Island that Dared

by Dervla Murphy

  ‘It is very extraordinary,’ said I, ‘that this small country is able to offer so much help to so many.’

  Juan referred me to Fidel’s speech at the international medical brigades’ launch in 1998, immediately after Hurricane Mitch’s devastation of Central America. I easily located it and the punch lines were:

  Graduating as a doctor is like opening a door to a long road leading to the noblest action that a human being can do for others … Not once, throughout the selfless history of the Revolution, have our people failed to offer its supportive medical assistance to other nations in need of this aid at times when catastrophes have hit them, regardless of wide ideological and political differences.

  An ignoble scepticism tinges one’s reaction to such sentiments – then one feels ashamed. Has our profit-driven world corrupted us all to the extent that we can hardly believe in genuine altruism? Looking back, is there much difference between Cuba’s roving medical and educational teams and those countless Christian missionaries who spent uncomfortable lifetimes in isolated places (‘hardship posts’, in UN-speak) providing services for no material reward? But of course I’m overlooking a crucial difference: the missionaries were confident of a post-mortem reward, not on offer to Cubans.

  Juan observed, ‘There’s a lot about Cuba capitalists can’t understand so they say it’s not true – like Fidel being honest, having nothing stashed away. They think leaders must get very rich very quick.’

  We chuckled then over the Forbes boomerang episode. In June 2006 that magazine rashly listed Fidel as a billionaire and the global media gleefully circulated this misinformation, not even the Guardian pausing to check before playing Mr Forbes’s game. The shrewd Fidel offered to resign at once if anyone could find a single dollar belonging to him in any financial hidey-hole in any country. When no such dollar appeared Forbes had to admit that their guesstimate of Fidel’s personal wealth was based on the assumed value of Cuba’s state-owned assets. Now that Fidel’s indifference to money had to be recognised, it became a major character flaw, ruinous for Cuba’s economy. The media quoted such critics as Fred Halliday – ‘He remains the prisoner of a moralistic hostility to material wealth’. And Angel Tomas Gonzalez – ‘Fidel’s problem is that he genuinely dislikes money. That’s why there was no problem between him and Pope John Paul.’

  How many people believe what they read in Forbes? Malcolm Forbes, its owner (rich beyond computing and often described as ‘McCarthy incarnate’) was once a wannabe White House tenant. On 12 December 2005 his magazine recommended Israel as ‘the go-to country for anti-terrorism technologies’.

  Without bluntly questioning Juan about Raúl, I could sense a hostile strand in his attitude to Cuba’s then Acting-President. However, he approved of the recent release of sixty-five ‘dissident’ prisoners, a move interpreted by some as a concession to US demands. Those freed included Armando Betancourt Reina, a journalist employed by Nueva Prensa Cuba, a Miami-based website, who had served fifteen months for concocting a story about a Camaguey dissident family’s eviction from their home – the sort of story US-funded journalists are paid to write. ‘Those agents have to be punished,’ said Juan, ‘but fifteen months is long enough.’

  Back in Casa Max, we all sat around the TV to watch that morning’s Che commemorations at Santa Clara. Fidel, participating from his convalescent quarters, looked gaunt but cheerful, his voice sounded a trifle shaky – and yet, as Alina put it, ‘There’s not a marble missing!’

  The Venezuelan President’s prominent role at these ceremonies evoked interesting reactions; in this bourgeois-tainted household Hugo Chavez seemed much less popular than among Cuba’s masses.

  Irma complained, ‘That man is too demagogic. And too clever at using Fidel. Why is he cheered all over the hemisphere? Because we back him! I don’t understand why he’s treated like a favourite son and honoured guest – getting to see Fidel in hospital when no one else could!’

  Alina, speaking English for my benefit, said to her mother, ‘Can’t you see, now it’s Fidel needing him! His public worshipping makes it look like our Revolution still leads the poor against the rich. And don’t forget oil! For any sort of normal living everyone needs this demagogue!’

  Max spoke no English but Alina translated his brief remark. The bartering of fully equipped medical brigades for oil pleased him, he wouldn’t want Cuba to be accepting ‘aid’ from ‘that man’.

  Juan had other concerns. He asked me, ‘Did you get what Chavez was saying? About possibly being able to give us some political help – I don’t like it! What does he mean? Some sort of formal alliance? Think how the Yanquis could manipulate that sort of talk! We’ve enough problems with them, we don’t need Washington-Caracas hostility polluting our space.’

  As we were saying ‘adios’, out on the pavement, Juan murmured, ‘Some people don’t like Chavez because he’s a lower class mulatto. The Revolution couldn’t civilise everyone!’

  In the railway station’s obscure little office for foreign passengers I was invited to sit on the spare stool while a tall, wide-smiling, bushy-haired young woman wrote all my details into a massive ledger before storing them on her computer. This belt-and-braces routine intrigued me; evidently official Cuba has not yet put its faith in the new technology. Departure time was 2.00 p.m.

  At 1.00 I joined the long confirmation queue; at 1.40 we were told that the track to Holguin had ‘become broken’. A replacement bus would collect us, perhaps within an hour or two. The long, wide, crowded waiting-room had unglazed windows on either side yet no current of air moved through. The sky was half-overcast, the humidity extreme; almost everybody carried a much-used sweat-rag.

  As the hours passed I could feel myself becoming zombified. From a nearby stall the peckish bought NP10 pizzas – stodge with a thin tomato and cheese topping. I ate a NP8 avocado, rugger ball-sized, and wondered why Cubans don’t snack off fruits instead of stuffing themselves with carbohydrates.

  A small TV set, high on one end wall, showed a quartet of senior government ministers and President Chavez signing fourteen trade agreements. The ministers wore well-tailored white tropical suits, Hugo looked relaxed and informal in a loose red shirt. Raúl also wore civvies, was being the Acting-President rather than the Minister of Defence. He spoke in a dreary monotone and seemed an insignificant little figure, not just in contrast to Fidel but by any standards. A misleading impression; on the revolutionary scene Little Brother has never been insignificant. No doubt this was an historic occasion but the solemn signing and counter-signing and exchanging of fourteen documents, however momentous, has limited entertainment value. Between each document there was much apparently affectionate hugging and kissing and at least one long speech. Nobody around me looked even slightly interested until Hugo took over at the end and began to crack jokes, greatly appreciated by the crowd. (Would Irma have laughed? Somehow I think not.)

  By 4.30 the clouds had thickened and darkened and an earth-shaking thunder clap directly overhead made most people jump and/or exclaim. Torrential rain followed a dazzling display of jagged lightning. At 5.15 we were told to ‘confirm’: the bus was on its way. Another ledger demanded everyone’s details before our train tickets could be stamped on the back (twice, by different clerks) for bus use. When the Astro coach arrived at 6.40 the torrent had dwindled to a trickle – just enough to dampen the next queue, by the bus door. On a front seat sat the conductress, a uniformed middle-aged mulatta whose task it was to enter all our details in her mini-ledger before admitting us. As I waited, poised on the lowest step, she queried two ID photographs and long arguments ensued. (One beard had disappeared, one shaven head had grown hair). While my details were being inscribed I stowed my rucksack on the overhead rack where it fitted easily. But the conductress insisted it must go in the hold, at which point my adaptability to the Cuban way of travelling was almost over-taxed. I wanted to stamp my feet and shout at this bully. Around the open hold passengers were queuing to have their luggage tagged, a re
asonable security precaution. One ancient man had a battered cardboard carton in a plastic sack tied with twine. The tag wouldn’t stick to the plastic and it took his trembling fingers several minutes to undo the knots – during which time the driver refused to tag anyone else. We departed at 7.05 and ten minutes later, at a traffic lights pause, two men boarded, slipped the driver a NP10 note and took empty seats at the back – unregistered and ticketless.

  We were allowed a twenty-minute break in Guaimaro where Cuba’s first constitution was devised in April 1869, as a roadside billboard reminded us. This event tends to be over-glorified in the revolutionary history books; in fact it involved certain awkward compromises. The convention voted for annexation, a devisive issue which illustrated the reformist movement’s inner uncertainties. Cespedes was nominated as president of the notional republic. He had already freed his own slaves but was hoping for support from the super-rich Matanzas cane-planters – therefore the constitution, while declaring ‘all inhabitants of the republic absolutely free’, stipulated that emancipated slaves must remain with their masters as paid workers. This dissatisfied everyone, especially the black rebels fighting with Cespedes and led by the twenty-year-old mulatto Antonio Maceo. Of the one hundred centrales operating around Camaguey in 1868 only one remained unburnt in 1878. Reluctantly Cespedes condoned this strategy – ‘It would be better for Cuba to be free, even if we have to burn every vestige of civilization’. Meanwhile Agramonte’s rebel followers had gladly abolished slavery throughout their area; ranching is not labour-intensive.

  On our way out of Guaimaro an Inspector waved his STOP sign and jumped aboard – a tall young black, handsome and self-important. Detecting the two skivers delighted him; at once the driver was ordered out of the bus and his mate (asleep on the seat in front of mine) took over. To my uncharitable satisfaction the conductress was severely reprimanded and given a docket – but afterwards she had many passengers on her side. No doubt Cuba’s compulsive/obsessional recording of travellers’ details has to do with knowing where everybody is on any given date – but can three sets of details really be needed for a three-hour bus journey?

  From Holguin railway station – deserted at 10.30 p.m. – a talkative, elderly man, whose bicitaxi rattled and squealed, slowly pedalled me to my casa particular on the far side of the city: a spacious H-shaped 1980s bungalow, with 1950s décor, set in a small garden near the base of Loma de la Cruz.

  Immigration’s demands on casas particulares are inconsistent; in Bayamo and Holguin provinces the register must be shown at once, elsewhere a day or so may be allowed to elapse. When Hector heard that my visa needed renewal he offered me a lift in his 1957 Buick and for twenty minutes we drove along tree-lined colonial streets to a residential area opposite a spacious park. In a bright airy office a cheerful young woman greeted Hector with a kiss, saw to his register, turned to me – and had a problem. My e-mail return ticket was invalido; I must produce a real airline ticket … With difficulty Hector persuaded her that e-mail tickets have become the norm outside of Cuba. Still looking perplexed, she gave me a chit authorising my purchase of a visa stamp at a specified bank far away in the centre. Poor Hector, who had a heavy cold, refused to desert me; happily there was no bank queue. Back at Immigration he stayed in the car while I endured a Santa Clara rerun. Holguin’s senior Immigration officer, an exceptionally nasty woman, pronounced that visas must be renewed within the forty-eight hours before expiry – confirming my suspicion that these ghouls make it up as they go along. Hector and Yamila were furious on my behalf.

  The region around Holguin was densely populated when Columbus landed nearby; half a century later Captain Garcia Holguin, one of Mexico’s conquerors, had cleared the land of trees and savages before setting up one of Oriente’s earliest cattle ranches. The town was founded one hundred and fifty years later, in 1720, on the standard Spanish colonial grid plan. During the nineteenth century it prospered: much sugar production, some fruit growing, limited tobacco estates. The Revolution added factories, engineering plants, Cuba’s biggest brewery and Soviet-style apartment blocks which enhance no country but in Cuba look extra-vile. Now Holguin is chiefly remarkable for its exceptionally friendly people, an unusual number of red-heads and beautiful city parks.

  The enormous main square, Plaza Calixto Garcia, is a marvel of ornamental green and pink marble shaded by many trees and dominated by General Calixto Iniguez Garcia, Commander-in-Chief of the Rebel Army during the Ten Years War. He was born on 4 August 1839, just around the corner from the Plaza, in a comfortable but unexciting house – now a museum of outstanding boredom. In 1872 he defeated the Spaniards and took control of Holguin but soon after was captured and imprisoned in Spain. When the second war of independence started he escaped to New York, then returned to Cuba to lead the rebel army in the battle for Santiago. Later that year he died suddenly during a visit to Washington.

  In the very beautiful Plaza de la Maqueta (colonial architecture at its most pleasing) I got into conversation with two young men who gave me bad news. Cuba’s baseball season traditionally opens in October and Juan had been confident that I could see a game in Holguin – but there would be no game. According to the local health authority, to play in such abnormal heat and humidity would be gratuitously risky. This disappointment was obliquely consoling, as justification for my being reduced to comparative immobility.

  Horse-buses took me to and from Holguin’s homage to Che, a monumental three-part sculpture in dark stone, standing alone on an open slope by the suburban Avenida de los Libertadores. The panels show Che approaching in silhouette – arriving forcefully, seeming about to step out on to the grass – then receding in silhouette. Caridad Ramos, one of Cuba’s most renowned sculptors, was in her early twenties when she created this powerful work, austere yet curiously touching. The daughter of poor campesiños, she has said, ‘We had to share what little we had. Solidarity was essential. Thanks to the Revolution I had the opportunity to study which my mother never had.’

  As the Special Period took hold, ‘community culture’ was used to fortify the threatened Revolution. Ileana Barrera, an historian who helped to found the Bonifacio Byrne Cultural Centre in 1991, explained – ‘Because material goods were scarce, we thought cultural activities vitally important to offset the shortages and foster intellectual life’. At the time, outsiders scoffed. ‘Cultural activities to offset hunger? More communist craziness!’ But in a non-profit-making environment cultural activities have a value and meaning incomprehensible to such outsiders.

  In 1995 Caridad Ramos worked hard to launch the Swallow Project which ran workshops (music, acting, plastic arts, puppetry) for ninety participants of all ages. In defiance of limited resources, the projects had seven art teachers and time was divided between traditional repertoires and daring experiments. This and many similar efforts were forerunners of what came to be known as ‘the Battle of Ideas’, often described as ‘a revolution within the Revolution’ and referred to by Juan in Camaguey as ‘a repair job after the Special Period’.

  In 2000, on Fidel’s suggestion, Abel Prieto, Minister of Culture since 1998, established fifteen institutions throughout Cuba to train art instructors. (This well-chosen minister is the author of several scholarly works and of a semi-autobiographical novel entitled The Flight of the Cat.) Each province now has its Arts School, open to everyone from primary school-children to pensioners. But the Battle of Ideas involves much more than art schools; its programmes aim to revitalise all aspects of the national life.

  The two young men with whom I had talked in the Plaza de la Maqueta were newly returned from Grenada where they had been leading a volunteer team deployed to change the island’s light bulbs from incandescent to fluorescent. (Cuba, they proudly told me, is also donating thousands of fluorescent bulbs to other Caribbean countries.) These brothers, Roberto and Rolando, belonged to the local BUTS – Brigadas Universitas de Trabajo Social (University Social Work Brigades). Their more humdrum tasks included helping old peop
le who live alone and encouraging school drop-outs to engage in community work, the reward a small stipend. They told me about Operation Alvaro Reinoso, which aims further to reduce sugar production by at least fifty per cent. (‘You call it downsizing?’ queried Rolando. Vigorously I shook my head.) In the village around a closed centrale BUTS works with SUMS – Sedes Universitarias Municipales (Municipal University Units), another Battle of Ideas creation. University graduates put out of work by Alvano Reinoso, or by other factory closures, are invited to become teachers in retraining programmes which provide a small wage for both teachers and students. The young who have never been able to find work are also given small stipends if they attend Integral Improvement Courses which usually lead on to university-level evening classes in the humanities, held in school buildings all over the island. Many retired academics, and other pensioners with specialist knowledge, have volunteered to work in these new faculties. On 26 May 2005 one such academic, Maria de la Vega Garcia, editor of the journal Marx Ahora, distilled the essence of the Battle of Ideas in a moving speech:

  A distinctive feature of the Universalisation of Higher Education – one of the most momentous and comprehensive of the Revolution’s programmes within the context of the Battle of Ideas – is the formation of associate professorships to participate. This represents a contribution to the general culture of our people, and without doubt is also a new way to personal fulfilment … The relationships with university faculties, and with the institutions and organisations of the municipalities that support such educational work, broaden our horizons … We come to realise that we are doing much more than implementing a programme or offering to share our knowledge of a particular discipline. It is – without doubt – a closer acquaintance with the personal lives of our students, their families and their social and work environments that establishes strong emotional links as the only way to a fruitful academic orientation, while also contributing to the students’ human development, awakening in them their sensibilities to the advances of science, culture, and the history of their country and raising their self-esteem, often diminished through multiple and adverse factors. It is to discover and make shine the star that can exist in the heart of any human being.