“Guaguariando” (Riding the bus) / Rebeca Monzo

In many countries in Latin America they call a small child “guagua.” But I understand that in the Canaries, the same as on our planet (surely the term came with us from there), a guagua is a bus, with the characteristic that those here are always full of people.

Today, Regina and I headed out early to ride one of these famous buses.

It was a lot of work to get on board. Once inside, we were packed in like sardines, and the man who collects the fares (substituting for the farebox), was in a hurry to charge us. This person is something new, recently introduced as a result of an article that came out in the paper saying that sixty percent of the total fare revenue is lost. It occurred to me to ask why, if they have replaced the fare boxes, they don’t do away with these busybodies who take up so much room and annoy the passengers, who can barely squeeze past them into the bus. He didn’t give me any explanation.

Again, speaking to him, I commented on the few guaguas in circulation, given how congested the stops are. He replied that there are few guaguas, and what happens is that there are a lot of people on the street. There was nothing for me to say to this, I January there will be many more people in the street when one million two hundred thousand people are laid off. A funny guy interrupted and said that those people are going to have to get licenses to be self-employed thieves. I replied that the TRD stores (hard-currency stores) already have those particular licenses. The silence was deadly. The journey continued with the usual pushing and shoving. Well what can I say? I got on the bus with jeans and a jacket, and nearly had to get off dressed like a Hawaiian!

December 14, 2010

My Heart and My Soul are in Santiago de Cuba / Juan Juan Almeida

My name is Rick Schwag. I live in Vermont. And for people who doubt that, my telephone number is 802-626-5578

Three years ago, I was put in a Cuban detention center for 8 days, in the tourist prison behind the place where tourists renew their visas, at the corner of Factor y Final, in Havana. I have renewed many visas there, and I never knew that this complex also includes a prison until I was imprisoned myself.

My crime was wanting to know what happened to the very valuable anesthesiology machines that we donated to the William Soler Clinic in Havana.  At first, they told me that the machines had not been accepted, and in a normal way, I went from one office to another trying to find out what happened to them. I went to MINVEC, (The Ministry of Foreign Investment) MINSAP, (Ministry of Public Health), ICAP( Institute of Friendship with the Peoples), and other organizations and Ministries, until perhaps for asking too many questions, I was detained.  I say detained because that is what they told me, but where there are bars and cells, I prefer to say “imprisoned.”

After that, after being freed, the person in charge of receiving donations from North America, Raciel Proenza said that I was a trouble maker and that he would ensure that I would never again be permitted to enter Cuba. It seemed like a threat, but when I tried to return to the island, it turned out to be true. I had to sleep on the floor of the Jose Marti airport in Havana, and I was forced to return to the United States the next day.  At least that was much better than returning to jail!

Think about it. Lots of people work in Cuba for political reasons; but in my case my reason was entirely humanitarian, and for the real love that connects me to many Cubans. I thought that I could be useful, and in retrospect, not having any political motivation was a little unusual. I started off with a few boxes of Tylenol, because many Cubans told me how difficult it was to obtain medicines. I remember that in 1997, I purchased ten huge sacks that could carry 120 pounds of medicine, which I thought was a huge amount.  But a year after that I was sending the first container of dental chairs and hospital beds.  All with the collaboration of the  people at the General Hospital of Santiago de Cuba. One thing leads to the next and I created a non-profit, Caribbean Medical Transport, and over the next 10 years I sent about 20 containers of medical equipment to Cuba, each container 40 feet long, with about 20,000 pounds of donations inside, usually partnering with other non-profits. I know many of the people who send humanitarian aid to Cuba and I am happy to work with them.

The second and third containers were loaded with 7,200 gallons of paint that we received from a recycling plant in Oregon. That was something wonderful! The paint was for hospitals.

From the beginning I saw the enormous difference between working with people in Santiago de Cuba — the hospital directors, the municipal and provincial officials of the Ministry of Health — and the bureaucrats in Havana.

I remember meeting with the director of donations of the Ministry of Health in Havana, concerning the paint.  He wanted all the paint to go to Havana. My point was that Havana is about 20% of the population and receives more than 90% of the donations that come to the country.  But in the end, we agreed to send 3,600 gallons to Havana and 3,600 to Santiago.

This is what happened. In Santiago, everyone was honest.  They told me that unfortunately, 3 five gallon drums had broken in transit, so 15 gallons of paint were lost. We had a great partnership, honest, and respectful. But in Havana, everything was different. For a year, no one would tell me what happened to the paint.

The donors wanted to travel to Cuba to see the hospitals that they had painted, which is normal and logical. I spoke to MINSAP, ICAP, all the people I worked with in Havana, and I explained, “These are donors! If they have a good experience they will want to donate more paint, so please, tell me which building got painted and let‘s arrange a nice tour for the donors.”  I was told that the donors would not be permitted to visit the hospitals unless they got a special visa of collaboration and there wasn’t any time for that. I could give more examples of bureacratic incompetence and laziness.

In 2006 we sent two anesthesiology machines to the William Soler Clinic. These machines are worth about $40,000 each, but they are worth much more than that in human lives. It was a favor to Wayne Smith, who obtained these machines from Johns Hopkins University.  Everything was done with the necessary license from the Commerce Department of the United States. A year later the problems began: I got an email from MINVEC, with the headline in capitals, DENIED. The donation of anesthesilogy  machines has been denied entry into the country for lack of completing the proper procedures. I wrote back immediately, stating that all the procedures were completed by Wayne Smith and the directors of the William Soler Clinic, and that all I had done was write the necessary permit so the machines could leave the US.

Not very happy, I went to Havana, to see if I could find them; if these machines are not permitted to enter Cuba, they should be brought to the Dominican Republic or any other country that needed them.  I was told that this was impossible and that the machines had been burned.

Of course that is a big lie. Nobody in this world burns anesthesiology machines. These machines were not mine.  There are standards of transparency and accountability in the world of humanitarian donations that Cuba, apparently, does not respect. I needed to know and give an account of what had happened, in order not to create fantasies. This was not the first time that things had disappeared in Cuba. It was my obligation to investigate, with the sole purpose of helping the people of Cuba, I could not ignore those international standards of conduct. And for that, I was threatened, then imprisoned, and finally, prohibited from returning to Cuba.

A few months ago I received a new license from the United States Department of Commerce. I am allowed to send any type of medical equipment, medicine, hospital supplies, food, clothing, sporting equipment, pots and pans and household items, millions of dollars of supplies and donations.  But MINVEC has told me that they will not permit me to send anything, and has told some partners of mine in Europe that no NGO is permitted to work with me, even though I can find the supplies and even find the money to pay the shipping.

And so, I ask myself, where is the blockade?

I can tell other stories about the apathy and incompetence and corruption of the system. For questioning the system and insisting on the necessary accountability, I became Rick, ” the bad guy.” Unfortunately in Cuba, for some people, there are things that are more important than receiving medical equipment donated to meet the needs of the Cuban people.

I know many people who have had similar experiences: architects, health providers, city planners, sister city groups, journalists.  The sad thing is that most of my colleagues are afraid to talk about the bureaucracy and the corruption, because they know that if they talk, their projects will be terminated.

We Americans live in an open society where we can criticize everyone who deserves criticism. But the sad truth is that instead of exporting our openness and honesty over to Cuba, we import the fear of those in Cuba back to the United States, fear of telling the truth, and we join in the complicity of silence. I am talking because I prefer to leave without fear, even if it brings more punishment. I prefer to cry for what I have lost, but not for cowardice.

Like I said, my name is Rick Schwag, of Caribbean Medical Transport, and I live in Vermont.  I have many friends in Cuba, including many people in the municipal governments, where some officials do care about the people that they are supposed to serve. They are my friends, but they have to keep quiet.  I am still the director of Caribbean Medical Transport, and I continue to send donated medical equipment to Nicaragua, Honduras, Colombia, Brazil and other places where our work is appreciated.

I would love to continue to help Cubans also. My heart and soul are in Santiago de Cuba.

Translated by ricote

December 13, 2010

Christmas Story / Regina Coyula

As I had unforgettable Christmases in my own childhood, I wanted to awaken those emotions in my son; and I managed to do it while he was little. But Rafael grew up and last year there weren’t decorations, I didn’t have the energy for the fake tree, fake snow, old Christmas cards, empty boxes wrapped up in place of gifts. This year it was a little more difficult than the one before, for reasons everyone knows and for other, more intricate ones. Come November, my husband, ignoring my authority over him, announced that this year I should put up a Christmas tree without any questioning; to make it softer, he told me a cute tale in which the protagonist suffered from a string of bad luck, until he decides to celebrate the holidays at the end of the year. Like all cute stories, it ends well. So yesterday, Sunday, I dusted off all the boxes and put together an idea for Christmas with the same fake tree, the same old Christmas cards, the same boxes – empty but wrapped like an imitation of gifts. Hugging my husband and my son, with the lights out, we contemplated the tree. It was a really beautiful moment.

But the life of Cubans is not a happy story.

December 14, 2010

What to Buy? / Yoani Sánchez

The money came in a white envelope, brought to the door by an agency — alternative and illegal — that distributes remittances. It was accompanied by a letter from the uncle who went to New Jersey thirty years ago and never returned. “Use it to celebrate Christmas,” he wrote, in his stylized handwriting, ending the note with a brief, “bye.” The lady closed the door, still in disbelief that the relative who emigrated had sent them, for the end of the year, these fifty dollars of salvation. She shouted to her son and daughter-in-law, while the great question started to take shape in her mind: “What will I buy?”

First they thought about repairing the roof that leaks every time it rains, but after subtracting the twenty percent tax levied in Cuba on U.S. dollars, there wasn’t enough to buy the materials. Another possibility was to invest in a license to sell juice from the door of the house. But her son quickly convinced her not to, as the profits from such self-employment would be too long delayed and they were desperate for money as soon as possible. He pointed out that his wife was going to give birth in three weeks and the priority was disposable diapers for the baby. But the lady of the house refused to convert all the money into Pampers; they could use the little capital to repair the washing machine that had been broken for years. “Besides, I need a pair of shoes, because it hurts me to keep going to work like this.” The uncle — far away — had no idea of the turmoil his remittance was causing.

They spent the rest of the week discussing what to do with the 40 convertible pesos they got from the bank. The dispute took on an aggressive tone at times, when the daughter who didn’t live in the house showed up to claim that part of the money was hers. None of them gave serious thought to doing what the exiled relative had intended: buying themselves some nougat, a bottle of cider and piece of pork for Christmas Eve. As a Saturday in December dawned, the toilet appeared clogged. They found a plumber who charged 38 CUC to repair it and replace a piece of pipe. Life itself had established their spending priorities. The woman sat down on the living room couch and wondered, again, what she should buy now, with the 2 CUC remaining.

December 15, 2010

Economic Guidelines Ignore Policies of Segregation on the Island / Laritza Diversent

The draft guidelines for economic and social policy proposed by the Cuban communists declare that equal rights and opportunities exist for all citizens, not egalitarianism. But at no point do they give respect to the rights of Cubans.

On the contrary, inherent in the “Update of the Socialist Economic Model” is the continuing discrimination against Cubans in favor of foreigners, principally when it comes to participating in the national economy.

The island’s communists continue promoting the participation of foreign capital, while precluding the formation of capital by nationals, by excessive regulation and state control. Notwithstanding that the Cuban Constitution treats foreigners and nationals equally in the enjoyment of rights.

While only foreigners are allowed to join with the state in large businesses, Cubans must comply with limits on their activities that impede the progress of individuals and families. Is this what they call equality of rights and opportunities?

It is no secret that foreigners enjoy a privileged position in Cuba, from an economic and social standpoint. Of course these freedoms are not a response to external pressures, but are purely government policy.

While a self-employed Cuban must pay tax, up to 50% on income over 50,000 pesos, foreigners pay a maximum of 30% on their profits. The policy is to apply higher taxes on higher incomes, hindering the activity of Cubans in their own economy

The new regulations on self-employment are pure formalities. They still do not encourage new participants, who have the responsibility of contributing to the burdens of state, creating jobs, and increasing productivity in the country. Nor do they take into account that many families depend on the progress of the activity of the self-employed.

It is fair to say that foreign investment in Cuba brings benefits to the economy. But it is not the sole solution for addressing the overwhelming problems, nor a justification for a policy of discrimination.

In the Cuban Constitution, discrimination on the basis of national origin is prohibited, and punishable by law. But there is still no legislation giving effect to this principle. Moreover, the government itself implements policies of segregation, which prevent its citizens from investing in their own economy, from being responsible for their own fate.

Translated by: Tomás A.

December 15, 2010

Placebos / Claudia Cadelo

I still remember how at the height of the Special Period my house was deteriorating before our eyes. The walls were peeling, the lights gradually burned out, the wood of the doors and windows buckled, and in general everything became impoverished too fast for my child’s mind to fathom. At times I wondered why the world was becoming so ugly with the passing of time, and it was not a subjective reflection. I never got an answer. That’s also when the messiness started. It seemed that things didn’t “go” anywhere: there were boxes, clothes, papers and junk everywhere. The worst of it was that the same thing was happening outside, as well.

My mother, for her part, never stopped trying to mark the space with what she called “change.” Once a month she would rearrange all the furniture in the house. The same easy chair with the rotted bagasse would be found at the entrance to the apartment in January, next to the telephone in February, between the living and dining rooms in March, and in April it would be on the balcony. The neighbors were moved by her perseverance and sometimes when they visited us they would exclaim, “But everything looks new! How do you manage it?” Now that the years have passed, that sentence sometimes makes me strangely sad: she, helpless before the collapse of the world represented by her home, moving things from one place to another, as if she could stop the inevitable impoverishment; and me, super happy at her side, proud to have a magician for a mother while the condescending neighbors patronized the illusion we threw over our growing poverty.

I was always grateful to her for having tried, without wavering for an instant, to light up my life in the midst of so many grievances: not having school shoes, not having winter coats, not having milk in the morning, and, finally, having absolutely nothing at all. If I were in her shoes for one day I hope I would have the aplomb to act toward myself and toward others exactly as she did. Even so, I can’t understand now, after so long and from my adult point of view, that we fed on an infinite placebo that never solved any of our problems and that, if I look at it from a larger context, is the same placebo that is consuming our nation; changing exactly that which doesn’t change anything.

December 14, 2010

Paper Talismans / Ernesto Morales Licea

After letting me in, they pointed to the hospital bed with clean linens and asked me to sit. They both attempted, with their subtle tricks, to hide the cylindrical cube full of cotton balls stained in red that laid right beneath it. They couldn’t.

“How are you, how are you feeling?” the male doctor asked me in an amicable tone, while he unwrapped his medical instruments and prepared his space.

“I am perfectly fine,” I joked. “You are the ones who tell me I’m not.”

They both smiled, maybe because of my skirmish way of fending off the irresistibly disturbing nerves that made me clumsy and most likely gave my face an expression similar to stupidity or abandonment.

The doctor seemed to be younger than he really was, probably due to his long hair, tied back in a pony tail, that fell over the back of his white gown. The lady, a robust brunette, with an easy smile. Later, I learned a curious fact: they’re husband and wife. Three children in common.

‘First, let me borrow your finger,’ he said, in his hand was a sting that appeared in my childhood nightmares to puncture the tip of all five of my fingers from both hands. “Bad start,” I thought with bitterness. I’ve always preferred every needle in the world in my arms or butt, than that sharpness sucking out drops of blood from my finger tips.

Said and done. An electric shock on my middle finger: “I always do it without shame,” he said. “If I do it with pity I might have to pinch twice.” And I agreed. Yes, he definitely does it very well. And with no shame at all.

Then, they both took a few seconds. He spoke again:

“You should basically already know how the process goes, but we’ll explain regardless. Now you should lay on your side, in fetal possession, facing the wall and with your back to us. You’re going to hold your legs as if you are really cold. We are going to lower your pants a little bit and pull up your shirt. You will feel some jabs on the iliac crest, specifically in one of those small dents right on top of your butt. Later, a subtle sting: the anesthesia.

“The anesthesia is just to fool my psyche” I thought. I knew perfectly well that it would only numb the muscle zone, but further than that, where we were really going, there would be nothing it could do.

“The first thing we’re going to do is take a sample of the marrow, from the inside of the bone,” he continued. “That is the biopsy. There, you won’t feel a thing. After, there will be some manipulation, and perhaps some pain. We need to take a sample from the hip’s flat bone in order to do a biopsy. The most important part is that you can’t move for anything in the world. There are some patients that scream, and others say the anticipation is worse than what it really is at the end… but no movement, ok?”

And I agreed, knowing – just by pure intuition – that those stories of painless, fast procedures, are just as beautiful as fairy tales, but even a little more fake. They are the doctors manual’s descriptions, their attempt to avoid giving us pain, and they place them in our heads as a way of distraction. But just that. They know it.

What did I feel during that mortal second, sort of like “the beginning of the end,” when I had to place myself in such a vulnerable position? Abandonment. That exactly. I felt just as helpless, as fickle, as those fetuses I was now pretending to mimic. The certainty of knowing that nothing that could come after this moment would be pleasant. And that I couldn’t do anything to avoid it.

A freezing, super thin serpent, advancing inside of me. A first jab: the sour sting of the anesthesia covering my tissue. Movements from the doctor’s fingers over the infiltrated area, stimulating the hip’s surface with his hands. Then, a second jab. And a third. A bearable pain so far: something that carefully penetrated, that placed a needle there, where the marrow grows, and that sucked out part of that spongy material.

Yes, palpable pain. My hands clung to the railing of the stretcher, feeling goosebumps and electrical shocks that started in my body and ended up mixing with the coldness of the needle. Something like that, more or less: when the only guide is your imagination and the carnal perception, one cannot not be too exact.

Some minutes of intense but controllable pain, while I thought, between muscle and cheek contractions: “It’s almost over, it’s almost over, it’s almost over.” And it was, at some point. I stopped feeling the snake inside of me, the frigid material of the needle. But then the feminine voice, as encouraging as a mother’s, said behind me:

“Now we’re going to the second part. Be strong, let’s go.”

And nothing was rational, coherent again. Nothing was controllable anymore.

A piece metal started moving forward centimeter by centimeter, brusque, violent, moving tissue in search of its objective: the bone. A huge trocar (As I later saw), a spiked cylinder, with another cylinder inside, that barely gained ground with the push of the trained hands, and for every advancing millimeter would extract grimaces from my face. Always inside, always thick: a short path measures in inches path I experienced as endless.

Trocar used for bone marrow biopsies.

A light stump against the hip: the bone resistance. And almost immediately the indescribable, unpronounceable, extraverbal pain as is almost everything sublime or terrible, from the metal clinging to the bone and intending to detach a bone particle.

Could I pick an adjective for that pain? Yes. But it is a poetic adjective that only I can comprehend, and only I can know how exact it is. This pain wasn’t “fulminating,” nor “infernal,” according to how we try to describe terrible things. It was rather a sweet pain. As simple as that. A sweet pain that made me scream without opening my mouth, and tensed my hands against the railings while inside me the tip of a sharp cylinder hurt my bone.

“You’ll feel a pull,” said a voice I couldn’t identify: whether his or hers.

And the pull came. But it didn’t detach anything: my hip stayed intact. A few seconds to rest. I would dare to assert that it was a rest for them too, vaguely disappointed for not getting it the first time.

Then, on that gray-like second where even thinking was bothersome, a door that opens, that closes, and a smell that at this point I could perfectly recognize, was snuggling with stealth. A swaying voice: “How is my boy behaving,” that in an instant disperses the terror that makes me tremble, that makes my hands and feet sweat in the middle of an antarctic climate.

Her name: Lismary Cruz. The hematologist who, starting a week ago, would come say hi at seven-thirty everyday with a smile similar to a balm, auscultating me, answering my never-ending questionnaires with an encouraging presence that was more than professional, it was angelic; and that along with other specialists was dedicated to something that, at least for me, had no small importance: to put their commitment and talent in efforts of preserving my life.

Her hair was jet black, wavy, accentuating her white skin. Small height, and with a facial beauty that didn’t allow her – according to her funny and egocentric words – to scare the septuagenarian patient next to my bed, that was complaining about his hiccups: “I have to find someone very ugly to scare you so your hiccups go away, dear. Even if I wanted, I wouldn’t be able to.” And then, the amusing smile.

“How is my boy behaving?” she said, her voice breaking the momentary silence.

Somebody answered excellent, that I am a man, that I was taking it without moving not even a millimeter, and I, wanting to ask what it meant to be a man, what it meant to take it, how to face what I was now feeling, and that was growing again, gaining more strength, ever since that masculine voice, which despite everything that was comforting said: “Here we go again.”

Lismary got close to me, she put her hands near mine. My instinct asking for help: I took her hand as if she was my mother, or my sister, or my girlfriend: taking care not to hurt her, gagged from the pain but calm because, unconsciously somehow, I trusted her more than the rest. I believed that if she was present nothing bad could happen to me. Even though, in reality, this wasn’t true.

The pushes they needed to introduce the trocar once again made my torso move. At times they were so strong they moved me some degrees. It hurt. It deeply hurt. My legs were shaking. Lismary’s support took me to a subliminal place as did her voice, talking close to me, attempting to calm me down, saying “We’re almost done,” when the truth was we weren’t; suddenly her voice, even though I can’t remember right now why or how, started talking to me about origami, about the artistic shapes some can give paper, and about how she felt a passion in making them.

“You have to give me one, I’ve never had one,” I said on a moment of lucidity and peace, as I immediately close my eyes and feel how my tears finally won the battle. They grew tightly against my eyelids. And the trocar attaching to my bone, biting it, attempting to latch on to it in order to cut a piece… as the pull came again, and once again, in vain.

Silence again. I hear them stay quiet. And I hear a hectic noise of hands and instruments, and steps I later understood: the doctor had to yield to the masculine strength. My bones were too hard. That’s exactly what they told me. Lucky me, young and strong bones; but now, that was unfortunate.

The inward pushes, the meat not giving in, the pain that’s already bittersweet, which causes me spasms and quick complaints I shut with my knees on my mouth. I want everything to be over already. I wish it had never started. It hurts too much. Way too much. Sometimes it feels as if it’s drilling, others as if it’s crushing. I don’t know. I don’t even know how I didn’t totally faint. It may be because of Lismary’s redeeming voice, that says things I do not understand but that do soothe me; maybe because with my suffering I thank, after all, these stupendous doctors that take the time to study me and focus all their thinking on me.

An inaudible crunch. No ears heard it. Rather it was heard by my insides. And the trocar now came counterclockwise, coming out, finally imprisoning a yellowish particle (bones are not white) that I didn’t see, and I don’t want to know if it was extremely small or gigantic, but it put an end to a frightful half hour.

Now I could relax. I was now able to slacken my muscles. Feel the cotton balls cleaning me up, that would also end up in the cylinder bucket under the stretcher. I could hear my hematologist’s voice saying: ” We finished, we finished”… with a secret compassion she couldn’t confess, with an empathy for my pain that professionally she couldn’t show, but that I know she experienced.

Sitting down, getting up. Looking at those two young doctors, also future hematologists, that didn’t allow that slight moment to fill up with grayness despite the suffering, and dedicated jokes and encouraging words to me. Their names, which I also learned later on: Roy Roman, Hany Trujillo. I looked at them and I thought, for a second: I am nothing. Artists are nothing. I write for me, I don’t deliver my vocation to no one in particular, even though my product is finally consumed by some one that is not me. But these people dedicate every second of their lives to work for everyone else’s health. Blessed be.

I took my first steps almost without being able to breathe. I said to both: “Thank you very much. You both are phenomenal,” and leaning on my tiny doctor I started heading to my bed in room 12A. Every step was an agony.

Minutes later, still raging from fear and pain, laying facing down, I had to take my pillow off my head and pay attention to the woman who, graceful once again, timely once again, opened her hand and extended two miniature origami, recently created.

Lismary said they were for behaving well. I smiled, surprised, grateful: sensing that in that pair of shapes she was giving me other energies that she maybe didn’t even understand yet. In my insides I felt I had a clear suspicion that those weak figures, in yellow and pink, origami born from a tremendous circumstance, at the same time beautiful, would prevail in me going forward as a spell made out of paper against the hard times still to come.

Translated by: Angelica Betancourt

December 9, 2010

Cuba: More than 50 Opponents Arrested on Human Rights Day / Iván García

More than 50 dissidents and activists were arrested on December 10 in Cuba by the combined forces of the National Police and State Security for attempting to mark the International Day of Human Rights, according to the Cuban Commission for Human Rights and National Reconciliation led by Elizardo Sánchez Santacruz.

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights was signed in 1948 and the Republic of Cuba is a signatory. In several parts of the capital, the atmosphere was tense with the notable activity of students and workers, who were mobilized to counter the marches planned by the Ladies in White and other organizations of the emerging civil society.

Around the University of Havana, hundreds of students from the Faculty of Law were jammed in the staircase and its surroundings. They had been convened with the objective of holding a counter-march to respond to the expected walk of the Woman in White.

“We have been here since 11 this morning. They told us our mission was to contain and delivery a worthy response to the provocations of the mercenary groups,” said a university student.

Other sites of the Plaza de la Revolution municipality, likely meeting points for the dissident groups, were monitored or taken by young people who celebrated and listened to music.

Such was the case Villalón Park. Many young people, keeping pace with government slogans and songs from the new trova, attended a ceremony to mark the World Festival of Youth and Students to be held in South Africa.

Coincidentally, local activists and opponents, including Dr. Darsi Ferrer, had planned to hold a rally there to commemorate the 62nd anniversary of the most famous document of the United Nations.

Outside of Havana, several acts of repudiation and arrests were reported, according to independent journalists in Villa Clara and Holguin. At Guantanamo, the opponent Néstor Rodríguez Lobaina had planned an event in a plaza in the eastern province.

Through Twitter, Martha Beatriz Roque reported that the Ladies in White were divided into three groups. Two groups demonstrated at the entrance of the Combinado del Este and 1580 prisons, on the outskirts of Havana, where 11 political prisoners remain from the Group of 75. The third group walked near the Ministry of Justice and the Directorate of Prisons, in the Vedado.

They went with pink gladioli in their hands. As on the night of Thursday the 9th, when they had to endure verbal and physical aggression by government mobs throughout their walks through the central streets of the capital.

In 1998, the president of the Lawton Foundation for Human Rights, Oscar Elias Biscet, convened a 50th commemoration of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights at Buttari Park, and since that time it has become common for Cuban authorities to ban, suppress and arrest those try to celebrate on 10 December in public places. “Legally there is no violation of law. Cuba is a signatory to the Universal Declaration. Therefore there is an inconsistency of legal procedures,” says Larisa Diversent, an independent attorney.

The government of the Castro brothers does not recognize the opposition, accusing it of “being in the service of the U.S. and other forces of reaction.” This is one of the reasons why the human rights activists are not allowed to demonstrate.

It is also because the government believes that “in Cuba human rights are fully respected.” The opposition thinks the opposite. “Not allowing us to demonstrate is proof of it,” says a Havana opponent.

Although the dissidence in Cuba is peaceful, the regime always fears on that date. Perhaps a bit more in 2010, when in recent weeks in several locations, there have been protests and incidents involving ordinary citizens.

Photo: EFE. The Ladies in White at the entrance on a prison in Havana, on December 10.
December 13, 2010

Osmany and the “Other Scars” / Luis Felipe Rojas

All photos/Rolando Rodriguez Lobaina

I knew that in 2005 he was shot several times by a law enforcement officer in Antilla municipality in Holguin province. Since that time he has become an open dissident, a staunch enemy of the olive-green power that has been running the lives of Cubans for half a century. He showed me the scars, the remains of beatings, and, eyes wide, he told me of the “other scars,” those that aren’t removed with creams or magic ointments. That is, the psychological effects of having gone to jail after being beaten and taking a bullet.

On October 31, 2010, during the last beating carried out against the defenders of Human Rights in Banes, the most talked-about, where they arrested and beat fifty activists, Osmany Espada Rodriguez was savagely handcuffed to the point where it once again left visible marks.

On more the one occasion he has been arrested, as he defends more than anyone the rights of all Cubans. His name is not on the list of the most well-known dissidents, nor do the notable organizations call him, wanting to know about the latest arrest, but those of us who know him well know that he works from the shadows and that his efforts are there in every action of the Eastern Democratic Alliance. The photos accompanying this post were given to me by Rolando Rodriguez Lobaina and are available here for your use. If you see someone defending the socialist cause from the Palace of the Revolution, or a pseudonymous commentator on my site daring to deny all this once again.

Osmany deserves attention, he is a sick man from the effects of the shootings, the hunger in prison, and the scarcities suffered by all Cubans multiplied by the most fierce repression happening right now, on this tongue of the sea that is Antilla, the corner where the Virgin of Charity of Cobre appeared once to three men: a white man, a mulato and a black man, just like Osmany Espada Rodriguez.

December 12, 2010

Fermín’s Christmases / Rebeca Monzo

He always dreamed that his bones would one day, when the time came, fertilize the land that witnessed his birth. With the passing and the weight of years, he silently, sadly observed the march into exile of his friends and family. Little by little he was left all alone.

Now Fermín, his eighty years generously arrayed across his meager body, has left our planet, heading to Mexico with a small suitcase, and a heart full of expectations: finally he will be reunited with his entire family.

He made it Mexico City where a good friend was waiting for him, with precise instructions to deliver him to the U.S. border safe and sound. But Fermín, a little giddy about the trip, on arriving to Guanajuato, left the hotel, took a little stroll around the block, and exclaimed: “Coño, and I thought Miami was great!” His friend quickly extracted him from his mistake. Eleven hours of traveling was still ahead of him to get to the place indicated and, of course, once there he immediately invoked the Cuban Adjustment Act, to ask for asylum.

Full of the excitement natural to him, he boarded a bus for Orlando, but when he’d been traveling for a couple of hours he realized he’d forgotten his suitcase, with all his documents, at the border crossing. Without thinking twice, he took another bus back to Texas, recovered his suitcase, and started his journey once again. This time he would go direct to Miami.

Finally, after traveling 140 hours (from the time he left our planet), he managed to meet up with his anxious family. They interrogated him about the inexplicable delay, and Fermín — with a huge smile — replied,”Caramba, I was enjoying the scenery!”

After so many years and so many adventures, Fermín will spend this Christmas with his family.

December 12, 2010

Making off from Villalon Park / Regina Coyula

During a break yesterday, December 10, my son’s friend approached a group of people where he was and said:

“Caballero, you have to go sign up, there’s a list over there, to go mix it up with the Ladies in White. Let’s go, we have to go home and change clothes, we gather here at three and they’ll release us at seven.”

It wasn’t my child’s classroom, the classroom selected was the tenth grade, and it so happens it was the classroom of Teo Escobar Sanchez — common names in the Cuban blogosphere.

Those in the group heard the announcement with the annoyance to be expected toward an activity imposed at the last minute; one of the girls commented by way of a goodbye, “What a drag, but if you don’t go they’ll put it in your file and you already know…”

And they went to the Director to sign the commitment form.

I don’t know what they told those kids, how they spoke to them about the Ladies in White, if they mentioned some action they had planned in Villalon Park. Teenagers barely fifteen, the majority with no particular ideas about Human Rights, much less about who these brave women are.

They left school with the Director, the Party secretary and two men who weren’t from the school. Some of them got caught up in the excitement of the crowd.

Maybe I’m deluded, but I see only weakness in what looks like arrogance.

But it is also an act of desperation.

December 11, 2010

Some Words for Others / Fernando Dámaso

In my country, the use of Spanish language words is subordinated to the political interests of the moment. So, at the beginning of the sixties when the dangers of communism were pointed out, they talked of humanism. Later, when the lack of democracy was pointed out, they spoke, officially, of proletarian democracy. When confronted with the issue of human rights, they talk about the rights to defend ourselves. And so it goes.

  1. Now they’ve turned to other words. The crisis that threatens the country is not that, but simply problems and difficulties. The massive layoffs of workers, is a process of making people available. Those who are laid off, and so become unemployed, are not that at all, they are “available.” And so to the point of exhaustion.
  2. This game with words and with the different internationally accepted categories, has brought consequences in regards to statistical information about Cuba, which are ignored by any serious world organization, as they lack absolute reliability. The statistic that there are 3.6% unemployed, reported for several years now, is example enough, when in reality there is underemployment, using three or more workers where one would be enough.
  3. The result was catastrophic: low productivity, no profits for businesses, poor quality products and services, and labor, financing and corruption problems, diversion of resources, miserable wages, etc. Precisely what they are not trying to fix.
  4. What would make sense is not to repeat the mistakes made. However, that’s not the situation. They continue down the same road, trying to continue to politically manipulate words, believing that using some instead of others will change reality.

December 11, 2010

Initiative for the Abolition of the Death Penalty on the Island / IntraMuros

Press release

(Miami-Madrid-Warsaw, 10 December)- A group of Cubans celebrates the International Human Rights Day by launching a campaign to abolish the death penalty on the Island.

It is an initiative of the Christian Democrat Party of Cuba, based in Miami, which already has the support of the group Convivencia Cuba (Pinar del Río), of the Federation of Cuban Associations, the Cuban Human Rights Observeratory (Madrid), and the Cuban Workers Council. It has also received the backing of the former prisoners of conscience José Luís García Paneque, Víctor Rolando Arroyo Carmona, Pedro Pablo Álvarez Ramos and Alejandro González Raga, all part of the “Cause of the 75”.

The campaign seeks to start a national debate on the need for the death penalty to be removed from the Cuban criminal code.

The organizers maintain that respect for life should be encouraged in Cuba and they call on all Cubans, both on the Island and in exile, to choose life, opposing the damage caused by so many decades of “Socialism or Death”. They believe the initiative is also in line with the challenge of making changes in Cuban society through justice and reconciliation, not by vengeance.

Cuban society has, for decades, been taught not to value life, but to pay homage to death: ‘The Fatherland or Death’, ‘Socialism or Death’ have been the most important slogans. We have gained nothing by following that path; let life, and not death, be the cornerstone of our future.” (Campaign message).

The opening text of the campaign reminds us that the death penalty still exists in Cuban criminal law. It acknowledges that the regime has, in practice, suspended the use of the death penalty in recent years, ‘but this is due to tactical convenience and not to doubts about the morality of it‘. And it recalls that the death penalty was applied in 2003 after several years in which it had not been used. ‘All Cubans, especially those condemned to death, know that the regime retains this terrifying power and that it may use it at any time‘.

Against this fact, they declare that the free and democratic world is more than ever aware that the death penalty must be abolished in all countries.

Any person or group who wishes to express support for the position of this organization can do so at the web page: www.nopenademuertecuba.com, where they will also find a box for suggesting other initiatives which could help in the campaign.

Contact details:

Marcelino Miyares
Phone: 001 3057783977
miyares@pdc-cuba.org

Translated by: Jack Gibbard

December 9 2010

Few Expectations / Fernando Dámaso

  1. I remember the Isle of Pines, for years now renamed the Isle of Youth, as an exotic place that lived up to its name, in addition to cattle, citrus, huge melons, Japanese and American families and thousands of parrots. Also there was the Las Casas river, the ferry dock, Nueva Gerona and its free zone, La Fe, the black sand beach, the Lanier Swamp, Siguanea, El Abra, where Martí lived, the Model Prison and the Colony Hotel.
  2. These days, reading the newspaper Granma, I find two interesting facts. The first has to do with the considerable deterioration of livestock. Of more than 300 dairies now largely abandoned, the industry faces today trying to bring back 25 of these facilities of which, they’ve managed to finish only 15. This has resulted in a deficit of more than 100,000 liters of milk (I don’t know the time frame). Due to the lack of raw materials, Milk Products Company is working at only 20% of its industrial capacity. The second fact is that 80% of remaining forest estate lands are invaded by the marabou weed. The pine forest industry, already depressed by decades of neglect, also faces two fundamental problems, shortage of raw materials and the deterioration of the machinery, leaving the industry virtually paralyzed by the lack of flat files and the critical situation with regard to the allocation of fuel.
  3. The journalist, critical in his two articles about the existing reality, write nothing about responsibilities. Presumably if it is due to decades of neglect, as is well described, those responsible will not be one, two or three temporary staff. The bar, as in the sport of high jumping, should be raised much higher. It is not my goal to play the role of inquisitor.
  4. These are simple examples (there are hundreds of them), that the economic model has never worked, does not work, will still not work with updates, adjustments and substitutions of additions. We must go deeper, if we do not want these situations to continue on a repeating cycle.
  5. That implemented and proposed so far does not meet expectations. It is simple economic theory, taken from old manuals of political economy, and a compendium of good intentions for a better future. That’s fine for ideological training courses, but has nothing to do with real solutions to the problems of the nation.

December 9, 2010