When Haydée Santamaría signs her last letter to Vargas Llosa, she addresses a man who has already written some of the greatest novels in the language
14ymedio, Xavier Carbonell, Salamanca, 9 February 2025 — How little we know of Haydée Santamaría. An odd woman who suffered from depression, someone consumed by incurable resentment. She committed suicide in 1980. But we are familiar with her writings. “A bullet cannot end infinity. For fourteen years I have seen human beings I so dearly loved die. I am at Fidel’s side. I have always done what he wanted me to do. I am tired of living. I believe I have lived too much. The sight of the sun is no longer as beautiful to me. Looking at a palm tree gives me no pleasure. And all the rest of it,” she wrote.
In the book of horror stories that the Castro regime created for Cuban school children, Haydée and her brother Abel assume the roles Hansel and Gretel while Batista plays the witch. Repulsed and frightened, I listened as my teachers recounted the story of the boy’s martyrdom dozens of times. The son of Spanish parents – his father was from Orense, his mother from Salamanca – he was born in Encrucijada, forty kilometers from my hometown. They gouged his eyes out, we were told, as his sister looked on. She looked on, they reiterated, as if the real crime was not so much the murder itself but their choosing to make Haydée their accomplice.
This, we now know, was a myth, a twisted fiction repeated ad nauseam as propaganda. According to one of my teachers, Abel’s eyes were removed and then shown to Haydée. According to another, she witnessed the torture. In the latter version, she seems to have held his eyes in her hands like Saint Lucia. I cried as I listened to the story. But who knows if this grotesque image of her brother — a ghostly, blind twenty-something — was engraved on Haydée’s retinas with the same innocence, with the same clarity, as on ours at age ten or eleven.
Patron saint of hippies and other outcasts under the Castro regime, Haydée was the tsarina of Casa de las Américas until her death
Patron saint of hippies and other outcasts under the Castro regime, Haydée was the tsarina of Casa de las Américas until her death. Her responsibility was the “revolutionary education” of young Latin American writers. She claimed to have made that generation famous, something she admitted in numerous documents, but never with greater elation than in a letter she sent to Mario Vargas Llosa on May 14, 1971.
The document is famous, having been cited by the likes of Jorge Fornet and Rafael Rojas. I myself discovered it between pages 66 and 67 in a 1971 issue of the journal “Casa.” The whole magazine is one long artillery barrage. It starts off with a speech by Fidel. The main course follows, with instructions on cultural “parameterization.”* And for dessert, the self-incrimination of Cuban poet Heberto Padilla.
The letter to Vargas Llosa shows up on a little slip of paper, folded like the message in a fortune cookie, to aid the reader’s digestion. As the note itself explains, it is presented this way because of the urgent need to respond the Peruvian writer’s resignation from the magazine’s editorial board. Fortunately, I was able to steal that issue of “Casa” from a dusty bookshelf at Central University before the termites could get to it. I now have it in front of me along with the letter.
By the time Haydée adds her signature to the letter’s four long pages, she was addressing a man who had already written some of the Spanish language’s most acclaimed novels: The City and the Dogs, The Green House and Conversation in the Cathedral. She freely reveals the author’s address –Via Augusta 211, Ático 2.o, Barcelona. Like Beethoven, she knows how to create a big bang.
Haydée lurches between totalitarian coldness and revolutionary coarseness, the two rhetorical styles of Cuban strongmen
She addresses him as “sir,” not “comrade,” as Cuban poet Nicolás Guillén liked to do, because Vargas Llosa is no longer her colleague. First, the formalities. He cannot resign from the board because the board no longer exists. It was abolished “because having a divergence of opinions among committee members was unacceptable.” Surgical castration to treat the cancer of free expression. “We thought this action was preferable to simply excluding people like you from the board,” she explains. Haydée lurches between totalitarian coldness and revolutionary coarseness, the two rhetorical styles of Cuban strongmen.
What a shame, the midwife mentions in an aside. “A young man like you,” someone who could have done so much for Fidel, like García Márquez, who would go on to enjoy a personal friendship with the Cuban leader, something Haydée denies to Vargas Llosa. He is exiled from the communist firmament, dragging dozens of intellectuals with him. The Peruvian writer had to add his voice — “a voice that we helped get heard” — to the unanimous chorus.
The talent of the Revolution’s old aristocrats to turn a statement into a judicial weapon is also employed here. She mentions Padilla, a writer “who has acknowledged his counterrevolutionary activities” and has never been tortured. “It is clear that you have never faced terror,” Haydée says. It is clear that the ghost of her brother still haunts her. If the regime does not defend itself, it would really be like “letting Abel die.”
The trial continues. Vargas Llosa acceptance of Venezuela’s Rómulo Gallegos prize in 1967, which the Chavez government later rescinded, was an insult. He should have given the money to Che Guevara and his guerrilla fighters, as Havana suggested. “Buying a house was more important to him than showing solidarity with Che’s military efforts at a decisive moment.” Thus, Vargas Llosa is responsible for Guevara’s death later that same year.
At the end, Haydée asks that her death be viewed as a sacrifice – like Che, like the Vietnamese, like Abel – and that is what she will get, but not from Vargas Llosa
The tone of the letter becomes more strident. His opinions on Fidel’s position regarding the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia are “ridiculous.” Appearing at an American university is a sin. Not going to Havana when he is invited is also a sin. Vargas Llosa can only “regret” being “the living image of the colonized writer, contemptuous of our people, vain, confident that writing well not only makes one forgive bad actions but also allows one to pass judgement on a great movement like the Cuban Revolution.”
At the end, Haydée asks that her death be viewed as a sacrifice – like Che, like the Vietnamese, like Abel – and that is what she will get, but not from Vargas Llosa. After a lifetime “of fuses and cannon fire all around”, she kills herself in a conventional way, by a self-inflicted gunshot wound, like Eduardo Chibás and Osvaldo Dorticós before her. Abel and Celia, her children with Armando Hart, will also die prematurely, in an accident that occurred in 2008. Fidel Castro will outlive them all. As will Vargas Llosa.
*Translator’s note: a process of establishing “parameters” and categorizing anyone who falls outside of them as misfits.
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