Expelled for a Crucifix

My Turning Point

The public hearings at the University of Havana during the so-called “Deepening Process” were some of the darkest days in our history. At the Faculty of Chemistry, classes stopped entirely; nothing was taught, nothing was learned. Attendance at the hearings was mandatory, and each day felt like walking into a tribunal rather than a university.

Many students were expelled. Charlie was not alone. I remember a young woman—I can’t recall her name—who was cast out simply for wearing a crucifix. It had been a gift from her godmother. When the commission demanded she take it off, she refused. The leader pointed at the door, and instantly a chorus began: “Out, out, out!” Her classmates followed her to the street, chanting in what was called a “repudiation act.”

It was horrible to watch.

These acts were not spontaneous. They were an intimidation tactic perfected by the government. They could—and sometimes did—turn violent. The year before, in 1980, lives had already been lost during these orchestrated attacks. Human rights organizations abroad would later document them, but in that room, in that moment, we did not need anyone to tell us how real they were. We felt the fear in our bones.

The commission did not stop at the university gates. They sent inspectors into our neighborhoods, questioning our neighbors: Had we ever spoken against the revolution? Were we truly loyal, one hundred percent, without hesitation? A careless word, a false accusation, even silence could destroy you.

That same year, during the Mariel Boatlift, the government forced many Cubans onto boats bound for the United States. By the time the exodus ended, more than 125,000 people had gone. Their homes were left behind, ransacked, windows shattered, walls vandalized. In many cases, loyalists moved in and claimed them as their own.

For us students, the lesson was unmistakable: if entire families could be stripped of everything overnight, what chance did a single student have?

I remember sitting in the lecture hall where the hearings were held, waiting for my name to be read. I tried to think back—had I ever said something, even in private, that might mark me as a “dissident” and condemn me to expulsion?

I feared that if I were expelled, my home would become the target of a repudiation act, and my family would be forced to flee the country. My father was an army doctor; his career, his life’s work, could have been ruined by my words or actions.

In the end, the hearings concluded and my name was never called. I had not been accused of the crime of having an opinion. But I did not feel relief. I felt hollow, ashamed, devastated for all those students who had been sacrificed to politics—a kind of political assassination.

Looking back, I believe 1981 was my turning point.