In the winter of 2004, I went to Cuba with a group to learn something about the tropical island of Revolution. Then I learned about a woman of Korean parentage, married to a Cuban historian, who taught Marxist philosophy for many years at a university there and feels indebted to Castro for her chance to advance in education.

On the way to Veradero, the group’s first destination, the van stopped at the beautiful city of Matanzas. In that city, I met Martha Lim Kim. Our van rattled through a narrow street lined with tall, row houses. The exteriors of many were deteriorating with peeling paint. Our guide rang a bell at one of those houses and the door opened followed by a Spanish greeting in a springy voice from a small, delicate woman with an unmistakably Korean face, who in fact reminded me of my deceased mother.

As I stepped into the house, my nerves were concentrated on this woman, but I was able to see the high ceiling of the living room, beautifully tiled floor, and the open courtyard filled with tasteful plants in their full glory.

I don’t understand Spanish, but I did not interrupt the flow of Martha’s talks by asking my friend/interpreter/translator Aiyoung Choi to translate everything she said. I gave my questions to Aiyoung in English and only occasionally asked Aiyoung what Martha said in order to give her more questions. However, it wasn’t necessary for me to know Spanish to tell that Martha was exceptionally articulate and quick on her feet. I spent the next five days mostly with Martha.

Martha was one of nine children of Korean parents who came to Cuba from Mexico. A lifetime teacher, she worked her way out of poverty to university teaching in Cuba. In 1993, at the peak of her career, Martha retired to take care of her mother and was dedicated to her husband who was totally incapacitated with a rare brain disease. She spoke of her professional teaching career with pride and affection, joy floating in her eyes. I asked what her hopes and aspirations were. “These days my greatest hope is for me to stay alive until my husband goes. He needs me. Also to strengthen my spiritual life.” Her husband passed away in November 2005.

Most impressive about Martha was her deep-seated feeling for Korea, her ancestors’ motherland. She was not born in Korea but running deep in her veins is the soul of a Korea that knows suffering, compassion, independence, and a resilient human spirit that turns fierce struggle for survival into triumph. 

Martha was not the only one who moved me. She took me to aged Koreans in a small enclave on the outskirts of Matanzas in Cocal. They spoke Spanish, throwing in a couple of Korean words, heavily accented and barely understandable. Their faces were parched and darkened by the years of toil and sun, and their hands rough, an embodiment of a daily life, full of hardships but tendered and endured with strength and joy. What I felt from the wrinkles of their faces was not old age marching toward death but vibrant life, defiant of death. They felt like revolutionary soldiers. Sitting among them, Martha was their natural leader.