By Pedro Pablo Morejon
HAVANA TIMES – The passengers applauded when the plane landed. I imagine many of them were relieved, especially since before we left Havana they read us an entire protocol about rescue in case of an accident.
As we entered the airport, we were pointed to three different lines: US Citizens, US residents, and those arriving with humanitarian parole. The last step before being admitted into the United States awaited me.
There were some 40 of us, all of us in a special room, waiting anxiously to be called. At those moments, the immigration officials seemed like all-powerful gods that could decide your destiny.
“Pedro Pablo Morejon,” I heard a voice calling me in the accented Spanish typical of native English speakers. I was already among the last. I went up to the booth and was received by a smiling official. He barely asked any questions, only examined my documents, took my fingerprints, and consulted with a colleague, both casting glances at me as they talked. After a while, he came up to me, handed me a document and said: “Welcome, Pedro!”
I walked out to pick up my luggage. A group of bags was g