CUBAN TRANSITIONS

“Priceless libraries created over generations and libraries knocked together by upstarts; libraries specializing in the most profound, unusual themes and libraries made from birthday presents and wedding anniversaries — were all cruelly sacrificed by their owners on the pagan altar of financial necessity  suddenly felt by the inhabitants of country were the shadow of death by starvation threaten almost every home.” Havana Fever (2009), Leonardo Padura pp. 14

In our tour of Havana Vieja, we came across the Plaza de Armas. The Plaza de Armas immediately caught my attention. Around the entire plaza, sellers had stalls set-up, selling books and sometimes vinyls. While tourists looked at the books, Cubans mingled around the plaza, selling snacks or just taking a stroll. The Plaza de Armas was where the city was originally founded in 1519. It is said that Spanish troops used this plaza to do military exercises, giving it the name of Plaza de Armas (http://www.cubaheritage.org/articles.asp?lID=1&artID=319).

On returning to Havana after our time traveling around Cuba, I had the opportunity to speak to a couple of booksellers, with one bookseller, a man in his thirties providing me with the most information. The bookseller told me how he mostly sold to tourist, citing the duel economy as a reason, with the cost of books being too expensive for most Cubans. The books were priced in CUCs (the Cuban convertible peso), ranging from 1CUC to up to 15CUCs. Cuban, he told me, mostly bought books from bookstores, which offers books of a more “practical” nature. He did mention that he sells some of the same books as bookstores, but did not get many Cuban buyers.

Havana Vieja Book Market

Most of the books sold were about the about Cuba’s history, and specifically, the Cuban revolution, either written by Fidel Castro or Che, or were Spanish copies of Hemingway novels. I asked the bookseller how he got the books he sold. He told me that he bought the books from people who keep them during the revolution. While I think this is true (I even bought a magazine made in 1956), I also think that some of the books had to sold in mass to the booksellers in the plaza, since about ever stand I saw had the similar, if not the same selection of books about the revolution.

Castro, Hemingway and Twain

After answering my questions, the bookseller started asking me what books I liked. This led a discussion about some of Latin America’s greatest detective and realismo mágico novels, like Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo, and Crónica de una muerte anunciada by Gabriel García Márquez. We also discussed Cuban author Leonardo Padura Fuentes (whose book is quoted above) The bookseller told me to read his latest book El hombre que amaba a los perros (2009), which won the 2011 Prix Carbet de la Caraïbe et du Tout Monde (http://repeatingislands.com/2011/12/18/cuban-writer-leonardo-padura-wins-the-prix-carbet/). It felt so surreal to be discussing Latin American novels that I read for classes at Vassar College with a Cuban bookseller in Havana Vieja. I paid for my books, strolling to the next stall. The next stall had more books, with a larger supply of Spanish novels. I continued walking around the plaza, looking at all the books, wondering who had previously owned them and their stories.

There’s perhaps no greater insignia of tourism than the camera. The stereotypical image of any tourist, regardless of country and culture, invariably includes a camera hanging from a neck or firmly grasped in hand. Today, the first thing we do upon arrival in a new country  – after we’ve located our luggage and potentially the bar – is bring a camera to our eyes and begin shooting pictures. The alternative option is to feel regret because we’ve forgotten our camera, or it broke en route, or the battery’s out, at which point we feel hollow and destitute. The idea of going on a vacation without a camera is now a foreign concept, and yet we occasionally get the urge to leave those cameras at home, which somehow gives us a rebellious kick (as if we were disobeying mother and eating that extra cookie). Usually though, this tends to be a  fleeting  feeling and instead we give into the much more comfortable option of taking our camera along for the ride and firing at will (usually not what happens with the cookie).

Susan Sontag, one of the leading – and slightly depressing – writers of photography theory discusses how the act of taking a picture is intimately connected with our conscious acceptance of the limited amount of time in the space we visit. “All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.” We take a picture in part because we recognize that was is in front of us will fade, or that we will leave it, and somehow even though we accept time we can’t seem to ever embrace its relentlessness (when we’re not in class that is; at which point we’re down on our knees begging Chronos to marry us). This call to the picture is perhaps even stronger in a foreign country so different from our own, particularly when we don’t see ourselves ever returning to it.

We may have crossed Cuba’s borders as tourist on an educational trip, but in the eye of the camera it made no difference what we were there for. In an attempt to record everything we experienced, we left Cuba with GBs and GBs of pictures. This wasn’t anything new, many of the places we visited acknowledged the picture taking power of tourists; from men in the streets of Santa Clara who wore roosters on their heads in hopes of exchanging the image for a CUC, to the necessity of paying to bring cameras into certain areas, to the outright ban of cameras at Che’s memorial. Invariably, a majority of the daylight hours was spent relating to Cuba through a lens, taking picture after picture in a mix of excited enthusiasm and a fear of missing the occasion to record something important. Seeing it wasn’t nearly as important as saving it for posterity. In the evenings, when we were no longer tied to a scheduled timetable and were set free to discover, dance, and drink, the camera seemed to vanish (the eternal questions of ‘where do I put my camera if we go dancing’ and the ‘there’s no light anyways’ not withstanding) as we slowly started to participate more and record less.

It was particularly interesting to see how the government’s relationship to tourists’ cameras changed based on the site we were visiting. Although we did have to pay a small fee to bring camera’s into Havana’s cemetery, we were encouraged to take pictures of the monuments and mausoleums. In contrast, Che’s memorial and museum strictly banned cameras out of respect for Cuba’s fallen hero. Did it not matter that we disrespect the nameless tombs of Cuba’s citizens, since we didn’t know their stories or how they contributed to Cuba’s survival as a nation? Che site’s, on the other hand, as the resting place of an iconic figure for Cuba and, to an extent, the world, demanded that we respectfully acknowledge his story by giving it our full attention, unaffected by the physical and mental distance a camera demands.

One of Sontag’s main argument in her book On Photography is how the camera creates a habit of recording in lieu of intervening. At any given point in time, one can chose to take a picture, or to live the experience. She states, in very practical terms, that “photographs are a way of imprisoning reality…One can’t possess reality, one can possess images–one can’t possess the present but one can possess the past.” This is a somewhat depressing way of viewing photography as an egocentric, unnatural action meant only to benefit the self, but this is not necessarily the case. Many of us were blown away by what we saw in Cuba, and although finding ways to remember it was on the top of our list, bringing these images to other people was also in our minds. There’s a difference between posing in front of a well recognized monument or scene for the sake of proving to ourselves and the world that we were there (the taking of the pictures itself is an anonymous act), and getting a picture without ourselves to release into the world so other people can benefit and maybe learn from that image. And in between those two extremes is the picture taking of our friends, of the people that shared our overarching experience there – a recognition of a communal memory, a token to keep warm by on a winter’s night.

Framing photography is a tricky endeavor at best. Pictures can be used to promote one’s ego, to hide behind when confronted with an uncomfortable, or even traumatizing experience, to educate and inform, and/or simply to remember. Yet the unifying factor of all of these is that they remove the photographer slightly from wherever they are and whatever is happening – they are no longer in the moment, if only for a brief snapshot of time. Tough life, in order to see anything at all you have to be removed from it. My own relationship to the rapid-fire, digital world of picture taking is convoluted. I have that desire to record as much as possible when I arrive in a personally uncharted territory. Yet growing up with a father-photographer who uses almost exclusively film and who repeatedly deplored the habit of ‘these young people’ for taking a 100 of pictures to keep only 3 of them has definitely made me appreciate the prospect of experiencing a place as much as possible and the, only when absolutely necessary, taking a well thought out picture. There are no doubt ties to a society that has no time for anything anymore, but nevertheless, if photography is an extension of how we see, and we base our lives on what we see, maybe there’s something to be said for the old folk’s habit of experiencing first, and claiming the moment for later…well, later.

“The camera makes everyone a tourist in other people’s reality, and eventually in one’s own.” – Susan Sontag, On Photography.

During our second stay in Havana I made a trip to the University of Havana with a few other students from the group to conduct interviews with students there about our research topics. It was the first time that I had entered the campus, though we had passed its towering staircase with the Alma Mater statue at the top numerous times on the bus. It was also the first time that I ever considered the idea of a university, maybe similar to one in the United States existing in Cuba. This was a place that I felt I could directly connect with and relate to (they even had a chalkboard celebrating Pi Day!). Immediately I wanted to know more about the University and wished that I had ventured onto the campus earlier in the trip. When I got home I began exploring the University’s website (http://www.uh.cu/) and learned quite a bit about it.

Pi Day!

The University of Havana began in 1798 as the Real y Pontificia Universidad de San Gerónimo de La Habana (the Royal and Pontificial University of Saint Geronimo of Havana). It was located in the convent of San Juan de Letrán and was largely a religious institution. From the beginning there were four areas of study: art and philosophy, theology, canon law, law and medicine. As the University continued to grow it became secular, changing its name to the Real y Literaria Universidad de La Havana (Royal and Literary University of Havana). The reformed university sought to expand the study of sciences and added case law, medicine, surgery, and farmacy to its list of deparments.

A particularly significant event occurred during this period of the University’s history, on November 27th, 1871. On that day eight medical students were assasinated for defacing the gravestone of a Spanish journalist, along with several other accusations of taking action against the Spanish colonial rule. These students (age 16-21) had been arrested only two days earlier from their classrooms by the Spanish Governor of Havana himself. The University website condemns their case, stating that it was based in false accusations and testimonies. Today Cubans still take to the streets of Havana on Novermber 27th, honoring the students as martyrs of the anti-imperial cause and calling for justice.

Mural of the execution of the eight medical students

The University entered its third stage after Spanish rule of the island ended and the authority over it passed to Cubans. It was renamed the Universidad de La Habana, the name it holds to this day. Because of the deteriorating building of the convent where it was still located, the campus moved to its current position on a hill in the Vedado area of Havana. It remained that way until Fulgencio Batista closed its doors in 1956, but it was reopened three years later with the triumph of the Revolution in 1959. Since then the University of Havana has grown with the ideals of the Revolution, becoming only more integral with the restructuring and stregthening of the Cuban education system.

The University’s mission statement is as follows (in spanish):

Su misión es garantizar la formación integral y continua de profesionales altamente calificados, con capacidad de liderazgo científico y político al servicio de la sociedad y comprometidos con la Revolución, el Socialismo y el desarrollo sostenible del país. Cuenta para ello con el liderazgo que le confieren casi tres siglos de creación e impacto en la formación de la nación cubana y un reconocido prestigio nacional e internacional en las ciencias naturales, exactas, económicas, sociales y humanísticas.

It is clear from the mission statement that the University of Havana sees itself as playing and having played a central role in the development of Cuba as an independant nation. It is training its students to become competitive on the global scale and in many ways it is succeeding. It would be extremely interesting to study abroad at this university or even to establish connections between the University of Havana and Vassar. The educational environment is something so universal that could potentially stregthen ties between Americans and Cubans despite their governments’ differences. I would hope that in the future these ties can be better established.

Some fun facts:

• The University of Havana currently hosts over 60,000 students at undergraduate and graduate levels who study in 17 departments.
• There are 88 stairs leading up to the campus from the Calle San Lázaro.
• The first woman, Mercedes Riba, graduated in 1885.
• The campus has two museums: the Museo de Historia Nacional and the Museo Antropológico Montané.
• There is a tank that was captured by Castro’s rebels in 1958 located in front of the library.

Tank

Sources:

http://www.lonelyplanet.com/cuba/havana/sights/university/universidad-habana

http://www.uh.cu/historia

http://www.cubagenweb.org/mil/grande/students.htm

http://www.granma.cu/ingles/cuba-i/1dic-Student%20tribute.html

The most interesting part about being in Cuba, by and large, was that after writing a thesis about tourism and Cuba in the 1990s, it was incredibly interesting to see how much research applied to the current situation in Cuba. Two certain themes come to mind when thinking of how my research applies to Cuba today: the “brain drain” of professionals leaving for tourist jobs with hard currency, and racism. Not only were both of these conditions evident, but also on several occasions I encountered firsthand the effects that tourism had on the social lives of Cubans. 

Essentially, the introduction of tourism in the 1990s and establishment of a dual economy later created a system that privileged those who had access to hard currency. In the 1990s and the beginning of the Special Period, hard currency in the form of Euros or dollars were heavily sought after because the Cuban peso had become nearly worthless (1USD ≈ 150pesos). The establishment of an official dual currency system didn’t do much to alleviate this problem either, as 1CUC≈24pesos. For this reason, many professionals found that, in the face of cuts on subsidies for medical supplies, food, and other government services, access to hard currency became a necessity to maintain living the way they could before. And the one industry with a direct line to large amounts of hard currency? Tourism.

So professionals began to leave their specialized jobs for less skilled work that had the promise of obtaining hard currency in the 1990s, and this happens frequently today. For example, one of the first days that we were in La Habana, a few of us took a walk along the Malecón to do some exploring. While walking along, we ran into a security guard who we ended up talking to for a little bit, and he explained to us that he had left his professional job as an English teacher about a year ago and was working as a security guard while he took classes to become a tour guide. He had done this because he couldn’t afford to pay for his whole family on the salary he received as a teacher. The most interesting part of the conversation was the way he phrased his explanation on leaving his professional job. It wasn’t that he was unhappy with his teaching job, but he specifically said he left for the “opportunity” to work in the tourist industry; it wasn’t guaranteed that he would be given a job but even the opportunity was enough to move him away from his professional job.

The other pervasive effect of tourism on social life was the reintroduction of racism into the everyday lives of Cubans. Years earlier, the revolutionary government had proclaimed the end of racism in Cuba. Racism comes from the idea that one class benefits from the marginalization of another class, but in a “classless” society such as Cuba, they argued, nobody benefitted from that racism. In its defense, the revolutionary government did a remarkable job mitigating the effects of racism prior to the reintroduction of tourism. However, tourism made evident racism once again, and many dark skinned Cubans weren’t, and still aren’t, allowed into tourist hotels for fear of alarming the guests. The glaring example of our trip in Cuba was our arranged meeting with a hip-hop group, Los Hermanazos. They arrived and the hotel simply just would not let them enter the building, despite the fact that the head of our group went down and explained that we had a purely academic meeting arranged. The hotel wouldn’t let them in because they were dark skinned Cubans; this was a problem that resurrected in the 1990s and certainly carried over into today. Fortunately, the hotel relented and allowed us to meet with them.

Writing about tourism in the 1990s had given me some insight as to what to possibly expect today. The circumstances are certainly different, but even though the economy is much better off today than it was in 1990, these social problems brought about by tourism still exist, very much so, in Cuba. However, it was certainly very interesting to see a real life manifestation of previous research and work.

When we visited Cuba, some of us had the opportunity to see a performance by the National Cuban Ballet. The performance of Copelia was spectacular. I am not a dancer. I am not a Cuban citizen. I am not of Cuban descent. Even though I am not any of these things, that does not mean that I can’t appreciate the power, grace and beauty of the performance by the National Cuban Ballet. Our visit to Cuba, and our visit the ballet, is an example of cultural diplomacy. Cultural diplomacy, as defined by Milton C. Cummings Jr, is “the exchange of ideas, information, art, and other aspects of culture among nations and their peoples in order to foster mutual understanding” (http://isites.harvard.edu/icb/icb.do?keyword=k74756&pageid=icb.page399628). Throughout the turbulent history of US-Cuban relations, there has been a small amount of ballet diplomacy.
   In 1999, the National Cuban Ballet were able to tour the United States. In the magazine, Cuba en el Ballet issue number 94, an article ran titled “Giselle hacia el siglo XXI : El Ballet Nacional de Cuba en los Estados Unidos” “Giselle into the XXI Century: The National Ballet of Cuba in the United States.” The article described how the troupe made several appearances in throughout the US, in cities such as Tucson and Los Angeles. The Ballet gave a performance at the Berkeley in which California congress women Barbara Lee spoke, saying how it was “it is also my pleasure to express my support for Cuba’s cultural exchange through art. Art and music are important because they are universal languages that each individual can understand”(20). This speech addresses specifically the concept of cultural diplomacy. Recently, the National Cuban Ballet performed once again in the United States on June 2011.
 While the Cuban dancers were able to interact with United States citizens on US territory, dancers from the American Ballet Theatre company had the opportunity to perform in Havana for the International Ballet Festival of 2010. ABC news coverage of the 2010 International Ballet Festival described how the American Ballet Theatre company was “treated like rock stars” and allowed for a “wider cultural opening between the United States and Cuba.” Julia Kent, a principal dancer, said how “a lot of dancers say that they feel like ambassadors” and how “There is no greater ambassador for humanity than music and dance. They speak to the soul of mankind and cross any boundary” (http://abcnews.go.com/WN/ballet-diplomacy-americans-dance-cuba-time-half-century/story?id=12057197#.T6FR279r9o0). While the governments might only allow limited interaction between the two countries, people, specifically dancers, are creating social relations and cultural understandings between the US and Cuba. Will these relationships help mend the political divide between the two countries? Maybe, maybe not.

More on the National Cuban Ballet:
Alicia Alonso and the Cuban Ballet Revolution
 Spotlight: Alicia Alonso
Ballet Nacional de Cuba and the Revolution (highlighting race and the ballet)

“…all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”

One of the workers at the Miami Airport (I referred to him as Intense Guy in my journal) said that to truly understand what it is like to be Cuban, you have to live there – on Cuban pesos. And it’s true (not that this is unique to Cuba). See, Cuba is a country of contradictions operating on extremes.

In Trinidad, we met a 17 year old student of pedagogy hoping to become a Geography teacher. He rocked a red American Eagle T-Shirt, two gold rings and piercings, a sizeable watch, and a cell phone – something he says that when you own in Cuba, you flaunt. Then he expressed admiration for Fidel’s simplicity. He complained about the lack of internet access, but said he doesn’t need it to be educated. He made quite the effort to display his knowledge, name-dropping the iPhone 4S Siri and Abraham Lincoln. He said the government was not repressive but that it did block internet access in order to protect Cubans from anti-revolutionary activity including pornography. He complained about poverty and called the Cuban peso trash – the CUC is where it’s at. Immediately after, he praised free healthcare and education and reminded us that was something we did not have as citizens of the United States. Most eagerly, he held Cuba’s party scene on a pedestal.

In Havana, we met an Angola veteran now working at a souvenir shop who said the Special Period was a terrible time but that he is grateful for the independence it granted Cuba; it freed Cuba from its Soviet crutches.

We saw the contradictions at work when we experienced deep anti-Americanism (or rather, anti-United States sentiment) followed by officials saying “We just want to be friends” and petitioning for lifting the embargo. Cubans made claims of being internationally high-ranking in biotechnology, medicine, and education while blaming the embargo (or bloqueo) for severely hindering their resources.

They claimed to be a “raceless” society in which racism was not present. However, when Los Hermanazos (a Black rap group) came to the Hotel Plaza for their gathering with us, we were told Cubans were not allowed in hotel. Hours later a white professor from the University of Havana held a lecture with us in that very hotel.

Cuba works under a socialist model which commodifies its people and its labor. We saw a Comite de la Defense Revolucionaria (CDR) which as the one meeting we had would have us believe is a community organization throwing fun parties. The signs openly proclaiming “Somos la vigilancia revolucionaria” paint a slightly different picture.

And it is exactly that – something which comes across as pure, innocent, well-intentioned (or it at least tries) which is simultaneously authoritative, repressive, aggressive – which typifies the conversations we had with Cubans of different ages, races, and walks of life. They, with little prodding, made harsh criticisms only to retract them as soon as they seemed to have gone too far.

Those who did not retract spoke in hushed tones, hyperaware of their surroundings. There really are some things you don’t talk about in Cuba. I experienced internal battles that struggled to make sense of an existence they live and love in the midst of hardships they can’t bring themselves to protest wholeheartedly.

I sensed hesitation, even fear sometimes or at least nervousness, but also faith and fidelity to their now ill 85 year old leader and his pantheon of icons and ideas. Among those ideas is the purpose of the revolution: liberty. Liberty from an imperialist power a stone’s throw away from an island it insists on controlling, and if not, damaging.

A bust of Marti with a Fidel quote: "Las ideas inmortales que Marti irrigo con su sangre jamas seran traicionadas!" - The immortal ideas Marti irrigated with his blood will never be betrayed!

But Cuba, thanks to the revolution and as a continuation of Marti’s legacy and Che’s remarkable life as a revolutionary, is still here. See, as Fidel said in his January 24^th, 2012 Reflexion, “Cuba found itself forced to fight for its existence against an expansionist power located a few miles off its coast that had declared the annexation of our island and that believed our destiny was to fall into their lap like a piece of ripe fruit. We were condemned to cease to exist as a nation…The ripe fruit has never fallen into the lap of the empire. Cuba will never become another force used by the empire to expand over the people of the Americas. Marti’s blood will not have been shed in vain.”

It a powerful proclamation of Cuba’s mission to be independent and to extend that liberty to its citizens. It is something Cubans want to believe, and often do. But their affirmation is contested each and every day.

Our conversations were evidence of a so-called “deal” as an article in The Economist calls it, in which “Fidel would give them security and meet their basic needs, and in return they would surrender their liberty.”  Many of them made the deal themselves. Others inherited it from their parents, defending a revolution they did not experience themselves but for which they seem to be grateful and respectful of, and a system which uses its educational system and its many institutions to ensure that, even in hardship, people admit that “the revolution is a part of [them].” They cannot deny it, but they also cannot look past its shortcomings and the obstacles it has forced onto their paths.

Others, still, “rejected that deal [and] emigrated, often with official encouragement” – people like Roberto, a young man who had gotten on a balsa 18 times in hopes of getting to the Bronx to hang out with the Black people and rap and who said he would keep trying  since “ese es [su] sueño.”

“Others,” says the article and a woman we met outside of one of our hotels, “were jailed, often in appalling conditions, by Fidel’s police state” (Economist).” That same woman said, in English, that she and her son had been arrested four times between them, that “Communism is bad” and that she hates Cuba even though she was born there. But such stories were rarely told to us.

The Cuban condition and the success of the revolutionary regime, as explained in Benigno E. Aguirre’s article “Social Control”, is such on the basis of formal and informal forms of social control constantly and dynamically at work to forge a persevering sociopolitical culture. Even under drastic economic pressures, truncated professional dreams, and threats of things “that we don’t talk about it Cuba;” despite housing shortages and regulations, a populace segregated by the CUC, ever-present state-sponsored CDRs, the UJC, the Federation of Cuban Women, to name a few; even with a government which legitimizes only those opinions which fit within the revolutionary framework, Cuba has carefully forged a state of being which perpetuates itself through the preservation of idols and a common enemy in the United States and its blockade. It has produced a nation que le hecha leña al fuego de la revolucion and leads Cubans to believe in at least traces of liberty.

If we are to accept Jefferson’s claim that Happiness is a tenet of Liberty, then it is a little easier to understand this deeply confusing country and its people. After all, we met Cubans who (especially on the dance floor) were “nice, warm, and welcoming” as some of us have put it.

We met people who were proud and nationalistic – and that is certainly more than what this American citizen feels in the “land of the free.”

When the Revolutionary government took control of Cuba in 1959, an important part of their campaign to consolidate power was changing the way the population thought. This became especially important after 1961 when the Revolution was declared socialist, and the government made a concerted effort to move away from the pro-capitalist thought that was so prominent in the Batista era. This new consciousness that the government purported was based around severe nationalism and a common Cuban identity that stood in the face of the powers of “imperialists,” as Fidel Castro so often referred to capitalists and the United States. What’s so unique about Cuba is that the government has actually managed, to a large degree, to change the way the Cuban nation thinks in terms of person-to-person relationships and person-to-world relationships, and continues to do so to this day.

An important way of doing that, and it is blissfully obvious throughout every city and along every road, is the use of Revolutionary art. George Orwell once said, “All art is propaganda,” and this sentiment certainly holds true about much of the art along the walls in Havana or for the billboards out on the roads. “Revolutionary” art, however, is a contested idea, and has been for quite a while. This is because the government declared that artistic freedom would be allowed, so long as the artist did not create something that was “counterrevolutionary” in nature. Of course, this is not artistic freedom, but it does explain why much of the art is clearly projects sponsored by the government. Walls covered in the phrase “Socialismo o Muerte” or “Girón, Victoria del Pueblo” serve to reinforce the Revolutionary consciousness that the government seeks. The effect is twofold: the messages are directed at everybody, so they first make everyone feel a sense of togetherness and secondly, instead of the state taking responsibility for its accomplishments, such as the victory at the Bay of Pigs, it directs that victory towards the people, again building national unity. Further, they portray a romanticized vision of Cuba, on that stands in the face of opposition and stays strong regardless of the struggles.

Another important part of this art is the widespread use of the cult of personalities surrounding both Fidel Castro and Che Guevara. Both of their images and phrases they uttered are put all over Cuba, and the effect is the same building of national unity. Both of these men represent not themselves, but an idea of Cuba that the Revolutionary government is building towards. Their ideas are the essence of “Revolutionary” thinking, so it is appropriate that their messages and ideas are put up for others to see. Most Cubans see Revolutionary leaders, but most significantly these two men, as father figures to the country and to themselves.

By using this type of art, the Revolutionary government has indeed helped shape the national identity that they seek, and continue to do so. It is not necessarily brainwashing, but a reinforcement of their ideas and projection of those ideas to others. It seems as if this national consciousness is indeed there, as Cubans don’t view their government as oppressive or wrong, even during the economic crisis their country still faces.

When today’s generation thinks Communism, we tend to think Soviet Russia. Grey streets, repressed people, cold wars, doomed planning. From our seats in high school history class, full of boredom and angst, we’re taught that the Communist system was a) Destined To Fail and b) Responsible for Plunging the World into the Longest Continuous State of Political and Military Tension Ever (Wikipedia). Even when we study the propaganda images of both camps, Capitalist and Communist, in a what-we-want-to-think objective manner,  we still emerge with the distinct impression that the US, despite it’s faults, was of course going to emerge victorious. And that’s because, if nothing else, the USSR was oppressive and didn’t believe in Basic Human Rights©.

In the current era, America’s general opinion of communism hasn’t changed that much. Our greatest economic challenger happens to be a communist nation (and admittedly we have problems with their HR track record too) and anti-communist rhetoric is still all over political cat fights, one of the great engineers of the American Identity. Communism is viewed as dangerous and oppressive, period. Even at renowned liberal arts schools that are known for their open mindedness, telling someone you’re going to a communist country usually begs the question “is that safe?” A fair question since many countries world wide are at war, have armed civil unrest, or are otherwise extremely volatile.

Cuba is not one of them. Our only basis for assuming that Cuba is a dangerous country is that Cuba is A Communist Country, and one that apparently hates the US.

So you get ready. You read, you prepare for questionings, you learn what not to do. And then you land in this country and are blown away.

The West permeates every country its citizens readily have access to. The only places it doesn’t are the only places that provide an alternative perspective to the global social and political situation of our time. One of those places is Cuba.

A good way to take the social pulse of Cuban people is to look at its governmental organizations and what they do, since the government is involved in essentially everything. I was expecting very authoritarian and colorless agencies that dealt mostly with money, food, and infrastructure, with a few artsy organizations here and there to say that they took care of the people but that were in reality a propagandist hideout. I was surprised, so much so that it’s still haunting me two weeks later.  The main prides and joys of the Cuban Revolution are free health care and education for all, and it is in the name of these that the Revolution was able to weather many a challenge. But in addition were two smaller governmental aspects that probably weren’t necessary to keep the Revolution running, but that nevertheless received support and funds in a way that is very illustrative of what the country as a whole values, or is trying to value.

The first is the government’s focus on gender and sexuality. In the past 30 years there has been an increasing effort to spread knowledge and acceptance of these issues across the island both directly, through the governmental branch CINESEX, and indirectly, through funds given to specific initiatives such as the Mejunje house. In a Machismo society, notions of homosexuality, transexuality, and women’s rights are brought out into the open by the government. “Incredible achievements” (quote by Marielle Castro and the director of Mejunje) have been made and, in the big cities at least, there is definitely a sense of a growing liberated community. Progress still needs to be made, but the fact that the government officially privileges these Basic Human Rights is commendable.

The second initiative is in the propagandist hideouts mentioned above. Because of the nature of our trip we did focus a lot on artistic initiatives so our perspective might have been somewhat biased, but the areas that we visited were so full of energy and enthusiasm that I want to believe such endeavors were wide spread. There were of course areas that seemed to function mainly as tourist attractions, such as Fouster’s multicolored tile fortress and the decades old pottery workshop in Santa Clara. But what really struck a cord was visiting the Korirnakao artists in Cienega de Zapata. They were beautiful, talented, and full of good humor. They clearly didn’t get a lot of visitors since our arrival seemed to be as much an attraction to them as they were to us. What was astounding though, was the fact that the government financed most of the project – which was relatively large in scale, encompassing a variety of forms from dance and music to plastic arts. Not only that, but the artists that went to Korirnakao were then sent out to isolated communities to perform and display their art. Now, I lived for 4 years in a mostly abandoned rural village on top of a mountain, and each day was spent praying for some sort of external stimulation, preferably youthful and inspiring. Meeting these people as a semi-adult was fascinating, I can only imagine what a lonely teenager or an aging elder must feel when that troupe comes marching into their town.

There’s no question in my mind that we are taught some wrong lessons about Communism. The giant country out of which it sprang monopolizes all of the variations of its expression. In Cuba, in many areas at least, the shades Communism took were not grey; they were rich, undiluted and full of life. Upon returning to America, and seeing how we treat art, and sexuality, and creativity, and inspiration, and difference, and women, I wondered what it really was that’s the most important to this country. What colors of ourselves are we painting, and what colors will be painted in the history books?

I didn’t expect to leave this Cuba more confused than when I’d arrived, though I have, but it is important to note that for me this is in no way a negative conclusion. The reason behind my grandparents’ decision to send their two eldest sons to the United States through the Peter Pan Program in March of 1962, and to then join them in Miami February of the following year, is one none of my family has ever really been explained of. We’ve just always known that it was a difficult one for them to make, and in so making it they made the distinct choice to leave any reason for staying behind them. I think now that this is why they never speak of their reason for leaving, because the things telling them to leave and asking them to stay were so heavily intertwined.

Visiting their old home in Parcelacion Moderna (a very difficult neighborhood to find, by the way) on March 17^th was possibly the second most emotional experience I’ve ever had, second only to the week I lost my grandfather. Seeing the house I’d only ever looked at in black and white was a remarkable conclusion to my 6 weeks of learning and 2 weeks of discovering.

 

While in Cuba the thing I avoided most was letting anyone know that my father was also Cuban. Partly because I do not speak Spanish fluently, a great disappointment to not only my family but also to myself, and I felt this disappointment would extend to any local who learned I was raised in a Cuban home without it. But mostly because I was and am still not clear on my family’s stance, and I anticipated their leaving, and not teaching me Spanish, would read not only as individuals against Fidel, but also as ones dissociated from their heritage and connected culture.

I also perceived there to be a division between those who stayed in support of the revolution (who would be angry with anyone who had left) and those who wanted to leave but were never given the opportunity (who would be frustrated with anyone who had left). Either way, I felt the odds stacked against me. I realize the slim chance of this, because I never really was open with anyone about my being half Cuban, and the friendliness of the culture was so strong I couldn’t imagine it having halted. However, I never did feel comfortable enough.

Which is why my experience the last day was so unique, almost an hour in a cab with one of the doormen from the Plaza Hotel, who lived only but two blocks away from my grandparents old home. I had no choice but to explain why I wanted to stand in front of a home in what is apparently now the middle of nowhere. His response was so sincere, energetic, and interested in not just my family’s story but also my personal one. I only wish I had more to say to him, but the truth is I don’t know too much about either.

         I don’t know why my grandparents left. I don’t know how common domestic tourism really is. I don’t know what has come of privatizing home ownership. I don’t know if all Cubans are really given the opportunity to stay in the hotels we frequented—especially considering that the one non-translated sign I found read (in Spanish): “chairs and umbrellas for hotel guests only.” And I don’t know what motivates citizens to pursue doctoral degrees. What is amazing is that I am walking away from a class wanting to know all of these answers. Wanting not to just talk to my Abuela about her story, or go back and talk to more Cubans about theirs, but to continue reading and continue researching.

I have learned that my connection to Cuba is no longer just about feeling closer to my parted Abuelo, or creating an identity for myself, but a separate interest in the country as its own entity. I want to know and understand for the sake of it. While my initial desires to take the course may have been intrinsic ones, my future pursuit is now extrinsic, and for that I am eternally grateful.

On the morning of our first day in Cuba we gathered together in Old Havana to take a guided walking tour through the city’s historical center. Our guide opened proudly with a statement that we were standing in the middle of one of an area that the government had recently restored. It was one of the first parts of the city we were exposed to and the area, while nice, seemed to be at a relatively normal level of structural upkeep. It wasn’t until our group moved through an intersection and into a part of the neighborhood that lacked tourist attractions that I understood the stunning contrast between the restored and un-restored sections of Havana. Everything from the condition of the roads to the buildings themselves changed. Like many things in Cuba, while just enough had been done to create a positive impression on tourists, as soon as we exited the sphere specifically devoted to tourist activity it was like looking at a different country. Having been awoken to the stark contrast between tourist and citizen architectural conditions early on, I found myself looking for evidence of restorative construction in Cuba for the rest of our trip. I learned quickly that I would need to do a whole lot of searching before much construction on the crumbling and falling buildings of Cuba was found.

With my quest for evidence of construction under way, I began to take note of scaffolding all around Cuba. While I saw a few instances of scaffolding that seemed to be in place for construction purposes, for the most part construction was rarely seen around the falling buildings that are the homes of hundreds of thousands of Cubans. As we progressed through our travels I began to notice a great variety of types of scaffolding. While the kind of steel scaffolding that we are most accustomed to seeing in the US exists, particularly in more residential areas I began to notice a high frequency of scaffolding constructed from lumber. While I couldn’t be sure what the differences between scaffolding in Cuba meant, it awakened an interest in the state of construction in Cuba within me. Based on what I had observed firsthand, it seemed that even where scaffolding exists, it is only very rarely in place for the purpose of construction and more often a means of supporting buildings that may otherwise be in danger of collapse. For example, on one occasion I happened upon a building surrounded by scaffolding that had been erected for so long that vines had covered it. However, while I found myself making assumptions about the state of construction in Cuba based on what I saw around me, I was curious to get a better and more accurate understanding of the state of construction in Cuba.

An article in the Havana Journal discusses the Cuban effort to decentralize construction projects, largely as a result of a failure on the part of the national government to attain the knowledge needed to accurately indentify how the limited construction materials in Cuba could be best put to use region by region. After launching a major effort to solve the chronic housing shortage and repair crumbling buildings in Cuba in 2005, the construction industry continued to fall short of meeting goals. Beginning in 2009 the state turned to a new approach of a more decentralized construction industry. Vice President Carlos Lage explains, “The local authorities must say what they prefer to do with the resources assigned them, be it finishing new apartments or prioritizing the repair of others, because it is at the municipal level that authorities know best an area’s urgent needs”. Additionally, beginning in the 1990s Cuba began granting licenses to privately engage in building trades. This has resulted in conditions in which, while the state construction business has a chronic labor shortage, thousands of licensed and unlicensed skilled tradesmen and laborers work privately. Thus, it seems that just as so many other Cuban industries have undergone similar reforms and begun to operate in a dual system, split between state and private operation, the construction industry is no different.

While it is clear from visiting Cuba that the nation continues to face serious challenges in the form of architectural maintenance, it is difficult to pinpoint the exact point in which the Cuban approach begins to fail. The problematic nature of construction in Cuba is complicated by a difficulty in attaining construction materials, in addition to the issues that are presented by the split construction industry. It seems that once again Cuba has been caught between a struggle to provide for the nation’s population, while it also works to maintain spaces of tourism so the nation’s international reputation is not put in jeopardy by visiting tourists.  In many ways, the construction predicament Cuba finds itself in is representative of a much larger theme in Cuba. With the nation’s continued reliance on tourism there is significant pressure for Cuba to maintain the spaces of tourism in a way that are aesthetically pleasing and presentable. However, it seems that by ensuring the maintenance of these spaces Cuba has had to sacrifice structural soundness of buildings inhabited by Cuban citizens. As Cuba continues to struggle to ameliorate living conditions, one has to wonder just how much longer Cuba can afford to sacrifice the health and safety of its citizens for the opinions of foreign visitors.