Delegation Report

A door. A big wood door. Ornate. In a house that had once been a mansion. This was the national home of UNEAC, the Cuban Artist's and Writer's Union. This was not what I had expected. For weeks I had pictured a smallish structure, not falling apart but worn, crowded, and bustling with activity.

But this house was elegant, stone floors (marble?), established, solid, not crumbling like many of its brother and sister mansions around Habana, a little too solid. We were met at the door by Estrella. Expensively dressed for Cuba, she greeted us  and ushered us into the entry room. "UNEAC is a national union of artists and writers with offices in all fourteen provinces. It's mission is to create positive conditions for creators to work. It was founded in 1961 by Nicolas Guillen."

That name perked up my enthusiasm again. I had read a few of Guillen's poems. His work gives special emphasis to the common person, that person's language and rhythms, especially those descended from Africa. My expectations took off. This was the "encuentro" I had been waiting for. As a creator, I would meet Cuban creators. As a writer, I would encounter Cuban writers, maybe even poets.

Estrella led us down a spotless hallway, paintings on the wall, and into a large room on the right. Perhaps this had been the library or the den of the original mansion. Large windows. Wood paneling. At the front, was an enormous wood desk. Muv bella. Behind the desk stood six or eight fancy wood chairs. Rows of college chairs with little fold-away desk tops occupied the rest of the room. It was an unusual combination of gracious wealth and college classroom. Our twenty-five person delegation would be the students, and the selected artists and writers would play the gracious teachers.

Slowly, after we were seated, these artists and writers strolled in. There were both men and women. All ages were there, from one young woman in her twenties who never said much to a white-haired man who looked like he walked straight of of Zorba the Greek. Most, with the exception of the woman in the middle, were casually dressed. They represented a variety of creative fields: TV writing for children, acting, music. Later a young poet and a tall gentleman whom I remember for his sense of humor would join the original panel. We introduced ourselves: 25 caring people from around the US who are interested in the arts and the effects of the embargo on the arts. There was some more back- ground talk about the union's structure and some of its projects from work in the schools to festivals to Cuban cultural projects overseas. Then the questions began.

We had been told not to hold back on what we asked, so our questions were frank and probing. The first question focussed on whether or not Cuban writers were restricted in what they wrote about. Were certain subjects or themes out of bounds? Did they have to follow the within-the-revoluion-todo and outside-the- revolution-nada rule? Their answer was an emphatic but a little bit puzzled "no." They claimed complete artistic freedom. Their difficulties were economic, not political. There was a general wagging of heads: no covert or overt restrictions.

Another question, asked over and over during our 12-day stay, postulated that the end of the embargo would bring a disaster for Cuba. Were artists and writers worried about the tidal wave of US business and culture that would swamp and corrupt the island? The panel was puzzled by this question too. They were also disturbed. Indignantly, they spoke out against the blockade. "The US has no right to do this." But they didn't seem to understand the enormous destructive potential of US influence. They stated that certain writers like Jose Marti had warned them about US culture. They seemed confident that they would be able to maintain their own culture no matter what. Besides, there was a "good" US culture that would bring fruitful exchanges and cross-fertilizations.

Then came a question about political prisoners. We knew that Amnesty International claims that although some 150 political prisoners were released after the Pope's visit, at least 350 re- main behind bars. The panel's answer was that these people were not in jail because of their writings but because they had broken the law. In other words, they were criminals, not political prisoners. During the "great 5-year era" and up until 1976, some mistakes were made in this regard. But now there is no censor- ship. Now criticism of the government is encouraged. And the shadow of socialist realism has completely disappeared. 

It would seem that all was A-OK on the Cuban creative scene. There are no angry, bedrock quarrels between the revolution and its artists. Someone asked about limits on travel. The answer was that it's like everywhere else. Some artists and writers are privileged. They have connections. They have access to more money. They can travel. Others, less privileged, cannot. But as of now, the Cuban government does not limit any creative person's traveling. Other governments, however, do. And yes, during certain aggressive situations the Cuban government might also.

This question of privilege came up again when we asked about salaries. Salaries of creators come from the state, but some get paid more because of their creative area and quality of work. The two-currency economy was also causing inequalities. Some people had access to dollars which results in a big pay advantage. Still, most of the panel seemed to agree that emphasizing salary was a trap.

 Our most important question came near the end of our 2-hour classroom session. What hardships was the US blockade imposing on creativity in Cuba? The panel answered with a little relief and Freud emotion. The blockade limits exposure. Without exposure, an artist, a band, wears out. Also certain art squire a high degree of technology. Ballet dancers need shoes. Theaters need light and sound equipment. The blockade makes it difficult to purchase the needed technology. Even paper is hard to get in Cuba. One panelist thumbed through some papers on his lap. "Look. Look at this. I can't get paper to put the music on." During times of shortage, the publishing of literature (like the stack of La Gazette they generously offered us) becomes a luxury. Certain kinds of creating are not only expensive but require control, TV, for example. The blockade and US control make it difficult for Cuba to develop its own TV industry. Without the blockade, more money could flow into a multitude of creative endeavors

The panel emphasized at the end that they could solve their own creative problems. Others, meaning us and a movement of people like us, would have to solve the blockade problem. With this we could wholeheartedly agree. However, other points we should ponder with care. It's not certain that we can take UNEAC at its word when it comes to questions about artistic freedom. We should remember that these creators are the creative establishment in Cuba. Further, only three panelists dominated their statements. Plus this mansion was not a place where everyone could be completely candid. I suspect that in Cuba there are areas of life that still must be approached obliquely, if at all, eg. homo- sexuality, outright opposition to the revolution. Political prisoners do exist, though sometimes real concerns create such prisoners. Cuba is still, after all, under siege by the giant in the north. But labeling "political prisoners" as "law breakers" does not solve the human rights problem. Since 1976 the relationship between the government on the one hand and Cuba's artists and writers on the other may have been clarified for the benefit of both sides, but this new marriage is probably shaky.

We could think of this visit as being like the glass of cola that they offered each of us. Some of it has value. But there is some fizz in there too.

Two points need underscoring. The first is that the US blockade does unjustly impose hardship on the arts in Cuba. We must do everything we can to lift it. The second point is that in spite of this constant injustice, the arts in Cuba are thriving. We should remember all that we experienced, from arts school to Alafia. Looking deeply, we see that both of us, Cubans and norteamericanos, suffer because of this stupidity, this obscenity, this relic of hatred and fear.