead plan. And police departments were prepared on what to do — in Miami, this meant letting the people celebrate.In Miami, the post-Castro convulsion had long been talked about, rumored and planned for. Once, the city and county had a contingency plan to address a possible mass exodus of Cubans from the island to Miami; that is no longer anticipated. But many schools have a Castro-is-dead plan. And police departments were prepared on what to do — in Miami, this meant letting the people celebrate.
The fact that Mr. Castro’s death came during a long holiday weekend made the news more manageable in many ways.The fact that Mr. Castro’s death came during a long holiday weekend made the news more manageable in many ways.
Luis Lasa, a retired banker, watched events unfold on television from his Miami home, but it felt no less emotional. It was a lifetime ago that his father, an executive for an American company in Cuba, got a call from a military office in his Havana home on Oct. 25, 1960, warning him to leave the country. He left that night and the family followed the next day. Mr. Lasa was 10 years old. Luis Lasa, 67, a retired banker, watched events unfold on television from his Miami home, but it felt no less emotional. It was a lifetime ago that his father, an executive for an American company in Cuba, got a call from a military office in his Havana home on Oct. 25, 1960, warning him to leave the country. He left that night, and the family followed the next day. Mr. Lasa was 10 years old.
“They destroyed our families, they destroyed our traditions,” said Mr. Lasa, who lost a cousin in the bungled Bay of Pigs invasion. “Forget the property that we lost. We had been in Cuba 250 years. We lost so much there.”“They destroyed our families, they destroyed our traditions,” said Mr. Lasa, who lost a cousin in the bungled Bay of Pigs invasion. “Forget the property that we lost. We had been in Cuba 250 years. We lost so much there.”
On Saturday, for so many exiles, it finally became easier to look forward and not back. Fidel Castro, even in his old age, remained the symbol of the revolution. Raúl Castro ruled, but always in his older brother’s shadow, exiles said. Without Fidel, Cuba can exhale, even though change may not come quickly. On Saturday, for so many exiles, it finally became easier to look forward and not back. Fidel Castro, even in his old age, remained the symbol of the revolution. Raúl Castro ruled, but always in his older brother’s shadow, exiles said.
Still, “this is the beginning of the end,” Mr. Lasa said. Without Fidel Castro, Cuba can exhale, even though change may not come quickly, there is a strong possibility it will come.
“This is the beginning of the end,” Mr. Lasa said.