Cubans show emotions at passing of the ‘comandante’
// CUBAN PEOPLE MOURN THE PASSING OF FIDEL CASTRO WITH MEMORIALS, TEARS
SANTIAGO DE CUBA, Cuba — The housekeeper, Cari, was in tears when she brought breakfast up to our rooftop dining area overlooking the harbor and mountains of this city, Cuba’s second-largest and a regional capital.
“Mi comandante,” she said, is dead. Fidel Castro’s brother had just announced it on the radio.
Cari, a sweet, funny black woman who commutes from her home outside the city to clean and cook for a “casa particular” — an accommodation in a private residence — explained to us in elementary Spanish how Castro’s revolution has meant better education and health care, especially for “gente de color.”
I am not naive about the realities of Cuba. I traveled there during the “special period,” when the Soviet Union’s demise created severe shortages. I favor dropping the trade embargo, but I don’t believe that is the main reason for Cuba’s economic problems. And I don’t think anyone holds political power for 50 years by democratic means. As a retired reporter, I’m just glad I never was assigned to cover one of Castro’s long-winded speeches, especially for the state-run media.
But I got a bit misty at Cari’s genuine grief for the death of her commander.
Later that day, when someone along Padre Pico street announced Castro’s death with a bullhorn, you could hear people wailing in their homes.
Little homemade memorials sprang up on residences — flowers, ribbons, Fidel’s photos, Catholic symbols and personal notes. “Glorious commander,” said one. “You will live in the heart of Cuba.”
People told apocryphal stories about Castro ditching his security detail to wander through humble neighborhoods to talk to people, showing up unannounced at a school to play ping pong with kids and single-handedly quelling a rock-throwing riot in Havana.
He was born about 60 miles north of Santiago and, in 1959, declared victory for his revolutionary overthrow of the government from the balcony of Santiago City Hall.
A photojournalist tells me that Castro once drew applause by waving away a raincoat offered him during a public address, pointing to his wet listeners and saying, “Let’s challenge the rain.” In a real democracy, somebody should have yelled, “Wrap it up so we can dry off.”
Our landlord told us it was common knowledge that Castro wanted to be buried in Santiago near the tomb of journalist, poet and martyr of Cuban independence, Jose Marti. The song “Guantanamero” takes its lyrics from a Marti poem. So we walked down to the main city cemetery where workers were preparing something behind a large plastic tarp tied to palm trees leading to Marti’s tomb. Soldiers shooed us away when we got out our cameras, but not before we got some photos.
Nine days of public mourning were declared. Music, theater and sports, including the national baseball playoffs, were suspended and alcohol sales were banned. But, after a couple of days, in a typically Cuban sort of wink and nod, restaurants began letting diners order one beer or mixed drink, maybe two. You also began hearing music again, though not as loud as before.
For the media, it was all Fidel, all the time. There had been plenty of time to do the background on this obituary. The best newsreel footage was the victory caravan from Santiago to Havana in early 1959. Soon, TV turned to interviewing academics, politicians and people on the streets about Castro’s legacy. Speakers trod carefully on the topic that foreign media were most concerned about — what would Castro’s death mean for the long-strained relationship with the United States.
Castro died on Nov. 25 (the day after U.S. Thanksgiving) and was cremated in the wee hours of the next day. His ashes (presumably in an urn) were put into a child-sized casket that lay in state in Havana for two days. On Nov. 29, the remains left Havana on a small trailer pulled by a military vehicle for a 560-mile, 4½-day journey to Santiago, reversing the path of his 1959 victory caravan.
People along the route waved flags and shouted “Hasta la victoria siempre” and “Yo soy Fidel.” The first, meaning “Until the victory, always,” is a popular quote from Ernesto “Che” Guevara. The second echoes “I am Spartacus” from the 1960 film based on Dalton Trumbo’s screenplay about a Roman slave revolt, popular in Cuba in the heady early days of the revolution. When the caravan stopped for the night, people would line up by the thousands to sign books of condolences and pledges to honor Castro’s ideals.
Not every Cuban mourned Castro or his revolution. Take the man I spoke to between the Museum of the Clandestine Fight (about events leading up to the 1959 overthrow, closed for construction) and Castro’s home for a brief time in Santiago (not marked). He said he was a physician, training in Moscow, interning in New York City, then specializing in nuclear medicine in Cuba. He lost his position and the ability to get a new one, he said, when he complained that drugs he had ordered for his patients were diverted to others with political clout. Then he asked for a handout, muttering “Pathetic, isn’t it?” I gave him $2 and a ballpoint pen.
As the cortege neared Santiago, my fellow travelers and I caught a bus to Baracoa on the Atlantic coast. We wanted to avoid the crush of funeralgoers in this already bustling, chaotic city. At the last moment, plans for a public, live-televised funeral were scrapped. Instead, only family and friends attended a private Mass on Dec. 4. Later, state television aired tape of an urn of Castro’s remains being put into a gray masonry structure, intended to resemble a boulder, but looking more like a lumpy Quonset hut, and sealed behind a metal plaque etched simply with “Fidel.”
The Cuban government announced it would prohibit naming institutions, streets and parks for Castro, or erecting statues and other forms of tribute, to honor his wish not to foster a personality cult around his legacy. Some would argue it’s already too late, although his last wish may have been aimed at countering that perception.
On leaving Cuba and trying to spend my last few units of Cuban currency in the airport, I asked a store clerk why there were so many T-shirts, calendars and key chains with the image of Che Guevara, but none of Castro.
“He didn’t want it that way,” she said.