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On Feb. 16, I traveled to Santiago de Cuba with a colleague, Arnold August, to pay homage to Jose Marti and Fidel Castro at their respective tombs. August is a good friend of Cuba who has written books and articles about its revolutionary experience, basing them on his direct knowledge of on-the-ground realities. He had come as part of the Quebec delegation, a component of the Canadian delegation, to the Havana International Book Fair, this year dedicated to his own country. Among his personal contributions to the event was a speech — “Fidel Castro, Political Power, and the New Culture of Communication,” later published on Cubadebate in Spanish and English — that he gave at a symposium on the leader of the Revolution.
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In parallel with this speech, August also wanted to consummate his homage to Fidel by visiting two historic sites associated with him. Due to the schedule of the book fair and parallel events, as well as his planned date of return to Canada, he had hoped to fly to Santiago and back to Havana the same day. This became complicated when it transpired that flights to Santiago were all booked up, and that the only remaining seats to the east end of the island were on flights to Holguin. We therefore booked round-trip tickets on flights CU964 and 974 and paid for them in convertible pesos, since these were higher-priced charter flights served by a Boeing 737.
The plane took off for Holguin and the standard announcements came over the loudspeakers — in English only, even though the passengers were of various nationalities and quite a few were Spanish speakers, including some Cubans living in Cuba. Later on in the flight, I asked the friendly attendant how this could be, given that we were traveling on a domestic flight operated by Cuba and had bought our tickets directly from Cubana de Aviacion. She went into a long, involved explanation about how the plane is not Cuban, it is leased from Italy but operated by I forget which Cuban agency, the chief steward is Italian ... She neglected to mention the fact that Boeing is an American multinational, or to speculate as to whether that might have something to do with Cubana’s English-only announcements.
In that case, I asked, why don’t they make the announcements in Spanish, Italian and English, in that order? Do they think English is the language of the world and not the lingua franca of an empire, whose influence is such that the name of our country’s capital appears as Havana in its own airports and on plane tickets, whereas it is listed by its correct name, La Habana, everywhere else you go? Her final answer was that this was beyond her control (and thereby hangs a national tragedy, to which I return).
Nevertheless, as we descended into Holguin, the final announcements were given in all three languages. With no small pleasure I wondered: could my complaint have had some effect? After all, three other passengers sitting in our row had chimed in: a Cuban hailing from Fidel’s home town of Biran, and a tourist couple, she from Peru, he from Mexico. The Mexican had briefly interrupted his enjoyment of the trip to comment on the harsh realities imposed on his country by internal factors (poor Ayotzinapa!) and U.S. designs.
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One should not underestimate the cultural, political, historical, and moral value of symbols, nor succumb to pragmatic thinking, accommodation, and resignation, if it means that we ignore “small details” such as the signal fact that whoever travels in Cuba ought to feel like they are in Cuba, not some other country, and that they are surrounded by Cuban culture, not some other culture. If we allow what represents a nation to be trivialized — be it the announcements on a plane; the lettering on a baseball player’s uniform; the language itself, which bears another country’s name but has been created by peoples who have invested their soul in it; or even the flag, the anthem, and the coat of arms — then why should we be surprised at the proliferation of symbols and phrases from an empire that has done its best to set in motion a certain cultural — or rather, anti-cultural, oppressive — machinery, that has invested such substantial resources in the effort to assert its dominance as to make that state of affairs appear natural, if not ordained by God? An empire that has, willy-nilly, maintained its economic, financial, and commercial blockade against Cuba, and keeps trying to divert us from our path?
The first stop on the trip was the Santa Ifigenia cemetery, and we reached it almost without noticing that our very early start had meant almost no sleep the previous night. It was worth it. So quiet and meaningful is the reverence shown by those, from Cuba and elsewhere, who travel so far to honor the last testimony to the physical existence of our founding heroes!
At the entrance is Fidel’s austere mausoleum, like a rampart made of stone, of ideas — a fitting place of rest for Jose Marti, too, whose remains lie just a few feet away. The tight security measures we had been told to expect around the rock sheltering Fidel’s ashes were agreeably inconspicuous; with the passage of time and increasing acceptance of the leader’s physical loss, the necessary stewardship of the site may well recede even further into the background, without this leading to neglect or loss of solemnity.
The topography of the paths through the site makes it hard to see the cemetery and take photos from certain angles that would render these images more representative. But the site must be carefully preserved, and minor inconveniences pale in importance next to the emotion one feels on approaching the places of rest of those who fought tirelessly in defense of our homeland — indeed, that homeland we may call humanity, in which all of us are born, live, and die.
Space is far too limited here to present an outline of the cemetery’s history, or to enumerate the many important figures laid to rest on the grounds. For facts and opinions on that subject, there a number of other sources that readers may wish to consult. Nor can this article attempt — with what words? — to attest to the feelings instilled by this place. There are any number of witnesses and testimonials to that, although perhaps none manages to fully capture the emotions felt by these writers or the sights that elicited them.
Continuing on our way, we reached the other key destination of our journey: Biran. It is a moving and instructive experience to visit the birthplace of the man who would become the leader of the Cuban Revolution. Vestiges subsist here of the economic and social inequalities of that time: just a few metres from the mansion on the property are huts with earthen floors and thatched roofs made from palm leaves and guano. These were occupied by Caribbean immigrants from Haiti and other lands, who came to Cuba to eke out a living — although many found death — in the cane fields and at other hard labor. The sight of the schoolhouse built by the owner Angel Castro, father of Fidel and other revolutionaries, to allow for the servants’ children and others in the neighborhood to be educated alongside his own, affords further insight into the man’s devotion to justice.
The site is also, and above all, instructive in terms of the evidence it provides of the capacity of some human beings, including the leader whose life made this place historic, not to get bogged down in narrow self-interest, to be more concerned for the good of all than for one’s personal situation. Had it not been thus, Fidel Castro Ruz might have become just another millionaire, a lawyer surrounded by material wealth, and so might Josa Marti, who possessed all the talent he needed to climb far above his humble origins and make a fortune. Instead, Marti chose to honor those origins with every one of his acts, and with his asceticism, by joining the poor of the earth, resolutely and ethically opting to throw in his lot with them.
I had visited the necropolis of Santa Ifigenia several times prior to Fidel’s passing, and it had been over forty years since my last trip to Biran, yet these places gave me something new, as tends to occur with such deeply meaningful sites. But although the images renewed certain feelings in me and awakened others, I was especially interested — though I held my tongue, so as not to intrude — in the wordless emotions that Arnold was feeling. What I observed sufficed to confirm what Cuba, its history, and its Revolution represent the world Jose Marti proposed to build with the 1895 project and for all time, whose impetus was then taken up by Fidel, especially after the events of July 26, 1953 and those leading up to them.
There are so many reasons — not ninety, not a hundred, but an infinite number — to understand the importance of upholding Cuba’s experiment in justice, an undertaking in which no effort, however trivial it may seem, ought to be spared. On July 22, 1893, in a circular to the presidents of the Revolutionary Cuban Party clubs, Marti set forth a guide to conduct which Fidel, in turn, also embraced: “poverty passes: what doesn’t is the dishonor with which men cover themselves when they plead poverty as an excuse for inaction.”
These thoughts inhabited us as we arrived at Frank Pais airport in Holguin to catch the flight back to Havana, but a surprise awaited us: the flight number was not listed among the upcoming departures. In response to our queries, we were told without explanation, as if none were needed, that the flight had been canceled and we would be transferred to another one. The information was unclear, and while we were treated courteously (albeit genuine courtesy in such cases requires that information be forthcoming) we felt compelled to ask for reassurance of being placed on a return flight the same night.
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When we heard fellow passengers’ names being called out for another flight, but not ours, we went back to the counter and were told to keep waiting. It seemed as if we might be stuck in that airport for hours and that Arnold would miss a series of interviews planned for the next morning in Havana, including one with Prensa Latina.
We ultimately did get a flight out, but our Canadian friend and others who had booked the charter were not offered compensation for being shunted into a significantly lower-priced class of service. “Cubana does not pay compensation,” is basically what we were told. Such a message attests to a deficiency in the way we operate as a nation, one that will have to be corrected — organically, as in the case of people who suffer accidents due to the poor condition of the streets and sidewalks — if we are to create the country we desire, need, and must have: a country of sustainable and ethical prosperity.
Whereas road repair proceeds slowly due to lack of funds, how much investment is really needed to refund the extra charge on these tickets? All it takes is a sense of responsibility, something on which no one can or should corner the market. In a blockaded nation, the airline is not the only enterprise hampered by deficits, by understandable material shortages, yet it would be suicide to allow such things to become normalized through the use of lazy, run-of-the-mill excuses — “that’s not my department,” “that’s beyond my control” — of the kind we’d heard on the outbound portion of the trip. At least this new flight did depart right on time, giving the lie to the reply of the reservation clerk at Cubana when asked whether we could expect it to arrive on schedule: “Cubana is not punctual,” she said with a frankness as natural as it was chilling.
If the nation does not take these bulls and others by the horns, if it does not fulfill the duty to achieve goals such as these, it will be far from accomplishing all of what must be accomplished in order to earn the right to say, “We are Fidel,” as per the title of another essay I published in Cubarte. At any rate, it would be more honorable to earn the right to say it and remain silent than to proclaim it undeservingly. The greatness of the memory and example of Marti, Fidel, and many other founding heroes demands that the Cuban people, and all of the country’s institutions, strive to pay tribute to them with our thoughts and actions, at all times striving for a degree of excellence to match their own legacy to the country and the world.
That reality was palpable in what Arnold August said as we finally took off for Havana: “I will always remember this day. My dream of paying homage to Marti and the Commander-in-Chief in Santa Ifigenia has come true. The unpleasantness of the travel delays is already forgotten.” Let us thank our good friend for his loyalty, for making an effort of selective memory in overlooking deficiencies that not only harm Cuba’s image — which would be bad enough — but also its operation as a society. As for us, we don’t have the luxury to ignore such problems, or let them continue. Only by eradicating them can we change all that needs to be changed and, in so doing, cultivate a culture destined to follow, tenaciously and creatively, the lessons of those who lighted our way with their intelligence and enriched us all with their sacrifices.
This article is the English version of the original article published in Cubarte and CubaDebate. Translated for teleSUR.
Luis Toledo Sande is a Cuban writer and poet and author of “Cesto de llamas," among other works.
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