“Like Trying to Build a House on Sand” Cubans in the US Face Uncertainty and Legal Limbo
Rachel Pereda is a Cuban journalist who traveled on foot to reach the United States with her husband and young children. She writes about migration, motherhood, and the social impact of policies.
*The opinions and points of view expressed by interviewees are their own and don’t necessarily reflect the opinions or positions of CEDA.
Can you describe the situation of Cubans in the United States right now? What do you think is missing in media coverage?
The Cuban community in the United States is going through a moment of profound transformation. In recent years, we’ve seen the largest migratory wave in the country’s history: more than 850,000 Cubans arrived through different routes, many across the border, fleeing an unprecedented humanitarian, political, and economic crisis on the island.
However, the context has changed. Borders have closed, migration processes have become more restrictive, and many of those still hoping to leave can no longer find safe pathways to do so. This has created a feeling of frustration, of being trapped—both inside the island and among those abroad who have not been able to adjust their status.
I arrived with my young children, like many other families, after a journey full of uncertainties. All we wanted was to step onto U.S. soil and feel that we had finally reached a safe place. Today, we are residents, thanks to the 60-day parole we were granted at the border.
At the time, however, we didn’t really understand what that parole meant, nor what I-220A was. Everything was uncertain. Even though we had crossed borders and gone through tough moments, the immigration process in the US was another journey, with new conditions but also full of uncertainty.
We were fortunate to be able to wait one year and one day to apply for the Cuban Adjustment Act, and then six months later, we received our residency. It wasn’t easy, but every form, every step, every fear, every doubt, every stumble, and every experience was a part of the constant learning process that migration entails.
But not all Cubans have that opportunity. Many still haven’t been able to adjust their status—like our friends with I-220A status, good and professional people with important jobs who contribute to this country, or those who came through humanitarian parole or the CBP One appointments.
I want them to feel what I felt when I finally saw our faces, and those of our children, on our green cards. We had walked a road full of sacrifices, but a more secure and stable future was finally opening up before us.
As for media coverage, I feel there are still too few stories from the human perspective; few voices that truly speak from lived experience. As a Cuban journalist and migrant, I realize there is still a need for a more human, deeper, and more contextual approach. We are not just statistics or “border cases.” We are people with life stories, with losses, with grief, with dreams to fulfill. We need journalists to go deeper, to listen, and to show both the pain and the hope.
Why is regularizing immigration status so important for Cubans?
Because without papers, there is no stability, no future. Living in a country without legal status is like trying to build a house on sand; no matter how hard you work, everything could crumble at any moment. For Cubans who arrived in recent years, many with children, many fleeing a dictatorship, regularization means relief, dignity, and a real chance to start again.
A regular immigration status isn’t just a document, it’s the foundation that allows you to fully integrate into the society you’ve been contributing to since day one. It’s what gives you the ability to build, to plan, to live without fear.
It’s true that Cubans, unlike many other nationalities, have a path to regularization: the Cuban Adjustment Act. But not all Cubans can access it. Thousands of Cubans entered with a document known as I-220A, which immigration authorities don’t consider a “parole,” leaving them in legal limbo. They are here, but they can’t adjust their status. They work, they pay taxes, they have children born in the United States… yet they lack the stability and the assurance that they are truly part of this country that is slowly becoming their home.
You’ve coined the term the “Walking Generation” (La Generación Caminante) to describe this generation of Cuban migrants in the US. What sets this generation apart from previous generations? What unites them?
Each Cuban migration wave has had its own face, its own wounds. There were the Marielitos in the eighties, who left seeking freedom during a time of repression; the balseros of the nineties, who took to the sea in search of a better future, facing death with every wave; and now there’s us: la Generación Caminante, the Walking Generation.
We didn’t cross the sea. We crossed jungles, rivers, borders, endless roads with children in our arms, backpacks on our backs, and uncertainty as our constant companion. We left Cuba and passed through multiple countries to get to the United States. On foot, by bus, in pickup trucks, sleeping on mattresses on the floor, in the open air, and most of the time, awake, watchful, praying, thinking. We did it with hope in our hearts and often with pain clenched in our chests.
What unites all generations of Cuban immigrants is the desire for freedom and dignity. What sets us apart, perhaps, is the route, the path, the personal experiences. But all of us crossed that invisible line that separates countries—some by sea, others by air, and others by land. Maybe, unlike earlier generations who arrived with some legal backing under clearer immigration policies, this generation came in the midst of absolute uncertainty.
And we’re also united by resilience. We are children of exile, but we are also children of a deep love for life.
Why did you leave Cuba?
I left Cuba because it reached a point where I simply couldn’t take it anymore. Because doing independent journalism there is practically a surveillance sentence. I wrote for El Toque, and for reporting on the reality we lived, I was watched, summoned, pressured. Even while I was pregnant with my second daughter, I was called into a police station to be interrogated about my work. I was creating life, and at the same time they made me feel as if it were a crime to write honestly.
It wasn’t an easy decision. Leaving your homeland, your home, your people—no one does that for fun, especially not the way we had to. But I reached a point where I understood that if I wanted a different future for my children, I had to take a different path. And that path was long, hard, full of fear, but also full of hope.
We had been looking for other options; we even began the process for a master’s program I had been offered in Spain. That was the route we wanted to take—a legal, orderly way to start a new life as a family, far from Cuba, because staying was no longer an option. But the bureaucracy became endless, and leaving together as a family of four seemed impossible. Every step felt like a mountain. There was always a hurdle, a wait, a closed door.
I left Cuba because I wanted to live in freedom—to raise my children in a place where I didn’t have to fear for writing, for thinking, for being. And today, even though life in exile is also full of challenges, at least I know I can express myself freely. That means a lot.
Migrating wasn’t an easy decision. It was an act of faith, of love, and of rebellion. And although the road was tough, I would do it again—for them, for me, for us.
Do you have any advice for lawmakers concerned about the rights of Cuban migrants in the US?
My advice to lawmakers is: see migrants—don’t just look at them. It’s essential to understand who they are, what motivates them, and how they contribute to the country. There is nothing more transformative than public policy with a human face.
The Cuban community, like so many others, arrives seeking opportunities to work with dignity, to move forward, and to build stable lives for their families. They don’t come to be a burden, they come to contribute, with their effort and talent, to a nation that has always been a beacon of hope.
Cubans are not just seeking survival, they want to thrive. That’s why it’s essential that immigration policies adapt to today’s realities and recognize that, in order for migrants to fully integrate and contribute to the country, they need a clear and fair legal status.
Lawmakers need to understand that migrants, in this case, Cubans, are committed to their new country. They contribute to the economy, culture, and social development, and they need a legal framework that allows them to do so without unnecessary obstacles.
What do you hope for in the future?
I hope my children grow up knowing what it means to have two countries in their lives. To move between two languages, two different cultures, and to feel that their identity is a bridge connecting all that we are. That they understand the journey we made, the sacrifice of crossing so many countries, was to offer them a future with more opportunity and less fear.
I hope to keep writing, keep building community, and keep helping others who are starting from scratch.
And I hope that one day, we won’t have to migrate to be free.
Is there anything else you’d like CEDA’s audience to know?
Yes: that behind every migration story there is loss, but there is also a seed. That there are many mothers like me who, even if we arrive with scraped knees from the journey, we kept walking. And that this country grows stronger when it welcomes, when it listens, and when it understands that diversity is an opportunity, not a threat.