Havana sits just ninety miles from the Florida coast, but for decades, the distance between Cuba and the United States has felt far greater—an invisible chasm defined by history, politics, and dreams of freedom. Now, as 2025 draws to a close, two stories intertwine across that divide: the passing of Assata Shakur, a legendary Black Panther who found refuge in Cuba, and a new exodus of young Cubans desperate to escape a country in crisis.
On Thursday, September 25, 2025, the Cuban government announced the death of Assata Shakur in Havana at the age of 78. Shakur, born in the United States and raised in the segregated South, became a prominent figure in the Black Panther Party and the Black Liberation Army. Her life was marked by activism, controversy, and a dramatic escape from the American justice system. According to Democracy Now!, Shakur was convicted for the May 2, 1973, killing of a New Jersey state trooper during a shootout that also claimed the life of a fellow activist. Shot twice by police during the incident, she was later sentenced to life in prison plus 33 years after what she described as a "legal lynching."
In a powerful open letter read on Democracy Now! in 1998, Shakur reflected on her journey: "My name is Assata Shakur, and I was born and raised in the United States. I am a descendant of Africans who were kidnapped and brought to the Americas as slaves. I spent my early childhood in the racist segregated South. I later moved to the northern part of the country, where I realized that Black people were equally victimized by racism and oppression." She recounted the FBI's COINTELPRO campaign against Black activists, stating, "Under the COINTELPRO program, many political activists were harassed, imprisoned, murdered or otherwise neutralized."
Shakur's story is inseparable from Cuba's own revolutionary history. After escaping from jail in 1979, she fled to Cuba, where she was granted political asylum and lived in exile for the rest of her life. She became a symbol of resistance for many, advocating for "revolutionary changes in the structure and in the principles that govern the United States," as she wrote in her autobiography. Her words—"It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We must love each other and support each other. We have nothing to lose but our chains"—echoed through generations of activists.
Yet, as Shakur's life in Cuba came to an end, the island itself was undergoing a transformation—one marked not by the triumph of revolution, but by its unraveling. According to reporting by The New Yorker, Cuba has fallen into severe economic disrepair in recent years, a crisis exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic. Public spaces in Havana are "incredibly empty," with few cars on the road and a sense of abandonment stretching from the capital to the countryside. The situation has become so dire that, since 2022, approximately two million Cubans—nearly one-fifth of the population—have left the country, with at least 850,000 settling in the United States, especially in Florida.
The roots of this crisis run deep. The brief thaw in U.S.-Cuban relations brokered by President Obama and Raúl Castro a decade ago brought hope to many. American tourists flooded Havana, and there was talk of a new era. But that optimism evaporated after Fidel Castro's death in November 2016 and the election of Donald Trump. As The New Yorker notes, "All of the bilateral progress that was being made between American and Cuban diplomats ground to a halt." The mysterious "Havana Syndrome" and the pandemic only deepened Cuba's troubles. In the summer of 2021, protests erupted over shortages and hardship, only to be swiftly crushed by the government—a clear message to those considering dissent.
For young Cubans, the message was clear: get out while you can. The mass exodus has left Cuba's streets and squares deserted, and the so-called "Cuban Dream"—the hope that the revolution would deliver justice, equality, and prosperity—has all but faded. As Jon Lee Anderson wrote in The New Yorker, "What I saw in Cuba was definitively the end of the dream of the Cuban Revolution." For years, some clung to the idea that the revolution could evolve, that a fairer, modern Cuba was possible. Now, even that hope seems lost.
But the journey to the United States offers no easy answers. The traditional "welcome mat" for Cuban immigrants, long a feature of U.S. policy, has been rolled up. Under Donald Trump's administration, a harsh immigration crackdown has targeted Cubans alongside other groups. Suddenly, hundreds of thousands of Cubans in Florida—many in Miami's vibrant Cuban American community—face the threat of deportation. This irony isn't lost on observers: nearly 70% of Cuban Americans in Florida voted for Trump, making the state a MAGA stronghold. Now, their own community is ensnared by policies they helped empower.
This collision of dreams—Cuba's revolutionary vision and America's promise of freedom—has left many feeling adrift. Anderson observed, "What does it mean that if you finally get to Miami—the beacon of hope and freedom for Cubans, after nearly seventy years of Communism—and you’re tossed out just like everybody else?" The parallel collapse of the Cuban and American dreams is, as he put it, "quite extraordinary."
Shakur's life and words resonate against this backdrop. She once asked, "The New Jersey State Police and other law enforcement officials say they want to see me brought to 'justice.' But I would like to know what they mean by 'justice.' Is torture justice? I was kept in solitary confinement for more than two years, mostly in men’s prisons. Is that justice? My lawyers were threatened with imprisonment and imprisoned. Is that justice? I was tried by an all-white jury, without even the pretext of impartiality, and then sentenced to life in prison plus 33 years. Is that justice?" For Shakur, justice was not just personal—it was inseparable from the fate of her people. "Let me emphasize that justice for me is not the issue I am addressing here; it is justice for my people that is at stake. When my people receive justice, I am sure that I will receive it, too."
As Cuba confronts an uncertain future, and as the dreams of two nations collide and collapse, the story of Assata Shakur—her struggle, her exile, and her defiant hope—remains a potent symbol. Her passing marks the end of an era, but her questions about justice, freedom, and belonging linger, echoing through the empty streets of Havana and the crowded neighborhoods of Miami alike.