I just got back from Havana, and the juxtaposition of the really, really cold Canadian winter has thrown the images and memories of my experiences there into sharp relief.
I have never been to Cuba before and therefore had no expectations whatsoever. Of course, I had heard from many friends and family about the beauty of the beaches, but on this trip I decided to forego that experience and focus on Havana instead, a city of three million souls with a bewildering and wonderful cacophony of sights and sounds. What I have been left with is a stirring inside about the conditions that these people live under, and these I want to record today.
As a photographer I also captured some wonderful images which can be found on www.jenniferchapinphototographer.com.
On my first day in the heart of "vieja Habana" I met a Cuban woman who we will call Yolanda. I was deliberating in front of a restaurant and she sauntered up, offered me some pistachios from the white conical paper cups that are ubiquitous in the city, and advised me that I would not be experiencing true Cuban food there. Would I be interested in sampling the best?
"Sure", I said, utterly convinced that the words "gullible", and "pick me" must be indelibly branded on my forehead.
We started wandering along alleyways and streets that twisted and turned so much that I soon realized I was hopelessly lost. We were inside Central Havana now, away from the restoration of the old city and the tourists, and into the heart and soul of poverty. The buildings had a listing, aching sadness to them leaving the impression that I had wandered into a city recovering from an aerial bombardment. Every second dwelling looked like rubble. This could be Baghdad.
In that moment, I was reminded of a trip into Morocco and Marrakesh where a couple of friends and I from Montreal decided to wander off with a local guide into the side alleyways to look for the remnants of a Jewish "mella" that had first housed the diaspora of Jews fleeing the inquisition in Spain and then later sheltered them from the Nazis in the Second World War.
On that journey too I wondered if I would ever be seen again; desperate poverty, dusty streets, little shops that sold the meager wares of its owners, grayness and dirt everywhere. Of course, almost like a metaphor, we found the synagogue, a jewel in the desert of this desolation, and we basked in the warmth of the Rabbi's hospitality before venturing forth once more.
We finally came to the restaurant in question and had to be buzzed into the building, which caused a moment of alarm, but then came to a patio above the street, open aired and lovely and proceeded to have a meal together. Of course, Yolanda couldn't eat here because she had Cuban pesos and could never afford the fare, but because I had international pesos we ordered a lovely meal and although she demurred and said she would wait while I ate, we shared the meal together. And then we talked about Cuba.
She was a kindergarten teacher, separated from her husband and left with trying to raise her child. The government issued ration coupons meant that she could go once a month into a little store to buy six eggs, a little milk and other dried food that she needs to stretch over the ensuing weeks. She makes about 300 Cuban pesos a year, she said, and the highest salaries would go to the military and police, who make about 1200.
Of course, I wondered about this as I also knew there was great wealth in Havana and I didn't think that the mansions that housed these people could possibly be run on that amount of money.
The talk of food consumed her, as it does with those who never have enough. This ran through our conversation and reached deep into her eyes. It was a beseeching helplessness that I saw in a lot of people over the time of my stay.
"There is a way that you could help me buy more food", she said. She had a friend that sold Cuban cigars to tourists for a very good price and would I be interested in buying some? I started to tell her that buying Cuban cigars was probably the very last thing I came to Cuba for, but the look in her eyes silenced me.
"If I take you to my friend who sells these cigars, he will give me a coupon and I will be able to buy more food for my baby, can we at least go and talk to him?"
"Sure", I said.
On the way there, we passed by the "store" where she and her neighbors line up for food. I was appalled, it was like something out of Dickens, Bleak House. Dusty old concrete floors and walls, weigh scales because god forbid, they should get more than their share, shelves that contained a few cans of something dusty and unidentifiable. I nodded as she introduced me to the shop owner and then we continued on our way, past a similar shop that sold the icons of Santeria, a religion brought over by the Yoruba people of West Africa when they were sold into slavery. Sensibly, the Roman Catholic church incorporated 20 of their deities, along with the beliefs of the Native American peoples who were there at the time of the conquest. Statues of the Virgin were sold alongside representatives of their gods.
"We have good medicine women", Yolanda said, " and they help the people to heal from diseases like cancer and so on."
Good thing, because we then passed a store where women lined up to receive drugs and medication, a dusty, helpless storefront, that is only opened up once a month. Yolanda pointed out that there was never enough to go around.
We met her friend who ran a cooperative that sold the cigars and we climbed up to the top floor of his house, past a rusty relic of an elevator that stopped working a long time ago and through old and dirty hallways. It was like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie.
He was very formal and polite with me and we bartered in a goodhearted way, and I departed with my cigars.
Yolanda took me to the nearest bank as I needed to exchange some money, she hugged me and then ran back to get her food coupon. At the bank, I lined up with other Cubans to go inside as the authorities only allow so many in at a time. I started to chat with the young woman beside me. She had a lovely smile and warm personality and her English was far better than my somewhat broken Spanish. I also noticed that she only had one arm. After awhile she said, "we will be here for two hours like this, come with me". I looked at her questioningly.
"I am disabled and get special treatment from the government. I don't need to line up like this. I lost my arm when the old building my family lived in collapsed. My grandparents were killed. Since then people like me get to move to the front of the line".
I told her that I was very sorry about this but that I seriously doubted moving to the front of the line included foreigners like me. But she said, "Don't worry, come."
Sure enough, there were loud cries of outrage and just when I was convinced that the Second Cuban Revolution had begun, we were whisked inside by the security people at the bank.
Afterwards, she asked me if I could help her to buy some milk for her baby, and I said "of course." There were stores (like the restaurant I had just visited) where Cuban pesos can buy you nothing, and so we went there. It was a far cry from the dusty hovels I saw a few moments earlier. I paid for her milk, and the woman started to cry. She looked up and said that the angels must have heard her, because on this day she got her first payment from the government for her disability, which was why she was at the bank, and she got milk for her baby. She hugged me to her in a stranglehold grip for a long time. Then she dried her eyes, smiled, and we parted.
All of this occurred on the first day of my trip, and so my eyes were wide open for the remainder of my stay.
Let me get to the point. The Cuban Revolution was designed to free the people from many things and lead them to a kind of Utopian bliss, like all communist/socialist revolutions promise to do. Free the people, enlighten them, care for them in every way. Give them free education, free medical care, let them know that they are equal as comrades and deeply embraced within the party's confraternity.
But the problem is, they're not equal, there are still the same enormous disparities of wealth in this country that existed prior to the revolution and worse, the people are aware of this. They are very well educated and have the insight and knowledge to ponder their plight fully. First class minds, third class world. Furthermore, this system is really to implode, in fact; it has begun to do so already. You can't keep discontent down long, not when your people are hungry. History is replete with examples of how dramatically this has failed....one need look no further than the French Revolution. You can't educate your people (they are one of the most literate countries I have encountered) and then starve them or have them continue to live in hovels. It just won't work.
There are police everywhere in Havana. Of course, this makes it easier for a woman like myself to travel there freely. But it's oppressive, and I have been told that there are informants on every block as well. The human spirit isn't designed to live this way.
We were designed to be free.
This experience, the experience of Havana, will continue to filter through my consciousness for a long time while I process all of the imagery and the ensuing thoughts that I have had as a result. But I just can't seem to stop the anger inside me from growing when I think of how far short this Utopian vision had faltered, and how it has led to a living hell for so many of the people it was meant to redeem.
I have never been to Cuba before and therefore had no expectations whatsoever. Of course, I had heard from many friends and family about the beauty of the beaches, but on this trip I decided to forego that experience and focus on Havana instead, a city of three million souls with a bewildering and wonderful cacophony of sights and sounds. What I have been left with is a stirring inside about the conditions that these people live under, and these I want to record today.
As a photographer I also captured some wonderful images which can be found on www.jenniferchapinphototographer.com.
On my first day in the heart of "vieja Habana" I met a Cuban woman who we will call Yolanda. I was deliberating in front of a restaurant and she sauntered up, offered me some pistachios from the white conical paper cups that are ubiquitous in the city, and advised me that I would not be experiencing true Cuban food there. Would I be interested in sampling the best?
"Sure", I said, utterly convinced that the words "gullible", and "pick me" must be indelibly branded on my forehead.
We started wandering along alleyways and streets that twisted and turned so much that I soon realized I was hopelessly lost. We were inside Central Havana now, away from the restoration of the old city and the tourists, and into the heart and soul of poverty. The buildings had a listing, aching sadness to them leaving the impression that I had wandered into a city recovering from an aerial bombardment. Every second dwelling looked like rubble. This could be Baghdad.
In that moment, I was reminded of a trip into Morocco and Marrakesh where a couple of friends and I from Montreal decided to wander off with a local guide into the side alleyways to look for the remnants of a Jewish "mella" that had first housed the diaspora of Jews fleeing the inquisition in Spain and then later sheltered them from the Nazis in the Second World War.
On that journey too I wondered if I would ever be seen again; desperate poverty, dusty streets, little shops that sold the meager wares of its owners, grayness and dirt everywhere. Of course, almost like a metaphor, we found the synagogue, a jewel in the desert of this desolation, and we basked in the warmth of the Rabbi's hospitality before venturing forth once more.
We finally came to the restaurant in question and had to be buzzed into the building, which caused a moment of alarm, but then came to a patio above the street, open aired and lovely and proceeded to have a meal together. Of course, Yolanda couldn't eat here because she had Cuban pesos and could never afford the fare, but because I had international pesos we ordered a lovely meal and although she demurred and said she would wait while I ate, we shared the meal together. And then we talked about Cuba.
She was a kindergarten teacher, separated from her husband and left with trying to raise her child. The government issued ration coupons meant that she could go once a month into a little store to buy six eggs, a little milk and other dried food that she needs to stretch over the ensuing weeks. She makes about 300 Cuban pesos a year, she said, and the highest salaries would go to the military and police, who make about 1200.
Of course, I wondered about this as I also knew there was great wealth in Havana and I didn't think that the mansions that housed these people could possibly be run on that amount of money.
The talk of food consumed her, as it does with those who never have enough. This ran through our conversation and reached deep into her eyes. It was a beseeching helplessness that I saw in a lot of people over the time of my stay.
"There is a way that you could help me buy more food", she said. She had a friend that sold Cuban cigars to tourists for a very good price and would I be interested in buying some? I started to tell her that buying Cuban cigars was probably the very last thing I came to Cuba for, but the look in her eyes silenced me.
"If I take you to my friend who sells these cigars, he will give me a coupon and I will be able to buy more food for my baby, can we at least go and talk to him?"
"Sure", I said.
On the way there, we passed by the "store" where she and her neighbors line up for food. I was appalled, it was like something out of Dickens, Bleak House. Dusty old concrete floors and walls, weigh scales because god forbid, they should get more than their share, shelves that contained a few cans of something dusty and unidentifiable. I nodded as she introduced me to the shop owner and then we continued on our way, past a similar shop that sold the icons of Santeria, a religion brought over by the Yoruba people of West Africa when they were sold into slavery. Sensibly, the Roman Catholic church incorporated 20 of their deities, along with the beliefs of the Native American peoples who were there at the time of the conquest. Statues of the Virgin were sold alongside representatives of their gods.
"We have good medicine women", Yolanda said, " and they help the people to heal from diseases like cancer and so on."
Good thing, because we then passed a store where women lined up to receive drugs and medication, a dusty, helpless storefront, that is only opened up once a month. Yolanda pointed out that there was never enough to go around.
We met her friend who ran a cooperative that sold the cigars and we climbed up to the top floor of his house, past a rusty relic of an elevator that stopped working a long time ago and through old and dirty hallways. It was like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie.
He was very formal and polite with me and we bartered in a goodhearted way, and I departed with my cigars.
Yolanda took me to the nearest bank as I needed to exchange some money, she hugged me and then ran back to get her food coupon. At the bank, I lined up with other Cubans to go inside as the authorities only allow so many in at a time. I started to chat with the young woman beside me. She had a lovely smile and warm personality and her English was far better than my somewhat broken Spanish. I also noticed that she only had one arm. After awhile she said, "we will be here for two hours like this, come with me". I looked at her questioningly.
"I am disabled and get special treatment from the government. I don't need to line up like this. I lost my arm when the old building my family lived in collapsed. My grandparents were killed. Since then people like me get to move to the front of the line".
I told her that I was very sorry about this but that I seriously doubted moving to the front of the line included foreigners like me. But she said, "Don't worry, come."
Sure enough, there were loud cries of outrage and just when I was convinced that the Second Cuban Revolution had begun, we were whisked inside by the security people at the bank.
Afterwards, she asked me if I could help her to buy some milk for her baby, and I said "of course." There were stores (like the restaurant I had just visited) where Cuban pesos can buy you nothing, and so we went there. It was a far cry from the dusty hovels I saw a few moments earlier. I paid for her milk, and the woman started to cry. She looked up and said that the angels must have heard her, because on this day she got her first payment from the government for her disability, which was why she was at the bank, and she got milk for her baby. She hugged me to her in a stranglehold grip for a long time. Then she dried her eyes, smiled, and we parted.
All of this occurred on the first day of my trip, and so my eyes were wide open for the remainder of my stay.
Let me get to the point. The Cuban Revolution was designed to free the people from many things and lead them to a kind of Utopian bliss, like all communist/socialist revolutions promise to do. Free the people, enlighten them, care for them in every way. Give them free education, free medical care, let them know that they are equal as comrades and deeply embraced within the party's confraternity.
But the problem is, they're not equal, there are still the same enormous disparities of wealth in this country that existed prior to the revolution and worse, the people are aware of this. They are very well educated and have the insight and knowledge to ponder their plight fully. First class minds, third class world. Furthermore, this system is really to implode, in fact; it has begun to do so already. You can't keep discontent down long, not when your people are hungry. History is replete with examples of how dramatically this has failed....one need look no further than the French Revolution. You can't educate your people (they are one of the most literate countries I have encountered) and then starve them or have them continue to live in hovels. It just won't work.
There are police everywhere in Havana. Of course, this makes it easier for a woman like myself to travel there freely. But it's oppressive, and I have been told that there are informants on every block as well. The human spirit isn't designed to live this way.
We were designed to be free.
This experience, the experience of Havana, will continue to filter through my consciousness for a long time while I process all of the imagery and the ensuing thoughts that I have had as a result. But I just can't seem to stop the anger inside me from growing when I think of how far short this Utopian vision had faltered, and how it has led to a living hell for so many of the people it was meant to redeem.