Growing up in Cuba, the only dream I had was to leave.
There was nothing for me there: no work, no freedom, no opportunity, no anything for anybody in Cuba since the communist revolution in 1959.
My dream came true in 2015 when I made it to America.
I grew up in a split household. My father was pro-Castro and a supporter of the communist revolution. My mother, grandparents and brother were anti-Castro and pro-U.S. Here in Louisville you have “Cats vs. Cards.” In Cuba, we have “communism vs. freedom.”
When immigrants and refugees leave their homes, they may never see their family and friends ever again. Whether they leave by choice or are forced out, it’s a hard decision. But in my case, I was leaving to reunite with my mother and brother.
My older brother, Antonio, escaped to Miami in 2009 when I was 18. Three years later, my mother followed, both of them arriving in the U.S. under the Cuban Adjustment Act of 1966.
Cubans have a special path to permanent residency in the U.S. It all started with the Castro revolution in 1959 and the Bay of Pigs invasion during the Kennedy administration, when communism came to Cuba, only 90 miles from America. America gave us a safe place to go.
It was hard for my mother to leave me behind, but she knew I would be safe living with her parents, my grandparents. She wanted to get settled in America so I could follow. She prayed for me every day.
In 2015, it was my turn to go. It had been six years since I’d seen my brother, and three years for my mother. I had to make it to America, which is easier said than done.
At the time, Cuba had a tourist visa arrangement with Ecuador, but it required that I show a round-trip ticket. I couldn’t ask my father for money, so I sold everything I owned. My bike, my video games … everything I could get my hands on to sell, I did.
I landed in Quito, Ecuador, on Sept. 30, 2015. Thirty days later, on Oct. 30, I made it to Laredo, Texas. I remember every minute of those 30 days like it was yesterday.
How could I forget being attacked by bandits with machetes and running for my life through a sugar cane field? Or being extorted for money at every checkpoint as I made my way through Colombia, pulling money out of secret pockets I had cut into my clothing? Or sleeping in an open field for four days with no blanket for warmth?
But as I look back at my journey, it was worth it. I reunited with my mother and brother in Miami. Two years later, I moved to Louisville to be with my cousins and to have a better quality of life. Miami is too expensive. Louisville is very welcoming.
I am happy to work in the refugee resettlement program for Catholic Charities. We welcome refugee families to their new home in Louisville and set them up in furnished apartments.
I meet people who have escaped war in Ukraine, genocide in Sudan and political repression in Central America — people like me, who dream of being safe and free and doing something good with their lives.
When I set up a bed for them, I know how important that bed is.
Pablo Estrada is a refugee resource delivery associate for Catholic Charities of Louisville. His team sets up apartments for refugees new to Louisville.
