There is no question that Fidel Castro had the captivating public persona, private beguiling charm, and fierce determination that gave him the capacity to be a charismatic leader. Fidel also acquired a godlike imprimatur due to a remarkable coincidence—or perhaps skillful animal training. On January 8, 1959, as he began a two-hour speech at the old military command center in Havana, a dove landed on his shoulder and remained perched there. In the Santeria religion—a mixture of Catholic traditions and West African, Yoruba-based rituals widely practiced in Cuba—“a white dove represents the divinity Obatalá,” a king among the gods.5 And thus was Fidel divinely anointed.
The revolutionary leaders understood the importance of symbols as a source of inspiration, legitimacy, and shared experience. They placed seemingly insignificant items, such as the handkerchief that Che Guevara used in the mountains, in a new museum commemorating the Revolution. The date of the failed 1953 Moncada attack became a national holiday and the Granma—the boat on which Fidel and company sailed from Mexico to Cuba in 1956—was enshrined prominently on a major artery in Old Havana.
Creating the New Cuban
At its core, the Cuban Revolution sought to put into practice an egalitarian vision, which contributed to its worldwide attractiveness. The vision is based on the Enlightenment assumption that while human beings are “perfectible,” their institutions make them imperfect. Socialists, such as Che, who hold this view of human potential assert that people are inclined by their very nature to act with a social conscience for the collective benefit of the whole society. From this perspective, when members of a society act selfishly, greedily, or without concern for the welfare of others, their behavior is unnatural or alien to their true self.
Egalitarians recognize that the human instinct for survival may drive people to be self-seeking in the face of scarcity. But if a society can produce enough for everyone’s basic needs yet chooses to create pockets of scarcity through unequal distribution, then the source of the selfishness is the society’s institutions and the laws and norms that regulate and protect the institutions. In turn, such laws and norms lead people to focus exclusively on their individual needs—whether these are real or apparent—in order to compete with each other or to use others for their own gain. In this process, people become alienated from their full human potential, which can be realized only within a context of institutions that encourage sharing and a regard for everyone’s well-being.
But how could the revolutionaries hope to create a culture oriented to collective welfare with people who had been acculturated to individualistic values of the old society, who believed that selfishness, acquisitiveness, and a dog-eat-dog world were the natural order? Che Guevara responded that they had to recognize that the “flaws of the past are translated into the present in the individual consciousness,” and as a result the character of Cubans reflected an “unmade quality.” The goal would be to create “a new man.”6 (As was common at the time, Cuban leaders used the gendered term “hombre” or “man” in referring to all people.) Cubans with a new consciousness would eschew “the satisfaction of their personal ambitions,” Guevara wrote in 1965, and “become more aware every day of the need to incorporate themselves into society.”7
Ernesto “Che” Guevara
Ernesto “Che” Guevara de la Serna was born on June 14, 1928, in Argentina, where he trained as a medical doctor. He was in Guatemala in 1954 when US-backed military officers staged a coup against the democratically elected government, and moved to Mexico where he met Fidel and Raúl Castro in July 1955. Accompanying them on the Granma, which brought the revolutionary fighters to Cuba in 1956, Guevara became a commander during the ensuing guerrilla war and a leader in the Revolutionary government.
As one of the principal theorists of Cuban revolutionary ideology, Guevara articulated the concept of the foco, believing that a small group of dedicated guerrilla fighters could spark a revolution in a country where the conditions were “ripe.” In Cuba, he was the leading advocate for the development of the “new Cuban man”—a person who placed the collective welfare ahead of self-interest—in order to bring about a humane and just society.
Guevara left Cuba in 1965 to work with independence and insurgent movements in Africa. He returned briefly in 1966, and then went to fight against the Bolivian government. Bolivian rangers, aided by US intelligence operatives, ambushed him on October 8, 1967, and executed him the next day. In his honor, Fidel proclaimed 1968 as the “Year of the Heroic Guerrilla” and Cuba has designated October 8 as the “Day of the Heroic Guerrilla.”
The aspiration to create the new Cuban man effectively served as the cultural guidepost almost from the beginning of the Revolution, even though the leaders did not at first articulate it.8 The transition process from the old to the new Cuban man, Guevara asserted, required reeducation that should not take place only in schools. Cubans needed to learn the meaning and practice of the new morality repeatedly, through their daily activities and relationships. In Guevara’s view, this approach necessitated the use of “moral incentives” to motivate people, not “material incentives,” because material incentives would tend to reinforce individualism and self-seeking gain.
A moral incentive is one that inspires a person to work harder or to act for the benefit of society—for the communal good—on the basis of a nonmaterial interest, such as patriotism, compassion, or solidarity. A material incentive is a tangible reward—such as money or access to scarce goods—provided to those who produce more, take on greater responsibilities or risks, or perform essential tasks for society.
Differences within the leadership over using material or moral incentives to develop the new society became a source of cleavage in the early 1960s. In practice, the use of moral incentives is usually accompanied by inefficiency. Appeals to a common purpose are less likely to engender consistent hard work than differentiated rewards to individuals, especially those who had not yet developed the mind-set of the “new Cuban man.” The reliance on invocations to solidarity was likely to generate less output. For a poor country like Cuba, reduced production meant fewer basic necessities would be available, which could undermine popular support for the revolution itself. The debate over using moral incentives is one that continues to frame Cuban development decisions even today because the Cuban Revolution has maintained two goals, which at times have been incompatible: economic growth and equity.9
Some scholars have asserted that Che Guevara was unique among the founding revolutionaries as the main advocate for the use of moral incentives.10 But Guevara’s viewpoint did not lose its potency when he left Cuba in 1965. Fidel Castro continued to be a forceful advocate for moral incentives. “What is the duty of the revolution other than to strengthen awareness, raising people’s moral values of all kinds?” he asked rhetorically in a 1968 speech. “Money is still the means of obtaining many things: to go to the movies, to go here and there . . . as a means of distribution, but it is a bitter transitional instrument and an instrument that we must abolish.”11
A New Moral Order
At times the clash between the old and new cultures emerged as a contest over the meaning of “civilization.” Historian Louis Pérez points out that the revolutionaries sought “to rearrange in usable form the standards by which to measure civilization and in the process summon a vision of an alternative moral order.”12 They argued that the level of civilization should be gauged by the percentage of people who were illiterate and unemployed, and by the number of children who suffered from parasites, not by the extent to which Cubans had access to appliances and other conveniences that might enable them to live comfortably.
Still, at first, officials did not try to bring about the new moral order in a draconian way, by imposing rigid cultural strictures on writers and artists. On the contrary, the early years of the revolution unleashed an enormous outpouring of vibrant cultural expression in search of a distinctive Cuban culture.13 Cub
ans were treated to a lush array of creativity in films, the plastic arts, theater, dance, television and radio programs, magazines and books, and music.
Nueva trova, or the new folksong, became a vehicle for expressing a revolutionary spirit, and Cuban folk songs soon became popular internationally as an expression of political protest. Pablo Milanés and Silvio Rodríguez sang songs about personal and political liberation. The government promoted Afro-Cuban rhythms as a way of replacing the cha-cha and big band tunes that had appealed to American tourists.
The official newspaper of the July 26th Movement, Revolución, included a literary supplement every Monday—Lunes de Revolución—which quickly gained international acclaim as the most widely read literary supplement in Latin America.14 Revolución’s editor, Carlos Franqui, had aspired to be minister of culture. Instead, Castro gave him license to create a world-class literary magazine. Franqui envisioned the publication would be at the forefront of a Cuban cultural revolution.15
Led by acclaimed writer Guillermo Cabrera Infante and his deputy, the poet, playwright, and novelist Pablo Armando Fernández, Lunes attracted prominent international contributors: existential philosophers such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus, Latin American literary giants such as Pablo Neruda and Jorge Luis Borges, Beat poets such as Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and feminist advocates such as Virginia Woolf and Simone de Beauvoir. The subject matter in Lunes ranged widely as it covered all of the arts. The magazine also established a record company and a publishing house, and produced a weekly television program that featured modern plays, jazz, and experimental films. In effect, Lunes became the main forum for debates about Cuban culture and identity.16
Pablo Armando Fernández Poem*
En voz baja decir, amor, tu nombre
Quietly, my love, to speak your name
junto a ti, a tus oídos, a tu boca.
next to you, to your ear, to your mouth.
Y ser ese animal
And be that happy animal,
feliz, que junta sus mitades.
which joins its halves.
En voz baja o sin ella, muda
Quietly or silently, the voiceless mouth
la boca revertida a su unidad:
restored its unity:
silencio inaugural que a verbo y carne
inaugural silence which grants new life
otorga nueva vida.
to the word and the flesh.
Los ojos, ciegos, de regreso al todo:
The eyes, blind, returning to the whole:
luz revelando mundos
light revealing worlds
como fueron o son, como serán.
as they were or are, as they shall be.
Vueltos a ser alegria del otro,
Back to being each other’s joy,
uno consigo mismo en companía.
be oneself in company.
Una vida otra: la tuya, tan amada.
Another life: yours, so beloved.
Volver a ser origen sin tristeza
Back to being origin without sadness
o dolor, sin miedo, sin nostalgia, o con ellos:
or pain, without fear, nor nostalgia, or with them:
tu y yo, nuestros recuerdos y cenizas.
you and I, our memories and ashes.
* * *
* From “Suite Para Maruja” in Learning to Die, trans. John Brotherton (Havana: Instituto Cubano del Libro, 1995).
The explosion of creativity inevitably ran the risk of challenging the government’s determination to maintain unity. The Cuban government’s strategy to defend the island from a feared US attack centered on the idea of a “people’s war” against the invaders. Toward this end, in the fall of 1959 it created a militia made up of volunteers. Yet the central element of the government’s strategy was the assumption that the United States would be deterred from invading if the country appeared unified. Unity thus became a singular goal and officials viewed dissent as a vital threat. In pursuit of unity, the government began to assert that the Revolution and la patria were one and the same. This new meaning for Cuban nationalism made criticism of the Revolution nearly equivalent to treason against the nation.17 Recall, though, that an emphasis on unity was not unique to Fidel and the July 26th Movement. It had been preached by Martí and George Washington for similar strategic reasons.
The rebel leaders also sought unity in order for the government to provide services and goods efficiently, especially to the large part of the population that had been underserved previously. This aim, they reasoned, could not be achieved if there were factional strife and political stalemate.18 The resulting measures aimed at generating unity left an indelible imprint on the Cuban Revolution.
Repression
By 1961, the leadership began to view independent intellectuals as a threat, because they could undermine both the “faith” of believers and, in turn, the Revolution’s fragile unity. In June 1961, Fidel indicated that the government’s limits of tolerance had been reached. During the course of a three-day meeting with “intellectuals,” he laid down a new principle. “We do not forbid anyone from writing on any subject he chooses,” the Cuban leader said, “or in the manner he considers appropriate.” The Revolution, he asserted, must give an opportunity to all “honest” writers and artists, even to those who were not animated by a “revolutionary spirit,” to express themselves freely and to use their creativity. But this freedom would be available only if their creative work was consistent with the Revolution. Castro tersely summarized the rule by declaring, “within the revolution, everything; against the revolution, nothing.”19
The phrase left writers and artists confused and apprehensive. The Cuban leader had not specified what was to be considered “within” or “against” the Revolution. Without guidelines, lesser officials enforced Castro’s dictum arbitrarily, which had the effect of stifling freedom of expression. In an evocative passage from The Man Who Loved Dogs, prize-winning Cuban novelist Leonardo Padura described how Fidel’s order impacted one “fictional” writer who had submitted a story to his university’s literary magazine. “‘How dare you turn this in?’” the magazine’s director said “in a rage.”
[T]hat story was inopportune, unpublishable, completely inconceivable, almost counterrevolutionary—and hearing that word, as you can imagine, caused a chill. . . . That day what really happened was that they fucked me for the rest of my life, since . . . I left there deeply convinced that my story should never have been written, which is the worst thing that they can make a writer think.20
Stifled expression was the effect that Fidel likely intended, as he sent a clearer message in this regard by closing down Lunes de Revolución in November 1961. Carlos Franqui left the country, along with other prominent writers. The government offered a soft exile for Guillermo Cabrera Infante, Pablo Armando Fernández, and poet Héberto Padilla. They became cultural attachés in the Cuban embassies in Brussels, London, and Moscow, respectively.
While some repression was justified at first by the goal of avoiding stalemate, it soon became routine. Spurred on by th
e seeming demands of national security, the state’s repressive apparatus came to eclipse other claims for resources. Fear replaced hope as petty bureaucrats were given license to exaggerate threats or engage in spiteful acts of cruelty.
The height of repression came in the early 1960s. Just prior to the 1961 US-sponsored Bay of Pigs invasion, the Cuban government arrested thousands of people in a roundup intended to prevent the invaders from linking up with internal fighters. While most were released quickly, Fidel acknowledged in 1965 that twenty thousand political prisoners continued to be incarcerated.21
Late in that year, the military began to “draft” thousands of people whom the regime designated as “socially deviant”: Jehovah’s Witnesses and other religious missionaries, homosexuals, and “vagrants.” They were placed in prison-like camps euphemistically dubbed “Military Units to Aid Production” (UMAP). Ordered to do nonremunerated labor, the prisoners were ostensibly in the camps to be reeducated. The UMAP program lasted for two years. The government disbanded it in 1967 after the Cuban National Union of Writers and Artists protested the drafting of writers and university professors.22
Relations with the Church Sour
Initially the new regime did not perceive the Catholic Church as a threat. Even though Cardinal Manuel Arteaga y Betancourt had close ties to Batista, he “was also on very good official terms with the Revolutionary Government,” Fidel Castro remarked in a 1985 interview with a Brazilian priest, Frei Betto.23 In fact, historian Margaret Crahan has noted, “there had been fairly widespread support on the part of the churches for the overthrow of the Batista dictatorship.”24 Yet the Catholic Church was unprepared for the extent of socioeconomic changes the revolutionaries would undertake, which affected the holdings of foreign entities to which many Church officials were tied. About five of every six priests among the three thousand in Cuba were from Spain. Castro remarked, in this vein, that “The revolutionary laws produced conflicts, without a doubt, because the bourgeois and landed sectors, the rich sectors, changed their attitude toward the Revolution. . . . That’s how initial conflicts with the Church began, because those sectors wanted to use the Church as a tool against the Revolution.”25
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