In recent days many of us have been having friendly conversations and discussions about the famous embargo. Some are in favor of lifting it, others for keeping it in place.

What seems to have been forgotten by everyone, or almost everyone, is the actual reason for its existence. Faulty memories and the many decades of its enforcement have sometimes caused us to forget why it was originally imposed by the U.S. government.

Very often we cite the embargo as the reason for all our troubles. I do not see it this way. The real cause of our problems lies with ourselves. It is always easier to blame one thing or another, even though we have had five decades to create mechanisms to counteract its effects, yet have not done so.

What most people do not realize, because the media never mentions it, is that at the time this measure was imposed as a response by the U.S. government to the interference in and appropriation of American businesses and properties on the island by the “revolutionary government” without any sort of compensation, just as it had done with the assets of thousands of Cubans.

Over the years the embargo has clearly been loosened, or “softened” as they like to say. Because of a strong hurricane that caused much damage in all of Cuba’s provinces, several years ago the United States lifted the restrictions on the export of food and medicine with the goal of helping the island’s population. But everyone knows that most of this food ended up for sale in hard currency stores. The same thing happened with medicine, which can only be obtained in certain pharmacies for hard currency, and not the currency in which the Cubans’ salaries and pensions are paid. Similarly, cultural exchanges have been reinstated which previously had been suspended due to the summary execution of three adolescents who tried to commandeer a ferry boat in Havana’s harbor a decade ago. This exchange remains ongoing.

During all these years the island’s government has given no indication that it might demonstrate a sincere willingness to have the embargo lifted. As we all know quite well that, on those occasions when a possible lifting is discernible, the Cuban government has responded with extreme actions such as the shooting down of aircraft operated by Brothers to the Rescue. Such actions make it clear that the “blockade,” as it referred to in official circles, is no more than a fig leaf to cover up its inefficient economic policies.

I am of the opinion that, in order to arrive at fair agreement, both parties have to come to the table with two “suitcases” — one to give and one to receive. Until that happens, this matter will go on interminably, like the old “story that never ends.”

15 June 2013

Talking with some Colombian teachers were sightseeing in “my world,” they mentioned to me the magnificent statistical indices that we had in education and health. I, of course, I clarified that these figures were released by the government, unchallenged by any counterpart within the country, which allowed it to present them as unquestionable.

I explained to them, from my own experience when working in central agencies, how these figures were manipulated and made to respond to politics and not to reality. That despite having honest data issued by the various ministries, they were adjusted according to the guidelines from “above”, a euphemism by which they call the “high command” that is the maximum leader.

With regards to education, I informed them about some fairly common crimes  perpetrated by students and teachers from different schools, such as fraud, extortion, selling tests and even drug possession and distribution, as well someone related by blood. I explained that, as nothing is reported in the media, the sole owner of this being the State, it seems as if they never happened. Everything is handled with great secrecy, despite which, they reach the population via the students themselves, children of neighbors and friends.

I also offered them some related experiences, very stressful situations with respect to hospitals and health clinics, such as that of poisoning by a careless Fajardo hospital employee a few years ago, which led to the death of seven patients. Or our neighbor Carlos, who died on a table in the April 19 Polyclinic , waiting to be treated by a doctor or other health professional, to name a few examples.

I also explained about the long “wait lists” to have surgery, unless a doctor was a relative or close friend, who could deal with “moving your paperwork along.” All this, not to mention that most prescription drugs are unavailable or can be acquired only in hard currency at certain pharmacies or on the black market.

The sad thing about all these situations, which occur of course in some other countries, not just ours, is that here there is no life insurance, victims of medical errors are not compensated, and worst of all is that by failing to reflect these events in press or in reports issued by the health center, it appears that none of this happens. Therefore, our statistical indices for higher education and health are the best in the region.

12 June 2013

After a disastrous first marriage which bore no “fruits,” Isabel — a slim, young brunette — met a young laborer with whom she fell hopelessly in love. They decided to become a couple almost on the first date. From this “explosive union” a child was born, whom they named Yurisdislaidis because compound names and those with the letter Y were very fashionable at that time.

All her life Isabel had dreamed of having a daughter whom she could “dress up” and shower with affection. After giving birth, she firmly resolved to stash away part of the money she earned as an at-home manicurist in a clay jar that had belonged to her grandmother. She left it in the care of her mother, who did not trust banks. Every week Isabel fattened the jar, depositing part of her earnings in it.

Meanwhile, her selfless husband was using the old Oldsmobile he had inherited from his father as a taxi. He was taking his chances, doing it “on the side,” since he was never able to obtain a license. By redoubling his efforts, he drove more routes than his malnourished body could stand, all in the hopes of bringing home some extra money so that his wife would not have to work so hard or “touch her little savings account.”

They made these sacrifices and many others perhaps not worth mentioning, including foregoing the eighty grams of daily bread allotted to each member of a nuclear family in the ration book, which they gave to the little girl. She got one for breakfast, another for her school snack — filled or topped with whatever they could get their hands on at any given moment — and another to accompany a café con leche which she had before going to bed. This is how Yurisdislaidis grew up, eventually becoming a lovely young lady.

There was still a year to go before the her fifteenth birthday, and the family had already put together a trousseau for the much anticipated celebration. They still had to find a suitable pair of shoes for the occasion, a make-up artist and a photographer.

It was then that Demesio, the father of Yuris — curiously, this is what he called the child, perhaps because it was too much effort even for them to call her by her full name — began working as a mechanic, fixing his neighbors’ broken cars. It was a skill he had learned the hard way over many years by fixing his own car after driving it through Havana’s pothole-filled streets and avenues. All this caused his health to deteriorate, making him look older than he really was.

Isabel’s eyes fill with tears as she describes the unforgettable day in which her beloved husband arrived home exhausted but joyful, “with a smile from ear to ear” and his face glowing with emotion. He was carrying a package in his arms which he laid at her feet as though it were an offering to a goddess. It was a brand-new pair of white shoes with high heels and two shiny buckles as the only ornamentation. A regular client, who was aware of his troubles, had provided them as a gift for his daughter. Now she only needed to find a modern photographer with good taste since she was already getting the make-up artist — a charming gay man, who was the brother of one of her clients — for free. Everything “was set!”

Finally, the long-awaited day arrived. The local Committee for the Defense of the Revolution and the neighbors on the block were all excited, watching the comings and goings of strangers entering and leaving Isabel’s house. It was a big event. From the early morning hours music blared at full volume, alternating with the voices those present, screaming to be heard. These were the friends who had come to clean and decorate the house. In the main room there was still the portrait of the former lady of the house, as always with flowers, who had the foresight to will the place to Isabel, her former employee, legally leaving it to her as an act of gratitude for having been her companion and caregiver after her entire family had decided to leave the country. She had stayed behind because she wanted to die in Cuba.

The first to arrive that day was Francisco, the make-up artist, followed by the lady who was providing the various outfits for the photo shoot. When the birthday girl was finally ready, the young photographer arrived. A stunning 1950s convertible belonging to one of her father’s friends was parked in front of the house, waiting to drive Yurisdislaidis to the Plaza de San Francisco in front of the Chamber of Commerce building. She was dressed in a distinctive costume like those from the Cuban soap opera, Las Huérfanas de la Obra Pía — with parasol and all the other 19th century accessories — to have her picture taken among the pigeons and recently restored historical buildings. Behind Yuris was an entire entourage, darting to the various locations chosen by the photographer. They were the make-up guy, the costume lady, the camera man with his tripod slung over his shoulder and her mother carrying baskets filled with artificial flowers, shoes on loan, wigs of one sort or another, and head ornaments for her beloved daughter.

After returning home, a few “more artistic” photos were taken. These showed her peeking from behind a shower curtain, exposing a bare thigh, pretending to fall down head first with her legs strategically placed above her, coming down the stairway, carrying a hat and suitcase as though she were on a trip, and so forth. These were to fill an album which she would later proudly show to relatives, friends and teachers at her school.

From what I was able to find out later from some neighbors, the party was “over the top.” Beer and rum flowed freely. There were fish croquettes, pastry hors d’oeuvres, cold macaroni salad and guayaba tartlettes, all provided by some friends. Afterwards, they served a big pink cake decorated with flowers and fifteen candles — the kind that  do not go out when you blow them — procured by someone who “had come from far away.” The extravaganza ended at dawn, when there was nothing left to eat or drink. To this day people in the neighborhood still talk about it.

Only a couple of years later I happened to run into Isabel, noticing how much older and thinner she looked that usual. When I asked about Yuris, she made an attempt to smile. “She’s fine,” said Isabel, “but she wants to quit school because she says she does not feel motivated. So I am still struggling, trying to fill up the clay jar again. My daughter has now gotten it into her head that she has to be made a saint!”*

*Translator’s note: Kari Ocha, or “to be made a saint,” is an initiation ritual of Santería, an Afro-Cuban religion, and can cost as much as $800 if you are Cuban, and significantly more if you are from overseas.

6 June 2013

This morning I went with my friend Magy to buy some bananas and ingredients for us to make a nice salad. We stopped at the EJT (Ejército Juvenil del Trabajo or Youth Labor Force) farmers’ market. We did not find anything worthwhile but we did overhear a conversation between two quite elderly men we recognized from our neighborhood.

One was saying to the other, who was dressed in military fatigues and boots in spite of being well into retirement age, how expensive and bad Cuban-made cleaning liquid was. The one in boots, raising his voice so those of us present could hear, replied, “No, it’s good. I just bought some here, and it came sealed and everything.”

“Listen, don’t be blind,” the other one said. “They dilute this stuff at the factory. And instead of the three pesos it used to cost when it was good and thick, it now costs twenty-five. Don’t you realize they are robbing you?”

“O.K.,” said the one in boots. “It’s true, but they only steal so they can give it to you.”

The other gentleman, who could not contain himself after such an utterly idiotic remark, said, “Look, my friend, I don’t want anyone stealing anything for me, much less the state. It’s like when they tell us they are giving us health care and education for free. It’s just one more excuse and a fable no one believes anymore.”

In the midst of this my friend came over, took me by the arm and said, “Enough of this. I have something more interesting to show you.”

She led me past shelves to a pushcart vendor, who was selling some very attractive avocados and enormous bunches of bananas. As we were shopping, we saw an elderly lady coming towards us. She was carrying a transparent nylon bag. Inside was a pair of pink slippers, which looked to be quite nice. She approached us shyly, offering them to us for only five CUC.* Suddenly the boy who had been waiting on us grabbed her package, turned to us and said, “I saw them first. And, besides, they are my girlfriend’s size. So, sorry, ladies, but the slippers are mine.”

We left, “our sides splitting” with laughter, but not before having to wait for the vendor to buy the slippers from the poor lady, who also wanted to buy some produce, before completing our transaction. “That’s socialism for you!” I told my friend.

*Translator’s note: Five CUC is slightly more than five dollars US at the official exchange rate.

4 June 2013

I have lived in Nuevo Vedado since I moved here in 1971, the result of a fortuitous permuta or house swap.* My new apartment is on the top floor of what was a modern three-story structure in 1958, built by a family who intended to live in it. The building has only three very spacious apartments, one per floor.

Faced with the abrupt changes that had occurred in the country and the unequivocal signals of “what was to come,” the original owners decided way back in 1960 to leave it all behind and move to the United States. After being “abandoned,” the building was sealed. It was located in what came to be called a “frozen zone,” like so many others in the city. These apartments were given to people who, for one reason or another, had ties to the regime.

A tailor who sewed things for “high-ranking government officials” and his wife moved into the first floor. On the second floor there was a historian for the Communist Party Central Committee and his family. On the third floor, where I currently live, were two members of the Ministry of the Interior and their two ill-behaved children, thanks to whom this opportunity arose and from which, by sheer luck, I benefitted. I traded them a lovely little cottage with a patio and garden, exactly what they were looking for, where their children could run free. The couple took care of all the paperwork so that the swap would take effect as quickly as possible.

Over time those who occupied the premises prior to 1959 began dying off, leaving the property to their descendants. In general these are young people who, it would seem, have little interest in the appearance or cleanliness of the building, only in their apartments’ interiors. As a result we have had to put up with many inconveniences in order to maintain the garden and hallways, as well as to keep the stairways clean.

Becuse of a water leak in his apartment over a year ago, our first-floor neighbor broke through the wall that faces the entry to the building, leaving a gaping hole that went unpatched for many weeks. After talking to him on several occasions about this matter and seeing that he was not about to fix it, my husband decided to cover it up with a piece of cardboard mounted on a stretcher for support. With leftover paint he found in the garage, he quickly simulated an abstract painting in a size large enough to cover the unattractive hole. This avoided giving a bad impression upon entering the building.

Anyway, just as Fernando was leaving the building today, a man was driving by in his car and saw part of the painting through the half-open doorway. He pulled over to the curb and, addressing my husband, said he was a buyer of paintings and old books.

“I am interested in that ’irregular’ old painting from the 1950s in the entryway,” the man told him.

Stifling his laughter, Fernando said, “The painting is indeed irregular, but it is not old, much less from the 1950s.”

A bit embarrassed, the man in question drove off and my husband nearly “died of laughter” as he told me the story.

*Translator’s note: Until recently a homeowner in Cuba who wanted to move could not sell their houses and buy another. They could only trade their homes for one of equal value in an exchange called a permuta.

26 May 2013

Today is 118 years since the greatest and most timeless of all Cubans fell in combat: José Martí, “the Apostle of Independence.”

The system prevailing in our country for 54 years has been rebaptized him as the National Hero but I, like many, never liked that description, considering it inadequate for such a universal figure, and so we continue to call him what our parents and teachers taught us, when Cuba was a Republic.

The use and abuse of Martí’s thoughts and expressions, taken out of context and applied “conveniently” to reinforce concepts that have nothing to do with his ideology, have only provoked an almost involuntary rejection on the part of many of the citizens in our country, especially among the younger segments of the population, towards the figure of the Apostle, who sometimes even joke about him disrespectfully.

A man of letters, of peace and love, he became involved with weapons, possibly pressured by his own companions, falling mortally wounded, on his first day out on the battlefield without barely having had the opportunity to fight; and this was a man who was capable of uniting all Cubans under the same idea, man who was so desperately needed alive.

So many years after that event that is so sad for most Cubans, his ideas are still the compass that governs the desires of our politicians. Keeping alive our chimera of achieving, sooner rather than later, the chance to see our nation free and sovereign “with all and for the good of all” as Martí dreamed.

19 May 2013

Holding on to my patience I managed to watch the National TV News (NTV) for a while. I had to make sure I kept calm in order to avoid getting a heart attack watching the images and listening to the scripted nonsense repeated by our announcers, as if it were a program intended for idiots.

It turned out that they announce that they are “gradually” bringing the streetlights back into action in the areas affected by Hurricane Sandy which devastated the province of Santiago de Cuba, leaving things in a terrible state — as if it was a great event. More than that, what insulted me even more was that they were saying that they were commemorating the sixtieth anniversary of the attack on the Moncada barracks, as opposed to the hundreds of unfortunate victims, who still haven’t recovered the losses occasioned by the hurricane, fundamentally due to the accumulated misery of decades, which made it impossible for them to carry out proper maintenance to their houses.

It’s an embarrassment that after so many months they are saying that they are “gradually” restoring street lighting to the streets and avenues, knowing that crime and danger are directly supported by darkness. What’s more, they appear to be avoiding the dietary deficiencies confronting the people of Santiago de Cuba, whose poor income doesn’t permit them to feed themselves properly, and to recover from the damage caused by the atmospheric phenomenon. All of that, without even mentioning that much of the donations sent from different countries were not distributed without charge, as might be expected by the people sending them, but were sold at high prices.

I was even more insulted when recently the representative of the UN Food and Agriculture Organization in our country had the nerve and lack of seriousness to publicly announce that we were one of the best fed people not only in America but in the world. It seems that this man forgot that here, when kids get to three years of age they lose their compotes, and at seven their milk, quite apart from the major sacrifices their parents have to make from when they are born, simply because of the lack of material resources.

Now, furthermore, a psychologist, whom I thought up to today was a reasonable person, has volunteered to sign in the Granma daily an article in which he completely justifies our country’s misery, calling it “The Cuban Model of Wellbeing”. What’s more he puts forward as a great example to be followed the fact that in Cuba everybody knows exactly who their neighbors are and what they are doing, when in reality it is no more than meddling in someone else’s life, and not “socializing,” which is what ll of us, one way or another, have had to suffer.

Translated by GH

16 May 2013

Patchwork portrait by Rebeca

Mother’s Day is a custom that has been practiced in our country for generations. It continues to be celebrated, though differently and under certain limitations, in spite of the current state of familial disintegration. The main objective of the celebration was to return to the matriarchal home to be with one’s family. It never mattered how far one person lived from another.

I remember a great commotion all through the house beginning early in the morning. Even the youngest family members had their assigned chores. Unmarried girls like me, who still lived together under the same roof, were in tasked with cleaning. The males were in charge of gathering dried leaves from the garden. They would put them in a metal tank in the patio to become compost, which would later be used as fertilizer. Or they would burn them, which was an easier way of getting rid of them. The women manned their posts in the kitchen. The maid had been given the day off since she would also be having a celebration at her own house.

On Sundays, as well as this on this special day, my mother, an expert cook, was in charge of creating the menu with the help of my grandmother. Uncle Pedro had to be kept out of the kitchen because he was fond of “dipping his spoon in the pot.” He was, therefore, given the task of setting up the big table with the help of his son. For this and other occasions a “little room in back” was used for storing a pair of wooden burros, or saw horses, and an immense slab. Continue reading →

Photo A.Betancourt

Venuto al Mondo (Twice Born), a film by Sergio Castellitto, with magnificent performances of Penelope Cruz and Emile Hirsch, based on the novel by Margaret Mazzantini where fratricidal war broke out in Sarajevo, serves as a backdrop for a personal drama, whose central theme is frustrated motherhood.

A young Italian woman visiting some friends in the former Yugoslavia met an American photographer, and a strong passion arose between the two. They meet again in Italy, when he goes in search of her prompted by her father, uniting both formally as a couple. The desire to have a child becomes an obsession, until after several attempts, doctors detect infertility in the woman. Then they decide to adopt a child.

Again frustration overtakes the couple, faced with the refusal of the Italian authorities to allow them to adopt, due to the criminal records of young photographer, so they decide to return to Sarajevo, to use artificial insemination, which is also interrupted by an armed attack on the hospital as they were about to do it, and they decide to stay in the country despite the war, in search of a surrogate.

The interesting thing about the film, along with its dialogue and actions, is that it demonstrates how the ideological manipulation of a “charismatic leader” sick with power, is able to bring the worst of human beings to the surface and to bring about a war between families and neighbors, for just ideological, ethnic or religious differences.

All this made me think of those early years of the Revolution, when they were creating the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution in the neighborhoods, their main objectives being surveillance, harassment and confrontation between neighbors and families, and then later, when these neighborhoods were changing their appearance, because their original neighbors went into exile and were replaced by other newcomers, who had nothing to do with the new environment, there were repercussions in some very unfortunate cases, where envy and lust surfaced.

Then, in the eighties, when the Mariel crisis rekindled those feelings and strengthened them, driven by the recklessness of those who incited them. This had dire consequences where abuse, beatings, and humiliations of all kinds were perpetrated by a manipulated masses, whom they had the audacity to call “an enraged people.” This did not develop into a major misfortune because fortunately our western idiosyncrasy has nothing to do with countries that served as the location for the film in question. But it was and is a stain to be set forever in our recent history.

8 May 2013

Nothing could be pleasanter that being able to congratulate a friend, male or female, by sharing a simple, healthy meal.

I was finally able to get some chicken breasts, which for a long time had not been available at the hard-currency stores in my neighborhood. It then occurred to me they could be the basis for the following menu.

Chicken breasts with rosemary:

Slowly thaw frozen chicken breasts. Cut them into pieces, then salt and pepper them. Set aside for approximately one hour.

Sauté them over high heat on both sides until golden brown. Add abundant slices of raw onion, cut into rings, then lower the heat so that they will cook slowly. Add a few sprigs of fresh rosemary (I have some planted in my garden), and two tablespoons of dry wine. Cover the pan and let everything simmer for approximately 45 minutes.

Potatoes au jus:

Peel the potatoes and cut them into slices, but not as thin as you would for fries. Add salt and a little mustard. Place them in a heated teflon skillet, cover and lower the heat so that they cook in their own juices and brown slightly.

Once the breasts are ready, serve them on a platter, adding the potatoes on top as a garnish. You could also serve rice that has been placed in mold. Garnish the platter with a sprig of rosemary.

Round out this pleasant lunch with a fruit drink, a well-dressed seasonal salad and, of course, some sort of dessert. If you want to gild the lily, finish with a nice cup of coffee. If it is the kind that people bring from Miami, even better. The coffee from here is not very good, even if you paid for it in hard-currency.

Bon apetit!

5 May 2013

Work by Rebeca

Once upon a time in my planet, where there were many fine department stores, small boutiques, department stores, cafes, restaurants and all kinds of successful businesses, large and small, where it was a real pleasure to go shopping, the slogan was: “The customer is always right. “

So it manifested itself and it worked very well. The customer was satisfied and the owner as well, because the profits for his business increased and he rejoiced on feeling the appreciation and respect of his customers. Of course, every business had an owner and there is nothing better than “the master’s eye to fatten the horse.”

With the arrival of the year 1959, the new “government” in just one of the first things it did, nationalized all large businesses and enterprises. Then the “revolutionary offensive” gave the final blow to the already “skewered” and bled economy. Now the customer had become a “user” who had no right to choose or demand, only to accept what the ration book determined without protest. I couldn’t buy what I wanted or needed, and only and badly acquire what is “determined.”

These vices were embedded and are a drag on the economy to this day, and although it is assumed that the “legalization of the dollar” and the arrival of the dual currency, at least what is for sale in hard currency (and very difficult to acquire) gives the right to choose, though it’s not the case because people who work for the State, which is almost everyone, and who in return receive miserable wages also have a motto: “I pretend to work and the state pretends to pay me.”

Therefore they have no interest in selling and unfortunately the only motivation is to see who can “knock down” the client, using that euphemism instead of using the ugly word “steal.” Not all employees are like this, but unfortunately a considerable number of them have been carried away by this vice and don’t even consider it a crime. Thus demonstrating in this way, they lack a healthy motivation to exercise their work as sellers.

A couple of days ago, an acquaintance of mine, entered the “The Butterfly” store in Nuevo Vedado, to buy a fan for his wife as a birthday present, since this was the only establishment where there was the model that suited him and fit his budget. At that store, after having checked all the stores of this kind, looking for this gadget, he found that the employee who staffed that department wasn’t there. When he asked about it, they told him that she hadn’t come in for three days because she has a sick child. Then he insisted that someone, instead of her, take care of him. He was told that no one could do it, only she was designated for that department. Why is that?

Losing patience, he asked to see the manager, who showed up a little annoyed and repeated what the employee had said. Then this man, losing patience, identifies himself and said that he was also was an employee in hard currency stores, and  although it’s another chain, they all belong to the State and would not go in there without the fan, it would raise the incident to its ultimate consequences. And so he managed that they “reluctantly” sold him the damn gadget. As you see, long ago in my planet the customer is no longer in the right, but I am of the firm belief that rights must be demanded, as this customer did.

3 May 2013