The decline in tourism in Havana is inescapable in these bleak images.
While the official media speculates about the growth in tourism to the largest of the Antilles, the reality in Havana is very distant to that in past years when innumerable foreign delegations visited.
Commenting by word of mouth, traders and restaurant staff repeat it to their friends. One of these restaurant staff attracted my attention and obliged me by offering a tour this past Sunday of some of the places most frequented by foreign visitors.
The tour started in the central area of near the Capitol, and later continued walking along Obispo, the Plaza de San Francisco, the old Plaza de Armes, and then the Cathedral. I finished the grueling walk in Chinatown, witnessing in reality the decadence or the little tourism that exists in the Cuban capital, to which we can add the number of vacant stores.
There is a sculpture on permanent display in Havana in the patio of the old St. Francis of Assisi Convent called The Silent Table, a work of an unknown artist, but on seeing these images one might suggest that they create a new work called: The Empty Table.
The constant appearance of micro trash dumps on Havana’s streets is one of the reasons the Aedes Aegypti mosquito — carrier of dengue fever — cannot be eradicated.
Despite the fickle efforts of the Ministry of Public Health and the authorities of the Municipalities in the capital of the country. The eradication of micro trash dumps and the proliferation of the Aedes Aegypti mosquito are from completion. So the increase in detected cases of Dengue Fever is something still unexplained in the official media.
The micro trash dumps are created as a result of lack collection of solid waste and contaminates. To which you can add the irregular hours of collection and in many cases the lack of vehicles for treating and transporting the trash.
Recently, the authorities have been forced to deal with these micro trash dumps by joining forces with other official entities.
A neighbor of the place where I took these photos, on learning where they would be published, whispered to me, “Brother, Havana is no longer ’The Capital of All Cubans.’ Now it’s ’The Capital of Trash.’”
In past articles I have addressed the art of mimes in Havana, with great respect. Today I bow to them again and applaud those who develop with such professionalism in our streets.
The mimes recreate personalities from the Wild West, from musical spectaculars, artists, musicians and even composers. Now of all those I’ve seen before I’ve been most impressed by the way the character has been recreated on our streets today of the well-known Caballero de Paris.
It seems as if the man sculpted in bronze has come alive and walks among us. Kids, teenagers, young and old, everyone stops to look at him and listen to his stories, taken from different places and chivalrous adventures. I saw him give flowers made from cut up magazines and dried plant leaves. I can assure that it feels like being with the such a prodigious man who enchants Havana today, with one of the most beautiful stories.
I murmured while standing there looking at him and taking these photos that today I share with each one of you. Welcome back to the streets that have always been yours, great Caballero de Paris — our own Knight of Paris.
A warning sign newly installed near the scene of the events of July 22
We’re already used to perceiving the interrogation tactic of “good cop, bad cop,” so it’s only natural that those of us who are usually on the other side of the questioning think of duplicating the method.
On October 4 at around 5:30 in the afternoon an impressive police operation stopped us at the entrance to the city of Bayamo to prevent us from attending the trial of Angel Carromero. Yoani Sanchez, Agustin Lopez and I had crossed the 500 miles that separated us from Havana in a Moskovich make car. We suspected they wouldn’t let us enter the courtroom, but we didn’t think we merited the deployment of forces with which they intercepted us.
Yoani and Agustin have already told their stories. Yoani chose to clam up like an oyster, neither responding to questions nor taking food or water. She was the bad prisoner, impenetrable. I chose instead to respond, to drink fluids and, although I wasn’t on a hunger strike, I refused food (white rice and a chicken leg) simply because I had no appetite.
An investigating officer who introduced himself as Captain Céspedes (What a coincidence, a Céspedes in Bayamo!) let me know that I was under investigation for the presumed crime of “defamation of the heroes and martyrs of the Revolution,” which I later learned is really called “Defamation of institutions and organizations and of heroes and martyrs,” as defined in Article 204 of the Penal code.
I will not relate here all the dialog verbatim, just my impressions. The most notable was that, according to what my interrogator hinted at, his opinions about us were not based on information provided as evidence, nor on the reports of experts, but by what he had learned through “enemy propaganda” that had been divulged in the official Cuban media. Full of good faith as I am, I suppose that this officer, a serious, respectful and meticulous man, could not reveal the real results of the investigations because if he had we could not have been processed.
Another interesting detail is that when I was explaining the reason for our presence in Bayamo I told the investigator that the newspaper Granma (which never lies?) had published that the trial would be oral and public, so we had the right as citizens to attend. Cespedes responded that this did not include counterrevolutionaries. I couldn’t resist the temptation and argued that when Cuban decriminalizes political dissent it would not be possible to stop a citizen from attending a trial previously announced as oral and public.
With the firmness that is used to state one’s deepest convictions, my interlocutor warned me as follows: “We will never permit the counterrevolution to do what it wants.” In my role as the good prisoner I clarified that luckily it would not be them who would be governing the country and that the day this decision happened he would have to obey the order, as befits a soldier.
Then he let me sleep on a single bed with a foam mattress in a room with air conditioning and at noon on the 5th we returned to the capital in a minibus that traveled escorted by police cars sounding their sirens from Bayamo all the way to Guanabacoa.
Arriving in front of the building where we live, Yoani, the bad prisoner, shot out like greased lightning and went up the elevator. Once in the lobby, after returning to me my confiscated belonging, I said goodbye to the other officer who came to the front of the caravan. “I’m sorry I cannot thank you,” I said, “we would have preferred to return another way and you have hindered us.”
The Moskovich made another journey, but that is related by Dekaisone.
The re-opening of the Johnson Drugstore is a fact, for a several weeks now.
For those who walk down the central Obispo Street in Old Havana it’s a wonder to find such an important place rejuvenated after several years The architecture is the same as in yesteryear according to connoisseurs of this urban area. But others establish credibility by referring to the fact that it was a true drugstore before the coming to power in 1959 of the one who annoys everyone.
The truth is, the knobs on display according to one of the staff are the same as used before, with the only difference that now they are solely decorative. But it’s not the only difference, the drugstore is not the site of the Cuban Pharmacology Museum and now the products sold in the place are only available in hard currency, CUCs, a money whose value is 25 times that of the official peso.
Now the reopening of what was the most prestigious pharmacy of its era only causes a lot of talk among Cubans and is a constant witness to the institutionalized apartheid of the Caribbean island.
Yesterday was an exhausting day. From very early I was awaiting messages from anywhere at all regarding the electoral process in Venezuela. Cuban television and radio didn’t do me any good, because all they broadcast all day was slogans and this that and the other detail about the movements and statements of Chavez, along with guests and observers from the left.
The ability to constantly be updated and compare information possessed by the whole world continues to be a key indicator measuring the degree of the ever greater isolation of the Cuban people. For our neighbors, people always presented as examples of those who are worse off, it’s now normal for them to follow on the internet, through the social networks and millions of websites, blogs etc., all the relevant events on the planet.
It’s useless for Cuba to have an immense number of professionals, intellectuals, students and a generally “cultured” people, if the leadership of the State considers that “we are not prepared to access the free flow of information that is enjoyed by the civilized and democratic world of today.” Although it is not the people who are not ready, it is them.
With great disappointment, as usual, I watched how they interrupted the live broadcast from TeleSur (for the “Special Review” following the Venezuelan elections from Cuba) when it was announced that Capriles was going to speak. With nothing planned, the two Cuban commentators, like grotesque puppets, had to fill the time with clumsy words and rebroadcasts of the same material several times throughout the day, because someone had to be assured ahead of time that everything was perfect before airing a tiny edited piece of the words of the candidate who opposed the candidate favored by Havana.
It is extremely disrespectful, to say nothing of journalistic ethics which don’t exist, that throughout this campaign the Cuban people never heard a single word directly from the mouth of Chavez’s contender. It would seem that for the press of this country there were not several presidential candidates in Venezuela, but only one, just like here.
The people of Venezuela themselves heard both of them, in Cuba we saw, heard and read only one. And the worst of it is that this happens with absolutely everything, and no one in the structure of the State says a single word.
Is that honesty? Is this what they invite me to believe in when they say the future? I know that nobody in this country likes to be treated as stupid, as a moron, but they will never treat us differently if we are not respected.
The case of Venezuela itself is a lesson for Cubans. There is no doubt that Chavez has influenced many sectors of the population of this country, especially in the lowest strata, but it is also evident that the people of Venezuela have influenced — with their YES and above all with their NO — Chavez.
A Chavez who recently spoke of combatting, crushing, now talks of dialog and building the future of the country together. And there are no longer changes in the Constitution to monopolize power, silence opposing voices, and remain in power forever. Although it is possible that deep down he desires it, he learned that if he continued down the road of faithful imitation of the Cuban model, he was fried.
This people, my people, has no more excuses. We cannot be simple spectators to what happens around us, we are frozen in time, asleep, and if we don’t wake up soon we are going to be dead, because our small flame of hope is extinguished every day in the young people who leave.
In the film Juan of the Dead there is a speech where Juan’s young daughter, who lives in Spain, says, “I left because I didn’t know anyone it was worth staying for.” This phrase is a tremendous truth, especially for those of us who earn nothing, want nothing, in exchange for resisting, and who, like all human beings, need to feel that the effort and problems we confront are worth it.
Many want to find a treasure, a very big one that will make them happy for their whole lives. I dream of finding the soul of this country and shaking it very hard to make it wake up from the profound lethargy in which it has been mired for several decades.
This nation cannot die as the men who have led or dominated it died, for that is to serve the new generations, but today Cuba seems more like a bitter aftertaste. It is slow, stubborn, thinks it knows everything and spends its time telling its stories so often told before.
We, the Cubans of today, we have to make Cuba look more like us, as we appear inevitability of our own time. We have the moral obligation to try, and we will try. Here, politics will come alive again, here there will be democracy and hope again. And the military, who have stolen a political role that does not belong to them, I say to them: better that you prepare to live with and respect this democratic scenario, and not to avoid it, prevent it and delay it. Because this way, with the attitude you maintain today, I don’t know who you are helping, who you are protecting, because it is not the people.
Selling pets is one of the businesses that has been growing over the last months in Havana, the capital city.
Countless people walk around with mutts in hand along the streets and avenues, looking for purchasers for their merchandise. Others put ads in on their doors or attach signs to bus stops or crowded places, some use the well-known digital page Revolico to let people know their news. Those who go into business selling these animals, according to those in the know, do it legally.
Someone told me that lately in Havana’s Chinatown, and in Obispbo Street, this type of trading is undertaken by the self-employed. The pictures were taken this Sunday and they attest to the fact that these private businesses, according to their owners, are profitable.
One of the dealers told me that prices vary greatly in the case of dogs and birds, and that the animals marketed are pedigree and in the case of the birds that is supported by the association. When asked about the most sold breeds he told me, “Listen, here we sell a lot of Chihuahuas, Pekingese, Labradors, Dalmatians, and dogs for protection.”
The dealer didn’t state his name but explained that in Cuba is not only the sale of dogs and birds that is going very well, but guinea pigs, lab mice, and one of the most requested birds is the parrot, but that’s not the market that can be commercialized, he said.
One of the people observing near the animals’ cages, on hearing me ask the seller, said, “It’s good that the animals are traded, but look, the same traders don’t treat these little animals well, they don’t have water,” she said, referring to the fact that they had no water at that moment, “and that’s nothing,” the lady continued. “Many of the people who buy them don’t know how to take care of them and in many cases they over or underfeed them, and in the worst of cases they throw them out in the street where later you find these little pets with fleas and ticks,” she concluded.
Havana now exhibits a new business that according to the traders themselves, even after the boom, is not being exploited as it should be.
The press advances with cautious steps, not confronting but questioning, it says that “there are differences of opinion,” and serves at the citizens’ table a menu of political and social diversity. True, they are small unsure steps, contained and small still — baby steps — but they’ve started to walk.
Some journalists on the Cuban television information system air critical writings and audiovisuals, as in one denouncing the manager of a hard currency store who declined to give an interview. It is interesting to imagine how such reports pass the heads of the censorship department, the news director, who surely must in turn consult with the vice president or president of the Cuban Institute of Radio and Television.
I’m pretty sure that the curtains of this budding opening are have the authorities at the helm; but is the result it could have in society — in fact, is already influencing — and in the Cuban media the same as if it were natural and spontaneous?
The effect is evident in the media universe itself, as it increases the number of workers in the media who dare to “take the leap” of freedom of information and publicize problems that for decades, were shoved under the rug of censorship under the anachronistic carpet of immobility.
The comedians also do their thing, mainly in the capital, lowering the bar each time a little more than permitted — despite fifty years of limitations and the to-be-expected fear — and extract humor rather than pus in their shows. I’m sure the time will come in which as if at a free national auction, with a wide catalog of freedoms and rights, we will stand openly “without auctioneers” and ask: Who offers more?
Among our leaders there is a practice of submitting for discussion and popular approval certain laws and documents which they consider to be of special importance. The assumption is that, by doing this, they are presenting an example of direct democracy as an expression of popular will, which will grant them greater legitimacy.
In reality this is not the case. Although figures are published indicating approval in the millions, we all know—including the authorities—that real discussion is notable by its absence and that approval is merely a formality, as exemplified by the well-known expression, “Why waste time talking about it if everything has already been decided at the top?” It has been this way for too many years. Laws have also been imposed, from one day to the next, without having been submitted for either discussion or approval by the people. This has led to a lack of civic awareness and citizen responsibility, currently two of our worst ills.
Years ago, when the proposed constitution was being presented, many did not even bother to read it much less analyze and discuss it. It was approved by a majority of the population which, even today, is unaware of its principal provisions, such as those dealing with citizens’ rights and responsibilities. It is really just a formal document—it has not even been reissued—languishing in obscurity and only used by the authorities at propitious moments to further their political interests. When the article that established “eternal socialism” was added, it was hurriedly approved by signature, with tables and lists everywhere, in a few days of hustle and bustle, and was intended to close a breach that had been discovered in the “state monolith.” Many of those who signed did not even think about what they were doing.
In the end, something similar happened with the new Guidelines for the economy. Officially declared “the document most democratically discussed and approved by the majority of the population,” in reality it was formally “analyzed” and “discussed” in situations that had already taken place, and “approved” the way all documents proposed by the authorities are approved—by unanimous consent.
As a result this way to achieving “direct popular approval” does not lead to more democracy nor does it improve what is being proposed. It only increases quantity to the detriment of quality. The constitution of 1940, considered the most important document of the Republic, did not have to be discussed by the entire population nor approved by every Cuban because it attracted the widest citizen participation through responsibly elected “constituent members.” They represented the widest political spectrum of Cuban society at that time and, through real and profound debates, wrote it article by article, balancing the different interests for the good of the nation. This allowed for the creation of a document which, even today, retains its importance and relevance. It might even serve as “temporary constitutional support” in a political transition.
In short, the country has for a very long time had a body — the National Assembly — which, if it concerned itself more with what should be its primary reason for being and met periodically rather than only twice a year, would be responsible for analyzing, discussing, amending and approving or rejecting the laws proposed by the government. To do this it must rely on “elected” deputies who, as officially described, represent their constituents. If this is so, why is it then necessary to go back to consult with them? Various specialists, knowledgeable about the subject in question, could be invited to join the analysis and discussion without excluding anyone for arbitrary political reasons and, through their preparation, could contribute to and enrich the debate. There is no denying that the current deputies do not reflect the current political spectrum of the country, which now has only one color — the government’s. This prevents serious and critical debate.
Unnecessarily prolonging the approval of a proposed law, taking it to the so-called citizen “base,” not only reeks of populism, but also means an unnecessary loss of time. It does not provide the impetus for “updating the model” or the speed demanded by the majority of the population, who are well aware of the speed at which problems are piling up.
In recent days Havana has stood out as venue of countless events, most of them of an international nature and assorted disciplines. International Labiofam Congress 2012; International Law Congress 2012; VII Course on Tools of Control and Prevention Against Administrative Corruption; Orthopedics Congress 2012; Nanosciencie and Nanotechnolgy IV International Seminar, among others. The titles themselves give a feeling of development and resolution in the diversity of subjects and plans for the future. How far from the daily Cuban society! It seems like another Cuba, a virtual one, that only exist for a privileged group, the palace court and company guests.
Nothing to do with the real Cuba, which despite being an small country with 11.2 million inhabitants has the fifth largest prison population in the world in relation to the number of individuals. The one where each citizen’s share of the national debt is valued at six thousand dollars, owed to a group that includes Paris, Russia, China, and who knows how many more countries, whom the Cuban government owes, on balance, the ballpark figure of sixty billion dollars.
The country that is aging at such a pace that it is predicted that by 2035 a third of its population will be over 60 years old. The one where the workers earn miserable salaries not exceeding twenty dollars a month on average, in a dollarized economy. The one where retired men and women are forced to survive through all kinds of tricks to eat and dress badly. The one with a two million person diaspora that grows exorbitantly. The impoverished Cuba that has been exhausted of wealth along with its dreams and hope.
The heirs of the new class seem to behave as if in forward flight, to ignore the sad reality of this island anchored in the past. Convinced of the powers and privileges inherent to their lineage, they flaunt plans, capacities and projects. Meanwhile, the gap continues to widen between them and the majority of citizens, who trapped in the trick of a single party system and the negation of their fundamental human rights, as set out in the United Nations Covenants on civil and political rights and on economic, social and cultural rights, confirm that there can’t be any communion with the oppression.
Photo from El Pais. Yoani Sánchez in Cuba in an archive image. / JOSÉ GOITIA
They wanted to keep me from attending the trial of Angel Carromero, the Spaniard who was driving when a car crash killed Oswaldo Paya and Harold Cepero. Around five in the afternoon a big operation on the outskirts of Bayamo stopped the car my husband, a friend, and I were driving in. “You want to disrupt the court,” a man dressed completely in olive-green told us, as he immediately proceeded to arrest us.
The operation had the scale of an arrest against a gang of drug traffickers, or the capture of a prolific serial murderer. But instead of such threatening people, there were just three individuals who wanted to participant as observers in a judicial process, looking on from within the courtroom. We had believed the newspaper Granma when it published that the trial was oral and public. But, you already know, Granma lies.
However, in arresting me, they were actually giving me the chance to experience, as a journalist, the other side of the story. To walk in the shoes of Angel Carromero, to experience how pressure is applied to a detainee. To know firsthand the intricacies of the Department of Investigations of the Ministry of the Interior.
The first were three uniformed women who surrounded me and took my cell phone. Up to that point the situation was confused, aggressive, but still had not crossed the line into violence. Then these same hefty ladies took me into a room to strip me.
But there is a portion of ourselves no one can rip from us. I don’t know, perhaps the last fig leaf to which we cling when we live under a system that knows everything about our lives. In a bad and contradictory verse it might read, “you can have my soul… my body, no.” So I resisted and paid the consequences.
After that moment of maximum tension came the turn of the “good cop.” Someone who comes to me saying they have the same last name as me — as if that’s good for anything — and they would like “to talk.” But the trap is so well known, has been so often repeated, that I don’t fall into it.
I immediately imagine Carromero subjected to the same tension of threat and “good humor”… it’s difficult to endure this for long. In my case, I remember having taken a breath after a long diatribe against the illegality of my arrest where I repeated one sentence for more than three hours: “I demand you let me make a phone call, it’s my right.” I needed the certainty the reiteration gave me. The chorus made me feel strong in front of people who had studied the diverse methods of softening human will at the Academy. An obsession was all I needed to confront them. And I became obsessed.
For a while it seemed my insistent nagging had been in vain, but after one in the morning I’m allowed to make the call. A few phrases to my father, through a line obviously tapped, and everything was said. I could then enter the next stage of my resistance. I called it “hibernation,” because when you name something you systematize it, believe it.
I refused to eat, to drink anything; I refused the medical exam of several doctors brought in to check on me. I refused to collaborate with my captors and I told them. I couldn’t get out of my mind the helplessness of Carromero over more than two months of dealing with these wolves alternating the role of sheep.
Much of the time all of my activity was filmed by a camera operated by a sweaty paparazzi. I don’t know if one day if they’ll put some of these shots on State television, but I organized my ideas and my voice so that they would not be able to broadcast anything that infringes on my convictions. Either they will keep the original audio with my demands, or have to make a hash of it with the voiceover of an announcer. I tried to make it as difficult as possible for them to edit the material later.
I only made one request in 30 hours of detention: I need to use the bathroom. I was prepared to take the battle to the end, but my bladder, no. Afterwards they took me to a dungeon-suite. I had spent hours in another with a rare combination of curtains and bars, terribly hot. So to come to a larger room, with a television and several chairs, opening onto a room with a tantalizing bed, was a low blow. Just looking at the pattern of the curtains, I had the presentment that it was the same place where they’d made the first recording that circulated Angel Carromero’s statement on the Internet.
This was not a room, it was a stage set. I knew it immediately. So I refused to lie down on the freshly made bed and put my head on the tempting pillow. I went to a chair in the corner and curled up. Two women in military uniforms watching me at all times. I was living another deja vu, the memory of the scene that transpired in the early days of Carromero’s detention.
I knew it and it was hard. A hardness not in the beating or in torture, but in the conviction that I could not trust anything that happened within these walls. The water might not be water, the bed looked more like a trap, and the solicitous doctor was more snitch than physician. The only thing I had left was to submerge myself into the depth of “me,” close the gates to the outside, and that’s what I did. The “hibernation” phase let to a self-induced lethargy. I didn’t utter another word.
By the time they told me I was “being transferred to Havana,” I could barely raise my eyelids and my tongue was practically hanging out of my mouth from the effects of prolonged thirst. However, I felt that I had won.
In a final gesture, one of my captors offered his hand to help me into the minibus where my husband was. “I do not accept the courtesy of repressors,” I fulminated. And once again I thought of the young Spaniard who saw his life turned upside down that July 22, who had to struggle among all these deceptions.
On arriving home I learned from the other detainees that Oswaldo Payá’s own family was not allowed to enter the courtroom. Also that the prosecutor asked for a seven-year sentence against Angel Carromero, and that the trial had been “concluded, awaiting sentencing” on Friday. Mine was just a stumble, the great drama continued to be the death of one man and the imprisonment of another.
Rumpelstiltskin, by Anna-Kafka. Taken from devianart.com
The sweat of the three women who put me into a police car still sticks to my skin and in my nostrils. Huge, hulking, ruthless, they took me into a windowless room where the broken fan only blew air towards them. One looked at me with particular scorn. Maybe my face reminded her of someone in her past: an adversary in school, a despotic mother, a lost lover. I don’t know. What I do remember is that, on the evening of October 5, her look wanted to destroy me. She was the one who ferreted around under my skirt with great delight, while two other uniformed policewomen grabbed me for the “search.” Rather than seeking out some hidden object, the purpose of this search was to make me feel violated, defenseless, raped.
Every six hours they changed my guards. On the midnight shift they were noticeably less strict, but I locked myself in my silence and never responded to their questions. I evaded myself. I chose to tell myself, “They’ve taken everything, even the clip that holds my hair, but — ridiculous searchers — they have not been able to take from me my inner world.” Thus I decide to take refuge, during the long hours of my illegal confinement, in the only thing I had: my memories. The room wanted to appear neat and clean, but everything had its share of filth or breakage. The granite floor tiles were covered with a good dose of accumulated grime. I stared at the figures made by the little pebbles cast in each tile and the gobs of dirt. After a while faces jumped out of this constellation. Characters flourished in the rough floor of my cell in the police station in Bayamo.
Springing from there was the lanky countenance of Don Quixote, while in that corner I could see the simple profile of Eduardo Abela’s “Bobo” — that wise fool who mocked the Machado dictatorship. Some oblique eyes, shaped by mortar and gravel, looked incredibly like the protagonist in the film Avatar. I laughed and my perennial watchers began to believe that my refusal of food and water was literally frying my brain. I espied, in the irregular granite, the Hunchback of Notre Dame and the slender figure of Gandalf, staff and all. But standing out among all these forms that emerged from the rough paving there was one — the most intense — that seemed to cavort and laugh before my eyes. Perhaps it was the effect of thirst and hunger, the truth is I don’t know. A long-bearded dwarf with a cynical look, slyly mocking.
It was Rumplestiltskin, the star of a children’s story where the queen is forced to guess his complicated name and if she does not she must give the despotic elf her most precious possession: her own son. What was this character doing in the midst of my temporary imprisonment? Why did I see him over so many other visual references I have accumulated in my life? I immediately intuited the answer. “You are Rumplestiltskin,” I said out loud and the gorgons watching me looked worried. “You are Rumplestiltskin,” I repeated, “and I know your name. You are like dictatorships, and once we start calling them by their name, it begins to destroy them.”
The presidential elections on October 7 may not be the triumphant military parade announced by Hugo Chavez. The Chavez vote has been trending downward. Capriles has gained the advantage. He has come from behind. Now it is a house-to-house campaign for the undecided vote.
This is a concern for more than one person in Cuba. In political roundtables, those discussion programs on Cuban television in which all points of view are aligned, the rhetoric is less optimistic.
Cuban media reported in August that Chávez had a 30% lead over Capriles. Cuban news programs were broadcasting the smiling “Comrade Chávez” in his red beret, shouting that he would trounce his adversary.
The campaign strategy of the strongman of Caracas has left much to be desired. In the background, according to several analysts, is Cuba’s political machinery.
On the subject of democratic elections, Cuba has little to teach its allies in the Americas. The Castros have always governed as they pleased, without a legal opposition and by repressing dissidents.
The use of defamation and scorn in a nation like Venezuela – in spite of past political corruption and criminal violence, the country enjoys a relatively democratic climate – has been a fundamental error by the Chávez team.
Hugo Chávez has not even been willing to have a televised debate with his opponent. Everything has been an insult. This tactic has exposed his intolerance and arrogance.
He should have taken notes of how to run an electoral campaign – by uniting instead of dividing the country – from his Brazilian colleague, Lula da Silva. After fourteen years in power, logic has given way to appalling violence in Venezuela, where 150,000 have been assassinated during this time period.
Deaths in Venezuela are twice the number of murders in Mexico by drug cartels and paramilitary groups. More than a country, it is a slaughterhouse. The poor from Caracas’ hills do not trust Hugo Chávez. Corruption and political cronyism are growing, the prices of staple foods are rising and poverty figures are going through the roof.
The average Venezuelan might have a medical clinic in one corner of his house, but he considers it unacceptable to have to pay an inflated price for it. The poor relation from the Caribbean costs Venezuela billions of dollars annually. Chávez provides 100,000 barrels of oil daily, selling it to the Castro regime at discount prices, in exchange for health care personnel and technical assistance.
In the last trimester, the government in Caracas had to make financial payouts to settle its accounts on the island. In 2000, Chávez and Fidel Castro signed the Accord on Comprehensive Cooperation in which Cuba pledged to send 30,000 doctors and athletic coaches. In exchange PDVSA – the state-owned oil company – was to ship 53,000 barrels of oil a day. According to experts this figure has doubled. Petroleum is essential to the government of Raúl Castro.
Its commitment to a timid series of reforms, including a $900 million investment in infrastructure for the port of Mariel, construction of international tourism facilities and an expansion in the number of self-employed workers, has caused energy consumption to skyrocket.
In a desperate search for energy independence, Castro II has been actively engaged in gas exploration in Cuba’s territorial waters, but so far no petroleum has been found. As a result the October 7 elections are the number one priority for the Castro regime. The fall of Chávez would hit the fragile domestic economy like a tsunami.
Cuba has never been able to get by on its own. When Soviet sponsorship dried up in 1991, the island entered a period of darkness and misery. Power outages lasted sixteen hours a day. Thousands of people suffered from chronic illnesses related to malnutrition. Motorized transport disappeared, replaced by tractors pulled by oxen, horses and donkeys. The comandante único kept in his drawer a plan called Operation Zero in which the army would take charge of distributing food rations in individual neighborhoods.
This phase, which never completely ended, is referred to officially as “the special period.” It has been like a war without bombs. If chaos never erupted, it was because of the rise to power in Venezuela of Hugo Chávez Frías, a true saint on the Castros’ altar. Fourteen years later, Fidel Castro would become delirious, making incendiary rants and suffering from weak health.
His brother Raúl, the hand-picked successor, has not been able to straighten the rickety direction of the Cuban economy. Now more than ever, he needs the financial resources of his twin. Cuba will do all within its power to see that Hugo Chávez remains in office. If not until 2030, as the bolivariano would like, then at least for another six-year term.
In an attempt to keep him in the president’s seat, the regime in Havana offers advice on military matters and sleazy propaganda techniques. If there is one way in which the Creole autocracy differs from its “Venezuelan brother,” it is in his stubborn confidence in the mechanisms of western representative democracy.
At the beginning of the 1990s Fidel Castro whispered some good advice to his Nicaraguan ally, Daniel Ortega: Do not hold elections just to lose. The Castros assume Hugo Chávez has taken note. If not, then they are keeping their fingers crossed, just in case.
The decline in tourism in Havana is inescapable in these bleak images.
