Son Cubano
Iam writing about my experience in Cuba to comply with government requirements.
As a “person subject to US jurisdiction,” I had to sign an affidavit stating my purpose for visiting the island: journalistic activity, one of 12 activities that are allowed. But a Filipino passport is subject to no such restriction; you can just buy a visa with the airline company upon check in. I was stopped at immigration on my way in, though. The officer, a pretty young thing in flip-flops and a mini- falda and the sweetest customs officer ever, said that they didn’t get too many visitors from the Philippines. She asked me what I wanted to see in Cuba.
Three excitable dots jumped up and down in my mind’s home screen. Why did I come to Cuba? I have come to convince your people that they have independence from their authoritarian leaders! But of course I didn’t say out loud.
Many Cubans don’t say things out loud. As our ride entered the city from the airport, Soviet style billboards declaring Fidel Castro love (“We are all Fidel!”) and other socialist slogans greeted us. I asked the taxi driver how he felt about Fidel’s passing, he stroked his imaginary beard and gave me the side-eye. “Humju,” was all he said. Signs admonish the citizenry to continue in the struggle, “To victory, always!” Another said “We are happy here!” trying to convince the
madlang people to be, followed half a mile later with one that just said, “We are here!”
A mild paranoia pervades conversations, what with the history of spying between neighbors that has led to jail for dissenters. Cubans have learned to talk in code. Everybody touts the free healthcare and education thing. There are hardly any street kids, as they’re all attending school. Literacy rate is through the roof at 99%. Infant mortality rate is one of the lowest in the world. Juniel, a skinny trisikad driver has probably said this the nth time, “if we get sick, we go to the doctor, we don’t have to pay.” But it belies the fact that often, there is no medicine or that nobody can afford it. A waitress in the all-inclusive beach resort was more ironic. “My father had cancer, and the government covered his chemo.” Later, she asked furtively if we could give her food to take home to her children.
I asked Jorge, a dead ringer for Javier Bardem, what he thought of Raul Castro. His response was surprisingly candid and universal, “I love the system, I just don’t like the people running it.” The system has been in place for half a century but it still comes off as inchoate. “I am an architect by training, but I can’t practice privately. I have to work for the State.” He has hopes though, for the recent rapprochement between the US. “This is a quarrel between governments. It has nothing to do with us, but we’re the ones who suffer, it’s the people who suffer.” A month later, an Iraqi American would tearfully repeat this sentiment while protesting the Muslim ban.
Yet, the music plays on in courtyards and there is dancing in the street and rum spills over in the bars. Despite the repression of free speech, the art scene in Havana is bursting with unstoppable momentum. The artist known as El Sixto painted the words “Raul” and “Fidel” on two pigs and released them into the streets. He was jailed without trial, but still. The State is restricting access to the outside world and its corrupting ideas. But kids are downloading TV shows by pointing antennas toward Miami. They’re bootlegging Beyoncé’s rebel songs. The youth are subverting the old revolution, as The Revolution comes into the realization that every son eventually turns into the father he rebelled against. Cubans are throwing a party to upend the Party.
When the customs officer asked me what I wanted to see in Cuba, this should have been my answer. It was to know the people, to understand the beat that enlivens the son cubano. Sure, I can’t possibly pretend to understand this pathos on a five-day visit. With a tribe as enigmatic, and a country as complicated, best of luck to you, sir. In the process, I made as many photographs as I could. With photography, at least I could glean some hidden meaning that was unclear at the time. Perhaps that’s the best way to understand Cuba and its people.
And so I photographed till my old camera died. Literally. It couldn’t handle the show.