A Cuban woman kills herself. She leaps like a disoriented bird from her apartment at FOCSA, that dwarf skyscraper inherited from an equally dwarfed Capitalism. Alienating. The empty swimming pool gets some moistness once again after decades and decades of collective neglect.
A merchant from Nuevo Vedado adds some red hair dye to the tomato-less tomato purée that he will later sell at a State agro-market where soldiers’ wives will go with their children. The police arrest him on a Sunday. The merchant claims that there are no toxic substances, only toxic ways to employ them. He claims his innocence in regard to his dying of tomato-less tomato.
A beggar asks me for a peso. I give it to him. Every day I hand out dozens of pesos among the local destitute community.
Ipatria punches me with a closed fist. I do the same to her. I hug her. I spit blood and ask her to forgive me. I don’t really know exactly why, but I ask her to forgive me. Nothing of this should have been real.
Alive. I am alive. Like the off-key roosters in Lawton’s backyards.
To sing to him in the morning. What an image. How many octosyllables must have been rhymed in Cuba following such hoaxes? The morning announces itself with a trill. With the rooster’s song. Quiquriquí. Cock-doodle-doo. Arroz con país. Rice and country.
Everything rhymes. Everything fits inside décimas and seguidillas and slogans and headlines. Everything is ritual, rhetoric of the Revolution.
A million bees buzz in my ears. An army of scorpions in my temple. Crustaceans under my cheekbones and acid reptiles in my sternum. A zoo of tiny lies, so as not to name the truth.
I die. I am dying. Like pigs unsuccessfully challenging the neighborhood knives.
My telephone has an international outlet. 119, world. 34, Spain. I dial JAAD’s cell number.
It rings. I hang up. To hell with the Stepmotherland.
A morning smoke fills the corridor of my wooden house. Steam, dew. The beauty of these cyclical lines builds up pressure. Truth resounds in my veins. Daybreak, agony. Knock-knock, who was it?
Orlando lays down.
It’s nice to imagine him in vertigo from the male-female roofbeams, lying on the bedspread in shadows, a body so immaculate and horizontal.
A phosphorescent Orlando. The hair mat like seaweed. Medusa about to be reborn a corpse. Orlando, aphasic.
It is unimaginable to imagine him at this hourless hour, five-something in the Cuban dawn.
Orlando turns face-down. He curls up. A fetus with no consonants. Oao. And interjection with no vowels. Rlnd.
Reiterative until exhaustion. Unrecognizable.
His man buttocks, human, devouring the rest of his nudity. The remains of his muteness.
Orlando has no hands. His arms are buried under his rickety body, under his ideal-athlete biology, under his perfect skin full of irregularities. Patches, spots, crevices, pimples, scars, biopsies.
Orlando dances.
His back arches itself. His spine swells, his legs stretch until tendons burst from desire.
Orlando moans. He collapses. He makes a nest out of sperm and bed sheets. A bundle of scents accumulated under the coldness of the false winter coming in in strips through the louvers.
He lays exhausted.
It is natural to assume he is not asleep. That death is as deceitful as dreams. That Orlando has given out a slight, imperceptible whinny of pain and has magisterially stopped breathing.
With regards to my previous post (“Lead us not into temptation”), today I returned to see Yolanda, Pedro Argüelles’s wife, a Lady in White, where I learned that Pedro Argüelles has been on a hunger strike for five days.
Her eyes teared up, fearing the worst, because she knows that he is very ill and is someone firm in his principles. I remember when we met at Mass and sometimes talked sitting on a park bench opposite the church. I cry out to all people of goodwill. It is not just to keep punishing him because he refuses to go into exile. Please, for the sake of mercy, for the sake of peace and hope, for the government to keep its promise, and for his own rights: Freedom for Pedro Argüelles!
Note: This interview with a former prisoner of Cuba’s Black Spring of 2003, recently sent into exile in Spain, is from the blog Pedazos de la Isla, Pieces of the Island.
Jose Luis Garcia Paneque, better known simply as “Paneque”, is an example of the brutality practiced by the Cuban government. In his face and in his spirit he carries the scars inflicted on him by a dictatorship which does not tolerate any form of dissent or free thinking. But Paneque is also a prime example of the Cuban man who struggles, of a fearless dissident, and of a free man.
Upon being exiled to Spain, this member of the “Black Spring” group of 75 men has decided to continue fighting for the freedom of Cuba, although he resides in foreign lands. He began writing his own blog, “Diary of an Exiled Cuban”, and he now shares another blog, “Cuban Voices from Exile”, with his brother-in-cause Pablo Pacheco.
The following is the story of Paneque, in his own words:
Paneque, please tell us a bit about your origins. What part of Cuba are you from and how did you grow up?
I come from a traditional Cuban family (my dad was a car mechanic and my mother a housewife), who lived on farmlands in a sugar-producing small town of Southern Cuba. In such a traditional family, the father figure is a symbol to be followed. From my father I obtained an education based on values which had been deeply rooted within the Cuban people and which 50 years of dictatorship had tried to erase. Everything that I learned at home was the opposite of what was being taught to me under the official education system. I didn’t really notice any of this during my childhood or during the first years of my adolescence, but I eventually made the distinction as I continued growing older.
According to what I have understood, you studied medicine. What kind of medicine did you specialize in and how long did you actually get to practice this profession?
Yes, I studied medicine and graduated in the year 1989. I specialized in Plastic Surgery for victims of burn injuries. I worked for 14 years in a Burn Injury Unit in Las Tunas.
What was it that took you from doctor to dissident?
The university was a turning point for me. There, I developed my principles and my ideological positions which have accompanied me up to this very day. That contact with other points of views, opinions, cultures, and realities was a very important moment in my life and inspired me to continue with this struggle for freedom of expression, association, and movement, without having to respond to official convocations as is mandatory in the Cuban system.
I was only waiting for the right moment to express all that I was feeling. That moment came in 1996 with the formation of numerous small dissident groups in the interior of the island. At first, such groups did not have a very well-defined platform but they all had a very strong desire to make some changes in society.
Please tell us a bit about your activities as a civil dissident and independent journalist.
With the passing of the years and with all the daily struggles, everything became much clearer. Tangible projects were set in motion, allowing us to evolve from a state of dissidence to a well-developed opposition platform, which consisted of political movements, alternative cultural projects, professional associations, and the formation of the Freedom Press Agency which launched on March of 1998. All of this was done with very little resources and with notebooks, pens, and using telephone equipment that would allow us to communicate with media outlets in South Florida (United States). All the while, we were well aware that we were taking risks, but with the conviction that we would spread the truth despite the consequences, we were determined to take on the task.
You were jailed during the Black Spring of 2003. Where were you at the moment of your arrest, and what do you remember the most about this day?
I was one of the many detained on the afternoon of March 18, 2003 under the oppressive wave known as the Black Spring, where 75 people throughout different towns and cities of the Cuban provinces were jailed and condemned to sentences of up to 28 years in prison.
From the early hours of that day, the secret police was already watching over my house in Las Tunas. Every time I would walk out and head somewhere I noticed that I was being followed, and in fact, I even received a phone call saying that I was going to be detained within the next few hours, but such methods of intimidation are common practice and I was used to it. For that reason, I continued going about my daily life as usual. What I did not know was that I was in the middle of a massive state security operation known as “Offensive II”.
At around 3:30 pm, while I was with my four young children, state security carried out a search of my home, without taking into consideration that this may inflict psychological damage onto my children. This search lasted for more than 6 hours and they confiscated “material proof” such as a typewriter, a telephone, a fax machine, a short-wave radio receiver, a photo camera, a small voice recorder, various books (not really even taking into account their content), and some medications, some of which were actually for my children.
After a 23 hour period, I was taken to the Provincial Police Investigation Unit of Las Tunas. There, I was thrown in a dark and humid cell which lacked sufficient ventilation and which would be a foreshadowing of what I was going to suffer later. I did not have any means of communication, and without even having a proper trial they handed me a fiscal petition for a sentence of 20 years imprisonment for committing “acts against the territorial independence and integrity of the nation” and “acts against the territorial independence and integrity of the state” based on the pretexts of Law 88, popularly known as the “Gag Law”.
On the 3rd of April a trial was held for me and four other detained dissidents of the same cause in a theater. The entire scene was absurd and all of us were sentenced in the end. At no point in time did any of us five deny that we had acted on principles based on necessary democratic changes. On the next day, the constable notified all of the “accused” of their official sentences. In my case, I was to serve 24 years behind the bars.
In your blog you mention that when you entered prison, you weighed 189 pounds. However, when you were recently released, you only weighed 105 pounds. What was the reason for such dramatic weight loss?
Two days after my “trial” I was taken to the provincial maximum security prison known as “El Tipico” (‘The Typical’). There was where I commenced my journey through hell, which is the best way that the Cuban penitentiary system can be described. Upon arriving we were informed that we would be jailed under major severity in isolation cells for 2 years. All of this while never having committed any crime, or even any in-disciplinary actions in the jail for that matter. Yet, they continued applying the most cruel and inhumane form of punishment on us.
In this prison I was only allowed one monthly phone call, which was obviously heard by and censored by the authorities. I only was allowed visits every three months, while bags of food were only allowed every four months and conjugal visits every five months.
What I did not imagine at the time was that this was going to be the odyssey of a political prisoner of conscience who would go through 9 prisons in 5 provinces of Cuba, all of which were very far from my home and relatives. In Villa Clara, I was in three prisons. In Holguin, I was in two. In Havana, I was in Combinado del Este, and then Granma, and once again back to another prison in Las Tunas.
We were subjected to a severe defamatory campaign in the official media in order to warp and discredit our images among the Cuban population. In addition, we would also suffer by having to hear the live broadcasts of state-run TV shows, such as “Mesa Redonda” (‘The Round Table’) right in the middle of the period known as “the Battle of Ideas”. Clearly, all these programs were prepared by the government in order to promote its own point of view.
We had been cast under the unlimited cruelty of not only being men who were deprived of any sort of freedom of expression and defense, but we were also isolated in deplorable conditions which seriously damaged my health and the health of my brothers-in-cause. I was a healthy man who weighed 189 pounds when I entered the gulags. Less than a year later, I weighed a mere 99 pounds — a severe loss which endangered my life — product of the intestinal indigestion syndrome I acquired in prison. And it was in those same conditions that I arrived to Spain.
Photo taken from the internet
How would you describe a typical day in the Cuban prisons to someone who is not familiar with the reality of the island?
Everything starts at dawn when the alarm bells start ringing to announce the first of the 3 “prisoner counts”. But there aren’t always just 3 counts; there could be more depending on any mistakes made by the penitentiary authorities while counting. The prison code considers such “inventories” to be sacred. Violating any of the norms, such as not forming a line correctly, dressing incorrectly, or not remaining silent, could get you a harsh beating on behalf of the guards. Another common punishment is to be kept in a punishment cell for 21 days. After the count there is breakfast, which consists of sugared water, any sort of insipid cereal, and a small piece of bread.
The prisoner who is assigned to clean must do so, if not he pays someone else to do it for them. Some work for no remuneration and accept the humiliation, while others collaborate with the authorities as the only way to “catch a bit of air”, or in other words, step out of jail for a little while. The other option is “five pounds of padlocks” (to get locked away). Prisoners denouncing prisoners is a very common practice in the penitentiaries. Meanwhile, some prisoners actually do the dirty work of the guards — controlling pawns, capital punishment, the sale of drugs, prohibited games (Dice), etc. These specific prisoners count on the approval of the authorities for whom they work.
The isolation and punishment cells are small enclosures of 3 x 1 meters with very scarce ventilation and illumination, for the only opening is a small fence. They are humid cells divided in two sections by a brick wall. On one side there is a latrine – known among prisoners as the “Turk” – which stands on a tube where water flows for only 5 minutes daily and which occasionally does not flow at all; and also a washing place known as a “small boat”. On the other side there is a very narrow bed which is very uncomfortable, even for me, a person of short stature.
As you can see, there is very little free space left to move around. And that’s how I spent my life 24 hours a day, with only the exception of 1 hour reserved for getting some sun, although under very isolated conditions as well (only from Monday to Friday, not the weekends).
I had family visits every 3 months and one phone call per month for 2 years. Afterward, we were to be submitted into a strict and inhumane punishment method applicable to any person where we were prohibited any sort of social interaction. The objective was to “brainwash” us.
Being in a Cuban prison feels as if time has stopped. I was forced by the circumstances I was living under to create protection mechanisms which helped to improve myself and to give me strength to deal with my reality. If you are able to achieve a psychological balance while in jail, then you can determine just how deep the scars will affect you in the future. That’s the reason why many of us who have been deported to Spain have been in such deplorable states of health. In my case, I still harbor a serious scar which I acquired during the days, weeks, and months which I remained behind bars.
In order to survive such an extreme state of loneliness I would carry out a daily routine, starting at dawn, and which occupied my entire day. This process would start with the arrival of water. During those very limited moments, I would fill up my drinking bottles and my shower bucket while I waited for my breakfast — sugar mixed with water, cereal, and a small piece of bread. Then, I would commence my morning prayers. I clearly recall with much devotion how I would find such peaceful refuge within the prayers of the Rosary, that prayer strongly recommended to us by his holiness, Pope John Paul II.
After cleaning out my buckets I then did some exercise (improvised, of course) though I wasn’t accustomed to do this, for my whole life I had been somewhat sedentary. With what I could and with much patience, I would shower and then clean my own cell. I would organize my belongings (though they were not much), later laying in bed to read. At first, I would read universal literary classics such as The Count of Monte Cristo, Los Miserables, or the biography of Fuche — these were the typical selections in a prison, for there were not many other options to begin with seeing that family visits were so sporadic and our literature was tightly controlled and censored. When they felt like it, the guards would bring us national magazines such as “Granma”, “Rebel Youth”, or “Workers”.
It was amid all these processes that our lunch would arrive to our cells. It was nothing appetizing and it would vary from prison to prison. My ingestion was only improved by the food brought by family members during their allowed visits. Usually, the bag of food consisted of 25 pounds of crackers, seasoning, cooking oil, powdered milk, and some type of cereal. After lunch, I would rest for a bit, or they would allow me out to get some sun. Other times I would disorganize my cell, later to just organize it again, I would read some more, I would shower, and then wait for dinner (which I would dedicate more time to than lunch or breakfast). It was really all a ritual to try and distract myself from the reality which surrounded me, refusing to succumb to that dark sadness produced by the vicious and painful cycle.
As is common practice, the system of the Cuban regime not only punishes its political prisoners, but also their family members. In addition to the obvious pain caused by the separation of family what other hardships, what other hardships did your relatives suffer during your time in jail?
The personal decision to confront the Cuban regime also inevitably translates into aggression towards your entire circle of relatives and friends. Like I have previously mentioned, it all begins with a campaign to socially discredit us. Then, we are threatened, excluded from work opportunities, and if none of these methods are effective, then they will resort to physical aggression. And to further attack the family, they imprison and/or isolate us. Such forced separation puts any family man in a very vulnerable position, especially when that man is a father (in my case to four young children who cannot even understand what is happening). Of course, the intent of such actions is to completely annul the opposition. It’s not enough for the government to just destroy our image and isolate us from society.
Those were years of bitter suffering for me and my family, as I resided behind the bars of isolated cells far from my children and wife. But it was even more painful to know of all the hardships my family was subjected to, even though they tried to keep it from me. My wife was threatened on numerous occasions as she demanded my freedom while my kids were victims of mob acts on behalf of groups of people organized by the government’s political police. The government showed no mercy. On the night of August 3rd, 2006, for example, a mob of more than 50 people armed with sticks, stones, and other objects, surrounded and attacked my home. This occurred simply because 7 young Catholics were staying overnight with my family, for they were planning on heading to a meeting at the Cobre Sanctuary in Santiago de Cuba. For more than an hour the government mobs threatened to burn down the house to “get rid of the worms”, while they screamed such slogans like, “Leave!”, “Assassins!”, and “terrorists”, all the while hurling stones.
Presented with such a situation, there was not much I can do. My responsibility was to protect my family, but I was not going to alter my position. Whenever I was able to meet with my family during the allowed prison visits, we actually considered the possibilities of having them go into exile. Various friends of the family suggested the same thing to us. My family, however, refused to leave their sick and imprisoned husband and father behind. The situation was truly unbearable. Eventually, after much dialogue and negotiation I was able to have my family accept my decision. Yet it was very difficult for me, for I did not know if I was going to be able to see them again.
According to what I have understood, you were mixed with common prisoners who were sentenced for violent crimes. Did these prisoners threaten you for being a peaceful political prisoner of conscience?
Well, as you can see I went through 9 prisons in 5 Cuban provinces. I became familiar with the hell known as the Cuban Penitentiary System. I got to firsthand experience their punishment cells, their galleys, their hospitals, and their collective cells where not only political prisoners suffer, but also thousands of other Cubans imprisoned in one of the 200 jails run by the Cuban regime also suffer. In my situation, I was forced to live with all sorts of prisoners. Some actually lent themselves to carry out the dirty work of the authorities, but generally speaking they displayed respect and sympathized with me. It was common for many prisoners to cooperate with us, delivering messages to and from us. In many cases common prisoners would find ways to have our denouncements reach the outside world and this sometimes would actually protect us in a way.
Would you describe your release as a “forced deportation” or your “voluntary acceptance to go into exile”? What was that process like?
I was surprised to find out that I had received a call (to the prison) on behalf of the Cuban cardinal, Jaime Ortega Alamino. He offered me to leave jail if I travel to Spain. It was a moment of much uncertainty and doubts, but in the end I accepted.
I left behind 7 years and 4 months of pain and suffering for me and my family. But I also left behind my homeland- my country, places I will never forget, my friends, brothers in faith, and relatives that perhaps I will not be able to see ever again. However, during all that time spent in prison (and even now) I maintained a strong, positive, and optimistic spirit, for I was very sure of the cause I was defending. I received the cardinal’s proposal with a mixture of happiness and pain. My future promised the possibility of recuperating my freedom, while I left behind so many years of struggles and sacrifices, unfinished projects, and divided families. I was beginning a new stage of my own story- and it was called exile. With this position, I have had to accept the pain of abandoning my country through “the backdoor”.
I quickly went from rotting in a jail to sitting in an Air Europe plane. While I sat inside that immense aircraft which had most of its seats empty, I felt as if it was a never-ending tunnel. At the moment I did not realize that a new sun was rising and that I was about to experience the first winds of freedom.
Cell phones with connections to various press agencies were passed from hand to hand among us- the group of the first 6 released political prisoners. There were also many people present who wanted to congratulate us and take photos with us. All of this gave us much strength to carry on. We know that not all has been lost. Though separated by distance, we are still able to struggle for the return of democracy and freedom to our country.
It was an 8 hour moment full of emotion and signs of respect, love, and solidarity. While one government closed its door on us, another land opened its own doors with generosity. I did not really imagine what was awaiting us in Spain. All our expectations fell short. It was a sea of emotion as we came face to face with a freedom we did not previously know. We did not know how to put these rights, which were given to us for nothing in return, into practice.
In reality, however, we had very little to celebrate. We were only the first prisoners of conscience from a larger group. Eventually over 41 other brothers in cause joined us in exile. Things have changed very little in Cuba. Our release was only a form of “cleaning the face” of a regime which insists on perpetuating pain and suffering for more than 11 million compatriots who are shrouded in deeply-rooted and chronic fear, without being able to find a way out.
Have you been able to reunite with your family?
That is actually still a thorn which deeply pierces my heart. I have been in Spain for 6 months and any sort of family reunion has yet to occur.
Have you been able to re-validate your titles of Plastic Surgeon and Journalist in Spain?
Those questions are actually complicated to answer, due to the confusion attached to the subject. At first, I had the idea that our titles would accompany us on our exile. But 6 months after, nothing is clear. The only certain thing is that we must continue down this path on our own. We are supposed to pay the Cuban government the elevated price it demands for re-acquiring our titles. We are currently in no conditions to pay such prices. Many of us do not have a concrete legal status so it is very difficult for us to enter the work force. And many of those who are officially legal have not been able to find a job that would be able to sustain a family and reclaim our titles. We do not wish to be parasites. We are men who are experienced in working daily and struggling to survive, but we also need opportunities to prove this. This would allow us to continue our struggle with much more freedom.
What message would you give to the Cuban exile which is spread out around the world- from Miami to Europe?
My message is very short. Look within Cuba. Right there, inside the island, are the protagonists of this story. Each of us have played a significant role, but now those of us outside must assist those who remain inside.
And a message for your fellow countrymen back in Cuba?
I’d tell them that they are not alone. Here in the Diaspora there is a very large group of Cubans who also struggle and support them. Many of these exiles are fighting for Cuba in places many of them did not chose to be in, but they also contribute their sacrifice to the cause.
Do you feel optimistic about the future of Cuba?
I do. I feel that all of us (Cubans) will find a dignified and balanced end to the Cuban story. And when I say “all of us”, I mean just that — all of us.
Timid colored awnings spring from nowhere, under newly opened umbrellas fruit smoothies and pork rinds are sold, the doorways of some homes are turned into improvised snack bars with striking menus. All this and more grows in the streets of my city these days because of the new flexibility for self-employment. Some of my neighbors are making plans to open a shoe repair, or a place to repair fridges, while avenues and plazas are being transformed by the efforts of private initiative. The straitjacket that gripped individual initiative seems to loosen. Some remain cautious, however, waiting to see if this time the economic reforms will really take hold and not be shut down as happened in the nineties.
In just the few months since the announcement of the expansion in the number of licenses for independent work, the results are encouraging. We have begun to recover lost flavors, longed-for recipes, hidden comforts. More than 70,000 Cubans have taken out new licenses to work for themselves and at their own risk, and thousands more are seriously considering the advantages of opening a small family business. Despite the caution of many, the still excessive taxes, and the absence of wholesale markets, the brand new businesses have started to be noticed in a society marked by stagnation. You see them building their little stands, hanging colorful signs announcing their merchandise, rearranging their homes to accommodate a snack bar or to offer haircuts or manicures. Most are convinced that this time they are here to stay, because the system that so suffocated and demonized them in the past, has lost the ability to compete with them.
Yesterday, February 2nd, I was on my way to the home of Caridad Caballero Batista in Holguin. She is a great friend of my family and during the last few months I have barely been able to visit her for two reasons. The first reason is simply because her house continues to be under the eternal vigilance of the G2 (Secret Police)who prevent anyone from being able to get to it. The other reason is because I am also prohibited from leaving my own town.
Just a few meters from her house I was intercepted by the political police officer, Saul Vega, and another official who claimed his last name was Caneyes. I was detained and taken to the police station of that same neighborhood. Without giving me any explanations they kept me sitting on a bench for half an hour. Later, they put me once again in a police car and took me to the center of the city to another outpost of the G2 known as “El Anillo” (‘The Ring’). I submitted to an interrogation where the main question was why I was visiting Caridad Caballero.
Then came the lecture of the “do’s and don’ts.” They will not allow any type of commemoration to go on during the 23rd of February, the one year anniversary of Orlando Zapata’s death. They will not allow meetings to be held by the Eastern Democratic Alliance. They will not allow me to go to certain towns to report any incidents of those which “you put on your blog.” Once again, my blog, my reports, my interviews with citizens and activists who are beaten and mistreated by that same police who were questioning me right then.
In another section of that document which they read to me they stated that on the 3rd of February it would be one year from the day when a public protest was held in Camaguey by more than 20 peaceful dissidents who took to the streets to alert everyone that Orlando Zapata would soon die in the Amalia Simoni hospital room and that not a single guard was doing anything to help save his life.
There were other prohibitions mentioned as well. Neither myself or any other member of the Eastern Democratic Alliance has permission to travel from one town to another. In other words, I am restricted during this whole time from traveling to Las Tunas, Santiago de Cuba, Guantanamo, Moa, Bayamo, Baracoa, or Holguin. And never to Banes.
When they concluded the litany of warnings, threats, and prohibitions, they took me (once again in a police car) to the exit of that town, which indicates the way back to San German. They told me that I “better return to my town because the restrictions for Holguin and Banes for this month had been made very clear.”
Not only do they limit and restrict my freedom of expression and movement from one province to another, but also within my own province which is the place I am forced to move about, for all my friends live there and that is where all the cultural centers I visit are located.
At some point in the “chat” (which although it violated my citizen rights, this time it was not aggressive) I asked the official who claimed his name was Caneyes if all those prohibitions and formulated threats could be handed to me in written form. His answer came quick, “No, no.”
I then told him, “That’s where the difference lies between both of you and me. ”
“What’s that?” he asked.
I responded by telling him that, “Whatever I think about any subject I write it down and publish it on my blog, and you can’t give me what they tell you to do in written form. For my part, I have the freedom to chose what I will write and the freedom to publish what I think. As soon as I get out of here I will write about what we just “spoke about” and it will get published on my blog. I will try to get someone to print it for me and if you accept it, I’ll give you a copy, and a few copies of previous entries as well.”
– Virgin of Charity, you who are compassion and love.
– Help us so that in Cuba things do not get worse than they already are.
– Come close to your children, relieve us of so much suffering.
– And if you are not able to come remove this oracle from our lives forever.
– My Virgin, the only thing I ask is for a miracle to see if I get the hell out of this captive island.
– I promise, my Virgin, that I will continue to love and venerate your image.
– I will hang on to your divine faith like an amulet and I will take it to the dark ocean, and I will not stop until I reach the other shore of Florida.
– Forgive me, my Virgin, if I perish in such a desperate attempt, but if I stay to see the conclusion of this carousel of time, then that will be my death.
The Virgin, with a hollow and worried voice, gives her answer to the desperate Cuban.
– Hold on, you bastard, hold on a bit longer and continue resisting the power outages, the scarcities, and the lack of water.
– Stand up and walk in the darkness without a light, brush your teeth in the mornings with Perla brand toothpaste and taste the inedible soy “ground beef” during the afternoons while you watch TV.
– Don’t grow desperate, you bastard, for this story is nearly over. I only have one suggestion left for you — don’t stop swallowing live the apologetic speeches of the tyrant who oppresses you.
– And if you can’t find a way to release the excrement of half a century, then get on a bike and start screaming, “Down with Raul and Fidel!”…
Fefa, my friend Gisela’s mother, was run over by a motorcycle as she was attempting to cross the street without paying enough attention. In her tumble, she fractured her hip for the second time in two years. Admitted to the hospital, doctors decided not to operate again without waiting to see if putting a cast on her hip and ordering full bed rest would heal her broken bones.
All of that first stage went on smoothly; Gisela would go to the hospital from home, food in hand, and would stay the night with her mother, in case Fefa needed a bedpan or to reposition herself in bed; full rest was mandatory.
When the doctors decided to release Fefa from the hospital, real problems began to arise. As Fefa still requires absolute rest, Gisela needs eighty “national” pesos* to pay for an ambulance to carry Fefa to each of her medical appointments, and eighty more to take her back home. One day, she even had to pay a hundred, because the ambulance staff consisted of three people. It is a free service, but since Gisela already went through this with the last fracture of her mom’s hip, she knows what it’s like to request the service only to be left waiting for the ambulance and lose her turn at the hospital.
The ambulance staff will provide the service of carrying a patient upstairs if needed, as is their case, as they live in a second floor apartment. If, at the appointment, an x-ray is required for Fefa, Gisela will have to “thank” the staff by paying them twenty “national” pesos for a someone to place Fefa on the X-ray table and take her off again. And she always takes a snack for the doctor and a “little something” for the nurse who controls the order of attendance, so she won’t make them wait for too long.
When Fefa fractured her hip the last time, anytime a medical appointment was made, Gisela would agree with the doctor on a time, and for ten Cuban convertible pesos* he would come to the house with a nurse, after which Gisela would take her to the Physiotherapist. Back then , Gisela’s daughter, who runs the household, had no fear of being unemployed. Now things have changed, and they must go through sacrifices to make ends meet. Poor Gisela, completely worn out by all of this, told me: “Make sure you have savings, in case you need to go to hospital!”
Translator’s note: Cuba has two currencies. A “national money” peso is worth about $ 0.04 U.S. and a convertible peso is worth roughly $1.00 U.S. Wages are paid in “national money” and rarely exceed the equivalent of about $20.00 U.S. a month. Pensions are a fraction of that. Thus, the “price” for the doctor and a nurse to come to the house is about two weeks wages, or an entire month’s pension.
That’s what people in my planet usually say when someone, timidly, dares to voice any sort of criticism in the public media regarding anything that affects us all.
But the truth is that the world is, indeed, a mess. Only a few weeks ago, Tunisian protests began due to the high costs of food and gas. Very soon these protests made clear the long and excessive rule of the Tunisian political leader. And very soon, neighboring countries followed; presently, mass protests have been ongoing in Egypt, where the demonstrations are increasingly heating up.
It was Mubarak’s opponents who first took to the streets: men, women and even children peacefully demanding the resignation of their president. There, the origins of the protests were similar to the Tunisian ones. Yet the stubbornness of a ruler who has been in power for over three decades has come to the forefront, and what initially was taking place peacefully and in an orderly fashion has become unstable: now the supporters of the regime have begun to counterattack and, for the first time, we are witnessing abuses, violence, Molotov cocktails, showers of stones from rooftops, aggression to foreign journalists, deaths and hundreds of injuries. The civilized world asks for a peaceful transition and the creating of a new government. It wasn’t long before Mubarak’s counterpart in Yemen got the message and, sensibly, he has already declared he will not run for reelection and that he will not nominate his son as his successor.
In the meantime, here in our continent, the leader of our neighboring Bolivarian brother, proclaimed that not only he will celebrate his twelve years in power, but that he also plans to celebrate another twelve, and then another twelve, and more and more after that, boasting about his illustrious intelligence.
And meanwhile, I, unwillingly, have caught myself remembering that old saying from my grandma: “When you see your neighbor’s turban burn, soak your beret.”
Here in Cuba we have the habit of calling small state businesses puestos — places — those businesses that, up until recently, sold agricultural products through the poorly-named “supplies book” (seldom did it supply us), for prices subsidized by the state.
Their prices were similar to those set for currently for the diminished medical diets, which minimized the impact of the high prices of “liberalized” products (products not subsidized by the State). These shops exist today exclusively to dispatch produce that has been advised by the such medical diets—prescribed by a physician for specific aliments—and, every now and then, a few other agricultural products.
In the absence of any armed conflict in the past fifty years—but also in spite of the continued and systemic crisis in which the nation has been immersed—nobody understands why the said “supplies book” is still in place; though given the lack of supplies and the helplessness into which the Cuban people are sunk, most people vote for its continuation, based on the logic that it’s better to have something, even if it’s little and bad.
Nowadays, some products have been liberalized — that is taken off the rationing system — and there are fewer and fewer priced under government subsidies. Salaries continue to be symbolic in today’s Cuba, so the prices of products in stores selling in “hard currency” or that sell “released” products (that is those no longer rationed) are prohibitively unaffordable for the majority of the population.
Such establishments often find themselves in the nude when it comes to merchandise, and even when they do have merchandise, the seller has managed to build on a clientele that has more economic solvency, and to whom the products are sold in bulk, for a better price, and more quickly, leaving them with more time for other activities; we all know that when these businesses lack merchandise, they simply close down until the next delivery is made.
The one at the corner where I live (Freyre de Andrade and Juan Delgado, at La Víbora) is yet another example of the deterioration Cuba has undergone since 1959. The corner that like a coquettish, tidy, well-made-up and proud girl (like a permanent Sunday), used to distinguish its surroundings, is today—like almost anything around us which is not a propagandist display window that the State presents to the world—a depressing and ruinous eruptive engraving that has soiled our urban landscape, and become a synonym of abandon and lack of hygiene. The worst of it all is that we have become accustomed to it.
In regard to such establishment, which—as shown in the image—is closed to the public during working hours and days, some people from the neighborhood jokingly put forward that it is “un puesto que no tiene nada puesto” (or, less cleverly in English, “a naked place”) which would actually make it a “porno store…” Nothing like popular irony. But if it weren’t for such an attitude in the middle of adversity…
Here in Cuba we have the habit of calling small state businesses puestos — places — those businesses that, up until recently, sold agricultural products through the poorly-named ‘supplies book’ (seldom did it supply us), for prices subsidized by the state.
Their prices were similar to those set for currently for the diminished medical diets, which minimized the impact of the high prices of “liberalized” products (products not subsidized by the State). These shops exist today exclusively to dispatch produce that has been advised by the such medical diets—prescribed by a physician for specific aliments—and, every now and then, a few other agricultural products.
In the absence of any armed conflict in the past fifty years—but also in spite of the continued and systemic crisis in which the nation has been immersed—nobody understands why the said ‘supplies book’ is still in place; though given the lack of supplies and the helplessness into which the Cuban people are sunk, most people vote for its continuation, based on the logic that it’s better to have something, even if it’s little and bad.
Nowadays, some products have been liberalized — that is taken off the rationing system — and there are fewer and fewer priced under government subsidies. Salaries continue to be symbolic in today’s Cuba, so the prices of products in stores selling in “hard currency” or that sell “released” products (that is those no longer rationed) are prohibitively unaffordable for the majority of the population.
Such establishments often find themselves in the nude when it comes to merchandise, and even when they do have merchandise, the seller has managed to build on a clientele that has more economic solvency, and to whom the products are sold in bulk, for a better price, and more quickly, leaving them with more time for other activities; we all know that when these businesses lack merchandise, they simply close down until the next delivery is made.
The one at the corner where I live (Freyre de Andrade and Juan Delgado, at La Víbora) is yet another example of the deterioration Cuba has undergone since 1959. The corner that like a coquettish, tidy, well-made-up and proud girl (like a permanent Sunday), used to distinguish its surroundings, is today—like almost anything around us which is not a propagandist display window that the State presents to the world—a depressing and ruinous eruptive engraving that has soiled our urban landscape, and become a synonym of abandon and lack of hygiene. The worst of it all is that we have become accustomed to it.
In regard to such establishment, which—as shown in the image—is closed to the public during working hours and days, some people from the neighborhood jokingly put forward that it is “un puesto que no tiene nada puesto” (or, less cleverly in English, “a naked place”) which would actually make it a “porno store…” Nothing like popular irony. But if it weren’t for such an attitude in the middle of adversity…
I am a Habanero. I was born on Porvenir street, spent my childhood in Mantilla and my adolescence in La Virgen del Camino. I studied in La Vibora and worked in El Vedado. My mother, when I was young, used to take me around the city, showing me the streets and buildings and talking to me about architecture. From her, I learned to love it. We always discovered new things that surprised and amazed us. It could be a commercial street, with new and modern stores and cafeterias, or other areas, with great schools, movie theaters, homes and neighborhoods.
The seed planted in childhood bore fruit, and in my teens I tried to get to know the places we had never visited, adding to my bitter Marianao, La Lisa, Miramar, the urban areas to the west and east of the city, Regla, Guanabacoa and others. All the buildings interested me, be they factories, schools, housing, stores, parks, avenues, bridges, streets, etc. In them I saw the materialization of the drive and development that was reaching my city, and also my country, year after year.
Suddenly everything stopped. The old, that had resisted the passage of time, and even the modern, began to deteriorate. At first slowly, almost without our noticing it, the peeling paint and plaster, and then more quickly, until it reached the underpinnings and led to collapses. Away from the city for more than ten years, when I returned to it, it had changed greatly. Happy places from before had disappeared or been totally transformed, but not for the better, for the worse. The shock of what had happened to my neighborhoods and my school was devastating.
Today, too many years have passed, seeing the city perish into ruins ever greater, with no actions to save it, no viable projects, seeing citizens — the only ones who could save it — bound hand and foot by absurd prohibitions, it leaves me no room for optimism. I think too much has been lost, and what is left will also, very quickly, disappear. I don’t think the city will cease to exist, but it will not be the magnificent Havana it was, it will be another Havana, different, with other buildings, perhaps with copies of some of the important ones, but not with the originals.
It’s sad and terrible, because cities, as they prevail over time, fix the identities of countries, establishing the similarities and differences. So, despite the passage of years, we have a Paris, a New York, a Madrid, a Berlin, a Prague, a Moscow and a Buenos Aires, to cite just a few, recognizable by different generations. There was also once a Havana, but not with as much luck as the others.
Saavedra Lazaro Gonzalez is a Cuban artist. His “interventions” on the email network with works from his “I-MEIL Gallery” often bring to the debate a quick dose of honesty, coherence and force, for which the national intellectual camp always seems unprepared. This is his “Journalism,” received in my in-box on January 28, as an offering for José Martí’s 158th birthday.
1 – Boss, there’s some guy outside called José Martí who says he wants to start a newspaper and give it the name “Fatherland.” What should I tell him?
.
.
.
.
.
2 – HA HA HA HA. Fuck! I’m pissing myself! A newspaper?! Tell him that if some day he gets an ISBN to come and see me… HA HA HA. A newspaper?
.
.
.
.
.
3 – Boss , Martí says you can stick the ISBN up your ass, that he’s going to start a blog called “Fatherland.” What should I tell him?
.
.
.
31 January 2011
Note: This post is from the blog Man in the Clouds, a translation of “Hombre en las nubes” which is being prepared for inclusion in HemosOido.com and TranslatingCuba.com. Soon you, the reader, will be able to help us translate this great blog.
Revolutionary justice is extremely rigorous: it punishes illegal exit or plans to hijack a boat. The law also gives a more severe punishment to someone who kills a cow than to someone who commits murder. However, such intransigence is left aside when dealing with misconduct by a government official.
Raúl Castro, in his last speech before the National Assembly, acknowledged that “some comrades, without a fraudulent purpose, provide inaccurate information from their subordinates, without having tested it, and unconsciously fall into the lie. This false information can lead to wrong decisions, with greater or lesser repercussions for the nation,” he argued.
The maximum leader of the Cuban State and Government prefers the resignation of the leaders at any level, when they feel unable to perform their duties fully, rather than dismissing them for not complying with his guidelines. An example of this dominant feature of his administration, one of the most unstable of late, is the dismissal of ministers, mostly for incompetence.
More than 20 cadres were removed from their government posts, including Carlos Lage, Felipe Pérez Roque, Rogelio Acevedo, Juan Escalona, Carlos Valenciaga, Marta Lomas Morales, José Ramón Balaguer, Otto Rivero, Ulises Rosales del Toro, Pedro Sáez Montejo, Yadira García Vera, José Luis Sierra Cruz, etc.
All were put on trial before the Politburo of the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC), but no one went before the courts. The Criminal Code, which by reason of the charge is obligated to provide information, conceals and omits information or doesn’t verify it. The penalty is increased if it causes damage to the national economy. It doesn’t matter if the intent had been fraudulent or incompetent. Ignorance of the law is no excuse.
Even the historic generation, the leader, is outside the reach of the law. No court of justice has the power to question the many recognized errors in the management of the country, despite the results. Today the Cuban economy is on the verge of collapse.
It’s the same law that puts them beyond the reach of justice. It’s logical; they created it. The courts need authorization to investigate and prosecute members of the Politburo of the PCC — the president, vice president and secretary of the National Assembly, members of the Council of State and the Ministry. The Law on Criminal Procedure sets this out.
On the contrary, the historical leaders feel they have a right that gives them “moral authority” to correct the errors committed in “these five decades of building socialism in Cuba.” They enjoy this privilege thanks to the fact that the courts on the island are constitutionally subordinate to a political body, the Council of State.
The fact that justice depends on politics permits the historical leaders to turn their personal beliefs into law, to impose absurd rules of behavior on the citizens and to severely punish those who dare to challenge them. Above all, it assures them political immunity, both for themselves and their clique.
Note: This interview with a former prisoner of Cuba’s Black Spring of 2003, recently sent into exile in Spain, is from the blog 
