Translating Cuba

Again my friend Mari Carmen (arsenal of fresh anecdotes), she tells me another story, as unusual as it may seem, is so real that it hurts to tell it.

Her nephew came to her house very upset, to say that he had just come from immigration, where he had been notified that he could not be granted the requested permission to leave, because his father had been a doctor on an international mission who, three years previously, had deserted.

No matter how much the young man explained that he didn’t know the true whereabouts of his father with whom he hadn’t maintained communications, and that it was his mother–who had lived abroad almost ten years–who was inviting him, the refusal of a permission to travel was repeated. And, they added, that he would have to be separated from his workplace for at least five years before he could reapply for permission to leave.

As is generally known, workers on our beloved planet, especially those in Healthcare, must wait five years after losing their employment relationship, to aspire to travel, and in addition during this period of time, if they are male, they’re subject to the slacker law (if you don’t work you can go to jail). It appears that this type of punishment is passed from parent to child by transference. Too bad the same thing doesn’t happen with houses, cars or any other type of material benefit.

May 30 2011

Many people on my planet have been abducted by official propaganda, which goes into the same sack as all the emigration that has occurred, especially since 1959, which is classified as of economic origin.

They especially want to justify to others, as economic, the reasons why their children and close relatives have abandoned the country. As if they were ashamed that a child of the Revolution, born into it, educated at its schools, and in the embrace of a close family, would have to justify this decision to others so it won’t be questioned. And they always add the famous tagline that throughout the world many people constantly emigrate for the same reasons.

In saying this, they seem to forget that when people in other countries emigrate for economic reasons, they don’t risk losing their current jobs when they communicate their decision, their house (if they live alone), or (if they live with others) that the relatives with whom they live will have to pay the State for the share of the home that corresponds to the one who is leaving. In addition, they have to submit an inventory of all their belongings, get themselves taken off the ration card, turn in their identity card, and, of course, ask permission to leave. Also if things go wrong they can’t return, because from that point on they have absolutely nothing to do with their country of origin.

So when someone tells me that Cubans emigrate for economic reasons, they are pointing to just one aspect of the phenomenon. In my view, there are at least two reasons that produce this alarming emigration: political and economic, the latter being the effect, not the cause, of the first. There is no one who doesn’t know that our leaders, on several occasions, with no shame at all, have proclaimed that in this system politics is above economics. I don’t believe anyone is deceived by the continual parroting of this kind of euphemistic slogan.

May 24 2011

How weak is a State that sees danger in the words of a student? And using its power forcefully attacks and dictates the immediate expulsion of Henry Constantin from the Superior Art Institute (ISA) in Havana, brutally abusing his rights and using psychological torture. In recent days, in the middle of the night, and aware of the cowardice this implies, leaders of the student union (FEU) took action against Henry to avoid that the rest of the students would be witnesses.

Caught in deep sleep, and without giving him a chance to react; manhandled by the dean of students and other manipulated students, and given his refusal to go along (as he made it clear that he would not leave the school on his own two feet), they dragged him from his dorm, down the stairs, events only comparable to the hordes of the Nazi SS or the dictators of the past century in southern lanes, and put him in a car and abandoned him far from home and the university.

How disgusted must they be with themselves, those who committed this outrage? This event could be inscribed in the long anthology of horror of the Castro dictatorship.

How much madness was needed to carry out this procedure?

Where is the “defender of the humble,” Mr. Comandante who now wastes none of the ink of his Reflections to interceded against the unconstitutional abuse he fathered? None of them were expelled from the university despite their armed activities. Why are the universities for communists, if not even Batista himself refused them to his enemies? The “Revolutionary” that cheated us promised justice, rights and freedoms, and instead exceeds in horror the regime he fought against.

Why does the young Henry Constantin, talented art student, in need of freedom, as we all seek through our blogs, not deserve some droplets of ink from the elder strongman, after he’s poured out a veritable river of black letters to publicly defend the murdered Bin Laden and to express sorrow at the loss of this “comrade”?

How much misery has a Government put together to abuse a young artist, diligent and talented student, of a physically barely developed adolescent, for the supposed crime of issuing opinions?

So many questions and so few logical answers.

How then, from different places in the world, have human beings been able to defend a system that puts shames us?

In any event, our friend and brother Henry, you will rarely have the opportunity to be more of a hero than now, it is difficult to grow as high as you have done this time. I’m honored by your courage, being just a boy, you have made a mockery of the system and its perfect fascist machinery.

Know that your strength like ours, is multiplied after each unworthy act. I also know that you harbor no hatred, the artist in you will not let you, despite the shock and feeling of helplessness. They are deserving of pity, because they fear losing the space that they maintain by the force of injustice, they are aware that their attitude has no place in modern times.

You also know that we will not stand by with folded arms. We will continue demanding justice and your rights, which is the same.

Here is my friendship forever, and my breath.

May 31 2011

(This is the story of a trip that I never imagined in my own country. I thank all those who made this experience possible, but I thank much more those who tried to prevent it.)

Victor, the silent dean of Art Institute (ISA), next to the driver, without saying a single word; Danae and Rudy, leaders of the Student Union (FEU), to my right and behind me; Andy, also with the FEU, the only reasonable one, to my left. Miguel, the driver, mute at the helm. The car is driving all along the Malecon, at dawn.

I am talking to them, at least with the boys, who dare to speak. Danae, boastfully daring to speak says that he’s doing “the right thing to defend the Revolution.” Rudy, the only one who I’d spoken to before, tells me, when I ask him, that his name is Osvaldo. Why lie? All three are from Santiago, and Danae and Rudy study acting. Fifteen days earlier I had visited his class in search of actors with the permission of Omar Ali, the professor. They had acted some scenes from “Dream of a Summer’s Night”: Danae was dry and didn’t know any of his lines–it’s well known that he’s not at ISA for artistic reasons. I can’t remember Rudy from that day. Andy studies piano and was the only one who refused to assault me, faced with so many men going back and forth between violence and indifference. But none of these pitiful student representatives were among the more than 150 young people who went on a hunger strike at ISA in October of 2009.

That night–Thursday, May 26–I arrived at almost eleven o’clock at night at the entrance at the bottom of ISA, at Novena and 120th, that gives directly onto the courtyard. I noticed the guards of the different stairs of the residence were on full alert, despite the hour. And among them there wasn’t a single woman, contrary to usual. As I continued along the hallway, they would wave to accomplices. At the entrance to my stairway there was, coincidentally, the most robust of all, whom I knew by sight. “Your ID card.” I showed it to him. “You have to go see Victor, the dean.” Without looking me in the face he finished with, “You can’t go in.”

In Victor’s office was my trunk and two more bags with all my belongings, collected and held without my presence; missing nothing. The poor man, gentle in his manner, told me to collect everything, “There’s a car waiting to take you to the terminal and a ticket to Camagüey on the first bus.”

“But yesterday you told me that I had 48 hours to leave and that expires tomorrow afternoon,” I say.

“You have to go,” he answers.

Behind him came three leaders of the FEU, two guards and Miguel, the driver; there wasn’t a single woman among them. I picked up my things without any hurry and talked a lot with the boys of the FEU called together to throw me out. “They promised me a paper here tomorrow morning. I have to stay to collect it.”

Victor makes a phone call to consult on the situation, not saying who he is speaking to but answer is clear and repetitive: “You have to go.”

Andy and Danae tried to explain why my case was so sudden, Andy intelligently, Danae repeating slogans. “Look, this has been being analyzed for a while, we know of your problems in Santiago and Santa Clara, there’s no other alternative. And you have our full friendship!” said Danae. “Me, I respect your ideas, every person is different and think what you like, but you can’t do anything about this,” said Andy.

“What students in the FEU did you consult with about this? Can we go and ask them,” and they look to see how to take control again. “We are the FEU, we are the leaders, there’s no way to meet with anyone now, man,” Danae replies.

I finished getting my things and among us we carried everything to the car and got in. It’s a red van that I knew from before: I rode in it once when the ISA loaned it to me once to find several artists to participate in the student discussion forum. Now it’s the car in which I will complete my punishment.

From a distance I see a classmate looking at the scene, hiding behind a corner. I move away from the car and say to them, very loudly, “Please, take my things and take care of them; I don’t want to get in there. And if I do, it’s because you are forcing me. I will not resist, but I’m not going to go voluntarily.” I put my hands on my neck and they all burst out. Danae and Victor go around me and seem tense, like they’re looking where to grab me; the driver says don’t sweat it, he wants to go sleep; Rudy jokes; Andy warns me not to complicate things…

I don’t get in and when Danae is at the point of getting violent, and looks at Victor waiting for the order, I take out my cell phone and punch in a number. “Any force used against me is a kidnapping, and there are witnesses,” I declare.

Chaos. The dean loses his composure and also takes out his cell phone to ask for instructions. The driver remains silent and sits on a wall. The guards remain silent and leave. Andy keeps trying to convince me it’s for the better. Victor, alternately, gives me successive ultimatums and talks on the phone; it seems in the end he runs out of minutes because he goes into his office and keeps talking. The leaders of the FEU, lacking initiative, go after him.

I’ve been sending alarm messages, and some fellow students come down to see what’s happening or call my mobile. I sent a text message to Gisselle Candia, from my neighborhood and class, president of the FEU on my own faculty, and a very good friend for a long time; she’s sleeping in her room, two minutes from where this is going on, but doesn’t come down or call.

To those who do call or come down, I tell them, “Danae and the dean are the ones who are willing to hit me: record those names, please.” Where I am I can sense the discussion in Victor’s office: Andy the student who plays the piano shows, “I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to participate in this, no.” Danae is upset because he heard me repeat his name on the phone. “Who told you I was going to hit you? Who told you that?”

It’s after 1:45 AM. A young guard comes near to negotiate, but the guy with the bushy mustache who’s watching the stairs calls emphatically calls, to get away from me. Victor gets out with a determined face and the guys behind him. Victor tries one last trick: he gets in the car and calmly calls me to sit by his side and talk. “I’m not a little kid, pal, come and talk here, outside, but I’m not getting in of my own free will. I’m here, come and get me.”

Victor gets out of the car and turns while Danae and Andy are still talking. It’s decided, one to the other: “Let’s go, let’s go.” Victor takes me by the left wrist, Danae by the back, some of the other two by the right arm, and they move forward to put me in the car, in the back seat. It’s synchornized like in the good cop shows. The directors of the FEU get in: Rudy at my back, Andy on my left and Danae on my right; Victor next to the driver. My cells phone doesn’t stop ringing, unstoppable. Faced with the worry of the boys about what I’m going to say about them, I ask them, “When I write about this, I will say that you grabbed me and put me in the car without doing visible physical damage to me, but against my well, does that seem good?” They fall silent. The car continues down Fifth Avenue, through the tunnel, and all along the Malecon, at dawn.

May 30 2011

Cuban television debuts at its usual time of 9:00 in the evening, on the Cubavision channel, a telenovela–soap opera–titled “Under the Same Sun,” which is already generating a buzz. Although they haven’t provided much information about it, it’s said to consist of three stories. In the first one being aired, are the taboos and intolerance that still exist in society against homosexuality, among others. Some time ago an interdisciplinary team, taking advantage of the reach of this mass media, television, and with the support of the press, began influencing people with a different view of human sexual diversity. I celebrate the intention and the task, even more because a long time ago international organizations, such as the United Nations, and coalitions of countries, such as the European Union, jumped the barrier of segregation for sexual preferences and established legal mechanisms to prevent discriminatory practices in this and other aspects. We perceive in our country that perception is gradually changing in this regard.

Societies, which over the course of history have been governed by heterosexual men, supported through the ages the macho attitudes with marginalized visions and social standards that have fallen into disuse. Thus discrimination against women was such that no one considered lesbianism as a sign of homosexuality in them, while in men it was regarded as a disease. Thus, a lesbian inclination in women was actually suspected, it was subject to double or more incisive discrimination.

Cuba was no exception in regard to this evil. Since the beginning of this process–which increasingly is less than revolutionary–it is customary to belittle and devalue those who are different. To be gay is to suffer humiliation, along with continuing detentions and restrictions on travel to avoid to meeting with like-minded people and related groups. Everything was questioned and questionable, except for the bearded manhood who had fought for this model. Beyond that, machismo and militarism were the medals of those times which marginalized people of different sexual orientation. They saw them and looked down at them like flies in the soup, and so they were treated …

Today, Dr. Mariela Castro, Raul’s daughter and Fidel’s niece is trying to clean up the images of her uncle and father from decades ago, and vindicate the rights of the gay community in a crusade against homophobia. Marches are held each year in the streets of the capital by bringing together several hundred homosexuals to demand that their rights be recognized. I support Mariela’s campaign, although it reawakens in me the logical question that surely has attracted many. “Don’t heterosexuals have rights too? What about the rest of society? What about freedom of expression and association? And the multiparty system?”

It is incongruous that the daughter of Cuban President be allowed to demonstrate in our streets with a large group of people who advocate sexual freedom that we, as part of alternative civil society, may not do so, having had for decades other valid demands, legitimate and humane that are also covered by international legislation as a part of modernity. There should be consistency in the rights issue, you should not recognize some and ignore others.

Taking this work as a departure point, it strikes me that is just and necessary to hold a day against diversophobia, or fear of political diversity, from which the Cuban authorities and their supporters suffer.

For now, I think we can start an “International Campaign Against Pluriphobia“–rejection or fear of plurality–to prevent totalitarian systems from washing their hands of contradictions, and manipulating them to look like the rule of law. In justice and legitimacy, it is necessary to paint the entire house, not just the facade.

May 30 2011

I know when it was because it was after that May Sunday I’d watched, from home, the TV broadcast of the Mother’s Day celebration where Ramoncito Veloz (the son) sang in front of the cameras wearing his Conrado Benítez Brigade uniform. I know when it was because it was before my fourteenth birthday, which I celebrated on July 10, 1961, with the Núñez family where, among others, I taught the two young farmers who are with me in this photograph to read and write.

Half a century has passed since that imprecise date on which I worked on the literacy campaign at a place called Aguilar, near the coast in the Camaguey municipality of Santa Cruz del Sur. I’ve never again visited that place, nor have I again milked a cow, which was the most wonderful thing I learned from them, along with horseback riding, hunting hutias, and swimming in the river.

What I would really like to know is how many books have my students read in this time? Do they live in Cuba? Do they remember their scruffy teacher? Have they surfed the Internet? Luis, to my right, who rode the fastest mare in the territory; Néstor on my left, an enviable shot with his slingshots. It was beautiful. Those were days so full of hope that it seemed there was never room for any other feeling.

30 May 2011

Voces 8

28 May 2011

In the neighborhood of Cayo Hueso, there are people who are viewed with disdain. Waldo is one such case, chief of surveillance for the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR). A neighborhood full of prostitutes and marginal people who live from what “falls off” the truck.

Due to his intransigence and zeal to enforce the guidelines from the superstructures of power, Waldo has alienated people. According to gossip, he is also a full-time informant for Special Services.

A retired saddler, Waldo’s hobby is to spy from behind a wide iron window on the movements of people marked as suspicious or conflictive.

His number one objective is a pair of “notorious counterrevolutionary” residents on his block. He feels acknowledged when the tough guys from State Security rely on him to inform them about the activities of this couple.

Waldo has never wavered in his unreserved support for Fidel Castro. Not in the most difficult times of the Special Period, when he lost teeth due to lack of protein, 12-hour blackouts and an optic neuritis that left him almost blind.

Life has treated him harshly. One of his sons deserted the boat of the Revolution and now lives on the other side. His retirement pension is just about enough to pay the electric bill and buy food provided by the ration book. Little more. He eats and dresses badly. But he still worships the Castros.

Waldo belongs to that segment of the needy to which Raúl Castro referred in his report to the Sixth Party Congress. Citizens who despite being poor as church mice are stalwarts of the revolution.

Every day they are fewer. I present to you their profile. As a rule, they are over 60, are former military, low ranking political commissioners, or retirees who feel useful to the cause, spying on their “antisocial” neighbors or at the front of a CDR meeting to discuss the latest political speech.

There are also the young, opportunistic and climbers, who enroll in the Revolutionary process to try to get a slice of material goods. Like Vivian, a poor and clever girl, who ran and, without opposition, obtained the post of delegate to the Popular Power Assembly from her constituency, which allowed her to weave a web of influences and acquire building materials free of charge when her dilapidated housing needed tobe repaired.

Or ex-officers like Jesus, a fighter pilot who participated in Castro’s adventure in Angola, who is so strict in interpreting the Marxist theories that his own party colleagues start to tremble when they see him.

These comrades, stubborn, faithful, poor, but happy with their Revolution, form a core of Talibans with a bombproof faith in the Castro brothers. They have not received any material advantage from the Revolution. Nor foreign travel nor foreign currency to buy shoddy goods. They are pure types.

Some even feel betrayed by the Castros. Not because they stopped providing an additional quota of coffee or a Chinese 21-inch TV. No. Their distrust of the brothers is in the direction they are taking the Revolution.

Especially the permissiveness towards opponents and the weakness in fighting fight crooks and hookers. These steely communists have limited understanding, even with regards to what Comrade Fidel explains, why the ‘parasites and worms’ are greeted with a red carpet and allowed to bring their dollars to relatives in Cuba who live full speed ahead without working for the government.

Neither do these intransigents look kindly on their leaders wanting to have a dialog with the United States. They grew up hating the gringos and imperialism.

In the dead of the night, they assault ideological doubts. That vanish with the dawn. And they rise up humming “whatever it will be with Fidel, it will be.” Now they’ve changed the lyrics. Substituting Raul for Fidel. To keep up with the times.

April 28 2011