A Cuban Family's Journey: From Castro's Cuba to Rhode Island
In 1959, Fidel Castro overthrew the dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista, leading a successful revolution. Castro’s rise to power marked the beginning of a communist regime in Cuba, instilling widespread fear and opposition among many Cuban families. In 1960, rumors began circulating that Castro intended to take children away from their parents, placing them in military schools or sending them to the Soviet Union for communist indoctrination. Fearing this, the U.S. initiated Operation Pedro Pan, a program run by the CIA from 1960 to 1962. Its goal was to fly the children of families opposed to Castro’s regime to the U.S., where they were placed in foster homes while awaiting reunification with their parents.
By the time my family made the difficult decision to leave Cuba, Castro had already made sweeping changes to the country. He declared himself a socialist, then a communist, severed ties with the U.S., changed the currency, and closed schools. Religious education in Cuba was under siege, and by 1961, most nuns and priests who worked in Catholic schools had already left.
The exodus began when Castro discussed taking over the Catholic schools, fueling fears that private education would soon be abolished. With no private schools left, many religious leaders felt they had no choice but to leave. The nuns who taught at the schools lived in convents attached to them, and when the schools closed, they had no place to go. Orders from their religious superiors instructed them to leave Cuba, resulting in a wave of departures—priests and nuns fleeing as the government seized more control. Eventually, Castro closed the churches too, forcing even more clergy to leave. The time had come for my family to leave Cuba.
In April 1961, my Tia Miriam received an unexpected call from her mother, telling her, “I’ll call you around lunchtime to let you know whether or not you’ll be going back to school tomorrow.” Miriam and her siblings stood by the phone, waiting for the news. When the call came, my grandmother simply said, “You’re not going back tomorrow, but don’t say anything. That’s it.”
By then, many children had already left Cuba, and my grandparents quietly decided it was time for their family to join them in the United States. Just two days after making the decision, they were on their way, having only a single day to prepare. My Tia Miriam recalls that her parents believed this was only temporary and that they would be back in Cuba within a month. She and her siblings left with just one piece of luggage each, expecting to return home shortly.
Their confidence stemmed from the looming Bay of Pigs invasion on April 17, 1961. It was no secret—everyone in Cuba knew about the impending invasion. The family, along with many others, believed it would succeed, allowing them to return home once it was over.
The decision to leave Cuba was not an easy one for my grandparents. It was driven by fear. Rumors circulated about the Cuban government taking children from their parents and sending them to the countryside to cut sugar cane. My family heard that this had already begun. The thought of young boys and girls being sent to the fields was terrifying, especially with rumors of mistreatment circulating. My grandparents feared that the government would completely take over their children’s upbringing, leaving them with no say.
Another unsettling rumor was that boys, like my father, would be forced into the army. Faced with these threats, my grandparents made the difficult decision to send their three children—Miriam, Tessie, and Eduardo—away, even though they didn’t know exactly where they were going.
For all three, the journey was more of an adventure. At their young age, they didn’t fully grasp the gravity of the situation. They were excited about the trip, expecting to be back in Cuba in just a month. Many of their friends had already left, and their mother’s words rang in their ears: “Stay together. Always stay together.” That advice became their guiding principle, one they still follow today.
At the time, the United States had already broken relations with Cuba. Jamaica, however, was still a British territory, so the family received English visas and were told they would be going there. When they arrived at the airport in Havana, they had to wait almost an entire day before their flight departed. Traveling with other children, they were unsure if the plane would stop in the U.S. or continue directly to Jamaica.
As fate would have it, the plane made a stop in Miami, and that’s where they got off. Waiting for them were people ready to help, welcoming them to a new life in the United States. However, my grandfather was still in Cuba, trying to figure out how he and his wife could rejoin the family.
In August 1962, after months of planning, Dr. Salabert, my grandfather, found himself aboard a 26-foot fishing boat, the sea stretching out before him like a final chance at freedom. A year earlier, his wife, two daughters, and my father had managed to leave Cuba on one of the Freedom Flights, escaping the tightening grip of Castro’s regime. But Dr. Salabert wasn’t so fortunate. As a doctor, his profession was too valuable for the government to allow him to leave. For a year, he stayed behind, waiting, watching, and planning his escape.
He wasn’t alone in this venture. His friend, a former accountant, had secured a government permit to use the boat for fishing—an industry strictly controlled by the Cuban authorities. In Cuba, if you wanted to fish, you needed a permit. Even then, every catch was handed over to the government, with only a small payment in return. But fishing wasn’t what they were planning. They had bigger dreams: freedom.
The escape didn’t come easy. The first time they tried, the sea betrayed them, forcing them back to shore. The second attempt also ended in failure. But on the third try, something changed. They had gathered a small group—five people in total, including a woman and her baby. They knew the baby’s cries could give them away, so they sedated him, hoping for silence on the journey.
The day had come. Everything was ready, but just as they were about to set off, the Cuban coastal guards intervened. They refused to let them leave. For a moment, their hopes sank. But Dr. Salabert’s friend didn’t give up. He pleaded with the guards, convincing them with a story about needing to fish, how long it had been, and how badly he needed to get back out there. It worked. The guards relented and allowed them to go.
Once they were on the water, their relief was short-lived. The Cuban guards noticed something strange—the boat was moving, but no one was fishing. Suspicion grew, and soon, the Cuban patrol was on their tail, closing in fast. Panic gripped the small group. They were nearing international waters, but the Cuban boat was catching up.
Then, just when hope seemed lost, the unexpected happened. Out of nowhere, an American Coast Guard vessel appeared on the horizon, cutting through the water like a guardian angel. The Cuban boat, so close to capturing them, abruptly turned around and headed back. Dr. Salabert always described that moment as a miracle.
Once they reached the shores of freedom in Miami, Dr. Salabert was taken into seclusion by U.S. authorities. For nearly a week, they interrogated him about his past. As a man who had held various positions in the Cuban government, they needed to be sure of his intentions. They knew everything about him—where his family was, his background, everything. The people he had escaped with were taken elsewhere, and from that moment on, he lost track of them.
During this turbulent time, my grandfather devised a plan. He decided to take the ECFMG exam—the test required for foreign doctors to practice medicine in the United States. Though his English wasn’t strong, he knew this was the key to his future. He threw himself into three months of intense study, focusing on both English and the material needed for the exam. When the time came, he took the test and passed.
With his certification in hand, Dr. Salabert applied to hospitals across the country. Fate led him to Pawtucket Memorial in Rhode Island, where he had a connection—an old friend from medical school, Dr. Blas Moreno, was already working there. Another Cuban doctor at the hospital, who had graduated with him, urged him to come. The hospital was actively recruiting Cuban doctors at the time, so in January 1963, Dr. Salabert made the move to Rhode Island.
It wasn’t until the spring of 1963 that Miriam and the rest of her family joined him in Rhode Island. After spending time in the Midwest, they were struck by how much they had missed the ocean. Rhode Island, with its coastline, felt like paradise to a family used to being surrounded by water back in Cuba.
People often ask me, “How did your Cuban family end up in Rhode Island?” It’s a question that always leads to a deeper story, one that isn’t easy to sum up in a few words.
I’m Cuban, but at the same time, I’m not. I’m from Rhode Island, but somehow, I’m not. I belong to both, and I love them both. My roots are tangled between two places—one, the island where my family’s story began, and the other, the place that became our home.
