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A Fugitive’s Freedom: Assata Shakur’s Exile in Cuba

Manolo De Los Santos

The news of Assata Shakur’s death in Havana, Cuba, on September 26, was met with a deep sense of shared loss among revolutionaries and activists worldwide. Shortly after, at a gathering in New York, Cuban Foreign Minister Bruno Rodriguez Parrilla, spoke simply, “We fulfilled our duty.” This humble statement encapsulated four decades of unwavering commitment by the Cuban state to protect one of the United States’ most hunted revolutionaries and let her live her life as a free woman. Cuba’s steadfast stance, despite immense pressure and threats, highlights a fundamental truth: a nation’s principles are revealed not just by its words, but by the people it chooses to protect.

A life of struggle and political awakening

Born JoAnne Chesimard on July 16, 1947, in New York City, Assata’s life reflected the turbulent reality of being a Black woman in the United States. She came of age during the peak of the Civil Rights, Black Power, and Anti-War movements, a period that profoundly shaped her political consciousness and that of countless young people across the country. She initially attended the Borough of Manhattan Community College and then transferred to the City College of New York, where she became a powerful voice for student activism and a key organizer. Her journey led her to join the Black Panther Party (BPP) in Harlem, an organization that, within a short period, would leave an indelible mark on the struggle for Black liberation. While the mainstream media often portrayed the BPP as a violent gang, Assata and others knew it as a vital organization grounded in the community that ran free breakfast programs for children, offered health clinics, championed self-defense against police brutality, and mobilized the Black community into political struggle.

Assata and many others in the New York branch of the BPP would later join the Black Liberation Army (BLA). This clandestine organization emerged from a militant wing of the movement. It advocated for armed struggle against the oppressive US government, seeing it as a legitimate way to confront the infrastructures of white supremacy and racism at the core of American society and achieve freedom for Black people. This shift was also a direct response to the brutal repression the Black Panther Party faced from the United States government, which sought to dismantle and destroy Black and Left organizations. Countless leaders of the Black Panther Party, like Fred Hampton, were assassinated, while many others were framed, arrested on false charges, and held as political prisoners for decades.

The United States government’s repression of the Black Liberation Movement was not limited to public arrests and trials. A far more insidious campaign, the FBI’s Counter-Intelligence Program (COINTELPRO), operated in the shadows, unknown to the public and the activists it targeted. From the mid-1950s to the early 1970s, COINTELPRO was a systematic effort to “expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit, or otherwise neutralize” political organizations deemed a threat to national security, with the Black Panther Party (BPP) and other Black revolutionary groups as primary targets.

The FBI, under the direction of J. Edgar Hoover, viewed these movements as a grave internal threat. The program used a wide range of tactics, from psychological warfare to outright violence. Agents sent anonymous letters to foment distrust and rivalry between Black leaders and organizations, often leading to internal schisms and sometimes violence. The FBI also used informants to infiltrate groups, spread disinformation, and provoke clashes with law enforcement. The goal was to dismantle these movements from within, without ever having to acknowledge the government’s role.

The existence of COINTELPRO remained a closely guarded secret until March 8, 1971, when a group of activists calling themselves the Citizens’ Commission to Investigate the FBI broke into a small FBI field office in Media, Pennsylvania. They stole hundreds of documents and, after carefully reviewing them, released the papers to news agencies. These documents provided irrefutable proof of the FBI’s illegal activities against domestic political groups. The exposure led to public outrage, Senate hearings led by Frank Church, and a greater understanding of the lengths the government would go to suppress dissent.

The unjust trial and daring escape

On May 2, 1973, Assata was stopped on the New Jersey Turnpike with two fellow BLA members. A shootout ensued, resulting in the death of a New Jersey State Trooper and one of her comrades, Zayd Malik Shakur. Assata herself was shot and seriously wounded. What followed was a highly publicized trial that was widely condemned as a political witch-hunt. Assata was charged with murder, despite being shot in the back and having her hands up. The evidence against her was flimsy and circumstantial, with forensic experts testifying that her wounds made it physically impossible for her to have fired a weapon.

Despite the lack of credible evidence, she was convicted in 1977. In a system designed to crush dissent and criminalize Black people, her conviction was a foregone conclusion. “I am a 20th-century escaped slave,” she famously said. “Because the legal system in the United States is vicious, racist, and unjust. And I had no hope for a fair trial.”

After two years in prison, on November 2, 1979, she made her legendary escape with the help of fellow BLA members. This act of liberation was not just for her but was a powerful symbol for the movement.

The Cuban haven and US hypocrisy

After her daring escape, Assata Shakur found her way to Cuba, where she was given political asylum in 1984. For the US government, this was a direct affront. The pressure on Cuba to return her began almost immediately and never ceased. The campaign against her was not just a pursuit of a fugitive; it was an attempt to make an example of a prominent revolutionary and to punish Cuba for its solidarity with her.

The US government repeatedly attempted to criminalize Cuba’s decision to grant her asylum by labeling the country a “state sponsor of terrorism”. The bounty on Assata’s head was a constant reminder of this campaign. In 2005, the reward was set at USD 1 million, a move that coincided with a period of increased hostility and renewed threats from the Bush administration against Cuba. In 2013, the FBI, under the Obama administration, elevated her to its Most Wanted Terrorist list, a classification typically reserved for al-Qaeda and ISIS leaders, and increased the bounty to USD 2 million. This unprecedented move was meant to demonize her and justify any action taken against her, including attempts to capture her “dead or alive”. The use of billboards, particularly in New Jersey, was a public relations campaign designed to rally public opinion against her and against Cuba.

Cuban officials consistently and forcefully defended their decision. Fidel Castro called her a “true political prisoner” who was “a victim of the fierce repression against the Black movement.” In his view, the US attempt to portray her as a terrorist was “an injustice, a brutality, an infamous lie.” In a show of continued defiance, other officials and ordinary people alike in Cuba have echoed this sentiment, viewing her as an honored guest and a sister in struggle. For Cuba, granting asylum to Assata was not just a matter of politics but a matter of principle, a testament to its anti-imperialist and anti-racist convictions.

The terrorists next door: Luis Posada Carriles and Orlando Bosch

The US government’s obsession with Assata Shakur is thrown into stark relief when compared to its treatment of Luis Posada Carriles and Orlando Bosch Ávila, two of the most notorious anti-Cuban terrorists. Both men were Cuban exiles who were openly funded and trained by the CIA to carry out a campaign of violence against the Cuban Revolution.

Their most infamous act was the bombing of Cubana Flight 455 in October 1976. The civilian airliner exploded in mid-air shortly after takeoff from Barbados on its way to Jamaica, killing all 73 people on board, including the entire Cuban national fencing team. Both Posada Carriles and Bosch were arrested in Venezuela for the crime. However, they were eventually released, and both found their way back to the United States.

Posada Carriles, a former CIA asset trained in sabotage, explosives, and guerrilla warfare, was directly implicated in the bombing and other terrorist attacks across Latin America. Despite overwhelming evidence and his own admissions in a 1998 interview with the New York Times, the US government refused to extradite him to Cuba or Venezuela. In 2005, he was arrested in the US for illegal entry but was later released on a technicality.

Similarly, Orlando Bosch, who was arrested and briefly imprisoned in the US for a bazooka attack on a Polish freighter in Miami, was later allowed to return to the US after a concerted lobbying effort from prominent Cuban-American politicians. The US Department of Justice officially described him as a terrorist, yet he was pardoned by President George H.W. Bush.

The contrasting treatment of Assata Shakur and these two terrorists speaks volumes about the US government’s true priorities. While it hunted a Black revolutionary for decades, it provided a safe haven to men who committed acts of mass murder against Cuban civilians. This profound hypocrisy exposes a clear double standard: dissent at home is labeled as terrorism, while violence against a so-called enemy abroad is deemed a justifiable political act. It underscores the political nature of Assata’s persecution and the double standards of the US justice system. It cements her place as a symbol of resistance against a deeply flawed and unjust system. Meanwhile, to this day, Cuba remains on the State Sponsors of Terrorism list.

A beacon for future generations

Assata Shakur’s flight and exile were not just a physical escape from an unjust and violent system; they were a political and ideological act. Her unwavering belief in a socialist future, a world free from the exploitative forces of capitalism, imperialism, and racism, was what made her a profound threat to the US establishment. Her vision sought a fundamental restructuring of society, a vision that directly challenged the very foundation of US power. This is why her presence in socialist Cuba was not by accident but a deeply symbolic act of solidarity. For millions of young people who have discovered her story, whether through her powerful autobiography or a simple poster declaring “Assata is welcome here,” she is more than a historical figure. She is a living testament to the possibility of resistance. She embodied the courage not only to think about change but to fight for a new world entirely. Her words, “I don’t think that there’s any way that you can be a revolutionary without having a socialist vision,” serve as a beacon, affirming that the struggle for Black liberation is inextricably linked to the internationalist fight for a world without blockades, sanctions, genocides, and US imperialism. Her legacy is a powerful reminder that true freedom requires us to dismantle the old and build something new, together.

[Manolo De Los Santos is Executive Director of The People’s Forum and a researcher at Tricontinental: Institute for Social Research. His writing appears regularly in Monthly Review, Peoples Dispatch, CounterPunch, La Jornada, and other progressive media. He coedited, most recently, Viviremos: Venezuela vs. Hybrid War (LeftWord, 2020), Comrade of the Revolution: Selected Speeches of Fidel Castro (LeftWord, 2021), and Our Own Path to Socialism: Selected Speeches of Hugo Chávez (LeftWord, 2023). Courtesy: Globetrotter, a project of Independent Media Institute, a nonprofit organization that educates the public through a diverse array of independent media projects and programs.]

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“You Whisper to Us”: Racial Justice Activists and Artists Honor Assata’s Legacy

Robyn C. Spencer-Antoine

The recent passing of Black Panther and Black Liberation Army leader Assata Shakur unleashed more than a sense of loss. It sparked a sense of pride in her defiance, a sense of gratitude for the movements and organizations that sustained her and a flowering of hope that the freedom she fought for could one day be real for the rest of us.

The collective grief is still fresh following Assata’s passing in Havana, Cuba, on September 25. News of her death arrived amid a national conversation in the U.S. about violence and grief that had centered around the murder of far right activist Charlie Kirk, the ongoing genocide in Gaza, and the onslaught of a news cycle that delivers a steady stream of bad news daily about health care, education, the environment, and draconian immigration policies.

Despite widespread outrage and a growing resistance, grief, demoralization, and exhaustion are daily realities. There was already a lot to mourn.

After Assata’s passing, I spoke with Orisanmi Burton, author of Tip of the Spear: Black Radicalism, Prison Repression, and the Long Attica Revolt, to hear how he was processing the news. He told me:

The news was bittersweet. Bitter because Assata will never again walk among us, tell another story, or author another poem; bitter because no longer can we point to her as a living example of she who struggled for Black people with courage and dignity, she who remained steadfast in the face of such fierce opposition. But also, sweet. Sweet because although they hunted her, the forces of U.S. Empire — with all their monstrous technology, were unable to kill her, or put her back in a cage. Sweet because although she is no longer of the physical realm, Assata Shakur remains with us in spirit.

From podcasts to social media, the celebration of life for Assata catapulted her to the top of the news cycle. Assata had eluded capture and lived in freedom, sheltered by the Cuban government and people. In contrast, other political prisoners from the movements of the 1960s and ‘70s like Herman Bell, Jalil Muntaqim, Sundiata Acoli, and Mutulu Shakur had — after suffering through decades in prison — eventually been released after tireless advocacy and organizing by their supporters. Many others are still caged. Assata had died the way few revolutionaries did: in older age, from natural causes, and free.

Writer and activist adrienne maree brown emphasized this when I reached out for her reflections, saying:

Assata Shakur has always been a model to me of how to live a revolutionary poetic life, and how to live without compromise. I am so moved by her story — that she was the most wanted woman of the largest empire of this time, that she managed to live a long life on liberated land, and that she died free.

Meanwhile, when I asked Julia Wright — the veteran Black Panther, activist, and writer who is also the daughter of famous novelist Richard Wright — for her thoughts on Assata’s legacy, she responded with a spontaneous poem, writing:

you are the Mother

of all ancestors

you let us know

our dead

as many as they are

have lost their shackles

and

though we weep

we can let them sleep

you reminded us

that the living

those still chained

throughout the darkened dungeons

need all our energy

because they are alive

and

can still be saved

from tortuous pain

but you –

you are alive

in our hearts

but you –

you walk at our side

but you –

you whisper to us

that just as Love

eats away

all bars,

Love

eats away

your death

The upsurge of positive reflections on Assata was so threatening to the status quo that FBI Director Kash Patel re-branded her as a terrorist and warned the public that she should not be romanticized. Attempts to re-criminalize her posthumously in a climate of escalating political repression of dissent and domestic terrorism only confirmed the validity of Assata’s condemnation of the FBI’s campaign to “discredit, disrupt, and destroy” the Black freedom movement.

Assata’s death reminds a new generation of activists that organizing works and solidarity is life. Her liberation from Clinton Correctional Facility for Women in New Jersey on November 2, 1979, was the result of the organization of her comrades in radical social movements who delivered her into a clandestine network. This modern underground railroad sustained her until she was granted asylum in Cuba.

We don’t know the name of the people or the location of the places where Assata hid, but we do know that sustaining the underground network involved faith, risk, audacity, and ingenuity. There is a lesson here about the kind of accomplice praxis needed to stand up and shield others from the onslaught of the state — and the kind of deep commitment to struggle and refusal that it took to escape the dragnets and bounties on her head.

We see this enacted every day as ordinary people stand up for those ensnared by ICE agents or attacked by the National Guard deployed in the Trump administration’s militaristic incursions into American cities. Assata called Cuba one of the “Largest, Most Resistant and Most Courageous Palenques (Maroon Camps) That Has Ever Existed on the Face of This Planet” and called herself an escaped slave. Revisiting these plantation metaphors in 2025, when the history of slavery is being actively erased from museums, further connects the dots between past and present.

Assata Shakur had tremendous cultural impact on music. Hip Hop legend Tupac Shakur was her godson, a reflection of the familial bonds between members of the Black Panther Party. Assata’s name and story have been mentioned in at least 50 songs, reflecting the best of Hip Hop’s rebellious potential. In Cuba she was a supporter of Hip Hop music and a deep believer in the power of art. Reflections on her life as “revolutionary” and “poetic” speak to the power of art as language, expression, and compass. It is perhaps the most fitting reflection on what her legacy might be to movements of today.

Magia López Cabrera and Alexey Rodriguez — two musicians from the Cuban Hip Hop group Obsesión — shared with me their testimony on the profound ways in which Assata also shaped Cuban social movements during her years on the island, writing:

Assata Shakur had strong connections with the Cuban Hip Hop movement. She and Nehanda Abiodun were fundamental guides in understanding the need for strong political thought from the beginning. It became increasingly difficult to see her in public spaces. Her visits to specific places held a secretive atmosphere, which emanated a certain complicity between people. Almost at the end of activities or gatherings, when there were not many people left, she would appear. Deep conversations would ensue on certain topics. More than once we saw her give her opinion on issues arising in the movement. She was listened to and cared for. Many of us decided not to talk about her to protect her, to take care of her in her forced secrecy. She taught us the value of humility, of listening and stepping back when necessary. Her runaway story leaves great lessons for humanity.

That runaway story, partially told in Assata’s memoir (Assata, 1987) has been given new life after her death. Assata recounts her life using dialogue, poetry, and snippets from speeches alongside prose. Her life history unfolds in a nonlinear structure that moves readers across space and time, chapter by chapter, weaving a narrative of growing up and growing political consciousness. The book has gone viral and spread across social media with people taking photos of the book, buying or swapping it, and most of all, reading it in reading circles and book clubs.

More and more ordinary people are revisiting the freedom dreams of 1960s activists who imagined a just world order and the end of racism and imperialism. This is not nostalgia but a concerted effort to unearth the lessons and legacies of the Black Freedom movement. It is a turn to history and an embrace of reading, a powerful rebuke to censorship, book bans, attacks on education, and the attempt to erase history in textbooks and museums. With Assata as their inspiration, people are holding a mirror up to the part of themselves that dares to hope, to see beyond this moment and connect the past to the present.

[Robyn C. Spencer-Antoine, PhD, is a historian who researches and writes about Black social protest after World War II, urban and working-class radicalism, and gender. Her book The Revolution Has Come: Black Power, Gender, and the Black Panther Party in Oakland was published in 2016. She is co-founder of the Intersectional Black Panther Party History Project and has written widely on gender and Black Power. Courtesy: Truthout, a US nonprofit news organization dedicated to providing independent reporting and commentary on a diverse range of social justice issues.]