Category Archives: exile

A Tale of Two Cities

RLR-pioneras

Havana just turned five hundred. The beautiful Havana: the city of my birth, the city of my upbringing, the city of my youth, the city of my fears, the city I fled, the city that simultaneously told me, taught me, that all men (and women, but don’t push it) were equal, and to be thankful to the revolution because under the previous dictatorship someone like me would not have been considered a person. The city where I learned that someone like me meant a citizen with characteristics and that both euphemisms were used to refer to people of color. The city where I was racially profiled daily by policemen (yes, they were all men) who were my skin tone or darker. The city where I was afraid of being shot for the crime of living while brown in a country that had, in theory, eradicated racism.

The city that made itself indistinguishable from its government. The city where I learned doublespeak. The city where I mastered the intricacies of body language. The city where I learned the importance of subtext. The city where domestic violence is normalized. The city where I learned to love. The city where I learned that love was acceptable as long as it didn’t cross racial lines.

The city where Celia Cruz was forbidden by its military junta. The city where I couldn’t read the writings of Guillermo Cabrera Infante because his books were banned. The city that hid I Love Lucy from its natural audience. The city that tried to erase all accomplishments of Cubans living abroad because they (now, we) were considered counterrevolutionaries. The city where this text could not be published in my youth or now. The city where all its inhabitants have the right to say that they viscerally hate the president . . . of the United States of America. The city where the paper of record, Granma, “the official publication of the Cuban Communist Party,” published racial epithets to refer to the previous president of the United States of America. The city that taught me—that taught you—to call a dictatorship a revolution.

The city that taught me the meaning of hate. The city that taught me (how) to hate. The city in which I was instructed to specifically hate my exiled family members who lived in the US, the very family that sent us money, food, vitamins, shoes, clothes; the very family without whom we could not have survived after the collapse of the Eastern Socialist bloc; the very family that we were not supposed to talk about; the very family that we were supposed to refer to as worms.

Oh, Havana, or what remains of the city that simultaneously told me that racism had been eradicated with the advent of the Castro dynasty and that it was not polite to talk about race.

The city that taught me that I was lesser than my white peers, that I had bad hair, that I had to marry a light-skinned person “to improve the race,” that white people who weren’t smart were “a waste of color and hair.” The city where my white friends told me how much they loved their racist grandparents and made a point of telling me how racist they (the grandparents) were. The city where the mother of a friend would look at her date’s gums to see if they were too dark; the city where I’d be told to cut my hair short so that it wouldn’t show my black ancestry.

Men explain things to Rebecca Solnit. Americans explain Havana to me.

When Americans ask me if I can go back to Havana . . . Americans don’t ask me if I have been to Havana, or if I plan to go to Havana. They ask me if I can go. Am I allowed to visit the city where my grandparents are buried? They rarely acknowledge the anomaly of the question. They rarely address who would need to allow me or why would I need to be allowed to go instead of just simply going. Sometimes, Americans are eager to tell me that they have an upcoming trip to the island. Is there a place they should visit? But how do you say politely that it is immoral to be treated like royalty in a country where the natives are treated as fifth-class citizens? That was true under Apartheid. Why isn’t it true under Castro and his acolytes? I have likened Cuba to Westworld, the HBO documentary that depicts a theme park where the visitors are afforded privileges that the locals couldn’t possibly dream of. I have shared that essay with potential travelers. They still go. And, when they do, they even have a great time in the city in which I did not want to become a father. The city that made me who I am. The city I had to escape to become who I am. The city in which I could not walk with my wife without facing the police harassment and subsequent humiliation of doing something that is doubly dangerous for a Cuban male of color: holding the hand of a white woman and holding the hand of a foreigner. Can I go? Now that the last name changed but the dictatorship remains the same? Do I want to go? To quote Barack Obama, one of its most recent visitors: “Nah, we straight.”

What is there to celebrate about a dilapidated city? What is there to celebrate about a city where its people would rather take a raft through ninety miles of sharks and uncertainty than to live one more day under a regime that has lasted over six decades? Why are we not collectively mourning this?

Back to the question: aside from shooting my mouth off in conversation and in print, which makes me persona non grata to the Cuban regime, there are (meta)physical impediments for me to visit or go back to Havana. First: one visits a zoo, a museum, a friend. But can one visit one’s past? Is it still there? Heraclitus reminded us that no one can swim twice in the same river because both the person and the body of water have changed. Likewise: Havana is not the same city it was two decades ago. And I am not the same man.

When my American friends and colleagues ask me how old I am, I respond that I am ageless. They think it a joke. But I mean it in a literal way: I belong to no generation. Since I fled Castro, I have lived outside the confines of time and space. That is precisely the mere condition of exile: to exist out of one’s natural time and space.

But the truth is that I do travel to Havana whenever I want. Through literature, film, and music, that is. It was of that Havana, which once was mine, that I thought about ten years ago when I lived in Rome for a couple of months. Now, in its five hundredth anniversary, I would like to evoke that city from afar with a poem I wrote then, and it continues to speak my truth.

The Lost Steps

to the Mallozzi-Sammartino

With these shoes
that know the dust of the eternal city,
and sensed the glory that was the Palatine,
and walked the insomniac trails
of the crumbled Ostia Antica,
and climbed hills and mountains and stamped
a profound mark that I wanted to be indelible
in the beautiful meadow near Colleferro,
and lived happily in the quiet shade
of the neighborhood devoted to two-headed Janus,
and stumbled almost memorably
among the cobblestones and the rocks that perhaps
with the passing of time and the passing of people
made uneven that ancient road
that indicated that all the paths in the world
would bring the traveler to the Rome of my longing,
and remember the whisper of the river
along those nightly walks besides Trastevere
with friends I would want to embrace as I write,
and scored a goal and then another and gave
a celestial pass and an unfair kick
on the shin of a guy who was speaking Italian
and was not my enemy, just an adversary
in an improvised pitch in the spacious backyard
of a sober academy
among adults who were, who would doubt it, just kids
who ran panting behind the soccer ball
while the spring imposed its ubiquitous charm,
and in their effort to step on commonplaces,
took a pilgrimage with this scribe in tow
to visit Pompeii,
to sniff around Herculaneum,
to cross the streets of Piano di Sorrento
and one day will return to the land of Dante
to recite the ancient and immortal verses
that we inherited, for our fortune, from Petrarch,
and that I will declaim with my Cuban accent
while the sun sets in the sublime Tuscany,
and a good wine is paired with even better company
and those beautiful nephews who are not related
to my son or to me, and I love from a distance,
remind me, what joy, that family, thank the heavens,
is not written in blood,
with these shoes that I am wearing right now, dear fellows,
I shall never walk the ruins of Havana.

***
Art (title): ¿Seremos como quién? (díptico)
Artist: Rafael López-Ramos
Acrylic and ink on canvas
36 1/2″ x 37″

This text was originally published in English in World Literature Today. The Spanish text was published in Replicante magazine.

Thin-Slicing a Presidential Trip to Cuba

PanfilObama

Sunday morning, when I saw on Facebook that President Obama had spoken to Cuban “celebrity” Pánfilo, I figured it had to be a joke. Then I learned that the video had been uploaded and was being shared by the United States Embassy in Cuba. I clicked, and there was the leader of the free world and his Cuban interlocutor exchanging pleasantries with a familiarity that made me uncomfortable. At some point, “Pánfilo” offered Obama his house so that he could stay with his family, and even told him on which side of the bed “Michelle” should sleep. Ah, that famous Cuban hospitality! For a noticeable part of the conversation, “Pánfilo” addressed Mr. Obama in Spanish using the informal you. It may be a slip, but it was not accidental that his casual tone kicked in when he told Obama what he may and may not bring to Cuba in order to avoid a delay at the airport. It is no secret that the imperative sounds more commanding when it addresses “tú” instead of “usted.”

In those three and a half minutes of the sketch, the modus operandi of both governments became obvious. Obama wanted to show from the get-go his intention to speak to and with the Cuban people. He wanted Cubans to know that he gets it, and he sprinkled his conversation with a couple of localisms that were really never meant to be uttered by a head of state, no matter how cool he may be. On its end, the Cuban government made sure to place on the other side of the telephone someone who knows the exact limits of what is politically permissible. “Pánfilo,” aka Luis Silva, has a TV show in government-controlled television. He knows the script. While Obama, himself, is speaking from the actual Oval Office, his Cuban counterpart is an actor, in a (poorly) staged studio; his character, in ridiculous makeup, pretends to be someone several decades older (and semi-decrepit), signaling that the only way one can make mild social criticism in the island is with the protective cloak of advanced age, and confirming, once again, that Cuba is indeed a country for old men. It is not superficial that the buffoon doesn’t speak as or for himself. It is a sad reality that this humorless “Pánfilo” is Cuba’s most popular comedian. But that’s fodder for another essay.

As I watched the skit, I wondered out loud who is advising Mr. Obama on Cuba. If he really wanted to speak with the people, there was another Pánfilo he needed to hear from: the Afro-Cuban man who, in 2009, was imprisoned by the Castro regime for appearing drunk in a YouTube clip screaming what most Cubans are afraid to say while sober, that “what Cubans need is food” —not even freedom, just food! Still, his one minute and 21 seconds of fame earned him a two-year sentence in jail.

***

On Monday, during his joint press conference with Castro the Younger, President Obama, again, made his intentions clear: “I told President Castro that we are moving forward and not looking backwards.” Inspiring as it may sound, not looking backwards after 57 years of dictatorship is irresponsible and naive. We must not move to the future by sweeping the past under the rug. Cuba needs a Truth, Memory and Justice commission that documents, and acknowledges deaths and disappearances resulting from political violence.

President Obama has said he wouldn’t set foot on the island until human rights conditions improved. But political repression has increased since December 2014, when it was announced that there would be a thawing of relations. In the first two weeks of March 2016 alone, there were 526 political arrests on the island. Failing to mention the Ladies in White while in Cuba, or the systematic repression they face every Sunday when they go on their peaceful morning walks to draw attention to the regime’s violations of human rights is not only a blunder, but a morally objectionable omission. After decades of totalitarianism, Cubans need active solidarity, not platitudes. We have no use for subtlety at this point. We need concrete words and deeds.

President Obama, who is clearly concerned with making history, must understand that history is also made of images. Alas, 21st century history is also made of memes. And he has provided one for the ages: at the end of the historic press conference, Mr. Obama, ever the diplomat, approached Castro, shook his right hand, and attempted to put his left arm over the shoulder that generally has the stars of the uniformed general. Castro, in a textbook definition of “manhandling,” removed it like an Aikido master and raised it up, and Obama’s hand was left hanging awkwardly. This moment, which may seem trivial, captures the real power dynamic underneath all these exchanges. In the approach/avoid tango, Castro is leading.

***

We must un-Americanize the Cuba problem. It is unreasonable to ask President Obama to bring democracy to Cuba. It is not his job. As a Cuban native, it was my job, and I fled the island. It is the job of the entire Cuban population, and some Cuban citizens flee, some remain silent, some demand their rights, and some join the Castro mob in its daily repression of human rights by harassing and beating social justice activists. I do not expect Obama to bring about democracy in Cuba. I am, however, dismayed that he took his entire family on a vacation trip to an island in which repression is commonplace —as if it were a theme park. The sad part is that it is a theme park! Where else can you find a shrine to the Cold War that hasn’t ended? Where else can you see such beautiful ruins? Where else can you fetishize poverty and feel like a liberal? Have you not seen the photos from the New York Times special on Obama’s visit to Havana? The city may be crumbling, but look at the light!

Our problem is, of course, this article. As I write it, Cuban peaceful demonstrators have been forcibly arrested throughout the country, limiting their movement, association and visibility before, during and, most likely, after Obama’s cameo appearance in my homeland. The problem is that every piece written about Obama’s tour of old Havana or his eating the monthly meat ration of a Cuban at an independently owned restaurant is a distraction from Cuba’s real problem, which is not its relationship with the US, but its fundamental lack of freedoms from a dynastic tyranny.

The ever-growing legions of Cuban experts, and most importantly, time, will tell if President Obama’s trip to Cuba was ill-advised or a brilliant move. Until I’m proven wrong, I can only think of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous dictum: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

*
Alexis Romay
Washington, DC

PS: This text was originally published on NBC News. You can read it in Spanish here

Poetic Justice

This is the fifth of a six-part series of essays written on behalf of the Montclair Public Library Foundation. Read previous essays in the ‘Love Your Library’ series online at northjersey.com/montclair.

Poetic Justice

Alexis Romay

When you are actively
looking for poetic justice, you may find it in the oddest places. I was invited by the Montclair Public Library to submit an essay on the value of libraries during Banned Books Week, a project sponsored by the American Library Association that highlights censored books and the importance of free and open access to information. I’m originally from Cuba, that gorgeous island in the Caribbean in which, under the stewardship of the Castro brothers, banning books has lasted 56 years. And it is still going strong!

Libraries were of little to no use in my native land. Most of the authors and books I wanted to read were not in their catalogs. Or they were, but could get you in trouble for merely asking to borrow them. High on the verboten list: Guillermo Cabrera Infante, Cuba’s James Joyce. Cabrera Infante – in exile since 1965 until his death in 2005 – used to pride himself on the knowledge that in a country where its citizens had nothing to eat, readers were willing to trade up to three cans of condensed milk for one of his books. The magical combination of having those three precious cans and knowing a person with one of his books never materialized for me, which means that among the long list of things for which I do not forgive the Castros, I add this: not having read Cabrera Infante’s work in Cuba, a country he so loved and recreated so thoroughly. When I managed to escape, as an adult, in 1999, one of the first things I did with my newfound freedom was to seek out his books.

Writing about the importance of public libraries is, of course, writing about the importance of language, and the freedom to express ideas in society without fearing repercussions. Words have a definitive weight in my homeland. Graffiti artist Danilo Maldonado Machado just spent almost 10 months in prison without trial following accusations of “aggravated contempt.” Amnesty International considered him a prisoner of conscience. The reason for his arrest: painting the words “Fidel” and “Raul” on the backs of two pigs. He was going to release the animals as a performance in an art show in Havana. He was arrested before the performance took place.

In an overnight raid in 2003, the Cuban regime arrested a group of 75 independent librarians, journalists, and human rights activists. They were accused of crimes against national sovereignty. The charges against the librarians had to do with their willingness to make available to the public books that had been banned by the Castro machinery. Sentences for the independent librarians, the only conduit to banned books in the island, ranged from 6 to 28 years. At the time, the American Library Association showed no solidarity with their Cuban colleagues, opting to side with official, government-approved libraries. The institutional position of the Cuban libraries supported the governmental narrative that private citizens opening their houses to lend banned books were CIA spies.

Although it was a controversial decision amongst its membership, the ALA has not publicly changed its stance on the issue. If freedom of speech is a fundamental right in the United States, why should it no be so in Cuba? I take this opportunity to invite ALA to revisit its position on the independent Cuban librarians. In doing so, the American Library Association will continue to defend the importance of free and open access to information, and deliver some belated poetic justice.

Alexis Romay, the author of two novels and a book of sonnets, teaches at Newark Academy.

Tax-deductible donations to the Montclair Public Library Foundation’s annual fund drive, now underway, may be made to the Foundation at montclairplf.org or by mail to 50 South Fullerton Avenue, Montclair, N.J., 07042.

[This essay was published originally in the December 10th edition of the Montclair Times.]

Voices: Invisible in Cuba, In U.S., Not Cuban Enough

Alexis_Romay_Aldea The first time I was included in an anthology of poetry was in the summer of 1997. I was living in Cuba at the time, and the book had been released in Spain. Until that moment, I had only appeared in obscure literary magazines, read only by the immediate family of the editors and two or three groupies. This book would later prove crucial in my eventual plans to escape the island, but I couldn’t have imagined how at the time. I was just thrilled to see my name and poem within the covers of a beautifully bound paperback edition.

When the book reached me in Cuba, it was delivered with a note listing the eight Cuban poets that had been included in that wonderfully international kaleidoscope of verse. I had counted nine in the table of contents, but didn’t make much of the lack of mathematical skills of the cultural apparatchik who had written the letter with the numeric typo.

Two of the anthologized poets had jobs in cultural institutions in their towns. That explains why, by January 1998, we had arranged a sort of tour that took us all the way to the easternmost part of the island to read and give talks at a festival of poetry and song. We were paraded around town like the second coming. The otherwise tranquil city of Guantanamo lit up with cultural activities for about a week. And since most of us were coming from Havana, the capital, walking around the streets of one of the most underserved populations in the island gave us a certain rock star status. Our poems were set to music within days. We were taken to a local TV station to read poetry —I repeat, read poetry— on camera. I remember standing awkwardly next to a troubadour who had set my poem to song, while I mumbled the lyrics that somehow, with music gained and lost meanings. There is a video of this TV show. I dearly hope it never reaches Youtube.

[Click to continue reading in NBCNEWS.com]

On Cuba, Hope and Change

CastrObama

President Obama, a man who actively promotes the audacity of hope and based his presidential campaigns on the idea of change, has combined both concepts in his long gaze at Cuba: he hopes Castro will change. However, that option isn’t remotely possible in Cuba. Back in 2003, Castro Bros. added to the Cuban Constitution that the socialist character of the Cuban revolution is irrevocable.

Lest you think the Cold War is over, and it’s time to move on, Raul Castro is there to remind you not to forget. Both Castro and Obama had agreed to announce the news of a new dawn for Cuba-USA relations, simultaneously, at noon on December 17th, a day that has particular significance in Cuban lore, as it celebrates San Lázaro, the patron saint of the needy, the one who brings hope to the people.

Obama conducted his press conference standing up in a properly lit room. He’s a young man, during his second presidential term, talking naturally. Castro, a player from the Eisenhower era, was sitting down in an obscure mahogany time capsule. He read from several sheets of paper (paper!), with the affected tone reserved for a grandiloquent speech, the only tone with which he has always addressed the Cuban people.

Obama, the Commander-in-Chief of the United States Armed Forces, was wearing civilian clothes. Castro showed up in his military uniform with all the medals he has bestowed on himself over the years (he’s been the head of the Cuban Army since he and his older brother took power in 1959). That choice of attire was carefully considered.

Raul Castro appeared between two black-and-white framed photos. In one, he poses with a comrade in arms who died fighting the previous dictator —not Fidel, the one before him. The other photo shows Raul with his late wife, the most powerful woman in Cuba in the last half-century. As much as the president of the United States wants to move forward, Raul Castro is a man living in the past.

But if the retro look wasn’t enough, then Castro opened his mouth. These were his first words: “Since I was elected President…” That’s exactly the moment the educated audience should have known this is a complete farce: Raul Castro has never been elected.

The agreement to open an American embassy in Havana was preceded by a quid pro quo mambo in which an American spy serving time in Cuba was traded for three Cuban spies. (According to the trophy-of-war selfie Raul Castro took with them upon their arrival, his spies were well fed in their American prisons). The USAID subcontractor Alan Gross, who lost most of his teeth and over 100 pounds in his Cuban prison, was released on “humanitarian grounds” after five years of wrongful imprisonment for handing out laptops and cellphones to the Cuban Jewish community.

Additionally, Obama announced he wants to revisit Cuba’s standing in the list of countries that sponsor terrorism. Yet, the same day of this exchange, the long tentacle of North Korean repression reentered America’s collective consciousness by dictating to Sony Pictures (and its global audience), that if Sony releases “The Interview,” there will be terrorist retaliations.

Nothing has changed in Cuba since July 2013, when the Chong Chong Gang, a North Korean ship, was caught in Panamanian waters carrying 240 tons of weapons concealed under sacks of sugar. The ship and the weapons were coming from Cuba, from the same regime that brought the world to the brink of nuclear war in the early sixties, the same regime this new development is trying to appease.

In his inaugural speech on January 20, 2009, Obama hinted at the Castro dynasty: “To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.” But Castro’s fist is as tight as it has ever been.

On the morning of December 20th, 2014, the news of a Cuban Coast Guard sinking a vessel, carrying women and children, that was fleeing the island started to reach English media outlets. So far, one passenger has been reported missing. Expect more snubs to the US government (and the Cuban people) where this came from.

There’s a parable that illustrates the doomed relationship between Obama and Castro. A man sees a scorpion drowning in a puddle. He weighs the outcome of his actions, but decides that his nature is to nurture, so he picks up the scorpion. The scorpion’s nature is to sting. The man reacts to this venom by opening the hand, which drops the scorpion back in the water. With his limbs beginning to swell and about to hallucinate, the man sees a scorpion in a puddle. And he feels an urge to save the creature.

***

Alexis Romay
New Jersey

This text was published originally on Translating Cuba.

Yoani Sánchez in New York: Visit and Notes

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A *week after the visit of Yoani Sánchez to New York —which I have been privileged to witness and, to a lesser extent, share— I rush to write down some impressions that I do not want to trust solely to my good memory. First, I want to name this altered state of (Cuban) consciousness caused by her cycle of conferences. But the playwright and actress Carmen Peláez beat me to it last Friday, coining a term in English (which I translated and started spreading on the web): Cubasm. Yes, it was a collective Cubasm.

Several friends and relatives have asked me to relate my experience. It turns out that Sanchez’s talks and presentations in the Big Apple has been written about with sufficient skill and considerable frequency. So before suggesting some texts, I open a parenthesis to note that I am going to give these lines a more personal touch. Forgive me. I close the parentheses, and recommend the notes that Enrique del Risco has posted on his blog (in Spanish, here, here, here, here, here and here), as well as the excellent essay by **Gerardo Muñoz summarizing the tone of the intellectual debate and the nature of the issues from an academic perspective which, in spite of it, reads very well. The in spite of it of the previous sentence is intentional. I have my reservations with the academic approach to the issue of Cuba because between the epistemology and the sodium chloride, the department chairs sometimes forget that we’re talking about the concrete lives of human beings, not laboratory rats.

In his essay Muñoz had the kindness —which I thank him for— to mention as one of the most memorable moments of the panel held Saturday morning my intervention from the audience. My question was already floating in the air from the previous day, in a close variant and in the words of Del Risco. If my friend had inquired about the responsibility of the American academic world in the construction of the myth of Fidel, I wondered what had to happen for this complicit academic world to wake up from its enchantment and see the Cuban reality for what it is, not for what is told —the image that follows is Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo’s— in the fiction of the State.

My question, like all those posed, was preceded by a brief introduction. I took the opportunity to thank Coco Fusco and Ted Henken, organizers of the panels, and New York University and The New School for bringing to New York a debate about the present and future of the island which, for the moment, cannot take place in totalitarian Cuba, because the panelists would be arrested. From the audience, a female comrade —who a couple of hours later would participate in the act of repudiation against Yoani Sánchez— screamed at me, “That’s ridiculous!” I said to her, “I know, but this is my minute to be ridiculous, so please be quiet.” There was general laughter, applause, and I had the opportunity to give a nod to my fellows and a smile to the old witch.

An hour later, I took my seat next to Yoani Sánchez to serve as her interpreter. Already on Friday, Sánchez had captivated me with the flow of her oratory: she carried off a 24-minute presentation without props, without consulting notes, without losing the thematic thread, without stumbling; I had the sensation of being in the presence of a musician who, instrument in hand, executes an almost half hour solo without repeating a riff or missing a note. And don’t let this sound like fanaticism; the only thing I’m a fan of is a soccer team.

Jose Martí, that mountain climber, said that climbing mountains brings men together. I would add that being the target of acts of repudiation does that as well. If before the Castro-loving mob burst into the conference —with their usual folkloric tantrum— my affection, admiration and respect for Yoani Sánchez was great, at that moment it solidified. I was struck by her equanimity when they started to shout against her. Clearly, she has seen and experienced worse things on the island. Thus, when the Castro-lovers showed the ugly face of Castrism —poor thing, the only one it has— I told our illustrious visitor that since she was being insulted by a minority, I was going to take the liberty of giving her a hug, which was also the embrace of the majority of the audience who were chanting her name. Talking about this and that, we spent the rest of the act of repudiation, the way people look out on the rain, with the advantage that from the stage we were safe from the torrent of the Castro-lovers’ violence, this export used by the revolutionary dynasty which, twenty times, refused to grant the blogger the right to leave her own country.

Sunday was also a day of panels, but I did not go in the morning session, thus saving me the show put on by the lovers of foreign dictatorships who returned to foam at the mouth. In the afternoon, an American to whom the word idiot would be a promotion, broke the Q&A protocol to ask for an explanation of where the funds come from to maintain the platform that hosts the blog and to translate Generation Y, along with other blogs, into several languages. Sanchez said she preferred that this question be answered by the person in charge of that project. MJ Porter, a transportation engineer, who has redefined volunteer work, took the microphone, turned to the audience and said what many of us know: the translations are done or coordinated by her, with a network of collaborators who are never paid a single cent and who do it for the love of the art. (I know that for a fact. I am a part of this network, as is my friend Ernesto Ariel Suárez, who traveled from Kansas City to act as interpreter for Sánchez on the panel.) When Porter concluded, she was met with the applause of the respectable and a hug from this happy man, who was sitting beside her.

On Sunday night there was a party at a friend’s house. I took advantage of the opportunity to give Yoani a CD by Boris Larramendi, a book by Paquito D’Rivera, and another of my own. At the end of the evening, I said goodbye to the guest of honor as if we were not going to see each other again during her tour. But on Monday, on arriving at work, I requested a vacation day to attend the panel on Thursday that would include her, along with Del Risco, Pardo Lazo and Ernesto Hernández Busto, with Geandy Pavón behind the lens, taking photos and filming at will.

I arrived at that presentation just in time to offer my services as an interpreter for a small group of English speakers. I simultaneously interpreted the presentations of the four bloggers, and their responses to the audience. Later I found out that two of my listeners came from a non-governmental and non-profit organization that promotes human rights. (Incidentally, this panel was coordinated by the Cuban Cultural Center and Walfrido Dorta. My admission to the premises, without prior reservation, I owe to Dorta and my dear Axana Alvarez. To both, from these confines of New Jersey, thank you! ). At the conclusion of the panel, I again said goodbye to the Ortega y Gasset prize winner as if we wouldn’t see each other again.

A friend whose identity I will not reveal so as to not compromise her had told me about the possibility of attending Yoani Sánchez’s press conference at the United Nations. I had already answered that of course I would go, but I wouldn’t believe it until I was standing inside the building’s lobby. Once inside, I learned that the Castro delegation to the UN was boycotting Sánchez’s press conference. But I was relieved to hear that it would take place even if it had to be inside the elevator. By an act of poetic justice, the UN press association stuck up for their colleague, and invited her to an improvised conference room to share her impressions with them. Among the journalists present, I highlight and salute Stefano Vaccara, editor of America Oggi, who offered her a warm welcome, moderated the talk and dedicated a column to her in his newspaper.

When we arrived at the small space in which the exchange was going to place, I remembered that Prensa Latina —that mouthpiece of the Castros, and an expert on bait and switch— has representatives at the UN. I surveyed the room, and told journalist Karen Caballero: “I already know who the apparatchik is.” “How do you know?” she replied. “Infamy has a look,” I said, although I could have also said, “You can see it on his face.” The guy would dispel any doubts minutes later by asking the guest about Posada Carriles. With her usual grace and ease that should not be taken for granted, Sánchez replied that she is against all types of violence: from those who bomb a hotel to those who assault Army barracks under the cover of night. The Castro’s representative returned to his natural state: in the shadows, and a friend tells me that his hands shook throughout the rest of the conference. This could be a myth or the truth. In either case, it sounds promising.

At the conclusion of the event, which was captured by The New York Times’ and TeleMartí’s cameras, as well as my phone, Yoani Sánchez had to depart hurriedly to her next engagement, her next journey. With all the rushing, I was left with the desire of giving her yet another hug, so I am sending it to her through this blogosphere that facilitated her trip and shortens any distance.

***
Translated by MJ Porter and Ernesto Ariel Suárez.

Foto: Frank Zimmerman.

* Originally posted in Spanish on March 22nd, 2013.

** This link to Gerardo Muñoz leads to his Twitter account, where you can read his “live” comments in English —see Tweets for 16-17 March. His essay, in Spanish, can be read here.

“Nemesis” Art Protest Honors Cuba’s Oswaldo Payá and Harold Cepero

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Press release from Cuba Archive

April 7, 2013, New York City.

Last night, artist Geandy Pavón staged his latest “Nemesis” upon the façade of the building of Cuba’s permanent mission to the United Nations at 315 Lexington Avenue, New York city.

In Greek mythology, “nemesis” represents the persecutory memory of divine justice. The innovative art-protest consists of digitally projecting images onto buildings hosting Cuban government offices. Pavón “imposes the face of the victim upon the assassin using light as an analogy of truth, reason, and justice.”

Saturday night’s performance was dedicated to Oswaldo Payá and Harold Cepero. Payá, age 60, was founder of a movement calling for a peaceful change to democracy widely regarded as Cuba´s leading opposition leader (see www.OswaldoPaya.org in Spanish). Cepero, age 32, was an activist of the group. Both died July 22, 2012 after what the Cuban government reported as an accident of the car in which they were traveling with two foreigners. But, the family reports having evidence, now corroborated by the driver from Spain, that a vehicle in their pursuit had caused the crash. Plus, the two Cubans had apparently survived the crash and died later of unverifiable causes. The Washington Post and The Wall Street Journal, among others, have reported on the case.

The art-protest was timed to coincide with a visit to New York city of two of Payá’s three children, Rosa María and Oswaldo Jr., who were invited and on site. (See video of Nemesis Payá-Cepero.) Rosa María, age 24, has been on an international tour calling for an independent investigation of the deaths.

Mr. Pavón launched his art-protest in March 2010 at the same building of the Cuban Mission to the U.N. with the image of Cuban prisoner of conscience Orlando Zapata, who died February 2010 while on hunger strike. Since then, he has staged Nemesis in Barcelona, Madrid, Washington, DC, and on several different occasions in New York city. In May 2011, he displayed the image of Chinese artist/dissident Ai Weiwei at China’s consulate in New York.

Geandy Pavón was born in Cuba and graduated from the National School of Fine Arts in Havana. He was part of the independent group “La Campana,” formed in 1988 to produce art critical of the lack of freedom in Cuban society. Exiled since 1996, he lives in New Jersey. His work can be found in private and public collections throughout Mexico, Cuba, and the U.S. (See www.geandypavon.com.)

Cuba Archive called for an international investigation soon after the death of Payá and Cepero and produced a report on their case as well as on “Strange Accidents and Unexplained Deaths.” (See www.CubaArchive.org, Reports and Alerts & Releases.)

*See PDF version and the Spanish translation at www.CubaArchive.org.

“Cecilio Valdes, King of Havana” goes to Philadelphia

I am thrilled to introduce four songs from Paquito D’Rivera’s zarzuela, entitled Cecilio Valdés, King of Havana, an opera in the Spanish style with libretto by Enrique del Risco, and lyrics by Enrique del Risco and Alexis Romay.

The story of Cecilio… is loosely based on Cecilia Valdés —Cuba’s most famous opera, from the early XX Century— it takes place in contemporary Cuba, and it adds a racial undertone to the theme of impossible love inherited from Montescos and Capuletos.

The songs were performed, in the order in which they appear in the opera, in Philadelphia, at the Lenfest Hall at Curtis Institute of Music, on June 13, 2012, during the New Works Forum of the annual conference organized by Opera America.

In “Don’t Tell Me You Don’t Know,” Cecilio’s wife explains to a foreign tourist the state of Cuban affairs.

Music: Paquito D’Rivera
Lyrics: Alexis Romay
Mezzo-soprano: Katy Pracht
Piano: Jerome Tan

“Patricia’s Song,” is sung by the female lead as she refuses an advance from a suitor and demands to be respected according to her high social status.

Music: Paquito D’Rivera
Lyrics: Alexis Romay and Enrique del Risco
Soprano: Evelyn Santiago
Piano: Jerome Tan

In “Nothing Lasts Forever,” Patricia’s father, fearing that he is falling from grace with the government, commands his daughter to marry the nephew of his Spanish business partner.

Music: Paquito D’Rivera
Lyrics: Enrique del Risco
Soprano: Evelyn Santiago
Baritone: Eric Dubin
Piano: Jerome Tan

“Betrayal,” features Patricia’s father and Cecilio’s mother as they admonish their respective children for engaging in an interracial romance.

Music: Paquito D’Rivera
Lyrics: Alexis Romay
Soprano: Evelyn Santiago
Baritone: Eric Dubin
Piano: Jerome Tan

Enjoy the drama!

Twelve years

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Today I am celebrating twelve years of living in the United States: twelve years of not having to look over my shoulder when I speak, twelve years of not going to bed hungry, twelve years of not waking up in fear.