I belong to a group of people who came to America at the expense of all we had. My family left Cuba. We owned a car and a home. We had a good life. And we left it all behind. That's what political refugees do.
"Freedom isn't free," is an adage seared into my mother's memory. She kept repeating it in her head as she stood at Havana's Jose Marti International Airport in the winter of 1962. That's when Fidel Castro's Milicianos--his militia men--rifled through her clothing looking for family heirlooms and anything of value. (read more)