"I never imagined we’d have to cross half the world just to live with a bit of dignity." That’s how Marilín, a 56-year-old Cuban woman, begins her story of survival. Sitting in the modest living room of a small apartment in Sukhumi, the capital of Abkhazia, she recounts every decision that led them to this remote corner of the Caucasus—so obscure it's missing from many maps.

For more than three years, Marilín has been fleeing scarcity, despair, and abandonment. Together with her husband and two sons, she left her hometown of Holguín in eastern Cuba, embarking on a journey that first took them to Russia and eventually to the breakaway republic they now call home.

Back in Cuba, Marilín worked as a secretary and her husband, Miguel, was a career military officer. Life seemed relatively stable until their eldest son, Yuri—now 34—began suffering seizures at age 12. He was later diagnosed with epilepsy and schizophrenia. From that moment on, Marilín became his full-time caregiver, without any meaningful institutional support.

"They said I’d be paid as a caregiver, but that never happened. The social services support they promised also never came. Just empty words."

Over the years, she sought help for Yuri at multiple medical centers and institutions across Cuba, but none offered effective treatment. She even tried taking him to Havana’s prestigious International Center for Neurological Restoration (CIREN), only to be turned away.

"The doctor said therapy there might help him, but they refused to admit him. They told us that hospital was for government officials and foreigners."

By 2021, with medicine increasingly scarce and daily life untenable, the family made a desperate choice: they sold their house and what little they had left in Holguín. They staked everything on a one-way ticket to Russia, hoping for better medical care for Yuri and a chance at a dignified life.

Russia: Broken Promises and a Climate of Fear

But Moscow proved a harsh and hostile place for a family clinging to hope.

They spent over three years living in legal limbo, constantly fearing a knock at the door. They paid exorbitant rents for shared rooms, were extorted by police and civilians alike, and faced detention and threats of deportation. And Yuri never received the care they had crossed the ocean for.

"We were undocumented for three and a half years. It was unbearable stress."

Though Russia doesn’t require visas for Cuban nationals, their tourist status only allowed them to stay for three months. After that, legal residency was virtually impossible to obtain.

Miguel took work sweeping streets for 25,000 rubles a month—about $300. The family often lived in crowded rooms with strangers, including one Russian man who was frequently drunk and violent.

One day, Marilín’s younger son, Miguelito, was detained and nearly deported. Two weeks later, Miguel was also picked up. A neighbor claimed to know someone in the police who could help, but it would cost 45,000 rubles—money they didn’t have. They had to borrow it.

The family was completely vulnerable. During a bitter winter, Miguel suffered a stomach hemorrhage while working. His employer dumped him in front of their building rather than take him to a hospital. They begged for help.

"They gave him an IV, but after four days he had to leave; they said we had to pay for the hospital stay and medications. We had nothing."

As time passed, everyone’s health deteriorated. Marilín developed severe leg inflammation. Miguel battled sciatica and recurrent gastric bleeding. Miguelito began showing signs of spinal problems. And Yuri grew increasingly unstable.

"Sometimes Yuri falls into crises—he stops eating and doesn’t sleep. Once, he was rushed to the hospital. Emergency care is free, so they admitted him for a month. But we don’t speak Russian, and I wasn’t allowed to stay with him. I told them he’s fully dependent on me. They said they'd take care of him, but when I was allowed to visit, he was dirty and clearly hadn’t eaten."

Abkhazia: A Fragile Haven or Legal Trap?

In late 2024, a YouTube video offered a glimmer of hope: Abkhazia, a self-declared republic bordering Russia, was reportedly granting visas. The family bought tickets to Adler, a Russian district near the border, and hired a taxi to make the crossing. Their first attempt failed. On a second try, they boarded a train to Sukhumi—but border guards stopped them again, this time due to Miguelito’s damaged passport. The others continued, leaving their youngest behind—with Russian deportation stamps now in their travel documents.

More and more Cubans stranded in Russia are turning their eyes to Abkhazia. But behind its promises lie legal gray zones, economic instability, and a total lack of security.

"It was awful to leave him behind. He said he’d get a new passport in Moscow and catch up with us. Getting off that train broke our hearts."

The months that followed were agonizing. Miguelito returned to Moscow to get a new passport at the Cuban consulate. But with police crackdowns on migrants intensifying, he could barely leave the apartment. When he finally attempted to cross into Abkhazia again, he was detained at the Russian border and nearly deported. Only a lawyer’s intervention—and a costly fine—saved him.

"On March 11, just past midnight, I finally got to hug my son. I’d never cried so much in my life."

A New Life, Same Uncertainty

Today, the family lives in a one-room apartment in Sukhumi, paying 20,000 rubles a month (about $220). Miguel works at a dairy warehouse for 30,000 rubles despite having herniated discs. Miguelito takes occasional jobs but is also unwell. Yuri remains on treatment, but without access to specialists.

Efforts to legalize their status in Abkhazia have largely failed. Miguel once held a work visa, but couldn’t renew it due to financial strain. Marilín and Yuri are only on tourist visas. Miguelito was fined 28,000 rubles for failing to register his stay in time and is now undocumented. All four are struggling psychologically. They can’t afford rent, let alone more fines.

"Everything is hard. We have no access to healthcare, no guarantees. Every day is a fight to survive."

A Dead End?

Abkhazia is not recognized by most of the international community. Visas issued by its authorities aren’t valid outside its territory. Cuba has no consulate there. International connections are minimal. For migrants like Marilín, this means living in a legal limbo—without diplomatic protection, without rights, and with no clear way forward.

"We can’t go back to Russia; we’re banned for five years. We can’t return to Cuba either—there are no legal pathways, and even if there were, we’d be worse off than when we left. I just wish a humanitarian group or someone could help us reach a country where we could have documents, medical care, a bit of peace. Just what any human being deserves. Otherwise… I don’t know what will become of us."

Marilín’s story mirrors that of many Cuban families who, gripped by desperation, embark on improbable migration routes. From Cuba to Abkhazia—or even Antarctica—people are crossing continents in search of something their homeland failed to offer. But often, the answer isn’t waiting on the other side of the runway in Havana. And the future, for too many, remains uncertain and increasingly out of reach.