He spent 15 1/2 years as a political prisoner, from 1961 to 1966, and then from 1968 to 1979. In his most solitary times, when it seemed he would never leave prison alive, Boronat believed no one outside knew of his pain, or cared. Later, he learned a lot of people did care. He learned about support campaigns from Cubans in Miami, and it brought warmth to his heart.
That memory energized his labor on Tuesday as he and a handful of volunteers sorted out donations for the Archdiocese of Miami's relief effort to the victims of Hurricane Lili.
In many ways he symbolized the humanity at the heart of this politically attacked mission. This has been a turning point for Cubans in Miami. It has been a time of definition, separating the humanitarians from the cheap politicians, the doers from the gabbers.
The criticism, fueled by ratings-hungry radio commentators, has aroused the usual cast of intransigents, and the obligatory anonymous-bomb-threat nuts. Some fanatics threatened to blow up the revered bayside shrine to Our Lady of Charity. They hurled insults at some of Miami's most respected clergy, including Auxiliary Bishop Agustin Roman, spiritual leader of Cuban exiles.
But the debate also has broken new ground, leaving the caustic on the fringe, exposed. Now it is clear who favors the Cuban embargo as a tool of starvation.
It is also clear who can distinguish between an embargo against a government and an embargo against the people.
If ever there were a moment to open those bridges, it is now that a church-to-church network has been established. The system has been in place for three years, since the opening of Caritas Cuba, the Vatican-linked social action agency of the Cuban Catholic Church. It is a system that has worked, distributing donations to the needy in Cuba, without government interference.
Strong mainstream Cuban voices in Miami are ignoring the cynics and advocating the ship-to-Cuba effort.
Joaquin Boronat is clear about his motives. He believes so strongly in this effort that he has taken three days from his work as an odd-jobs electrician to pack boxes at the Camillus House warehouse in Northeast Miami.
He dismisses the critics as those who ``think they're the axis of the world.'' Who are they to question his ethic? It was he, not they, who was slammed against a wall in 1961 by Castro militia and nearly put before a firing squad.
He wore his ``Democracia!'' T-shirt to volunteer on Tuesday as a political statement. His exile militancy has led him to join the protest flotillas to Cuban waters and last year brought him face to face with Castro's gunboats.
But his belief in democracy for Cuba does not preclude him from reaching out to its people. In fact, it hinges on such gestures of solidarity.
``This is about rescuing our people,'' he said, standing amid 180,000 pounds of donated rice, beans, milk and other dry goods. ``My actions here are based on faith in God and my conscience. More than material support, I believe we are offering the people spiritual support.''
Boronat believes the aid will reach those hit hardest by the storm, which destroyed nearly 5,700 homes, damaged tens of thousands more, and forced the evacuation of nearly 300,000 people. And he believes it is worth taking a risk, in any case.
He is profoundly moved by the generosity of people, the humble donations that stream in alongside the bulk offerings. He points to a poor American-born woman who comes to help out each day. Norma Vallejo, a 41-year-old mother of five, lives across the street from the warehouse. She feels close to the Cuban people because her children's father, killed by random violence four years ago, was Cuban.
Each day, she walks 17 blocks to pick up her children at school, and then 17 blocks back home. This week, after school, she brings her children to the warehouse to help sort donations.
There are few volunteers, and a great deal of work to do.
Sometimes she runs home and makes Cuban coffee for the others. Joaquin Boronat usually takes a sip and keeps packing, filling box after box with dry milk for those who remain isolated, on the other side of the sea.
Copyright © 1996 The Miami Herald