14ymedio, Marta Requeiro, Miami, 26 February 2017 – I don’t know how my mother managed always to know a little more about my friends and their customs, and even those of the neighbors, because her limited time did not allow her to gossip; but she continually warned me that things are not always as they appear.
That is how I ended up having a lover who was to her liking. I confess that he was attractive, but we had frequent differences when we talked about topics of daily life that ended up opening a breach in the relationship.
Contrary to what the Island’s Government always suggested, without being apparent except to the most rebellious or those with the “clinical eye,” the beginning of the abysmal separation that today exists between the two known population groups, the governing elite with all of its coterie, and the people, was immediately conceived.
I realized soon after beginning the relationship with him that there were people who projected an image of humility but, behind closed doors, had covered all the basic necessities that for common mortals – like me – were impossible. And more so, they came to be luxuries.
There was a segment of the population that accessed a life unknown to the majority of Cubans.
I later learned, thanks to that relationship, that there was a segment of the population that accessed a life unknown to the majority of Cubans. Ordinary Cubans who served once a month on the guard duty for the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR), more than anything in order not to be robbed in the night by their own neighbors and despoiled of what they had achieved with their own effort. Ordinary Cubans who marched to the Plaza Jose Marti on dates commemorating some important revolutionary event in order to sing hymns and feed their faith in the process of change (a change that still has not arrived), and who subsisted on what they would acquire through the ration booklet and who always carried the empty bag that was indispensable when leaving the house so as not to be surprised and unprepared for the arrival at the warehouse of some product among those that were distributed only sporadically and that, hopefully, would be something good.
Many families had only the ration book to count on to provide them with petty rations, which, even if they were well managed and “cultivated,” did not even allow them, at least once a day, to bring to the table a serving of decent food.
Even so, the markets and warehouses of that time were not as poorly supplied as now, and that little ration booklet meant something.
I saw for the first time live – and in full color – a domestic service team. Until then I had only seen it in foreign films.
Already by the ‘80’s the economic impoverishment, forecast only to get worse, was obvious, today inhuman for the ordinary Cuban, who is always the most affected.
As young as one was, one could tell. In most cases what was missing was enough courage to publicly say it and in a form of protest, as happens today with the internal dissidence that, in spite of the vexations that those who dare to raise a voice are subjected to, there are more who join them in order to protest their discontent.
It happened one day that a friend invited my lover to a house in Vedado that belonged to one of his cousins who would turn fifteen. My mother, knowing that I would go with him – after already having investigated his background and knowing that he was from a good family – and making him promise that we would be back early – granted me permission.
I had time to prepare my best clothes to go in accord with the occasion since he advised me several days ahead that I had to go elegant.
The day and time came and we climbed into the car of his friend who, accompanied by his girlfriend, would carry us to the party that would take place in Vedado.
We went up 23rd Street and, now well into the trip, the driver took a turn I could not say where; but there was a time when I did not exactly know our location. I was not at all familiar with that place where the car travelled.
The neighborhood that emerged before my eyes was at a glance far from my neighborhood and what was familiar to me until then. It was composed of beautiful houses with immense gardens that extended from the sidewalk to the entrances, some with tall bars of black balusters. The car kept going until it came to an immense wooden gate in a fortified wall that extended for almost the whole block.
That opulence and excess were inconceivable for what was proclaimed from the other side of the wall
We got out, and the uninhibited driver went forward to press the doorbell, which turned out to be an intercom. It was strange for me to look around and see majestic houses, well-cared for, painted, to hear silence and await a response from that artifact attached to the concrete; in my neighborhood it sufficed to yell from the sidewalk the name of the person sought for him to come out, and in the air you could always hear the mixed sound of different rhythms and someone or other calling vociferously highlighted by dogs barking in the distance.
Finally we heard a voice come from the apparatus asking “who is it” and with a simple “I,” said by the driver, the handle of the solid wooden door was magically activated so we would enter invading the immense barricade that impeded access and visibility from the streets to the dwelling.
Passing the threshold, I marveled at the beauty of the immediate area. If they spoke to me then I swear I do not remember it. I felt like and must have had the same expression as Alice in Wonderland.
Some hundred guests had already arrived, all dressed elegantly. My boyfriend, while we were there, asked me several times if I was alright. Surely my unusual quietness was making my surprise evident.
I saw for the first time live – and in full color – a domestic service team. Until then I had only seen it in foreign films. It was composed of about half a dozen women dressed in green guayabera dresses and white lace-up tennis shoes.
I saw there for the first time Pringles Potato Chips, and beer acquired without the well-known scavenging for the five boxes on the ration book only allocated if you were getting married or turning fifteen, and in cans. I tasted – with a grimace – the Spanish brandy Terry Malla Dorada. I felt strange before this conglomeration displaying the bourgeois behavior criticized by the Government.
The two smorgasbord tables in the middle of the immense room with a marble floor never emptied. Trays with all kinds of snacks and sandwiches were brought by the waitresses.
Outside, next to the entryway, was the bar attended by two young men with white guayaberas who asked what we wanted to drink or what we desired, including glasses for the beer.
How was there a capitalist form of existence inside Cuban territory, supposedly socialist and egalitarian?
Later the rueda de cubana dance was unleashed to the furor of the music of the Van Van hits and it reminded me how beaten up Cuba was.
I felt like leaving, I had nothing in common with the others there, nothing was familiar and known to me except my companion and the music; then I suggested that he invent an excuse and that we leave. That opulence and excess were inconceivable for what was proclaimed from the other side of the wall, although the reason was a fifteen-year-old’s party.
I asked the friend to get us out of there and take us to the nearest bus stop. He agreed after trying to persuade us, without success, and wanting to know the reason for our sudden departure.
Outside I felt relief, and I breathed comfortably. I commented on it with my fiancé, and he told me what little he knew of the mysterious family of his friend, whom he believed was from State Security or a bodyguard for someone important.
I met some people who lived in secret opulence supporting Castro-ism, which stayed in power with a public image as protector of the underdogs
How was that way of life kept in silence, how was it not criticized on television, and where did it come from and how was that luxury and excess that was not just a festive event paid for? How was there a capitalist form of existence inside Cuban territory, supposedly socialist and egalitarian?
Back then it was undercover; today we know how it is and that the behavior of the ruling leadership far from surprising us proves the existence of two social classes or poles that they themselves do not want to recognize as so disparate: The experts in training and subjugating so that the Cuban people do what they say and not what they do, and the people themselves.
We have learned about the excess expenses for recreation and tourism of one of Fidel’s sons and the carryings-on of Raul’s grandson/bodyguard.
The international press and Cuban dissidence have unveiled those two faces of those who for almost six decades have had control and power on the largest of the Antilles.
It is true, looks deceive!
I met some people who lived in secret opulence supporting Castro-ism, which stayed in power with a public image as protector of the underdogs. It’s not that I don’t like the good life but that condition is given in Cuba only to those who speak of equality without practicing it.
Opulence and abundance should belong to those who earn it, inherit it or work for it, not to those who steal it. Submission is not dignified, even less for so long a time. Let’s hope that once and for all the Cuban people open their eyes and reclaim the rights that have been denied them.
Translated by Mary Lou Keel