I remember the first time I published an article in El Nuevo Herald. It was titled “La Perla de las Antillas” (NH, June 10, 1991). It was a disquisition on the differences between the cultural codes of Cubans in Miami and Cuba at that time. I commented on the impression of having again heard the radio programs of my childhood, of visiting Little Havana, and its replicas of iconic Havana sites, from La Carreta Restaurant, to the Caballero Funeral Home, to the Quinta Avenida clock.
That article ended with an anecdote about my daughter, who was then studying at the university. I had thought of giving her a “Cubanness test” brought from Miami. Of the nearly 50 questions (What was Chencha like? What happened to Chacumbele? What was the “corner of sin”? What’s best for dried yuca?) she had only been able to answer one: What is Cuba of the Antilles? The Pearl, she had told me with a smile.
After my article in the NH, a barrage of fire ensued, with about seven replies, for almost two weeks. I remember one titled “Pan con ají,” which reproached me for the decadence of post-Revolution Cuba, manifested in the vulgarity of Cuban pizzas. Etc.
One of the responses, however, published in none other than the Diario de las Américas, “Carta abierta a un académico cubano” (Open Letter to a Cuban Academic), disagreed with mine, but did so with a different tone and arguments. So I decided to respond only to that one, with a second text, “¿Podemos hablar?” (Can We Talk?) (NH, August 18, 1991). Its author, Uva de Aragón, a writer from the first wave of exile, responded to me in the same newspaper with a commentary titled “Podemos y debemos hablar” (We can and should talk).
Although the debate ended there, the fact is that Uva and I began to forge an intellectual exchange from that point on, which would later blossom into a lasting friendship. Many years later, during a tribute that the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba (UNEAC) paid to Uva, while she was visiting Havana, I had the opportunity to publicly recall that first exchange.
I began my account with this foray into the NH, but in fact there was an earlier one, 35 years ago, in The Miami Herald, which seems like the same newspaper, but isn’t.
During my academic travels through those lands in the 1980s, I had met journalists from the MH who shared our views on the U.S. intervention in the Central American wars. So I sent one of them an article titled “End Threats, Begin Talks,” in which I argued in favor of dialogue, explaining the new context, the geopolitical changes, the end of the war in Angola, Cuba’s concern about the crisis in the Eastern European socialist bloc and its repercussions for the Third World, the interpretations that predicted a debacle in Cuba, and the dangers of these visions in terms of national security. I argued that destabilization and force could lead to more threatening and counterproductive scenarios for the United States than seeking dialogue and agreement with the island.
They finally published it (MH, April 17, 1990), accompanied by an article by Georgie Anne Geyer, titled “Castro’s Isolation Portends Civil War,” on a single page that read “A Two-Voice Counterpoint on Cuba” at the top.
Gayer concluded her Cuban apocalypse by predicting that Fidel had a couple of years left in power unless a military rebellion occurred first. The following year, this journalist published The Guerrilla Prince, a biography of the “Cuban dictator” based largely on stories collected among exiles, infused with imagination.
When my article appeared in the MH, the socialist bloc was crumbling, and the first blows were already being felt in Cuba. Peace had not yet been achieved in Central America, and the first billboards were appearing in Miami announcing “Next Christmas in Havana.” So for me, it was like bringing off a coup.
With the arrival of the Clinton administration, I tried my luck again at the NH, this time with a piece titled “La política de EE. UU. hacia Cuba: ¿un vaso medio lleno?” (U.S. Policy Toward Cuba: A Half-Full Glass?). In it, I interpreted some signals issued by the State Department as favorable. In addition to not harping on “post-Castro Cuba” or the commitment to the Cuban exile community, they welcomed the good relations between Caribbean countries and the island and their potential influence on internal changes. They acknowledged that there was no Cuban threat to the U.S. and favored academic and cultural exchanges.
I was trying to map factors in the complex dynamics of relations, such as businesspeople and the emergence of attractive economic sectors in Cuba, and I noted that even conservative think tanks, like the Rand Corporation, were claiming it was time for a different policy. An expectation, of course, that others also had at the time, after twelve years of Republican governments; and a Clinton administration that was only eight months old.
That exercise about the half-full glass didn’t predict or provoke anything, of course; but its outcome was different from the previous ones. Once again, it was published by NH (September 1993); however, unlike two years earlier, there was no cascade of responses. The best part of all was that, around the same time, it had been published by one of our outlets called Juventud Rebelde. Although it wasn’t a home run, hitting those two bases with a single hit wasn’t bad.
As I’ve mentioned many times right here, I began visiting the United States frequently, as part of my academic work, starting in the early 1980s. That was undoubtedly an experience that contributed to my ability to debate ideas very different from my own, to construct arguments to make myself understood, and to engage in dialogue with those who held other ideologies — and would likely continue to hold them.
I was able to learn that, despite these distances, not only ideological but cultural, it was possible to convey what I knew — or thought I knew — about Cuba. That exchange helped me analyze, document and construct this knowledge about Cuba and our relations with the United States in a different way.
In addition to being an intellectual learning experience, it was, above all, a cultural and human experience. At Columbia, Harvard and the University of Texas, I had Cuban-American students whose families had lost property in Cuba, participated in the Bay of Pigs invasion, led exile organizations; who had arrived in Operation Peter Pan or had been taken via Mariel. Some of them had worked at the Cuban-American National Foundation, in television and the press in Miami, and on the staffs of politicians in Florida or New Jersey. And they came to my graduate programs on U.S.-Cuba Relations and Contemporary Cuba because they had never taken courses on Cuba in their undergraduate studies. At first, they were hesitant, unsure whether I was truly an academic in addition to being a communist.
However, after our first weeks of seminars, dialogues and debates in class, our relationship warmed up, until we began to meet on weekends. By the end of the semester, we discovered that, despite our differing political views, we had all learned a lot, and that some of us were already friends. And we would remain so to this day.
During those trips to the North, I also participated in events with military personnel from across the hemisphere at the Defense University, gave lectures on the Missile Crisis to cadets at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, discussed Cuba with the Latin America team at the Rand Corporation (“You’re the first Cuban from Cuba to visit us,” the Cuban in charge told me), and spoke and debated about civil society in the series on Cuba and U.S.-Cuba relations at the Council on Foreign Relations.
I don’t need to point out that 90% or more of those participating in those sessions didn’t think like me. Not even remotely.
I remember once when I was invited to speak about Cuba, at the dawn of the Special Period, before an audience of 100 people at Americas Society. There were too many Cuban faces in the audience to distinguish. It was the time when every Friday a group of protesters would gather for an hour or two on a corner in front of the Cuban Mission to the UN. However, despite the furrowed brows and the questions with taglines, the conversation ended peacefully.
A few weeks later, as I was entering the Mission to pick up letters from home, I heard voices outside shouting: “Rafael Hernández, when you return to New York, we’ll be waiting for you.” That tension was also part of the climate, and it could emerge anywhere, not just in Miami.
So, outside of classes and panels, one had to be prepared to deal with intransigence and rigidity, with stereotypes of anti-communism and anti-Castroism, where one least expected it. This contingency did not diminish the intellectual and political interest of being able to discuss, both publicly and privately, with former Secretaries of Defense, former CIA chiefs, Undersecretaries of State for Latin America, Wall Street Stock Market moguls, Coast Guard commanders, members of Congress, and generals who earned their ranks in Vietnam. And sometimes I discovered that some of them cultivated respect or even admiration for Fidel Castro, and for the Cuban Revolution’s ability to survive, despite all their objections and our shortcomings.
I like to say that if I’m invited to preach in Hell, I’ll go there. And in a way, that’s what I’ve done most in my life. Because I harbor the notion, perhaps fanciful, that one or two of my reasons may linger in the minds of some demons, even if unconsciously. If not, having tried it will have been worth it to clarify my own way of thinking.
Needless to say, I harbor no illusions about sworn enemies, much less about allies on the other side. I’ve known them for far too long, and even had them very close, before they switched sides to the camp of those Isaac Deutscher called renegades. He said that renegades and heretics were two very different species; and it’s necessary to learn to differentiate them. Like Jews converted to Christianity during the Inquisition, dissenters from their former beliefs can be, and often are, the most recalcitrant, dogmatic and sectarian, the most hostile toward those who continue with their former faith. That’s why dialogue with them is often very difficult; and attempting debate often proves unproductive.
Finally, I’m also under no illusion that debate and dialogue are the magic wand that will solve everything, nor that politics can be reduced to that. Reasons of state, the cultures of organizations and government apparatuses, the logic and complexities typical of transition processes, inertia in ways of thinking, habits of leadership and interests, crisis situations and defeatism — all of these, along with other factors, are part of the political process. Believing that rational dialogue and open debate will dissolve them is also a fantasy.
However, the mere fact that diverse social subjects feel identified and are active participants in this process would allow for the building and maintenance of bridges between institutions and consensus. Without expanded communication across multiple channels, it’s difficult to have interaction or mutual influence, which are vital for politics to work on both sides.
Although many friends and acquaintances sometimes tell me they wish I would be heard from above, I confess that I have never had the vocation of being a government advisor. Some of my associates feel frustrated, with good reason, because they are ignored. I would also like them to be listened to, as I personally share many of their proposals. But in my case, it’s enough for me to be able to publicly share my reflections on society and politics.
No recognition is greater than hearing someone, often a stranger, tell me I’ve helped them understand a problem, even if they haven’t found a solution.
Feeling that inner usefulness makes it all worthwhile.
