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Government using propaganda to stoke nationalist fervor
By Amy Driscoll And Larry Lebowitz. Adriscoll@herald.com.
Posted on Sun, Jun. 22, 2003 in
The Miami Herald.
HAVANA - A skinny man in a baggy T-shirt and jeans sidled up to us as we
stood admiring the majestic white Capitol building in Havana.
Cigars? No. We were firm.
Undeterred, he switched tactics.
Where are you from? We didn't answer.
España? No. Francia? No.
Finally, we told him: Estados Unidos -- Miami.
Eyebrows leaped skyward. He took a step back, regarded us warily. Then he
glanced around, leaned in and drilled us with intense eyes.
''We're ready for the war,'' he said in Spanish.
What war?
''The war with the U.S.,'' he asserted. "After Iraq.''
We told him we were pretty certain there were no plans for the U.S. to
attack Cuba. Our incredulity seemed to challenge him -- he shook his head
vigorously, dismissively.
''No, no, no. Cubans are much more patient than americanos,'' he said, jaw
jutting a little. "We are more prepared than you can ever be.''
That startling encounter came within hours of our arrival in Havana.
Traveling with a group of journalists in late May on a visa arranged through the
Nieman Foundation -- a journalism fellowship program based at Harvard University
-- we had come at a time when relations with the U.S. were reaching their lowest
point in years.
In April, 75 dissidents, including many independent journalists, had been
arrested and imprisoned -- some for as long as 28 years -- in a crackdown that
incited an international outcry over human rights abuses. Two Cuba-to-Florida
airplane hijackings in a single week had prompted a brutal response to a third
incident: Three men were executed for seizing control of a ferry and attempting
to pilot it to Florida. The leading dissident movement, the Varela Project, had
been all but dismantled, only the project's leader, Osvaldo Payá, spared
imprisonment.
On our trip, almost no one would talk about the arrests. Most appeared to
know nothing about the Varela movement, others were too afraid to discuss it
with American strangers. Instead, the conversation centered on two issues: the
growing economic crisis in Cuba -- many place heavy blame on the U.S. embargo --
and an unwavering belief that the U.S. is poised to attack the island nation.
''Two weeks ago, they ran the air raid sirens for the first time,'' said
James Cason, chief of the U.S. Interests Section, the de facto U.S. embassy in
Cuba. "They're trying to create a war hysteria so they'll rally round the
flag.''
Interviewed at his official residence on a tree-lined street in the Miramar
section of Havana -- the same palatial home that the Cuban government accused
dissidents of using as a place to plot against the regime -- Cason offered a
scenario in which Castro is once again playing the role of master puppeteer. The
Cuban leader is cranking up the rhetoric about an attack from afar to distract
people from the increasingly grim economic realities in front of them.
Cason, and others, made this assessment of the tattered Cuban economy: Sugar
production is in the worst shape since the 1930s. Nickel production is up, but
so are costs. Tourism is beginning to rebound from the post 9/11 slump, but the
country is still struggling to replace $5-to-$6 billion in annual subsidies that
disappeared with the collapse of the Soviet Union. University enrollment has
fallen 46 percent as would-be college students opt for more lucrative tourism
jobs.
The deteriorating economy, a vicious tightening of controls on free speech,
the recent wave of hijackings and calm summer waters all may add up to a
familiar equation: a new wave of rafters in the Florida Straits.
''I think there is a great deal of concern on the part of the Cubans -- and
ours as well -- about the consequences of a mass migration,'' said Ricardo
Zuniga, human rights officer at the U.S. Interests Section.
In the months before the dissident arrests, Castro had begun signaling a
change with a series of moves to assert more internal control: Independent
libraries were shuttered. Three reformist government ministers were replaced
with old-school hardliners. Security officers conducted large sweeps of drug
dealers and black marketeers.
''They're going after everyone,'' Cason said. "Little old ladies who
sell bread, and video rental stores.''
'HE WANTS TO BE RIGHT'
Though other Communist strongholds are moving toward more open,
Western-style markets, Castro is heading the other way. After a recent trip to
Southeast Asia, Castro said he was impressed by the growing prosperity of the
emerging economies. But Castro has said it is his destiny to remain in power for
the rest of his life, and the reforms that have opened Vietnam and Malaysia are
not for Cuba.
''Fidel wants to go down with his boots on,'' Zuniga said. "He wants to
be right.''
The propaganda campaign appears to be succeeding in part. On the streets of
Havana and, to a lesser degree in Trinidad and Cienfuegos, the Cubans we met
seemed certain that a U.S. invasion was imminent.
The government-controlled newspaper, radio shows and television, the only
source of information for most Cubans, are filled with the latest perceived U.S.
provocations around the world. The message: Baghdad today, Havana tomorrow.
Castro himself has stoked the nationalist fervor. In a May 1 speech, he warned:
"In Miami and Washington they are now discussing where, how and when Cuba
will be attacked.''
Everywhere we looked, billboards and T-shirts bore the faces of the five
Cuban men convicted in 2001 of spying on the U.S. The Five have been lionized as
national heroes -- martyrs, even -- who infiltrated the Miami exile community to
prevent terrorist attacks on the homeland. Their faces even overlook the Plaza
of the Revolution on a banner proclaiming "Volverán! (They will
return!)''
The Five didn't often come up in casual conversation, but they were
pointedly featured in tourist hotels and at government sponsored events on our
tour.
At a block party thrown by the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution
(CDR) in east Havana's Guanabacoa neighborhood, a 14-year-old girl in a pink
halter top and jeans skirt offered her greetings to our group in a
''communique'' that mentioned The Five as heroic figures.
Leaders of the group showed us two and three generations of families living
together in modest three-room houses. To them, this was a model community, a
neighborhood where people look out for -- and keeps tabs on -- each other.
''I am liberated here,'' a lively 34-year-old woman told us, as we sat in
her neighbor's home avoiding a sudden rainstorm. "I can work. I can take
care of my children. I can do what I want. Why do I need anything else?''
But across town, far from the narrow, dusty streets of Guanabacoa, another
life exists, out of reach for most Cubans.
This is a place of dollar stores, where European lingerie and cosmetics are
enticingly displayed on glass counters. Of paladares, the private restaurants in
people's homes, where tourists dine on illegal lobster and drink expensive wine.
A place of new BMWs and glossy appliances.
For most of the Cubans we met, the thriving dollar economy has little to do
with embracing Western culture or capitalism. In Cienfuegos and Trinidad, it's
the same as it would be in Coral Gables or Weston: People just want to take care
of their families.
At one unlicensed paladar where we ate a memorable meal, the chef and his
wife had abandoned professional careers to serve red snapper and rum-soaked
fruit to dollar-bearing tourists. The chef was born shortly after the
Revolution; it is all he has known.
''To dream anything else would mean to be awakened,'' he said, with the help
of a translator. "So I'd rather take this system and make it better.''
He takes risks. Inspectors shut his restaurant years ago, but he continues
to serve meals on the patio in his backyard.
''We have a saying: It is better to fail trying to succeed than to fail from
fearing to succeed,'' he said, between puffs on a Cohíba.
Leaving his career for a shadier life in private enterprise was a decision
born of pragmatism, not politics. He has a state-of-the-art entertainment
center, a personal computer, European soaps in his bathroom and a supply of
staples and medicines.
Our chef is careful to help the neighbors while maintaining a low profile.
His wife works with the local CDR. None of his purchases can be seen from the
street.
RICH, POOR FARTHER APART
He illustrates another reason for the recent crackdown on fringe activities
in Cuba: the growing gap between rich and poor. At the start of the revolution,
the wealthiest Cubans had four times more money than the poorest; today,
economic studies show that figure has swelled to a ratio of 15,000-to-1.
Still, some Cubans are convinced life is much worse in Florida.
''You can't walk on the streets in Miami,'' the would-be cigar seller told
us on that first day. "There are so many crimes, sexual crimes against
women, drug crimes. It's not safe.''
But another man we spoke with in Cienfuegos had a more positive view. We
talked with him for more than an hour -- he practiced his English, we practiced
our Spanish. At the end, he told us what we'd heard over and over, in music
clubs and bars and along the beautiful, decaying streets of Cuba.
''It's a problem between governments, not a problem between people,'' he
said, putting a hand over his heart. "Between you and I? There is only
friendship and goodwill.'' | 
