Fidel: A Critical Portrait

by Tad Szulc

  Castro then alluded to a speech Kennedy had made in the spring of 1963, at American University in Washington, proposing nuclear-arms-control negotiations with the Soviet Union. "It was really a peace speech," Castro said, "and, in my opinion, it marked a change in the position of the United States in relation to international problems." Coming back to the subject of Cuba, he remarked, "I always had the impression that Kennedy was capable of rectifying that policy [toward Cuba]. . . . I have considered him to have sufficient valor to rectify that policy. For this reason, I consider that for us, for Cuba, and for relations between Cuba and the United States, the death of Kennedy was a great blow, an adverse factor. "

  Turning again to the question of his proposed assassination, Castro said that my account of the Kennedy conversation "fits logically with the idea I have of Kennedy's character . . . with the concept I have of Kennedy." But, he went on, "I judge Kennedy at the root of everything that has happened with relation to Cuba, beginning with Girón. I do not hold Kennedy responsible for Girón because the idea of Girón had appeared much earlier. . . . Since we proclaimed the Agrarian Reform Law in May 1959, the United States had taken the decision of liquidating the Cuban revolution, one way or another. It is possible that, initially, it was thought that the economic blockade, with the suspension of sugar purchases, with the halt of sales of equipment and spare parts from the United States, would be sufficient to force the collapse of the Cuban revolution, to produce a huge commotion in the people—and even to cause serious internal dissension that would force back the revolutionary process. I understand that after my conversation with Nixon at the Capitol in 1959—what apparently had been a frank and amiable conversation. . . in which I spoke very frankly to Nixon about the problems of Cuba—Nixon was convinced that I was a Communist and that it was necessary to liquidate the Cuban revolution. In reality, from what I said to Nixon, it could not be deduced that Castro was a Communist. "

  Two years later, Castro continued, there was the convergence of the Bay of Pigs and the Alliance for Progress. But, he said very emphatically, "Kennedy had inherited the whole plan of Girón from the Eisenhower government. At that time, Kennedy was, from my viewpoint, unquestionably a man full of idealism, of purpose, of youth, of enthusiasm. I do not think he was an unscrupulous man, I don't have that concept of Kennedy. He was, simply, very new, you might say—besides, very inexperienced in politics although very intelligent, very wise, very well prepared, with magnificent personal qualities. I can speak of experience and inexperience in politics because when we compare ourselves now with what we knew then about politics—the experience we had in 1959, 1960, and 1961—we are really ashamed of our ignorance at that time. Twenty-five years have elapsed [for us], and Kennedy only had a few months in the government. "

  Addressing the question of the invasion, Castro said: "I am convinced that he had doubts, for all the reasons of judgment I can assemble, about all that—but he did not decide to cancel it because many forces were committed: prestigious institutions in the United States, the Pentagon, the CIA, the tradition of [keeping] government decisions. So, with many doubts, he decided to move ahead with the invasion of Girón. And even though he launched the invasion, I think that Kennedy had great merit. If it had been Nixon, he would not have resigned himself to the defeat of the invasion, and I am convinced that there would have been escalation, and that in this country we would have been trapped in a very serious war between North American troops and the Cuban people, because the people, without any doubt, would have fought. The Revolution, without any doubt, would have resisted. At that moment we already had tens of thousands of weapons, we had them distributed in the mountains, we had them everywhere. We had hundreds of thousands of men, even if not yet very well trained . . . because when we saw that a military threat was hanging over us, we did everything possible to acquire arms, especially infantry weapons, and there would have erupted in our country a war that would have cost us tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of lives. And I think that the man who had the personal qualities, who had the personal courage to recognize that a great error had been committed, to calm himself and to brake himself—this man was Kennedy. So, if we had an invasion that was prepared by Nixon and Eisenhower, we also had the luck that a Nixon was not elected to the presidency, and that at that moment it was a Kennedy, who was ethical, who was President. . . . Thus we recognize that Kennedy had the moral valor to assume the responsibility for what had been done . . . .

  "For this reason, I place this idea of my physical elimination in the same context as Girón—something he had inherited. I have not had an attitude of resentment about it, even if he had considered the idea, because it could have been done indirectly, it could have been the interpretation of an expression at a given moment 'to get rid of Castro,' which could mean through a counterrevolution, through an invasion like Girón, through economic blockade, a direct invasion, or the physical elimination of Castro. . . . But it is hard for me to believe that Kennedy would have ever given a direct order of that nature because of the opinion I have of him—not because he is dead, but analyzing it with calm and cold blood. I can add that I really felt a profound pain the day I received the news of his death—it shocked me, it hurt me, it saddened me to see Kennedy brought down. "

  And Fidel Castro was remembering John Kennedy thus not only in the light of the Bay of Pigs but also the missile crisis that had occurred the following year.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The Cuban Missile crisis of October 1962 was a historically inevitable consequence of the Bay of Pigs events, even though, as Fidel Castro has observed, President Kennedy chose to refrain from launching an actual American invasion of the island. The dynamics on both sides of the straits of Florida had to force a new confrontation—it was like a law of physics—and this time the conflict was escalated beyond just Cuba to the superpower level. Never before or since had the world come so near a nuclear war. But Cuba and Castro would have been simply the pretext and the trigger, a very crucial point that this globally minded revolutionary leader could not grasp at the height of the crisis. This failure on Castro's part to understand global power realities served to fit him into the Soviet power system, though he would resist it for over six years. It would be a subtle and silent struggle between him and the Russians, much of it still shrouded in secrecy.

  No sooner had the blood dried at the Bay of Pigs than a new process of polarization developed in both Washington and in Havana, John Kennedy and his advisers and Fidel Castro sharing equally the blame and responsibility for the results. In mid-June, Kennedy received the conclusion of the Taylor board of inquiry on the Bay of Pigs disaster that "there can be no long-term living with Castro as a neighbor" and that the Cuban situation be reappraised "and new guidance be provided for political, military, economic and propaganda action against Castro." Studies on how best to execute such action were provided by the National Security Council staff and the CIA, and on November 30, Kennedy sent a memorandum to Secretary of State Dean Rusk to inform him of his decision to "use our available assets . . . to help Cuba overthrow the Communist regime." In the meantime, Castro proclaimed that after the April invasion "the struggle in this country is for socialism," and he proceeded to accelerate this process in every possible way, presumably quite aware that he was inviting fresh violent responses from the United States. But for Castro, it was a matter of revolutionary principle—now that it was no longer "counterrevolutionary" to regard the revolution as the socialist stage in the march toward communism. Before Girón, men went to prison for saying it was so.

  The postinvasion acceleration of the revolutionary process spotlighted the immense transformations in Cuban society and its way of life as the country experienced the third and approached the fourth year of Castro's rule. The new realities were the very considerable amelioration in the living, health, and education conditions of the population, especially in the impoverished countryside; a painful deterioration in the national economy for reasons
ranging from chaotic planning to defense requirements and the United States' economic warfare; and a nearly total regimentation of Cuba in terms of its political, intellectual, and cultural life. Put more crudely, a revolutionary dictatorship had been implanted by the end of 1961, because, as Fidel Castro emphasized in his 26th of July speech that year, "this is a life-or-death struggle that can only end with the death and destruction of the Revolution or of the counterrevolution. "

  Having declared that this was a socialist revolution and that the next step would be the creation of the United Party of the Cuban Socialist Revolution (PURSC) as the ruling political organism under his guidance, Castro moved to eradicate all forms of opposition (loyal or not) and every vestige of independent thought. Always insisting that all these measures aimed at the absolute national unity required for the revolution's survival, he urged Cubans to join him in joyfully greeting the advent of the new age of regimentation. In the course of his 26th of July speech at Havana's Revolution Plaza, Fidel asked those who belonged to the militia, to the Revolution Defense Committees, the Revolutionary Workers' Confederation, and the Cuban Women's Federation to raise their hands—and a hurricane of applause and shouted approval swept the huge crowd. It was another "consultation" with the masses, and Castro exclaimed, "The Revolution has organized the people! . . . Even children are being organized in the associations of Rebel Pioneers!" And Cubans now addressed each other as compañeros in this brotherhood of the revolution.

  Notwithstanding the Bay of Pigs invasion and the threat of new American thrusts, the Escambray antirevolution guerrillas, who managed to regroup in mid-1961, and economic adversity, Fidel never deviated from his blueprint for step-by-step political consolidation and control. In fact, the greater the pressures and dangers, the more determined he was to carry out methodically and uncompromisingly his fundamental program. And nothing could disturb his sense of priorities or interfere with his painstaking and often convincing rationalizations for enforcing his policies.

  Castro's handling of Cuban intellectuals, writers, and artists, forcing the country's cultural community into an ideological straitjacket and depriving it of the last ounce of freedom in the sense accepted in the nontotalitarian world, was one of his masterful exercises in power, intimidation, and manipulation. Because the Revolution's wisdom could not be questioned and because of Fidel's skills, Cuba's best and richest minds gave him an ovation when he had concluded the lethal surgery on them. He, in effect, created a cultural wasteland in Cuba, where a quarter-century later, creativity is not even beginning to revive—at least not visibly. In terms of Castro's logic, this operation was consistent with his goals of political philosophy, but the resulting intellectual and literary climate in Cuba is a blend of Cervantes, Kafka, and Orwell. Cervantes lives in Castro's magnificent and constant use of the Spanish language; Kafka is represented by the element of nightmare in Cuban intellectual life; Orwell symbolizes the terrifying efficiency of the all-powerful state and its great leader in dictating what culture may be allowed to exist.

  The events that occurred in the conference room of the José Martí National Library in Havana on three successive Saturdays in June 1961 brought about this state of affairs, and they provide a special insight into the workings of the amazing mind of Fidel Castro. Familiar with the writings of Antonio Gramsci, the Marxist thinker who propounded the view that the control of popular culture is needed to win (or retain) the support of the masses, Castro approached the Cuban problem from this premise. Much earlier, he had acquired full control over all the mass media, establishing at the same time a high-quality cinema institute, directed by his old friend Alfredo Guevara, to produce feature films, documentaries, and newsreels with heavy revolutionary content. Now came the turn of the writers, poets, journalists, artists, composers, movie directors (as individuals), playwrights, and ballet masters. Actually, the June crisis was precipitated by a more or less ideological dispute involving a mildly controversial twelve-minute documentary film and the decision by the Castro-created National Culture Council not to exhibit it, but it was instantly clear that what was at stake was the definition of cultural freedom under the revolution.

  Incongruous as it may appear, the real issue was the unhappiness of Castro and Edith Garcí Buchaca, the council's head and ranking member of the Communist party, with the weekly literary supplement of the newspaper Revolución, which was still the official organ of Fidel's own 26th of July Movement. Published on Mondays and therefore called Lunes de Revolución, it had been launched in March 1959, and it was probably the best and most interesting literary publication in Latin America. Its problem, however, was defined in its first editorial's statement that while the revolution had broken "all the barriers of the past," Lunes "has no defined political philosophy although we do not reject certain systems [such as] dialectic materialism, psychoanalysis and existentialism." Lunes therefore published what its editors (who were leading writers, most of whom had lived abroad during the Batista era) considered interesting: It ran the full gamut from Raúl Castro's and Che Guevara's war diaries to articles about Marx and Lenin (annoying moderate Fidelistas), Trotsky and Djilas (annoying the Communists), Proust, Chekhov, Hemingway, and American "beatnik" writers. At the outset, nobody seemed to mind, and Fidel occasionally dropped in at Lunes offices late at night for café con leche, one time bringing along Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. This was still the romantic phase, and Fidel enjoyed being the bohemian intellectual. In 1961, however, the revolution was no longer romantic, Castro had publicly chosen a dogmatic ideology, and hard-line Marxists ran the Culture Council. Lunes no longer belonged.

  At the National Library, Castro patiently listened for two Saturdays to lengthy debates among the writers and the artists on the meaning of cultural liberty under the revolution; the sessions were made even livelier by a few favor-currying writers accusing some of their best friends in Fidel's presence of being "counterrevolutionaries." On the third Saturday, June 30, Fidel Castro laid down the intellectual and cultural law of the revolution in one of his most important speeches, known as "Words to Intellectuals" (two hours' worth of them). Apart from Gransci's dictum about popular culture, Castro defined in the clearest fashion to date the philosophy of the revolution and the limits of its tolerance, or, better said the biological rigidity of its intolerance.

  Too intelligent and sophisticated to spout Marxist slogans to such an audience (he refrained from mentioning socialism even once in his "Words"), Castro put it very plainly: "We believe that the Revolution still must fight many battles, and we believe that our first thought and our first preoccupation must be what to do to make the Revolution victorious. . . The fear expressed here is whether the Revolution will drown this liberty [or expression], suffocate the creative spirit of writers and artists. . . . The most polemical point is whether there must exist, or not, liberty of contents in artistic expression. . . . [But] the revolutionary places something even above his own creative spirit; he places the Revolution above all else, and the most revolutionary artist would be disposed to sacrifice even his own artistic vocation for the Revolution. . . . Writers and artists who are not revolutionary must have the opportunity and liberty to express themselves within the Revolution. This means that within the Revolution [it is] everything; against the Revolution—nothing. Against the Revolution nothing because the Revolution also has its rights, and the first right of the Revolution is the right to exist. . . . What are the rights of writers and artists, revolutionaries or not revolutionaries? Within the Revolution: everything; against the Revolution, no rights. "

  In this manner, Castro established the policy principle that the revolution (or the revolutionary bureaucracy or himself) would interpret—arbitrarily—what is and what is not "within the Revolution," with no right of argument or appeal. It implied more or less subtle censorship of ideas, and it encouraged self-censorship—presumably on the lowest-denominator level of averting ideological risks. Should writers or artists have doubts, however, about what belong
s "within the revolution," Castro offered them the National Culture Council as "a highly qualified organ to stimulate, promote, develop, and orient—yes, orient—this creative spirit . . . ." Reassuringly, Fidel added that "the existence of authority in the cultural realm does not signify that there is reason to be preoccupied over abuse of that authority. "

  Unveiling the revolutionary concept of cultural freedom, Castro proceeded to implement it by calling a congress to organize an association of writers and artists—one more revolutionary unity organization—and by proposing that this association publish a "cultural magazine" open to all, instead of multiple literary and artistic publications that tend to provoke disunity. The message was understood clearly: on November 6, 1961, Lunes de Revolución published its last issue. As one of its editors put it later, Lunes vanished unlamented in the climate of revolutionary conformity and submission. The supplement, as well as the more obscure literary supplement of the Communist newspaper Hoy, was presently replaced by the new association's "cultural magazine." It is as uninspiring as the rest of the Cuban press today.

  Culture is a matter of perception as well as definition. The traditional Western concept of cultural liberty was erased by the Castro revolution, which, instead, offered Cuba mass culture. Fidel, the only truly cultured mind in the guerrilla leadership, would surely and irately reject the notion that his island was transformed into a cultural wasteland. (Che Guevara, who was another cultured mind, was cynical enough to have acknowledged it had he lived to see the ravages.)