“I Had to Pay a High Price to Remain True to My Conscience, but They Didn’t Break Me” Cubanet

HAVANA – Ernesto Borges saw the ocean again after nearly 27 years of political imprisonment.  His brother took him to Havana’s Malecón, where he felt happy and amazed, as if it were the first time.

“I used to go spearfishing, I was a shore fisherman—it was my hobby, my therapy,” he says in this interview.

“I longed to smell the salty air. In prison, I used to tell both political and common prisoners that the sun we saw in the yard was the same one that rose over Varadero, and they were surprised. I assured them it was the same—just without the salty smell and the girls in bikinis. They laughed a lot. (…) Seeing the ocean after so long, I was overwhelmed by its immensity. I still have to go swimming,” he added.

Since his release on April 24, he has given very few interviews. He answers the phone, greets people, and thanks everyone for their support, but he admits he still feels “strange.” He also wants to make the most of every moment with his family, who, he says, “are the real heroes of this story.”

What were those first moments with your family like after being released? How do you feel after nearly 27 years in prison?

The first moments with my family were very intense, very emotional. First, it was with my oldest brother, César, who was waiting for me at the prison gate.

I was released at 1:20 p.m. on April 24 of this year. I came out wearing prison pants and a white T-shirt. The penal control officer who processed my release accompanied me to the visiting room. There, just outside El Combinado del Este, my brother gave me a change of clothes and I changed in the bathroom. That’s where I had my first hug with my brother and became fully aware that I was finally free.

When I got home, I saw my father, Raúl Borges Álvarez—the man who spent so many years fighting for my release and to ensure I got out alive.

People often tell me I’m like a hero, that I’m a strong man, but I keep saying that the close family members are the real heroes of this story. They are anonymous heroes, and I believe they deserve all the recognition from those who take interest in my case.

How do I feel after nearly 27 years in prison? Well, I feel older. I went in at 32 and now I’m 59. I think I feel a bit more mature, even a little wise, even a bit philosophical. Prison forced me to read a lot, to work on my inner world—I had many years to reflect on life, especially the past, the present, and the future.

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What were those years in prison like? How would you describe them?

The years in prison were very difficult, especially the first ones; those were the most complicated years because before being imprisoned, I had an active social life.

I spent almost a year under investigation, and when I was transferred to prison, I was placed in solitary confinement. During the nearly 11 years I spent in Guanajay prison, I had very few cellmates or neighbors—I spent most of the time alone. When you come out of an investigative process, from interrogations—which is a traumatic experience—and you arrive in a place where you have no chance to interact with others to release the pressure, to have some catharsis, or get advice on how to navigate prison life, that takes a serious toll. Even the space I was in was oppressive. It was a cell that measured two by three meters.

There were other difficult periods as well. But summarizing all of that in a few minutes is hard.

What was the worst thing you experienced?

The worst moment in prison, I think, was at the beginning—when I was arrested and faced the possibility of the death penalty. The prosecution ultimately charged me with attempted espionage and I was sentenced to 30 years, which felt like a death sentence that was being commuted on the spot.

When I was arrested in 1998, the maximum sentence for espionage was 20 years in prison or the death penalty. When they commuted the death penalty, they imposed a 30-year sentence instead. That was a tough time because I had to think about my daughter, who was four years old, my parents, my siblings, and my other loved ones.

Later, it was hard to accept that I wouldn’t have access to prison regimen changes. For example, I only moved to a prison camp after 22 years of incarceration, in 2020. I spent 10 months at “Zona Cero” (a camp) next to El Combinado del Este, and after those 10 months, they revoked my placement and I was sent back to prison until I was finally released. Accepting that I would not have access to the prison camp under the terms set by law, nor to parole, was another heavy blow.

Another very painful moment was the death of my mother on February 14, 2020. It was also hard to let my daughter go—in 2004, I authorized her to travel to Canada with her mother and stepfather, for her own good, because I knew I’d be in prison for many years. And it was a complex decision because I knew time would exact a heavy toll: the lack of closeness, of direct contact. From prison, it’s very difficult to maintain contact with children living abroad. I had to make great efforts just to get foreign currency phone cards to speak with her. I didn’t have a phone where I could receive international calls. That’s how the years passed. Back then, my daughter was four; today, she is 31.

There was also a moment in 2010 when my father had open-heart surgery in Spain. I lived with the uncertainty of whether he would survive or not—but he did.

Other difficult moments included various releases and pardons that were granted over the years. In December 2014, there was a spy exchange with the U.S. government. Later, there were more releases of political prisoners and similar processes, and I always had hope—but was always left out.

I’ve had to pay a high price to remain true to my conscience, to stay consistent, to not live a double life. That was hard.

Why do you think there was such cruelty against you? What forms of torture did you endure?

I believe I understand some of the reasons. The other reasons I’ll only know the day classified documents and the files from my investigative process are declassified.

From the very beginning, during interrogation, they told me they were going to make an example out of me.

After the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, Cuba entered an economic crisis, and several State Security officers defected—some who worked abroad, others who left from inside Cuba. They didn’t catch everyone, but I did get caught.

In my case, I attempted to pass information to an American diplomat in Havana, but the information never reached its destination. I was arrested, and from that moment, it was made clear I would be the “example.”

I believe they were also especially cruel with me because, despite being discovered, I chose not to continue the double life I had been leading. I decided to live the rest of my prison life as I truly was—as I thought. I also held a lot of classified information. On top of that, my behavior in prison made me a “bad example” for active officers.

I’m sure that among the ranks of State Security, they said “Ernesto Borges Pérez is a traitor, a mercenary.” But in reality, I clung to the principles I believed in and tried to be consistent. I didn’t break, I didn’t give in, and I knew very well that this bothered them.

It’s also true that many military officers who have been imprisoned in this country were broken while in prison. The suffering is immense, and not everyone can endure it.

Starting in 2012, they made me many offers to collaborate—to work with my adversaries (State Security)—in exchange for leaving Cuba. But that didn’t work on me. First, because I had already changed politically. Second, because after everything I had suffered, and everything my family had suffered, I didn’t want to be responsible for sending other people to prison and making their families suffer. And third, because I didn’t trust them. And that was a big reason why they made me serve my full sentence.

Many young inmates—common criminals—used to tell me, “Hey, political, why don’t you cooperate with them, leave the country, and fix your life?” And I explained to them it wasn’t that simple. The apparatus that handles this realm in Cuba is very experienced. It’s not enough to just say, “I’ll work with you,” to fool them. It’s a process that starts with rigorous checks. They give you specific tasks. You have to land people in prison. In the end, they can go public about your cooperation  later, and ruin your life—your reputation.

I remember once an officer said to me, “Borges, why are you so worried about your reputation? In the end, when you leave here, you’re going to have to leave Cuba.” And I replied, “I’ll leave Cuba, but I’ll never be able to leave myself. And wherever I end up—Madrid, Washington, Miami, or Mexico City—I want to be able to look in the mirror and not see a man who made a deal out of fear or cowardice.” I prefer to sleep in peace and be at peace with God and with myself.

I went through difficult moments, but I’ll tell you the truth: during the interrogations and throughout my imprisonment, I was never subjected to physical violence. First, I think it was because of my personality—I didn’t allow myself to be provoked. I always tried to treat my adversaries with respect, no matter the situation. The pressure was psychological.

Things happened, like when my daughter came to Cuba as an adult and wasn’t allowed to see me—they didn’t even let me call her at the hotel where she was staying, without giving me any explanation. Psychologically, that was a major blow.

Yes, I was subjected to isolation, sleep deprivation, and obstacles in communicating by mail with my family—things like that. But physically, nothing happened. People have asked me over the years why I was never beaten. I think it’s because I respected everyone. I was always clear that the people guarding me in prison were there to keep me alive, to feed me, give me a roof, some medical care, and nothing more. I was sentenced by a court and based on a political directive from the country’s highest leadership. I never blamed the guards and always treated people with respect.

Many years ago, I read a quote—I think it was from George Washington—that said when we do something in front of others, we should do it with respect for those people, no matter who they are. You can assert your rights, defend your truth, without humiliating anyone, without offending anyone, and certainly without taking it out on those who had nothing to do with the decisions.

I also found faith in Christianity, which helped me immensely—especially to be more tolerant, to put myself in others’ shoes. I understood through faith and my prison experience that, in my case, hate would only cripple me. Some people need hate to survive—that’s what motivates them. But I learned, through faith in Jesus Christ, that meekness helped me more. It gave me perspective on what I was going through and helped me endure the trials I faced.

They used to call you “Castro’s prisoner.” Why?

That’s an anecdote. In 2010, there was a wave of releases—they released the remaining 44 political prisoners from the group of 75 and others. During conversations between Cardinal Jaime Ortega Alamino, Laura Pollán (leader of the Ladies in White), and Raúl Castro, when the cardinal brought up my case, Raúl Castro replied that military prisoners were under his personal jurisdiction—and I was one of them. From then on, I don’t recall exactly who, whether a journalist or a fellow opposition member, started using the phrase “Castro’s prisoner.”

How is your health?

When I entered prison, I only had asthma—I’ve been asthmatic since childhood. But over the years I developed several other conditions. The most recent and most serious is cataracts, diagnosed in both eyes around 2017—especially in my right eye, out of which I can barely see anything.

So, my priority now is to get medical care, because I need it. In order to work, to start any kind of life project moving forward, I need to recover my eyesight.

Recently, I was also diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, which is milder. I exercise and maintain my diet. During my prison years, I also developed chronic gastritis, lumbago, and circulatory problems. So many years in small cells, with little mobility, poor lighting, humidity, inadequate nutrition—all of that ends up taking a toll on your health.

Many people used to joke with me in prison, saying, “Don’t worry—when you’re free, you’ll recover and bounce back.” Well, I hope they were right.

As for my spirits, I won’t lie to you—I feel very good. And I think that for most of my time in prison, I was in good spirits, because I’m someone who loves life, an optimist. And because my actions were based on principles and values that I believe in, I always felt I was on the right path. I never doubted that. When you live with coherence—when your thoughts, words, and actions align—life flows. I’ve always stayed positive, most of the time.

What plans do you have?

As I just said: the main thing is to regain my health. And with the years I have left, I want to spend as much time as I can with my loved ones—those anonymous heroes. My father is 85 years old, showing the wear-and-tear of age, and he’s had open-heart surgery. He’s the man who fought so hard to keep me alive.

I have a daughter in Canada, and I dream of reuniting with her—whether in Canada or somewhere else in the Americas—and to recovering some of the lost time between father and daughter.

I want to work, to be useful. I’m ready to do any kind of job I have to do abroad to survive and support my loved ones. I haven’t worked during all these years—not because I’m lazy, but because I was imprisoned. But I’ve always loved working.

What message would you send to those who are still unjustly imprisoned?

I’d encourage them to open their hearts to faith—it helped me a lot during my time in solitary confinement. It’s hard to explain to people who don’t believe in God, but faith gives you a lot of psychological tools to deal with extreme situations in prison.

I’d advise them to love life deeply. Even behind bars, we are alive—a life with limitations, yes, but still life. Even in prison, you can see your family grow, age, see new family members born, even if only during visits. The years pass, but you stay connected with your family.

When I was imprisoned, there were no phones in the prison. Phones were installed around 2004 or 2006. Now, prisoners in Cuba can speak to their family occasionally—still with limitations, but it’s something. I’d suggest staying positive and enduring the suffering with courage and dignity.

When I left the investigation phase and arrived at Guanajay prison on June 15, 1999, I sat alone in my cell and said to myself, “Okay, what do I do with the 30 years they just sentenced me to?” I had two options: clinging to the best in me as a human being or going with the flow of prison life. I chose to hold on to the best of myself. I decided to study, to better myself. I asked my family for dictionaries, for books—I read a lot.

Prison stands still for people when they don’t grow internally. In prison, you can’t just drift, waiting for something to distract you from the suffocation. You need some daily routine, some planning—exercise, reading, conversation, maybe a little TV. But you need goals—short-, medium-, and long-term—and you have to work toward them. That’s crucial for not losing hope, for not sinking into despair.

I don’t hate anything or anyone. That might sound strange, but it’s true. But if I had to say I hated something, the only thing I truly hated in prison was falling into a state of melancholy and sadness. The few times it happened to me in Guanajay, I felt so awful, so alone, so low that it was incredibly hard to pull myself out of it. Back then, I had visits only every 45 days, no access to a TV, and my mail was constantly blocked.

I believe life is a treasure, a great blessing—and even in prison, we must value it, without giving in to despair.

From my own experience, and from what I had read before being imprisoned, I always understood that political prisoners are used as bargaining chips. Every time the Cuban authorities have had certain negotiations—whether with members of the U.S. Congress or other international figures—they’ve released some political prisoners. That’s our reality. It’s painful, but that’s how it is. Outside of that, we’re usually left to serve the full sentence.

To those in the situation I was in, I’d say: endure it with courage and dignity. Time passes. Time belongs to no one. It’s a beautiful thing to walk out of prison one day, look in the mirror, and say: “I don’t have two or three faces—I have only one.”

I’ve lived with coherence. I’m not perfect. I’m a man forgiven by God. I’ve made many mistakes in my life; I haven’t done everything right. I’ve had highs and lows—I’m human. But I’ve made an effort to live consistently, because I believe in the power of personal example. Even while I was on prison—nearly 27 years—I was always aware that most people can be broken, but those of us who remain firm will always be a light for others.