Translating Cuba

Soleida Ríos just published through Union Publishers a collection of the dreams of certain Cuban characters, from a winner of the National Literature Prize to a champion boxer (the latter much more creative than the former, by the way). A poetic little book, of course, with too many cultural references to actually impact reports on the truth about what’s real.

But the idea is still enticing. Does every Cuban dream at random or us there a certain spontaneous consensus when dreams come, of being alone with our mind, or perhaps with our death? Will or won’t there be an imaginary and hyperreal data base, this concept or canon of “dreaming in Cuban”: that is, of dreaming in private the Revolution? (There is a title from Nivaria Tejera that tries, unfortunately with very limited efficacy.)

It must be hard to dream. For at least a couple of decades no one around me tells me the sudden visions of their latest night, be they erotic of horrific. They say they forget everything when they wake up. That at this point in history it’s not worth the effort to retain an image. In fact, they’re not even sure if they dream. Or even if they rest to sleep, or sleep to rest.

Our post-Revolutionary 21st Century is in some way that desperate vigil, that precarious but perpetual present, this being without being of which no one in their right mind could expect anything now. Madness as the ultimate fountain of significance from which it is very dangerous to drink.

Nevertheless, we dream. Or we can pretend we dream, because we assume we are not capable of this territory at the margin of daily totalitarianism. The despotic power this country has suffered for 50 or 500 years, given its pretensions of western modernity, today it cannot impose its desert demagoguery in a simply dream of its citizens. Hence the interest in compiling dreams Hence the dissimilar subversive dreamt plebiscite. We are free to dream that we dream, including faking it.

Don’t the generals have dreams of five-star pansies, with a tank’s gun up their own asses? Don’t democratic activists dream that shining from their guayaberas are the obsolete insignias of a neo-commander-in-chief? The exile savoring in its own sauce his original migratory guilt? Doesn’t he who asks refuge dream like a cheat who calculated it all ahead of time, just to access this refuge-ability status? Isn’t the Virgin a spread-legged horizontal nympho?  Doesn’t the Catholic read a subconscious devil at night. Aren’t adults children before the sun comes out? Aren’t the old rejuvenated and repent of their biographies of shit, fear, petty mediocrity? Crying in our dreams, do we miss some Cuban? Doesn’t the hired assassin dream of the last expression of his victims before the wrenching the steering wheel or the criminal sedative injection?

Ah, to dream is a pleasure, a suffering.

If only every Cuban would dare to put some dream in writing, perhaps we would recover the awakening of our so harmful notion of a nation. Perhaps we would have the right to a collective niche called Cuba (the bed that Cuba still extends to us), with the density of some contemporary thing, with the soul of a free pillow, without diurnal dictators nor the most faithful phantoms of a socialized Freud.

Not only would we have time and memory to put into words some ephemeral or incessant dream, something that happens to us inside and that we don’t control, an intimate or intimidating impressions, the sum of these millions of mental energies would be surprising.

Could our homeland for which we kick and scream be reborn from such a catalog without knowing how or why? Hopefully. The worst would be if, like in an all-encompassing novel of Guillermo Rosales, from this gelatin of nightmares emerges again statistically the fatuous triumph of a tyrant: alive or dead, awake or falling asleep, “Don’t you see now that nothing is resolved with this?”

Cuba not so gallows-like, but as ubiquitous.

From Penultimos Dias

10 August 2012

Drops of sweat, dancing, hips in motion, suggestive eyes. It’s night at a Havana party and the erotic tension feels like a tangible presence, corporeal. Eyes connect, gestures form a pact to meet in the dark, the lips agree without words, the battle of the kisses will come later.

On this island sexuality seems to ooze from the pores and the corners, it even seeps from the asphalt. Tight clothes, suggestive smiles, lascivious phrases, exude a sensuality that strikes those who visit Cuba for the first time. It gives the impression that at any moment, in the street, we could bump into some scene from the bedroom.

People constantly make jokes alluding to sex and dozens of words refer, in the vernacular, to the genitals. A recent arrival to our reality could believe that we have left behind every taboo about carnal pleasure, and that we have overcome every timidity.

However, behind the visible explosion of joy and pleasure is hidden a prudish mentality when it comes to addressing sexual intercourse. The self-confidence the dances and the expressions bring, contrasts with the blushes or the silence when trying to explain sexuality to children or to speak seriously about the issue.

This sexual confidence also butts up against the stilted public discourse. The Cuban government has always had problems managing the overly lewd character of those it governs. The role model of a sober man they’ve implanted in the country would have worked better with a tremendously formal man, someone more stiff-limbed.

But this characteristic has also been greatly exploited by State Security, which investigates the intrigues emerging from the bedrooms and converts them into material for extortion. How many times have we heard, “It seems they must have saved a couple of compromising photos because he’s so tight-lipped.”

Public figures, diplomats, foreign correspondents, dissidents, generals and officials; spied on and documented in the exercise of loving and being loved. An entire archive narrating poses, meetings, pillow histories, to be used at just the right moment when someone should be diverted from their path. The practice is so widespread that many Cubans sense, in the middle of an orgasm, that an eye is spying on them from a doorway, a camera hidden in the ceiling light, or a microphone inserted into the lover’s body itself.

This mixture of paranoia and ecstasy has been well told in the novel The Colonel’s Wife by Carlos Alberto Montaner. The story is framed in the eighties, when Cuban troops supported the MPLA in Angola’s war. Colonel Arturo Gomez receives a yellow envelope that contains proof of the infidelity of this wife, during a trip to Italy. From that moment both their lives are reduced to a political expedient in the hands of officials with the pretensions of detectives, representing a supposed revolutionary morality that sees, in her act, treason to the homeland.

Intimacy loses its private status, pleasure is transformed into guilt, and every moan of satisfaction must be purged. In a totalitarian system it is not possible for an individual to treasure the secret of adultery. It must be brought to light publicly, the adulterer chastised, made to know that Big Brother’s eye is watching this frivolous conduct and will not forgive it.

If, on top of that, the unfaithful one is a woman married to a military man or senior official, the chastisement must be a lesson to all. The bed becomes a trap that ends in more control, the sheets the web of a political witch hunt, and the carnal love the indiscretion the ideological executioners are waiting for.

This is a book that analyzes sex and power. Reading it will reveal the illusion of the call to revolutionary morality, the falsity of the pose of militant asceticism. Those who accuse, Nuria, the wife, of adultery, evaluate her carnally, feast their eyes on her curves, in hopes of exchanging her nude body for a certain mercy.

But beyond all this meddling of the State in the personal, The Colonel’s Wife is a novel of a sweet eroticism that escapes the pedestrian reality of the years of Soviet subsidies. The erotic scenes, many of which come to us through the letters her Italian lover writers to Nuria, mix with modern immodesty and an eternal majesty. Perhaps because some of them have as a backdrop the city of Rome, dotted with history and archeological sites.

Nuria experiences outside of Cuba that freedom of the senses and desires that she knows are strictly monitored in her country. The professor, Valerio Martinelli, helps her to rediscover the woman under the poses, the masks, the opportunism and the silences. Her liberation as a citizen begins, in this case, with sex, it comes from her vagina.

But no one who lives under totalitarianism can escape its control. Even abroad, Nuria is followed by State Security. Her pleasurable carnal act of emancipation is turned into a police file used to pressure her. The bed as a tempting trap into which she falls over and over, like a prize that later brings a serious correction.

The ardor of the protagonist, her need to express herself in copulation, bears a strong relation to sex as an escape, so practiced in Cuba. The absence of spaces that respect free expression and association leads us to express ourselves in moans and spasms. Instead of throwing a paving stone, we unburden ourselves in fellatio; instead of demanding our civil rights, we put our tongue in another’s mouth… a gesture that doesn’t allow us to speak while we do it.

A caress for a protest, fleeing to an orgasm so as not to face the anti-riot troops… we show ourselves to be passionate, because we cannot show ourselves to be free. The bed as an escape valve, towards which they push us, but also where they monitor and trap us.

11 August 2012

Faced with the inability to publish news of real and palpable economic successes, which have been notable for their absence over the years, the official press waves the two threadbare banners of Cuban socialism—education and health.

The first has been in prolonged crisis. With its “emerging” teachers trained through accelerated and intensive courses, its decaying facilities and its politicized study programs, Cuban education amounts to a real headache for both students and their parents, who must augment this training by hiring private tutors if they want their children to gain the knowledge necessary to pass their exams.

The second, which is the primary subject of this post, is also in crisis. For several days on page 2 of the newspaper Granma there has been a chart with the evocative title, “Your Health Service is Free, But How Much Does It Cost?” It details the costs of certain services and their corresponding level of care.

Even if we assume that these costs have been correctly calculated, the claim that these services are free is false. For fifty years they have been paid for with the money that Cubans have not received, and still do not receive, due to poverty-level wages. (The average monthly salary is no more than twenty dollars.)

Although every citizen is paid a salary that corresponds to the work he or she performs, not everyone is sick, gets sick regularly, or makes use of these services. In reality these services are used by only one percent of the population. As if that were not enough, the majority of the facilities where they are offered are badly deteriorated, lack water, are unhygienic – including those that were recently but badly repaired – and have limited resources and medications.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it is the treatment provided by the doctors, nurses and other auxiliary personnel. While they too are paid poverty-level wages, they make efforts to provide quality care to their patients, even when they know that the medications that they prescribe are in short supply, or are impossible to acquire through badly stocked pharmacies.

If we are talking about costs, why discuss only certain services? The official press does not decide to publish anything on a whim; there is always some motive behind everything that is published. This often repeated method has become well known.

Perhaps it might be convenient to publish a chart that reflected other costs. It could be called, “How Much Has and Does the Government Cost the Cuban People?”

August 10 2012

Once again the dark cloud of intolerance hangs over our culture.

This time the victim is Opera of the Street, a magnificent and innovative musical company led by Ulises Aquino, who, along with his troupe of over sixty members, has spared no effort to raise the cultural level of the nation.

I first heard of them through a television documentary. From that very moment I was captivated by their originality and the very high quality of their productions.

They were given a spacein the city of Playafor rehearsals and performances – the old Arenal cinema -that was virtually in ruins. Through the efforts and resources of the members themselves, and motivated by the enthusiasm and charisma of their director, they set about the task of offering performances free to passers-by while they carried out restoration work on the building. Pedestrians, buses and automobiles that passed through the avenue stopped to watch their innovative production. They were all in work clothes, but sang, danced and executed inventive choreographic moves that were meant to represent work. It was something that had never been seen before.

Little by little they garnered an ever greater public following, as well as attention from the national and international press. They were later given another space in the same city, this one also virtually in ruins, near the corner of Fourth and Seventh streets. This time, however, they opened a modest restaurant cafe they named El Cabildo, whose proceeds help fund their operations. Soon they began receiving invitations from European countries, which had become aware of the company and were captivated by its quality and originality. With each production they gained more success and public approval.

Eventually, the company was dealing with the expenses associated with a costly wardrobe, lights, scenery and the salaries of its members. All this came to the attention of the bureaucratic mediocrities, who became aroused and acted as though they were dealing with an an enemy, causing even greater harm to Cuban culture than to the company members themselves or to their director. The theater was raided while a performance was in progress, with total disregard for the performers and the public, who happened to be enjoying a wonderful performance.

It is completely unacceptable that such things continue to occur, as they did during the darkest days for our nation’s cultural history. It is everyone’s duty to demand that the Council for Performing Arts address this shameful situation.

In the face of a public outcry an explanation must be given for such actions, whose details, as usual, are known only through rumor. Mr. Aquino, as well as all members of Opera of the Street, are entitled to have all the facts made public and fully brought to light with all the transparency that this unfortunate situation requires.

To reward authority and cede power to mediocrity, allowing it to act with impunity, and to suffer blows such as this, would be a repetition of sad events we have experienced before. To do so would serve only to mortally wound the nation’s culture and identity.

August 10 2012

The children’s party started at 4:00 in the afternoon. The girl’s father had twice postponed the celebration because of difficulties with the customs documentation of the package, a package of jams brought on an AIR FRANCE flight and deposited in Havana’s “José Martí” airport.

In addition to the decorator, the restaurant manager, the brightly colored cake, the clowns and the photographers, they had to wait for the sweets. Finally, amidstpiñatas and light refreshments,the candies and chocolates were distributed to the more than fifty little playmates invited to the party.

The little girl took a few swings at the two dolls—piñatas adorned with flowers and shiny paper—and they exploded, raining down a shower of color that covered the floor of the rented room. The mothers present crouched downdiscreetly,along with their little ones,and picked up candies.

It seems no one remembers that Cuba was once the world’s leading sugar producer. Its inhabitants now pay around 0.70 CUC per kilogram of refined sugar.

While there are exceptions, and a limited supply is available, domestically produced candy is generally of lesser quality yet similar in cost to that priced in American dollars. For example, a 25 gram packet of Chico Chico brand candy costs 0.95 CUC. The average monthly salary in Cuba is 18 CUC, the equivalent of 20 US dollars.

Prices for candy on sale in shops and candy stores are:

Any brand / Hard or soft / for 1 (Approx 3 grams) / Minimum $0.05 CUC

Alka brand /Hard / for 9 (29 gr.) / Min $0.30 CUC

Menthoplus brand / Hard / for 9 (30.6 gr.) / Min $0.20 CUC

Soberana brand / Hard / 600 gr. / $2.85 CUC

Dori brand / Hard / 700 gr. / $3.40 CUC

This price list demonstrates how seven pieces of candy, the amount found in a small Alka packet, can cost as much as half a kilogram of sugar (0.35 CUC).

One piece of candy is a sweet delicacy, more a treat than a necessity. In a country where food is very expensive, it is unlikely one will find cheap sweets.

Proper childhood nutrition is vital, yet a kilogram of powdered milk costs at least 5.00 CUC—an extravagant price—putting it out of reach for thousands of Cuban families. What to do? Not buy candy?

To deny boys and girls this pleasure would be cruel. Childhood passes quickly. I believe it is better to pay whatever it costs and forget about the price.

The saying goes that a father and mother must, to the extent they are able, make sure their children’s lives are happy. Acting without remorse. Spending money without “closing your eyes and gritting your teeth.”

When the “little angels” are grown, what they will remember most are their toys and sweets.

Luckily, the hard times pass.

August 7 2012

Video: “Our day is coming” performed by Willy Chirino live before a largely Cuban-American audience

From now on Celia Cruz, Bebo Valdes and Willy Chirino can be heard on the radio in Cuba. For decades more than fifty artists critical of the regime have been censored from television and radio programming. But this week several foreign media, such as the BBC, have leaked that the so-called “black list” has been set aside.

An inventory of prohibited names was never made public, nor has the list’s elimination been officially announced. The information has come to light through several workers in broadcasting, although no national listener has yet heard the cry of “Sugar!” — launched by the Queen of Son — emerge from their radio.

In addition to the already deceased Celia Cruz, many other artists have been banned for years and years. Among them are the bolero singer Olga Guillot, the saxophonist Paquito D’Rivera, and pianist Bebo Valdes. Even the famous Spanish singer Julio Iglesias suffered this censorship as a result of his critical stance toward the government in Havana.

Now the music of all of them will once again be played on national media, after several generations of Cuban lost their art. However, the new measure still hasn’t been reflected in the music programming on the air. This writer telephoned several national and local stations; the employees consulted said they were surprised by the news and didn’t know anything about it.

The informal music market has offered the productions of these artists for years now. At private parties it has become common to hear Willy Chirino and Gloria Estafan. And their music has even snuck into some activities and events organized institutionally. New technologies have been making it possible for Cubans to acquire these prohibited voices on CDs, DVDs and flash drives. So this flexibility follows the same logic as other “Raul reforms”: that of accepting what they can’t prevent, authorizing what is already happening and is unstoppable. Radio censorship has tried to put corral us, and this new measure recognizes the impossibility of controlling musical tastes based on ideological considerations.

Nevertheless, the end of the veto doesn’t mean that these artists will start playing immediately. The broadcasters must acquire their discs, and many programming directors will wait cautiously to see if this is a decision that is not rescinded. They will also wait for a definition of which songs in the musical repertoire will continue to be banned. Among those we will surely find those that allude to the topic of freedom or of a possible political transition in Cuba. Such is the case with the popular song, “Our day is coming,” sung by Willy Chirino.

10 August 2012