Chasing Freedom

I closed my eyes.

And I was there again. The sticky heat wrapped around me, the thick air of the bus stop felt heavy, and the feeling that nothing would ever change settled in my chest. Everyone was waiting, but no one really expecting anything. A man lifted his arms to the sky and yelled, “Damn, man, that’s the second time already, mi hermano!” like someone up there owed him an answer. Another guy said he’d been standing there for three hours already, and sweat was dripping down his face like rain. You could feel the frustration in the air, but it was nothing new. Just another day.

Then I heard someone mutter, “This fucked up country is really horrible,” but so low that nobody would hear. The bus passed right by, not even slowing down. It was so full it looked like it was about to explode. People were smashed against the windows and doors, others hanging outside, holding onto anything they could grab. It looked like it might fall apart at any moment, but that was the only way to get where I needed to go.

I watched everything from a small patch of shade under a tree. I’d been there so long I felt like the tree had adopted me. All this effort just to go buy some meat.

Pucho always had good meat in Guanabacoa, cheap and reliable. His prices were better than the butchers in Alamar. The problem was getting there.

After what felt like forever, I saw another bus coming. Everyone noticed it at the same time. The tension in the air changed, like water just before it boils. The bus was full again, but this time it actually stopped.

The problem? It stopped far from where it was supposed to stop.

That was it. Everyone ran. Like a track race with no rules. People pushing and yelling, chasing the bus like it was the last one on earth. I ran too.

“One, two. One, two,” I counted in my head, trying to stay focused, dodging elbows and people. The sound of sandals slapping the pavement mixed with curses and yelling was like music, but angry.

I reached the bus and passed my coin through the window. The guy grabbed it and said, “Get on through the back,” without even looking at me.

I pushed toward the back, but it was like trying to climb through a wall of people. Everyone was fighting to get in, grabbing doors, tubes, and even other people. Some didn’t care where they landed, as long as they got in. One guy tried to come in through the window, and almost made it. It was survival of the strongest, no doubt.

Eventually, I was inside. A woman pressed against my back. Someone’s elbow dug into my ribs. My hand twisted weirdly just to hold onto a bar. Every inch of space was a fight. The air smelled like sweat and old clothes. The heat made my shirt stick to my skin. I felt like I couldn’t even move, but I had to hold on tight in case the bus jerked. It always did.

A woman nearby looked at the bar I was holding and tried to take it. I didn’t let go. She tried anyway, slipping her arm between mine and the metal, trying to find space. No one said “excuse me.” It wasn’t about manners here. You kept what you had. If you didn’t, someone else would take it.

Then, suddenly, someone stood up. A seat. An actual seat. I saw it. Two other people saw it too. We all hesitated for one second, and then I moved. I stretched out, blocked the way, and dropped into the seat like I had just claimed a kingdom.

Victory.

But not comfort.

The heat was worse down there. The bodies still pressed against me. People looked at me like they were just waiting for me to stand up. Like vultures. I still had half an hour to go, and I already felt like I’d been through a war.

When the bus finally reached Guanabacoa, I got off and felt like a prisoner who just got out of jail. My back was soaked. My legs hurt. My hand still remembered the pressure of that metal bar.

But I wasn’t free.

Because I knew I’d be doing it all over again soon. That was life.

The sun hit me like a punishment. There was no shade, no breeze, just the same burning heat that had never left. I started walking down the Street Independencia toward Pucho’s house. The ground burned under my shoes. People around me walked with their eyes low, all of them focused on their own personal fight. Maybe they were looking for meat too. Or sugar. Or milk. Who knows.

I passed by the amphitheater. A place meant for music and dancing, but most of the time it turned into something else. Fights. Drama. Even blood. I remembered some events near the place I lived. The girl who got stabbed in the shortcut. She was seventeen. She stumbled to our block with her school uniform soaked in blood. I remembered Rafael, robbed in his own house three times. The police came every time and left with the same answer: “There are no leads.” I remembered Tomas, dragging himself home in the rain with two knife wounds in his leg. A customer from the restaurant next to my house, frozen while someone took his chain at knifepoint.

And somehow, my neighborhood wasn’t even one of the worst.

I always wondered why the police were so quick for some things, and useless for others. When it came to crime, they disappeared. But if someone shouted “Down with the Revolution!” they showed up in seconds. I used to think that was crazy. Now it made sense.

They weren’t there to protect us. They were there to protect themselves from us. And honestly, I didn’t feel angry. Not anymore. Not even disappointed, just tired. A tiredness that sits in your bones and doesn’t leave.

I finally reached Pucho’s house. He was sitting on the couch, watching TV like he didn’t have a care in the world. That gold tooth of his reflected the sun when he smiled. A strange mix of friendly and dangerous.

“Qué bolá, Daniel!” he said.

“Finally made it,” I said, wiping my forehead. “Let me get six pounds.”

He nodded and walked to the back. That back room always felt like some kind of secret cave, covered in plastic and shadows. He came out with a chunk of meat in one hand and a knife in the other. He started cutting it like it was just another part of the day.

“How’s your mom?” he asked without looking at me.

“She’s hanging in there. Running her little salon and selling whatever shows up.”

He shook his head. “It’s rough, hermano..”

“No kidding. It’s getting worse. Can you get me anything at the bodega? Even part-time?”

He laughed. Dry and short. “Even those spots are sold now. I don’t have to tell you why.”

I looked down. “Yeah. I figured.”

He wrapped the meat in two thin plastic bags. I took out my black bag, the one I used to carry things people weren’t supposed to see, and packed it up.

“Say hi to your mom,” he said, wiping his hands on an old rag.

“Will do. Thanks, Pucho.”

Back on the street, the sun was still waiting for me. Same heat. Same walk. Same struggle, but now in reverse. This time, I had a bag of meat in one hand and only one hand left for the bus pole.

As I walked, I felt it.

That memory wasn’t just a memory anymore. It had weight. It had something to say. Because that day, when I closed my eyes and remembered everything, marked three years since I left Cuba.

Three years since I escaped from a system that turns people into prisoners of their own reality.

And I felt this strange mix inside me. Happiness, yes. I had made it. I was out. But also sadness. Because the old me never knew anything different. I thought that was life. I never imagined anything better.

That’s when I understood.

The man thinks like he lives.

Like a sheep who’s happy with grass and water, thinking that’s the whole world. But if one day, she looks up and sees rivers, valleys, and fruits she has never tasted, something inside her changes. A new kind of hunger is born.

And that hunger doesn’t come from what we have. It comes from what we don’t have and from what we learn to imagine.

And now, here, I realize I have more desires than ever. A voice whispers in my ear every day: “Is that all you’re going to do today?” “That’s not enough.” “You should be doing more.” At first, I thought I had found freedom, but sometimes it feels like I just entered another kind of prison, one where the walls are made of expectations. Here, you are always supposed to be moving, climbing, improving, and winning. People talk about success like it’s oxygen.

But even when you have a job, food, and safety, there’s still something telling you it’s not enough. You scroll through your phone and see everyone else doing more, having more, being more. You start to believe that rest is laziness, and peace is failure. They don’t tell you that out loud, but it’s everywhere, like background noise.

And maybe this isn’t freedom either. Maybe here people aren’t running from hunger, but from a different kind of emptiness. One that never stops growing. One who wears nice clothes and smiles in photos but lives tired and afraid inside. Back in Cuba, we wanted more because we had too little. But here, people want more because they never feel like they are enough.

Maybe freedom isn’t getting everything we want.

Maybe it’s learning how to look without always wanting.

To live without always holding on.

Because maybe, when we stop chasing after shadows, we finally find a place that feels like home.

And maybe that’s the journey I’m still on.

I carry the sun of Havana in my memory, the sweat of the bus still in my skin, and now, this new voice, asking for more. But some days, I ignore it. Some days, I sit still. I close my eyes. I breathe. I remember what it felt like just to arrive.

And in that moment, for a second, I feel free.