Thousands of Cuban refugees passed through this Miami building, which is now being reopened as a museum of the exodus.
14ymedio, María Casas, Miami, 21 September 2035 — A food delivery robot passes by the imposing facade. Around it, skyscrapers and cranes dominate the landscape. Much has changed in Miami since 1925 when the building that houses the Freedom Tower was completed, a structure that opened its doors to thousands of Cuban refugees and is now reopening as a museum commemorating an exodus that has continued unabated for six decades.
Zenaida and Manuel arrived this Saturday afternoon at the gate through which, without having met yet, they had passed as children. The news of the reopening of the Freedom Tower last week reached the ears of these two septuagenarians and, wearing a white dress for her and an impeccably ironed shirt for him, they decided to return to the place where “they gave me the first hug when I arrived here,” Zenaida tells 14ymedio. “They handed out bags of powdered milk that were a blessing,” Manuel adds.
Located on Biscayne Boulevard, the Freedom Tower underwent a profound renovation that took two-years and cost $25 million. The project included significant structural repairs but, above all, a redesign of its collections, adding extensive audiovisual material, voices, testimonies, and the ability to interact with some of the exhibits, creating a museum tailored to each visitor.
With a deep sigh, Zenaida and Manuel begin their tour. About twenty people have gathered for a guided tour, which will end with a tasty cortadito or a glass of champagne, according to their taste. In October, the tower will reopen to regular visitors, but for now, these groups, who tour its spacious halls, enjoy a more intimate and serene experience.
Closed since 2023 and declared a National Historic Landmark 15 years earlier, the building retains many of the architectural elements from its original function as the headquarters and printing plant of The Miami News. Most visitors this Saturday opt for the stairs instead of the elevator and end up in a vast hall with columns and large windows. Zenaida and Manuel clasp hands; the place is familiar but much changed.
“I was very little, but I remember my mother was very distressed,” recalls the native of Manzanillo who came to the United States in 1965. Meanwhile, the guide shows several replicas of the tower placed throughout the room, which function as information stations with videos and holograms that review the most important moments of the building. “They helped my aunt fix a tooth here,” adds Zenaida.
The group is diverse. There are a couple of tourists who look like they’ve just stepped off one of the cruise ships that arrive weekly at the port of Miami, several Americans, and many Cubans, most of them over 65. The city Manuel arrived at in 1963 “wasn’t like anything here; it’s another world,” reflects the exile from Luyanó, Havana. There are also some refugees who have joined the tour with their children, who have probably never set foot on the island and whose primary language is English.
“Look, look, she looks like your grandmother,” says a woman dressed in green, accompanied by a teenager who looks up from his phone to look at one of the photos. In the image, a very thin woman with a sad expression stares directly into the lens. The young man responds with a brief “OK” and returns to a TikTok video. The group moves to another room with books full of illustrations about Florida, its original inhabitants, and the multiple cultures that have shaped the Miami that many today call the City of the Sun or the capital of Latin America.
On one of the walls, a text clarifies that to be at a “crossroads” is to find oneself at a “connective node that acts as a meeting point.” This is what the city has become, a place that in official Cuban propaganda continues to be the target of the most virulent adjectives and the most irate accusations. The island in flight has nurtured and shaped a city where all kinds of accents are now heard, and where people eat yuca with mojo sauce and arepas, fried plantains, and tacos.
“We were going to have all this in Havana,” the woman dressed in green reiterates, trying to draw the teenager away from the screen. Through the window, a huge skyscraper occupies a large part of the landscape. The guide quickens her pace and enters another room with a large screen showing a video of faces and testimonies from exile. The past in black and white, the present in color.
Objects pile up in the following rooms. There are suitcases, bags, travel documents, children’s clothes, and a doll, as well as photographs of balseros, rafters. Dozens of Cubans crowded onto a flimsy boat, and others perched on a truck converted into a vessel. Also visible are shirts, a wedding dress, books, and a fan. These were the few belongings the exiles were able to take with them. Most arrived with only the clothes on their backs.
“They took everything from my father: the apartment building he rented, the pharmacy, and the cars,” Manuel tells this newspaper. “My mother even had to leave her wedding ring behind because at the Havana airport they told her she couldn’t take it out.” A prosperous businessman in Cuba, Manuel’s father arrived in the United States penniless. “He had to start from scratch, but he had a flair for business, so in less than ten years he was running several car repair shops,” Manuel says.
The most moving moment for the couple is the room that recreates the registration office of the Emergency Center for Cuban refugees, which was founded in the 1960s in the tower. The office was used to process and document exiles and provide them with medical and dental services. The chairs arranged in rows, the signs in English and Spanish, and the old telephone in the corner bring a wave of emotions to Zenaida.
“It was like that, there were a lot of women with children,” she says. “They gave my family a few dollars to start, and with that, we were able to rent an apartment that was a tiny thimble; there was barely enough room for all of us to fit in.” Within a few years, they moved to Kansas City, where shortly after, her father started a photo development and printing business. “We made good money, and when we had enough to buy a house, we returned to Miami because this was the place we liked and that reminded us of Cuba.”
Zenaida and Manuel have never returned to the island. “We’ve been gradually removing the family we had left there; the last one we brought back was a great-niece with her two children.” From Manzanillo and Luyanó, they receive snatches of stories. “My family’s house is an office used to recruit young men for military service,” she says. “The place where I spent my childhood in Havana fell into ruin,” he laments.
In one room of the museum, a Singer sewing machine draws the group’s attention. Even the teenager leaves TikTok and tries to decipher the purpose of the object that, in a display case, seems so important. Sewing was a source of employment for many of the Cuban emigrants who came to the US. “My mother paid for our studies by making everything on her machine and ended up opening a shop selling elegant dresses,” another elderly woman explains, responding to the guide’s comments.
A large wall filled with faces offers another moving experience. Visitors can choose to listen to the testimony of any of the hundreds of people who look down on them from the walls. The voice of writer Luis Felipe Rojas speaks of living without fear and the importance of telling the truth. The exile, harshly repressed in Cuba for his work as an independent journalist, maintains that his children will be better human beings because they have grown up in an environment where they do not have to pretend or feign an ideology.
Zenaida’s eyes are red, and Manuel’s pace is slower. The tour is over, and she opts for a coffee, while he enjoys champagne. Outside, it is starting to rain.
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