90 miles
by Sandra Kinne
Published: February 22, 2008
In March 2004, as part of a graduate school course and on an academic license, I had the opportunity to spend a week in Cuba with two dozen classmates and administrators from the School of International and Public Affairs at Columbia University.
Much to my mother’s and aunt’s relief, I was allowed to leave Cuba and was not indefinitely detained there. They are both less-worldly people, who grew up with the threat of air raids and practiced hiding under the desks at school during the height of the Cold War; they were worried for me regardless of when the Cold War ended or the Soviet Union dissolved. Fear is fear.
Plus, they know what a big mouth I have and they thought if anyone was going to try to get the Cubans to revolt it would be me with my passion for democracy. I’m sure that’s how most revolutions start, with a big mouth, a passion for democracy and just enough Spanish to communicate with parents in Compton to say, “Yes, your child is behaving well.”; “No, your child is doing well in reading and seems to like math.”; and “Yes, I very much enjoyed the breakfast enchilada you sent me last week. Thank you.”
Alas, a revolution did not come to Cuba in March 2004. A revolution has not come with 46 years of an American embargo. It has not come to Cuba in nearly 50 years of Fidel Castro’s reign, and even with Fidel Castro’s official resignation, it will not come today or tomorrow. The people of Cuba have not revolted; they have not prospered; they have pursued a life of happiness; they have simply lived. They have existed in a world of juxtaposition; a combination of a Caribbean island retreat, a Third World nation and Old Europe, with its historic buildings, church-anchored squares and cobblestone streets.
They have Hotel Nacíonal, which is as beautiful as pictures show it in the 1950s, when Havana was a hotbed of gambling for socialites, celebrities and the mafia of our grandparents’ era. The Buena Vista Social Club is as lively and spirited in person as the 1999 documentary would have you believe, and, at $50, a bargain concert with no Ticketmaster fees. There are beautiful beaches, with warm blue waters. With a bit of wit about him, Castro even built a resort hotel in the same spot as the 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion. Rum is easier to get than water and at $2.00 a drink, less expensive than a bottle of Evian. Yes, Cuba can be like Puerto Rico or the Bahamas. In fact tourism is what keeps the island nation alive.
Yet, Cuba is also reminiscent of a Third World or developing nation. Cubans live in shambles of homes, with antiquated refrigerators and televisions. Unless employed there, natives are prohibited from the hotels. Beaches are also off limits, but since most Cubans can’t afford to take a vacation or pay for the gas required to get there, it really makes no difference.
They have limited media access, and Castro unabashedly detains and represses dissidents. Though the hotels get CNN and news via satellite, the natives do not and even tourists’ Internet access is closely monitored and restricted. Freedom of speech is not a concept for Cubans.
Child prostitution, particularly in demand by European men, and sexually transmitted diseases, particularly an increase in AIDS cases, plague the nation. When a few of us went out for a night of music, our taxi was a 1953 Oldsmobile. Though our ride was only about $2.00 for 5 miles, the eight of us crammed into the car and paid the driver as though we were in Manhattan. He likely made as much from us for that one cab ride as he does in a month.
I didn’t see Michael Moore’s Sicko, but the idea of socialized health care in Cuba is a joke. As our tour guide told us in a hushed voice, Cubans may be able to have surgery on a broken leg for free, but they don’t have the post-surgery painkillers or antibiotics for a simple ear infection. Nor do they have the most basic items for personal needs. When approached by panhandlers (which was very seldom given the ever-present eye of police and the law against panhandling), I wasn’t asked for money. I was asked for shampoos, toilet paper, deodorants, cough drops, toothpaste.
Even at the Hemingway museum, where we had to pay to take pictures, we bartered and paid with writing utensils. That’s right; for the ability to take pictures we exchanged pens and pencils because they were more valuable than dollars. Nike, Coca-Cola and Marlboro have made their way to the island courtesy of every other country in the world, particularly Venezuela and Mexico, but Cubans can’t buy toilet paper, pens or shampoo.
Fidel’s resignation today has mostly been met with indifference, uncertainty and a general tone of ennui. His de facto resignation in 2006, following surgery, resulted in status quo. In all likelihood, “el Comandante’s” baton will be passed to his brother, Raul. There will be little immediate change. What is needed is bigger and more meaningful than swapping the name that precedes Castro. What is needed is a lift on both the travel ban and the embargo against Cuba. Until this happens, Cuba will not be free nor will its people.
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