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REEL DEMOCRACY: THE POLITICS OF CINEMA IN CUBA

AUDREY SUE FLEMMING

A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

2016

To my parents: Robert and Susan Flemming

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would first like to thank my advisor, Dr. Leslie Anderson, who has encouraged, supported, and helped me develop as an academic since my first class with her at The

University of Florida. Throughout my studies and dissertation work, she pushed me to explore, encouraged me to let my research experiences guide me, challenged me with critical questions, supported my ideas, and created an environment which fostered creativity. She has been a role model for me, illustrating in her scholarship the idea that research questions should guide method selection and that plurality in approaches garnishes the most complete picture of reality. Most importantly, as an advisor, while she shared her knowledge, training, and experience with me, she allowed me to develop as the scholar I wanted to be, and for that, I am most grateful. In my years of teaching ahead, I hope to do as wonderful a job of helping students to become the scholars they envision, as she has done for me.

I also thank the rest of my committee members for their contributions to this project and for helping me grow as an academic during my graduate school career. Dr.

Lawrence Dodd inspired me with his love for knowledge, his commitment to his students

(supporting us all both emotionally and intellectually), and with his encouragement every step of the way. From the moment he shared “Ithaca” in the Scope and Epistemology course I took with him my first semester, to supporting the beginning stages of my research in our Empirical Theories course, he has made my educational journey indeed a marvelous one, and it is only just beginning. Never has so much knowledge been shared so humbly and so authentically as it has by this truly great scholar and professor.

While I love my first field of study, comparative politics, I am grateful that I was able to pursue a study of another passion of mine, political theory, through the tutelage of Dr. Daniel O’Neill. He encouraged my study of political theory, helped me become a scholarly detective by teaching me approaches to analyzing historical political thought, and helped me understand, for the first time, both feminism and Marxism—two theories that have served as invaluable lenses for me in and outside of my research. I thank him for sharing his passion for, and knowledge of, political theory with me. Normative concerns are at the heart of my research and this dissertation, and that is in no small part due to Dr. O’Neill’s impact on me. I am most thankful for his guidance both as a professor and member of my committee.

I am also grateful to Dr. Marcus Hendershot who pushed and challenged me to think outside of my usual frameworks. The fact that his methodological approaches and subfield diverged from my own, helped me to constantly re-think how I was conducting and analyzing my research. I am also grateful that Dr. Hendershot took an interest in my graduate school career, despite the fact that I was never in one of his courses. He invested time and effort into helping me to develop as a scholar even when there was no direct incentive to do so. Such dedication to helping students develop, even ones that were not his own, speaks volumes about his commitment to his academic profession. I am thankful for all of the advice, encouragement, and conversations he shared with me. And I could not have made it through the early mornings, long days, and late nights of work that made up my graduate school existence, without the alternative rock country music to which he introduced me. Even comprehensive exams do not seem so daunting when one has the Bottlerockets playing in the background.

I am tremendously fortunate to have had Dr. Gerald Murray as my outside committee member. I am so thankful he agreed to be on my committee, even as he was retiring, and am honored that my committee was the last one of which he was a member. He introduced me to new ways of analyzing and researching, and his passion for his scholarly studies paired with his desire to apply that knowledge to improve the realities he is a part of, inspires and challenges me to try to do meaningful studies.

Throughout my research, he was a constant source of positive encouragement, and the framework for understanding the Caribbean he provided me with guided me as I began my field work in Cuba. Most significantly, the passion he maintained for his work in the final years of his career, confirm for me the unparalleled joys and opportunities that this profession affords. I am so thankful for his dedication to, and love of, the craft. I hope to do half as well by it as he has.

I would also like to thank Sue Lawless–Yanchisin for all of her help throughout the entirety of my time in graduate school. I would not have been able to navigate the process without her. Even when I was out-of-state, I could always rely on her support and assistance with whatever I needed. She has been there for me from the start-to- finish of graduate school, and I cannot think of a better companion to have through that process. The graduate program would not function and graduate students would not succeed without her.

My thanks further extend to those who helped at earlier stages of my education, including teachers who helped inspire intellectual curiosity (Mr. Robert Raboin), who encouraged creativity (Mrs. Lori Fulmer), who gave me the first opportunity to assist in research while in my undergraduate studies (Dr. Lynda Barrow), who helped my with

my first thesis (Dr. Susan Dobrian ), who introduced me to the politics of Latin American film and poetry (Dr. Nicholas Mason-Browne), and who made me want to become an academic (Dr. Edmund Burke). These, and countless other teachers and professors, helped me to develop as both a student and an educator.

I would also like to thank the entire communities at both Coe College and Austin

College who offered me the opportunity to teach while I was working on my dissertation.

I especially want to thank the political science department at Coe College (Dr. Bruce

Nesmith, Dr. Lynda Barrow, and Dr. Kimberly Lanegran), and the political science department at Austin College (Dr. Nathan Bigelow, Dr. Donald Rogers, Dr. Frank

Rohmer) and the social science dean, Dr. David Griffith. I went to graduate school because I wanted to be a professor at a liberal arts college, and both of these schools gave me the chance to realize that goal while I was working on my dissertation. I thank them for their patience, support, advice, help, and encouragement as I balanced being a new professor with finishing my doctoral work. I am particularly grateful to Dr. Nathan

Bigelow, who helped me not only to learn the ropes of my job and integrate into the

Austin College community, but also provided help and support to me with the final stages of my dissertation.

Outside of the field of education, I have many people whom I am indebted to for their love, support, and friendship, without which, I could not have finished my dissertation.

First, I am thankful to my Cuban family who welcomed me into their house and their lives. I am grateful to my Cuban sister for our conversations on the porch, for introducing me to Cuban art, and for encouraging me to become liberated like the

women riding bicycles in that photograph we both loved. I also thank my Cuban host dad for all of his wonderfully fantastical stories and for the best pan con timbas. To my hermanito, I am thankful for his smile and optimism, to my abuela I am thankful for her helping me enter the Universidad de Habana, and to my bisabuela I am thankful for the delicious café con leche and all the amazing meals she prepared with love. This entire family made each trip to Cuba a homecoming for me.

I also extend my thanks to my Cuban friends. I am thankful to Luis, Muke, Victor,

Alejandro, El Mojo, Bard, and Danay for sharing their friendship, their happiness, and their Habana, Santa Clara, and Cienfuegos with me. From chats in parks, to superhero meetups, to rompeolas sunsets, to late night bicycle rides, I enjoyed my moments spent in such wonderful company. I only hope I will have the same opportunity to welcome them into my life the way they have so generously welcomed me into theirs.

For my dear friends here—new and old—I am also appreciative. Andrea

Everson, Becca Halsey, David Becerra, Natalie Price Barnum, Christopher Harwood, and William Ford have all been tremendous supports to me—making life lovely, even when I was in the darkest depths of dissertation despair. They kept my life balanced and gave me the encouragement I needed to finish my work. Andrea is a source of light to all she meets, and I am so thankful for her uplifting presence in my life. Becca has brought so much joy and fun to my new Texan life, sharing Laverne and Shirley adventures and her generous friendship and support with me. David has been constantly encouraging and motivating me to finish this dissertation, and I appreciate his pushing me on to completion. Natalie has been there for me since we befriended each other in first grade, and I cannot imagine my life without her, even if we do not get to

see each other or speak as often as we would like. Chris is the best big-brother-in-law I could ask for; he balances the ratio between being supportive and giving me a hard time, masterfully. William has been my best friend through writing this dissertation, and

I could not have finished without his support and his distractions. Adventures with him helped to balance an otherwise dissertation-dominated life. There is not enough space here to share what these individuals mean to me. I can only say that my life is infinitely better for knowing them all, and they constantly inspire me with the incredible people they are and the truly remarkable things they do.

To my niece, Rory, and my nephews, Jack and Abe, I extend thanks for all of the sweet conversations and smiles they shared with me, for all of the lovely drawings they made me, and for all of the dance parties they had with me. Their love and incredible dispositions make me the happiest and proudest of aunts.

I am grateful to my Iowa surrogate kin, the Melhus family, who have been loving to, and supportive of, me since I first met them in 2003. Jeannie and Marc Melhus supported my decision to go to graduate school by buying me a ticket to visit home my first year—that meant so much to me and gave me the strength to pursue my goal. I thank them for helping me in that moment and many more since. They will always be family and will always have my love. I will also always be indebted to Brad Melhus for his confidence in, and support of, me. I cannot say enough about the wonderful person he has been to me and how much I appreciated his support through college, graduate school, and my doctoral research. He put me, my happiness, and my education first, and I will never be able to say how much that means to me. He is the best friend any struggling graduate student could hope to have.

To my sister, Eileen Flemming Harwood, I also extend a thank you. She has been my best friend, my cheerleader, my guidepost (she was the one I was forever trying to catch up to and emulate), and the person I can call whenever I need to—be it something trivial or profound for which I need her to be my sounding board. I could not have made my way to or through graduate school without her.

Finally, I thank my parents, Robert and Susan Flemming, for always encouraging and supporting me not only in my education, but in everything. Since I was little, they stressed the importance of education and have been involved in mine every step of the way. From my dad’s efforts to help explain math homework to me (even when he got home at two in the morning after ten hour shifts at the machine shop), to my mother taking me to and attending countless school activities, to both of them making sacrifices so that they could pay for my sister and I to have access to the education opportunities they did not, my parents have made my undergraduate and graduate studies possible.

They helped all the way through my final stages of my doctoral studies, being generous benefactors with the “Flemming Dissertation Fellowship” they provided me so I could devote myself full-time to finishing my dissertation. They are, and will remain, the smartest, most giving people I know. I will never be able to repay them, nor equal their display of generosity and love.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... 4

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ...... 13

ABSTRACT ...... 14

CHAPTER

1 CURTAINS UP: INTRODUCING THE PROJECT ...... 16

2 METHODS, APPROACHES, AND FRAMEWORKS...... 46

3 CUBA’S DEFINITION AND DEVELOPMENT OF DEMOCRACY: THE ABSENCE AND FOSTERING OF SOVEREIGNTY ...... 60

What Sovereignty Is and Why It Is Important ...... 62 The Historical Absence of Sovereignty in Cuba ...... 64 The Revolution and Its Struggle to Create and Protect Sovereignty ...... 96 Conclusion: Sovereignty’s Role in a Democratic Cuba ...... 103

4 CUBA’S DEFINITION AND DEVELOPMENT OF DEMOCRACY: THE FOSTERING OF POSITIVE RIGHTS ...... 106

Education ...... 107 Healthcare ...... 114 Socioeconomic Equality between the Sexes ...... 122 Why Positive Rights Matter for Democracy ...... 129 Conclusion: Cuba’s Focus on Positive Rights ...... 145

5 SCHOLARS’ CRITICIMS OF CUBAN DEMOCRACY AND MY REPLIES FOR WHY SUCH FEATURES MAY NOT BE “THE DEFINING” DEMOCRATIC QUALITIES ...... 147

The Single-Party System and Democracy ...... 147 Electoral Systems and Democracy ...... 169 Conclusion: Questioning Conceptualizations of Contestation ...... 179

6 AN EXPLANATION FOR THE ABSENCE OF NEGATIVE RIGHTS IN CUBA ..... 181

The CDR and Negative Rights ...... 182 Conclusion: Moving forward with Democratic Labels ...... 213

7 SOVEREIGNTY IN CUBAN CINEMATIC PURPOSES, PROCEDURES, AND INSTITUTIONS ...... 215

The Envisioned Goals for, and Purposes of, Cuban Cinema ...... 216 Challenges to Cinematic Sovereignty ...... 231 Conclusion: The Struggle to Maintain Sovereignty ...... 241

8 EQUALITY AND POSITIVE RIGHTS IN THE INSTITUTIONS AND PROCEDURES OF CUBAN CINEMA ...... 244

Equality in Film Production ...... 244 Equality in Film Distribution ...... 255 Documentaries and Equality ...... 262 Conclusion: Keeping Equality in Filmmaking ...... 270

9 CUBAN CINEMA’S BIRTH OF A DISCURSIVE DEMOCRATIC CULTURE ...... 272

Discourse and Democratic Culture ...... 273 Discourse and Contestation of Filmmakers ...... 276 Discourse of Film Viewers ...... 284 Discourse Outside of Film-Production and Film-Viewing ...... 289 Conclusion: Threat to Discourse ...... 291

10 CONTENTSTATION IN CUBAN FILM ...... 294

Juan de los Muertos (John of the Dead) ...... 308 Habana Blues ...... 332 Fresa y Chocolate (Strawberry and Chocolate) ...... 359 Conclusion: Film as a Space for Political Contestation ...... 392

11 CONCLUSIONS AND NEW BEGINNINGS ...... 396

Compiling Information and Making Tentative Conclusions ...... 396 Directions for Future Research ...... 404

LIST OF REFERENCES ...... 410

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 417

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

CDR Committee for the Defense of the Revolution

CENESEX Cuban National Center for Sex Education

CUC Cuban Convertible Peso

ICAIC Instituto Cubano del Arte e Industria Cinematográficos

PAN National Action Party

PRI Institutional Revolutionary Party

Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

REEL DEMOCRACY: THE POLITICS OF CINEMA IN CUBA

Audrey Sue Flemming

May 2016

Chair: Leslie Anderson Major: Political Science

This study seeks to begin answering the question of whether or not the production of art, particularly film, mirrors the political system of the state within which it is produced. Through an examination of the Cuban cinematic industry since the installation of the Revolutionary regime, I ultimately argue that the values, norms, structures, and processes of the cinematic industry reflect those of the Cuban political system. While Western scholars generally label Cuba’s political system as being authoritarian, I analyze both the political system and the cinematic industry by investigating whether or not the qualities which the Cuban government stresses are necessary for democracy (sovereignty, positive rights, and limited contestation) are present. I find that both formally and informally such qualities are present within the

Cuban cinematic industry. Although I make no effort to label the entire systems as democratic or non-democratic, I do contend that we should consider these qualities, which the Cuban political system and cinematic industry both possesses, when studying and defining democracy, and furthermore, that while we ought to examine systems critically, we also ought to look at self-definitions of democracy that deviate from

traditional Western understandings with open-minds. The plurality we find so central to democracies, ought to be present in our conceptualization of them also.

CHAPTER 1 CURTAINS UP: INTRODUCING THE PROJECT

Despite its relatively limited resources, the Cuban cinematic industry manages to not only produce masterful films, but also play an integral role in Cuban politics and society. While Cuban cinema’s influence in politics is immediately apparent, how its political nature compares and relates to the political system in place in Cuba is less obvious. Seeking to discover whether the norms and institutions within the Cuban film industry mirror those of the political system in the state in which they exist, I began studying the political and cinematic institutions present in Post-Revolutionary War Cuba.

As my research began by being motivated by a larger curiosity to examine the relationship between how art functions in different types of political regimes, particularly to address the query of if we should expect to find democratic norms and institutions within the film-making process in democratic states, and authoritarian features within the film-making process in non-democratic states, an explanation for why and how I narrowed this project to select this single art medium, film, and the single case study,

Cuba under the Revolutionary regime, is necessary.

Film, while it limits the timeframe within which cases can be selected given their more recent advent, is an ideal choice for studying the political nature of a medium of art for three main reasons. First, whereas other mediums of art such as the plastic arts and literature tend to be more solitary in their production, film more often involves a community in its production. Screenwriters, directors, actors, producers, and film technicians, among others, are all involved in the production of a single film. This is a clear advantage for examining the nature and structure of the norms and institutions of the art. As such, we can more easily examine the structure of power between film-

making participants, their behavior with one another, and see the culture of the industry than is possible in other art mediums.

The second reason why films are an advantageous selection over other art forms is because they are more likely to be directly influenced, in some capacity, by governments. Even in societies where the state has a limited amount of censorship, rating systems are likely to constrict the decisions made by film-makers. While a film, just like a book, song, or exhibit may be banned, political institutions more likely influence a film during the stages of its production and distribution because of regulatory institutions such as rating systems. Political norms, while they can inspire the style and choices of other art mediums in production, are thus more likely to add another layer of influence to films.

Third, in seeking to understand the role that art can have in influencing the politics of a society and a regime, it is advantageous to study films as it is one of the most mass-accessible and mass-shared art forms. Provided that the technological infrastructure is in place, more people are able to simultaneously, fairly uniformly, and communally access a film across geographical distances. The same film can be distributed to multiple venues at the same time. This means that individuals across a state are able to experience the same film at the same time. With the plastic arts, for example, this is not possible—only one exhibit at a time is possible. Similarly with a concert, even if a band performs the same-formatted concert on a tour of locations, no two concerts will be exactly the same. With cinema, however, the same exact film can be shared at the same time by people in different locations—meaning they can simultaneously react in the moment to the same piece of art. This means not only that

more people can see the film in a shorter time period, but that the chances increase for a community across distances uniting with the piece of art. Film is additionally more accessible to the masses because it has fewer education pre-requisites for those wishing to access it—mainly, one does not have to be literate to watch a film, and is embraced and shared across class, race, and sex lines. In an effort to examine the political nature of films and their societal scope, it thus makes sense to focus on an art medium as accepted and accessible as cinema.

The selection of cinema in Cuba after the Revolutionary War as a case for studying the relationship between film and politics is similarly ideal as the Revolutionary regime at its inception set out to intentionally alter the place of the artist in its new socialist society. We find throughout its existence evidence of the Revolutionary regime’s efforts to create a cinematic industry with political and social purposes in addition to its artistic value. Similarly, we find clear political, social, and artistic objectives at the forefront of discussions and film production in the Cuban cinematic industry. And while a cinematic industry existed prior to the Revolution, there is a clear rupture between that industry and the one that developed in the midst of the Revolution.

In examining this case then, we have a unique instance in which both the cinematic industry and the political regime break completely, and in response to, the institutions which preceded them. We can see if these two institutions that grew alongside one another in the same political, social, cultural, and economic contexts do indeed reflect one another or not.

As offering a conclusive answer to the general question of whether the norms and institutions within the film making industry mirror those of the political system in the

state in which they exist is not possible with this single case-study, I have thus narrowed down my thesis to address the case-specific selection of cinema in Revolutionary Cuba as it relates to that general question. Having studied both the political system and the cinematic industry within Cuba, I conclude that the two mirror each other, both containing a similar set of democratic institutions and norms. Taking into consideration the Revolutionary regime’s conceptualization of democracy in Cuba, which focuses on three features: positive rights, the creation and protection of sovereignty, and a limited form of contestation, I similarly found that within the film industry in Cuba, there was an emphasis on these three features both within the processes, institutions, and productions of the cinematic industry. Further, I found that the film industry is fostering a democratic culture in Cuba.

Discovering that both the Cuban cinematic industry and the political regime had democratic elements, was an unexpected conclusion for me. That I was surprised by the conclusion was a largely due to the biased nature of my original assumptions and structure. The error in my original theoretical assumptions and framework and the conclusions that I reached with my research resulted in my necessarily altering the way

I approached categorizing regimes. Because such assumptions about regime types in general, and Cuba being labeled as non-democratic in particular, are dominant throughout the discipline in Western academia, before moving on to offering a roadmap of this paper that lays out the arguments I will be making to support my thesis, I will first discuss my original design, and the theoretical assumptions that were informing it. I will discuss the dangers in such frameworks, setting the stage for my own framework here

in conceptualizing democracy to be discussed in regards to the Cuban political system and cinematic industry.

When I first began designing my research project concerning the political nature of Cuban cinema, my initial urge was to approach the project around the following question: how does the cinematic industry in Cuba, a socialist and, often categorized as being non-democratic, state, compare to the cinematic industries of capitalist democracies. Yet this, I soon realized, was a project already fraught with problematic assumptions that would not only impact the structure of the research, but the answers I would find as well. As my intention when entering my field research was to let what I encountered direct the scope and content of my research as much as possible, I found this to be a troubling realization. Automatically I was conceiving of any processes, products, or behaviors within the Cuban cinematic industry as either supporting or contradicting the idea of a non-democratic political and social structure as conceived within a definition of the term informed largely by academics from the United States and

Europe. That is, my project would be structured to determine and utilizes a lens that would filter out “non-democratic” and “democratic” characteristics in the Cuban political and social structures—and would lead me to either 1) being surprised if I were to discover “democratic elements” within Cuban cinema or 2) being with evidence to support arguments that non-democratic regimes make for limited artistic freedoms and expression. This framework, however, assumes that there is a pure, perfectly coherent, and uncontested conceptualization of democracy through which to filter a state's institutions, behaviors, and processes. The more I thought about the troubles of my

initial design, the more I began to be concerned, in general, with how we examine and classify regimes in comparative politics.

In political science, we are peripherally aware that no system is perfect. That is, we acknowledge that no regime is completely coherent in its design or practice or free of elements that contradict its intended or desired form. Dahl masterfully brings this point out in Polyarchy when he suggests that a true democracy is not achievable, and as such, introduces the term, polyarchy,1 as a realizable regime-type that can be utilized to classify and study systems. Other democratic scholars continue to acknowledge the reality of regime imperfection when examining the process of democratization— specifically in their attempts to study and explain regime collapses and transitions. In

“Thinking About Hybrid Regimes,”2 for example, Larry Diamond discusses the different manners in which scholars have attempted to classify regimes that contain contradictions—that is, regimes that have both democratic and non-democratic elements. These scholars, in efforts to increase the accuracy of regime-classification, have created hybrid categories, in which the specific characteristics that contradict the ideal form, be it democratic or authoritarian), are included in the regime classification.

Yet despite acknowledging at some levels and in some contexts that systems are never pure in form, as a discipline in the United States, we have largely failed to examine and discuss this reality outside of the context of transitions and consolidation

(for non-democratic regimes) and the study of democratizing states. That is, we do not often study contradictions in states whose regimes we think are unlikely to change or

1 Robert Dahl, Polyarchy: Participation and Opposition (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1971). 2 Larry Diamond, “Thinking About Hybrid Regimes,” Journal of Democracy 13, no. 2 (2002): 21- 35.

transition. With democracies, we seldom look to criticize the shortcomings of those states and systems we consider to be consolidated or more established. On this second point one might suggest that in the case of Latin America there are several states we now classify as democracies that are still being studied and their democracy- contradicting elements being scrutinized. While this point is true, as a discipline we seem to continue to pay attention to these cases largely because there is a concern that their consolidation is recent and thus that there is a greater chance of a reversal—a fear that does not seem to exist when we study our own system or that of older democracies. Thus we only study the cases of contradictions we think potentially threaten or will lead to the demise of the regime in place—that is, we study contradictions only in their capacity to lead to change. As such, we fail to study how contradictions exist within systems and what their place is in the way those systems function and develop. Further, and perhaps more troubling, is our current failure to contemplate or accept the possibility that an “impure” or “contradiction-ridden” regime is not the “ideal type” of that said regime. That is, we associate pure forms as being the ideal constitutions of regime types. The very idea that we perceive and label systems as being incomplete and in need of consolidation when they contain elements that are said to be incoherent with their regime type’s true nature suggests an acceptance of a conceptualization of ideal regime types being coherent, when perhaps, a completely functioning regime, whatever its “type,” necessitates “contradicting” elements.

If we look back to earlier moments in our discipline’s history, we will discover that one of the first comparativists, Aristotle, questions the viability of “pure” regimes in The

Politics.3 Aristotle divides regimes into six categories: three pure and good forms and three counterpart corrupted forms. Although the “good forms” were perfect and pure in form, his analysis led him to the conclusion that corruption and contradictions will inevitably surface within these forms and bring about their failure and transformation into corrupted forms. To prevent the degenerating of single ideal forms into corrupted and destructive forms, Artistotle argues, one needs to combine elements of each of the good forms. Such a combination helps to check against the corruption that would develop were each of the forms implemented on their own. Here then, while Aristotle gives us a hybrid regime, it is one still built on the notion of combined ideal/pure types.

Scholars since Aristotle have continued to preference and analyze systems in terms of their “purity,” and as a discipline we continue to make normative assumptions in favor of

“pure” regimes. This normative preference for, and belief in, pure types existing as an ideal has led us to classify regimes and attribute certain characteristics, procedures, behaviors, and structures to them, and thus influenced greatly our empirical studies of regimes and our empirical prescriptions to improve them.

Going back to our discussion of hybrid regimes, for an example, we see that we classify certain structures and behaviors as authoritarian and others as democratic.

This is our first error committed due to our flawed normative assumptions about regimes. We assume that certain features are uniquely and solely democratic and others are solely and uniquely “non-democratic” or “authoritarian.” This assumption indicates 1) that we have made characteristics based on pure and entirely coherent regime types and 2) that we classify our systems in terms of their regime purity or

3 Aristotle, The Politics and The Constitution of Athens, ed. Stephen Everson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).

coherency and not based off of understandings/decisions made for long-term regime survival. That is, we identity by certain characteristics as being symptomatic of a regime type rather than looking at them as being generically symptomatic of a regime’s effort to survive. So when an action that does not correspond with the regime type within which it exists, rather than understanding and labeling that action as being taken by any government to help ensure the survival of the regime, scholars often label it as an incoherent action in contradiction of the regime, and that, while it may help the individual government survive in the short run, will ultimately contradict and potentially lead to the transformation of the regime. For example, if there is an “opening”

(liberalization or increase in participation) in an autocratic regime, while it may be acknowledged by scholars as an attempt by the ruling body to extend its short-term survival, they understand it as something that is “foreign” to the system, and thus something that will either a) likely lead to the downfall of the autocratic regime or b) remain a contradiction in a regime that fails to transition. Either way, the contradiction is one seen to inhibit the maintenance or development of a pure regime type.

Yet in such an assumption, we fail to contemplate that seemingly contradicting

(as understood in our current conceptualizations and classifications) structures and behaviors within systems may help and be central to regime, not just government, survival. To illustrate this with an example, let us look at one of Dahl’s qualifications for polyarchy: contestation. Dahl asserts that increasing contestation helps make a regime more “polyarchic.”4 Yet what often is not discussed is the nature of that contestation.

That is, we do not discuss the limits of acceptable contestation permissible even within

4 Dahl, Polyarchy.

a regime labeled as being a polyarchy. Yet all regimes, including democracies, must necessarily have limits on contestation. Contestation within a democracy is limited to contestation within, not against, a democratic form of government. If an anarchical group began efforts to overthrow the democratic institutions within a state, for example, the government would perceivably not permit this—it would be held as impermissible and threatening contestation by both the government, and conceivably a large portion of the population as a threat to democratic rights and processes. Their act of suppressing this contestation directed at the government in power and the regime type would not be viewed in terms of its “democraticness.” It would be judged solely as a necessary means for protecting the political structure. It would be framed, as such, as an issue of regime survival, not regime type. Rather than having anything to do with the regime structure then, such censorships or limits of contestation can also be about regime survival—regardless of the type of regime in power. Scholars often fail to distinguish between types of contestation or limits of contestation when looking at “non-democratic” states, however. Any suppression of contestation within a state whose democracy is questioned, is likely to be considered an issue of democratic suppression, whereas a state accepted as being democratic is likely to be seen as acting out of regime survival.

Before we permit limits of contestation to lower a state’s place on the polyarchy chart, we must determine the nature of the contestation being limited and determine if it is indeed symptomatic of “non-democratic” behaviors, or if it is motivated by concerns of structural stability.

So while scholars such as Dahl and Aristotle have questioned the possibility of a pure regime being able to exist or being able to maintain existence, as a discipline we

have failed to question whether a pure form of government is 1) desirable, and 2) something that would function even if all its components were realized and all of its actors behaved appropriately/correctly (according to the dictates of that ideal type) within that system. That is, we have not asked if an “ideal” regime is a pure one.

Certainly in our discipline and in the age of science we seek coherency. We value coherent arguments, coherent actions, and coherent structures. In our systematic study of regimes, then, it makes sense that we would desire a system of classification that makes categories coherent and their characteristics easily definable. Yet in our scientific study we must remember the subject of our study, and we must allow it to influence and inform our method. As political scientists, our subjects are humans and the political structures they create. As humans, we function imperfectly—that is, we function with contradiction. And while our contradictions, quirks, and imperfections may lead to our greatest errors, they may also lead to our greatest success. It is time that we start considering that regimes may function the same way. As such, we must begin questioning and examining how regimes function (as well as how they would function ideally), how we conceptualize them and their errors, and ultimately, how we classify them.

This is a void I wish to begin to fill by examining the Cuban system and some of the seemingly contradicting elements that exist within it—specifically within the realm of art. In studying these contradictions then, it is not my intention to suggest that the contradicting elements will lead to the collapse or demise of the regime. Certainly this is a possibility, and certainly the arts are a place for such contradictions to exist and be the catalyst for wide-scale change. But my purpose here intends not to be one of

prediction, but rather of observation and explanation of how these elements currently function within a regime and the challenges and benefits they bring about for both their governments and societies. My work here is not meant to question whether differences between regimes exist—they surely do. Rather, I am solely positing that we need to fundamentally trouble how we go about determining those differences and how we utilize those differences to create separate categories.

With this study, I intend to trouble how we classify these different regimes— particularly the distinctions we make between democratic and authoritarian political structures and societies. Invariably, my mind has largely been structured to view things dichotomously (democratic qualities juxtaposed with anti-democratic/authoritarian qualities). I do not intend to absent entirely such assumptions from my study for two reasons. Firstly, I use them because rooting this work within the field necessitates that I am conversing within its framework. Secondly, utilizing these dichotomous structures allows us so to begin seeing their shortcomings and questioning their effectiveness and accuracy in understanding and explaining systems.

I do, however, as indicated above, intend to avoid classifying entire systems as being "democratic," "non-democratic," or "authoritarian" as such labels fail on four fronts. Firstly, such labels fail as most of the time, achieving such labels without contradiction is not possible. With all of the contradictions that exist within a system, at what point do we argue that it is "democratic enough" to be labeled a democracy and

"non-democratic enough" to be labeled “non-democratic?” Dahl tried to address this problem with admitting that no system ever becomes a pure democracy or polyarchy; it only moves towards polyarchy as it becomes more inclusive and permits more

contestation.5 Yet with the graphic representation provided by Dahl, we are left thinking that this conceptualization theoretically leads us to regimes at one point becoming closer to polyarchy than the other three regime alternatives (competitive oligarchies, closed hegemonies, and inclusive hegemonies). Yet we have no way, as scholars, of choosing the qualities or means of numerically weighing those qualities to truly determine a regime's place on the graph. While Dahl acknowledges that a regime never becomes a perfect polyarchy, but is rather always in a state of becoming more complete, that does not give us any guidance in determining when it reaches the point when it fits mostly in one of the four categories and is no longer in an undefined center

(with a degree of contestation and participation strong enough to put it in one of the categories). Much like with John Stuart Mill's model of utilitarianism6 fails because we are unable to quantify and determine levels of pain and pleasure, so too, does polyarchy, while a useful concept in theory, in practice becomes difficult to accurately and wholly apply. Other scholars can, and have, attempted to deal with the inadequacy of the dichotomous labeling regimes by creating either new hybrid categories or by qualifying the existing classifications categories. Such systems and their criteria for categorization, however, as we shall discuss shortly, are subjective and fail to foster and recognize diversity of conceptualization.

This leads us directly into the second problem of labeling states by regime type

(specifically democratic versus nondemocratic categorizations): there is a lack of true plurality in our conceptualizations and categorizations of democracy. While as I just

5 Ibid. 6 John Stuart Mill, Utilitarianism, 2nd edn., ed. George Sher (Indianapolis and Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 2007).

noted subjective classifications of multiple scholars exist, they are all still largely based on understandings of U.S. and European systems. As such, these remain the molds to interpret, study, and ultimately, the measure of all other states’ level of

"democraticness." A limited set of institutions and features present within these systems are constituted as the necessary qualities. Democratic qualities that exist in other systems, while acknowledged as being democratic, fail to become necessary features for systems to be considered democratic. It is time, if we are to use single labels to categorize and describe regimes (which while I am not entirely opposed to, should like to avoid as much as possible), to begin practicing pluralism within studies of democracies. That is, we must begin allowing for conceptualizations of democracy other than our own to embrace the term, and we must be willing to alter how we study and understand this classification scheme.

The discipline of Political Science poses one of the biggest obstacles to embracing a plurality of democratic conceptualizations. In democratization studies, the field seems to have reached a general consensus that the pressure from all of the democratic waves has led to states needing to claim to be democratic (at least in some limited capacity) to maintain their legitimacy (both from citizens and the international community). From this viewpoint, scholars argue that non-democratic states merely work to create a façade of democracy while maintaining non-democratic structures and practices. Such facades require explanations from their governments as to why they are designed and function the way that they do. In his article, “Strategies of

Justification in Authoritarian Ideology,” Robert Mayer argues that the traditional defense of authoritarian regimes, the traditional guardianship claim (built on an ideology

stemming from the notion that not everyone is equally capable of making political judgments), although still is utilized, is being replaced or modified by other forms of justification given the rise of pluralist democracies in the past century.7 Mayer argues that there are four other justifications utilized by authoritarian governments, and that not only do such justifications indicate regimes’ desires to gain legitimacy but also, and more importantly, that such justifications are available because of the spread of democratic ideology.8 He summarizes this point writing, “modern authoritarian ideology…is to a significant degree parasitic of democratic ideology, gaining adaptive strategies from its opposite. Faced with a democratic challenge to traditional guardianship, it has proved able to evolve.”9 This assertion is particularly important not only to his argument, but to the underlying assumption of Mayer’s thought: namely that all such justification arise out of the desire to continue non-democratic rule by providing either democratic explanations or facades for their existence. Any state using such justifications (to a degree not definitively determined by Mayer), is thus non-democratic, no matter its protests to the contrary.

While Mayer’s categorization of justifications is interesting, it is thus ultimately problematic in much the same way as are the dominant democratic arguments. First and foremost, Mayer denies the ability and right of states and regimes to self-define.

Mayer utilizes a paternalistic structure himself in his judgment of regimes. That is, much like the justification Mayer points out that non-democratic governments give for not allowing certain sectors of populations to participate, such as the argument that certain

7 Robert Mayer, “Strategies of Justification in Authoritarian Ideology,” Journal of Political Ideologies 6, no. 2 (2001): 147-168. 8 Ibid., 148, 165. 9 Ibid., 166.

people with underdeveloped abilities are incapable of ruling themselves and are thus in need of a guardian, so too, does Mayer allege that certain regimes are unable or unwilling to accurately define themselves. Here, rather than being an innocent and confused child needing guidance and instruction, the “offending” regimes are depicted as being rebellious teenagers, intentionally attempting to deceive their family so as to gain power and independence. Here Mayer assumes responsibility of pointing out how erroneous their efforts to defy are, and how their attempts to deceive have been “found out” by the ever watchful guardians—the true keepers of democracy. Each of the justifications beyond the guardian justification that Mayer argues is utilized by governments is one that is devised by the rulers out of cunning and desire to survive, rather than out of truthful conceptualizations of democracy. Mayer argues that regimes have essentially taken advantage of the fact that the definition of democracy is contestable, by redefining it in a way that justifies their form of rule.10 Any conceptualization of democracy that deviates from the norm of the discipline is thus one that is labeled as not genuine under Mayer's approach.

To illustrate the presence of this detrimental assumption in Mayer’s work, I will discuss one of the examples he gives of a regime utilizing one of his categorizations of justification. As this present study is one on Cuba, it is prudent to use Mayer’s discussion of it as an example case here. Mayer argues the Castro government is an example of a “non-electoral democracy” in which egalitarian rhetoric is utilized to justify and illustrate democratic rule.11 In other words, Castro's discussions of equality in Cuba is nothing more than an attempt to distract from the democratic shortcomings in the

10 Ibid., 164. 11 Ibid.

regime, and is therefore not evidence of a genuine democratic presence in the state.

Egalitarianism is not seen as a defining feature of democracy, not because egalitarianism is not necessarily a valuable component of democracy (though arguably its importance is down-graded, as I will discuss shortly), but because a non-democratic state is employing it only as a distraction from other non-democratic structures.

Mayer's approach, denies a state the ability to define and employ democracy for itself and downgrades those elements labeled as democratic that are not part of the

“canonized” Western conceptualization of the term. Let us, for argument’s sake, say that both egalitarianism and electoral systems are important features of a democratic regime and let us comply with Mayer’s assessment that the elections in Cuba fail to be democratic. Let us also suppose that the Cuban government effectively instituted egalitarian policies and succeeded in creating an egalitarian society. Let us posit, on the other hand, that the United States created a democratic electoral system but, as is evidenced in our present system, it has failed to produce an egalitarian society. Why should the developmental order of our incomplete democracy trump that of Cuba’s?

Why with one of the two democratic factors necessary are states such as our own labeled democratic, while Cuba with one of the two is labeled as non-democratic and deceiving? It could be, after all, easily argued that getting rid of social and economic inequalities prior to creating electoral systems might even be preferred to the opposite order as in creating the electoral institutions with inequalities is likely to reinforce and support those inequalities in the said system. The point to be taken away from this is that rather than judge it as a cynical attempt to prop a truly authoritarian regime, we ought to sincerely and objectively look at how the state defines its regime for itself and

see if its structure is coherent with its own definition. How, after all, can we argue for pluralism without permitting a system to be judged on anything other than its own standards? The Cuban government labels itself as a socialist democracy. Rather than seeing such a label as a cynical attempt to gain legitimacy, we ought to be willing to learn why the government identifies itself this way—we should investigate qualifications it puts forth as necessary for democracy and whether it meets them. We must be willing to accept that democratic qualities our systems are without, like egalitarianism, for example, may be present in other systems we do not presently classify as democratic and may be missing in ones we currently accept as being democratic.

The third reason that the present “democracy” “non-democracy/authoritarian” dichotomous categorizations are problematic, is that they inherently limit the scope of regimes and states and invite the inevitable contradictions, as discussed above, to be exploited within them. While I will utilize terms such as "democratic" and "non- democratic" to describe specific qualities or decisions, I have no intent of choosing a single label for the state which is the subject of this study, nor any other. I once read of a religion which argued against labeling or describing a deity with nouns. Choosing a single noun, the religion argued, reduced the complexities and other identity features of that entity. Nouns essentially limited identity, and were therefore undesirable in discussions of God. For a non-deity example, when describing someone, it would be better to say that one enjoyed running, rather than saying one was a runner. In this description, while it is indicated that the individual likes to run, the individual is not nearly as limited in his/her identity as the description leaves much more of an opening for the individual to “do more” than just run rather than being confined to being a single thing (in

this case, a runner). This not only helps to prevent the limitations of identity induced by noun-based labels, but also prevents the discrediting of a categorized entity based on contradictions of behavior from that noun. That is, any behavior that contradicts that label is no longer a source of tension or problematic for that previous categorization.

Descriptions of actions are not as likely to contradict as are single nouns or adjectives.

This becomes especially evident when examining and describing political regimes. It is incredibly useful to discuss political systems in terms of the multiple features, behaviors, and institutions that exist within them, rather than to define and categorize them by any one of them. Single categorizations of states limits their complexities and reduce them to inaccurately and incompletely defined terms, set up from the very start to fail in achieving continuity and coherency of the categorized regime type they are assigned.

While labeling an entire regime is more likely to be the less accurate and less complete, the potential for problems to arise when categorizing lower levels of institutions also exists, and must be taken into consideration and accounted for also.

Even if a universal definition of democracy was to be agreed upon, knowing how and where to apply that term would still be highly contested were one trying to label an institution. For example, when talking about a legislative body, such as the United

States' Congress, when trying to determine whether it is democratic, we must first determine what part of it we are trying to determine is democratic or not. Are we concerned with the ways members of Congress are chosen, how committees are formed and operate within Congress, the influence of lobbyists and special interest groups, the process by which the laws are made within the Congress, or the content of the laws produced by the Congress? The complexities, even within a single institution

smaller than an entire regime, state, and society, are still prevalent enough to make label-based categorizations of them overly-reductive and problematic for scientists looking to accurately classify and compare institutions. It is because of these inherent limitations and short-comings that we must begin focusing renewed efforts and attention towards describing, rather than merely categorizing and labeling institutions, procedures, relationships and behaviors. That said, if labels and categories are to be used, as I will do so here, we must specify in which way the labels are being applied

(that is, we must clarify whether “democratic” labels are being applied to behaviors within, processes of, or results produced by given institutions). In this way, some accuracy can be regained in the use of categorization.

The fourth reason such categorizations fail is they focus almost exclusively on formal institutions at the national level. The informal institutions and local institutions are frequently left out of the determination of regime classifications. Certainly some scholars have brought these issues to light in their research. Having a strong democratic political culture has been emphasized and brought to the forefront of the field by scholars such as Gabriel Almond and Sydney Verba in The Civic Culture,12 as well as in several works by Robert Putnam like Making Democracy Work13 and Bowling

Alone.14 Similarly, Jonathon Fox has frequently stressed the importance of local level politics in democratic studies, arguing how drastically it influences what happens at the

12 Gabriel Almond and Sydney Verba, The Civic Culture: Political Attitudes and Democracy in Five Nations (Newbury Park, London and New Delhi: Sage Publications, 1989). 13 Robert Putnam, Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1993). 14 Robert Putnam, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2001).

national level.15 Yet despite the admitted importance of these features to a democracy

(both informal institutions and local politics), the discipline, as a whole, largely leaves them outside of the periphery of consideration when determining whether a state is democratic or not. Sure, institutions at the level of local politics and informal institutions may help make a democracy more democratic, but they are often not discussed as the deciding factors in whether or not a state's regime is democratic—national level institutions inform our categorizations most. A convincing defense for why formal national level institutions should be the deciding factors in determining a state’s regime type, in my estimate, has yet to be made.

Having considered the problems presented by the current framework for conceptualizing and discussing democracy, I seek to begin an attempt at a study conducted in such a framework and with such assumptions motivating and informing my analysis. To do so, first requires that I address the issue of the lack of plurality in definitions and conceptualizations of democracy. I have sought to address this problem with categorization by allowing for governments to self-define and conceptualize their regime. Rather than judge the level and form of democracy present within the Cuban political and cinematic systems through solely the Western academic standards, I will instead seek to also include Cuba’s conceptualization of democracy in motivating the study of the politics of Cuban cinema. That is, the Cuban state’s definition of democracy will be used to inform my analysis of the political nature of the Cuban film industry. In the case of the Revolutionary governments in Cuba, the focus of creating and building democracy since the Revolution has come to power has focused on creating and

15 Jonathon Fox, “Latin America’s Emerging Local Politics,” Journal of Democracy 5, no. 2 (1994): 105-116.

protecting sovereignty, creating positive rights, and allowing for a narrowly conceived and limited space for, and understanding and practice of, contestation.

This is not to deny that other features are or may be important to democracies, or that there are other features that could make Cuba “more democratic.” Again, a valuable lesson from Dahl’s Polyarchy is that a regime is never done democratizing— that is, it is never perfectly democratic, nor able to reach its Platonic Form. The best it can essentially do is maintain previous democratic achievements and continue to strive to improve areas in which it lacks. Complete and equal representation and participation in politics and policies, however, will never be achieved. Cuba is no exception to this rule. As such, throughout this dissertation, while I argue that Cuba does meet the requirements for a democracy as it has presently conceived of the term, it is under the qualification that it does so imperfectly—both by its own standards as well as others.

Although the focus of this dissertation is mainly on the ways in which the Revolutionary regime has achieved its democratic goals, there are instances in which I talk about areas in which there is particularly notable room for improvement. For instance, while when discussing the Revolutionary regime’s efforts to create equality and sovereignty I largely focus on their success in doing so, in the discussion of contestation, I make a point of discussing instances of how Revolutionary governments have limited this feature (with varying degrees of legitimate justification).

I have chosen to include a discussion of the constrained nature of contestation— both its existence and its limitations for a number of reasons. First, I examine the limited nature of contestation because the Revolutionary regime itself has set out to define such a form of contestation in its own conceptualization of the democracy it has

been trying to instate in Cuba. For the Revolutionary regime, while pluralism is desirable, contestation for contestation’s sake is not. Citizens and politicians, in their discussions, are to be working towards common interests. This means that rather than trying to block one another’s agenda, they may merely posit different suggestions on how to achieve the same agenda. This difference in understanding the nature and place of contestation can go a long ways in explaining why the single-party system was present for so long in post-Revolutionary Cuba. We can see through this awareness that there are reasons in support of democracy that justify some of the limits on contestation.

As will be discussed throughout this work, in his notable speech, “Speech to

Intellectuals,” Fidel Castro set out the guidelines for the limited nature of this permissible contestation within the new Revolutionary society. Within this speech came the words that would dictate what type of contestation was permissible: “within the Revolution, everything; outside, nothing.”16 The phrase essentially meant that as long as a criticism or an idea being presented was done so with the intention of building the Revolution and being devoted to its cause, it was permissible. Of course, what was considered to be “within” the Revolution was subject to interpretation, with the government having ultimate say in making that determination. Additionally, context and circumstances also influenced the limits of this contestation. As will be discussed in Chapter 10, during times of political instability, the limits of contestation within the cinematic industry were more restrictive than times of relative stability.

16 Fidel Castro, “Castro’s Speech to Intellectuals,” Latin American Network Information Center: University of Texas, Austin, 1961.

This fact that the government changes the level of permissible contestation based on circumstances is not unique, as will be discussed, to the case of

Revolutionary Cuba. Indeed, one must look no further than to the policing of contestation in the US during the Cold War to see the US putting similar restrictions on contestation. When challenges to larger, more vital interests of a state exit, governments often necessarily protect those interests over others. Contestation, in the case of democratic regimes concerned with state security, is not uncommonly constricted. In Cuba, we see that concerns with state security, particularly sovereignty, trump concerns for protecting and providing space for contestation. As will be discussed in Chapter 3, sovereignty in Cuba before the Revolution did not exist. The

Revolutionary forces focused on this after coming into power and made creating and protecting sovereignty one of their main objectives. And though contestation, as limited and conceptualized by the Revolutionary regime, is seen as being an important democratic feature within Cuba, when it comes into conflict with the objectives concerning sovereignty, it will be limited however is necessary to preserve sovereignty.

In fact, the Revolutionary regime has championed the importance of both sovereignty and positive rights over the place of negative rights such as contestation—the reasons for which will be discussed in further detail in Chapter 6.

While the Revolutionary regime presently limits contestation to a larger degree than many other states traditionally categorized as democracies, there is reason to believe that the limits of contestation may be expanded in the future. It may very well be that once it reaches a point of feeling sovereignty is firmly established, there will be more room for contestation within Cuban politics. It, like all states, does have the

potential to become more democratic and to alter what it sees as being the most important democratic or state feature at any given time. Prioritization of the “most important” or most pressing democratic features is a fluid process. It is because of the ever changing nature of contexts and demands on a state, that having a stagnant definition for a democracy is once again problematic. Standardized definitions of the term prevent regimes from being fluid and being responsive to both the needs of the state and the desires of the people.

Additionally important to note, is the reality that the ability to change a definition and dynamic of a regime comes not just from the government, but from the general population as well. Even in cases when a government may not plan for, or even desire a change, a population or structures may, intentionally or unconsciously, foster changes. It is thus not only governments who are defining and developing a regime, but societies as well (though of course their degree and ability to do so varies across cases). In looking at contestation in Cuba, there is reason to believe that even if the government feels a need or desire to expand its original conceptualization of, and limits on, contestation, the population—particularly through the space and opportunities provided by the cinematic industry—may be expanding the nature of contestation on the island. It was my experience from talking with Cubans that many of them felt there was a constrictively limited space and/or that there needed to be more space for political contestation. And, as will be discussed in Chapter 9 and Chapter 10, the film industry has started to create an expanded space and format for this contestation to occur without repercussions from the government.

Margaret Kohn argues in Radical Space that some spaces, such as the socialist houses of Italy, served as spaces for radical change in that they allowed for discussions for an alternative political reality to take place that helped lead to the realization of those changes outside of the houses.17 That is, these houses served as a space for creating democratic enclaves while Italy was still non-democratic. In looking at cinema in Cuba, there may be a temptation to say the same of the film industry in Cuba. Indeed, as I have asserted above, the film industry, without a doubt, serves as a space for increased contestation in Cuba. Yet though contestation is far more limited in other sectors of society and political structures, it is, as it is even espoused by the government, a feature of the Revolutionary regime—albeit limited in its nature and employ. In fact, contestation, especially in the cinematic industry, has been an integral feature of the

Revolutionary regime since its inception. And, as we shall see later in this work, while the cinematic industry may continue to push the envelope on the levels and types of political contestation it produces, doing so is one of its primary functions and original purposes. Rather than serving as a space for radical change or a complete departure from the present system, the cinematic industry thus serves to help to develop and expand this feature. It is for this reason that rather than see the limited nature of contestation as cause for labeling the present regime in Cuba as “non-democratic” and as seeing cinema as a space separate from, and contradictory to, the current system, I argue the contestation within cinema is an intentionally included design of the

Revolutionary regime.

17 Margaret Kohn, Radical Space: Building The House of the People (Ithaca: Cornell University, 2003).

In allowing for pluralism and self-defining by employing the Revolutionary regime’s conceptualization of contestation as a lens for examining the political system and cinematic industry in Cuba, I am able to also address another of the problems I listed with present studies of democracies: the inability to create regimes free from contradiction. I make no effort to attempt to claim that Cuba’s regime is democratic in its entirety—as has been pointed out, no regime is capable of purity—democratic or otherwise. While, as I discussed, I would like to see the field of political science, along with governments themselves, move away from categorizing entire regimes, the present norm is to use an “overall” categorization, and thus, in taking into consideration the greater prioritization that regimes are able to self-define, I have allowed for Cuba’s labeling its overall regime a democracy. Yet, although I permit this overall regime label, in my analysis, I try, as often as possible, to describe processes, behaviors, and structures in detail, rather than making blanketed labels for them. While individual processes, behaviors, and structures will still be given labels, such labels will be qualified with descriptions and explanations. As such, the accuracy usually lost with the categories is minimized as much as possible.

This approach thus also helps to confront a third problem with present democratic studies: that dichotomous categorizations are inherently limiting and likely to promote exploitation in analyses. By examining the individual components of the political and social system, I allow for the complexities and imperfections present in any regime. This approach helps to similarly address the fourth and final problem in present studies: the primary and near exclusive focus on national/state level formal institutions in determining regime type. In this study, I include an examination of both informal

institutions as well as lower level institutions. I will be looking at the informal institutions within the Cuban cinema industry, for example, along with local political norms and institutions.

Approaching my study of the political nature of Cuban cinema from this framework and perspective, I have necessarily re-framed my question. The question I now ask and seek to answer is: do democratic features, as defined by the Cuban government, exist within both the Cuban political system and the cinematic industry? In response to that question, I argue democratic features exist within the Cuban cinematic processes, productions, institutions, and relationships. In short, a democratic culture and democratic institutions are present in Cuban cinema. While the democratic features of the cinema industry in Cuba will be the main focus of this work, it must be acknowledged that “non-democratic” features exist within Cuban cinema as well.

Although I will briefly mention and discuss these non-democratic features, they will not be the focal point of this paper. As much of academia already argues the system within

Cuba to be non-democratic, and discussions of limited freedoms within the art have already been produced, I choose instead to concentrate on the lesser-studied democratic features. The argument I make here is not a refutation of those non- democratic points, but a supplementation of the discussion of Cuban arts with a focus on the democratic features that exist as well. I focus on the democratic features then, to broaden our understanding of the political nature of Cuban art.

Before going any further with an outline of how I will support this argument, I want to make some clarifications on what I do not set out to argue. First and foremost, this should not be interpreted as an argument against the use of categorization within

comparative politics. At the most basic of levels, we conceptualize differences and similarities between cases by labeling and categorizing them. Accuracy is the cost we pay to simplify and make systematic comparison possible. That said, as Leslie Thiele argues in Thinking Politics, when employing theories, one must balance this simplicity gained against the accuracy sacrificed by such a model.18 Similarly, with utilizing categorizations in comparative politics, we must be cognizant and critical or whether those sacrifices merit the simplicity they bring, or whether those sacrifices distort more than they clarify. What I suggest in this present work is that when looking at regime types, the generalizations created often prove not to be entirely useful and are most likely to cause more harm than good. For just as the term, democracy, may be abused by non-democratic governments to stay in power, so too is it abused and utilized as a pre-text to pursue state interests through foreign policies which rather than rooted in genuine concern for creating democratic values and structures, are motivated by concerns with little to do with democratic values. With the categorization of regimes come real-world consequences, which for me, are not worth the simplification they provide the scholarly community.

To support my claim that the democratic features of the Revolutionary regime are mirrored in the Cuban cinematic industry, my project is structured as follows: First, within Chapter 2, I will discuss the research methods utilized to study the Cuban political and cinematic institutions. Next, in Chapter 3 and Chapter 4, through a historical examination of the political development in Cuba, I will discuss the conceptualization of democracy as envisioned by the Revolutionary regime and its efforts at creating that

18 Leslie Thiele, Thinking Politics: Perspectives in Ancient, Modern, and Postmodern Political Theory (Chatham: Chatham House Publishers, 1997).

democracy. Chapter 3 will focus on the importance of creating nationalism and protecting sovereignty in Cuba to create democracy whereas Chapter 4 will examine both the focus on the Revolutionary’s efforts at creating positive rights as well as a constricted form of contestation to foster democracy in Cuba. Having provided a historical justification for the Revolutionary regime’s conceptualization of democracy and support that it has made efforts at building this form of democracy, I will next move the discussion to an examination of the cinematic industry to see how its norms and institutions parallel those of the political system of the state. I will begin in Chapter 5 by looking at how the Cuban cinematic industry’s goals and institutions are centered on concerns with sovereignty and nationalism. Chapter 6 will show how concerns for, and efforts at creating, equality in Cuban cinematic procedures and institutions evidences efforts at, triumphing the ideology motivating the positive rights-based political system in

Cuba. Next, in Chapter 7, I will look at how within the cinematic community as well as the public sphere, film production has helped to foster a democratic culture. In Chapter

8, I will turn from an examination of the institutions and processes of film-making in

Cuba to a closer examination of the films themselves and their content. Examining and discussing the content of three films from the past decades of Cuban cinema, I argue that they, like many Cuban films and the Cuban government, focus on themes concerning positive rights along with Cuban sovereignty and national identity. I further argue that they evidence the presence of political contestation in Cuba. Having supported the argument that democratic features are present within both the Cuban political system and Cuba’s cinematic industry, I will end with this conclusion’s implications as well as suggestions for future research.

CHAPTER 2 METHODS, APPROACHES, AND FRAMEWORKS

The methods utilized in this project were guided by, and embodiments of, the subject of my study and the context in which I was researching. The decision to allow the case to guide my research was informed first by Leslie Anderson’s work, “Graduate

Education in a Pluralist Context: The Metaphor of a Tool Box,” in which she contends that, as political scientists, we ought to have a toolkit full of methods.1 The idea behind

Anderson’s methodological toolbox theory is that only in allowing the question that we are asking and the context within which we are researching the answer to that question to dictate what methods we use, as opposed to allowing our own preferences in methods to influence how we go about researching a subject, are we best able to get the most accurate and comprehensive answer to that question. That is to say, if we only choose to use methods that we like or are comfortable with, while we might excel at the use of those methods, they may not 1) provide relevant information to the subject being studied, 2) be possible to use in the case you are studying, or 3) allow you to access a great deal of relevant information that can only be attained through the use of other methods.

As such, when beginning to frame our research, we must be prepared and versed in a host of methodical approaches, and open ourselves up to allowing our case to select or determine our research methods. I find this to be especially relevant in the case of conducting field research, which, given the unpredictability of the resources that will be at our disposal, forces researchers to adapt to the situation at hand and be able

1 Leslie Anderson, “Graduate Education in a Pluralist Context: The Metaphor of a Tool Box,” in Perestroika!: The Raucous Rebellion in Political Science, ed. Kristen Renwick Monroe (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005), 403-420.

to find answers through whatever methodological means is possible. My present research, whose methods I will be discussing shortly, confirms the necessity of using the toolbox approach. While before my first field research trip I structured a research design, I quickly discovered upon arriving in Havana that those methods I had planned to use were not going to be feasible in my research in Cuba. In moving forward to complete my field research, I needed to adapt my methods to the context of completing research in Havana. This meant paying attention to the types of information that were available and noting the places in which it could be found. I needed to design my research methods to fit my case, and not force my case to fit my research design.

Being open and prepared to use whatever methods were useful in collecting information in Cuba allowed me to adapt my research and be able to arrive at conclusions in my project.

The second reason I chose to allow my methods to be guided by the subject and context of my study stems from the understanding that it helps limit researcher-imposed study borders. By this I mean that if, before going into the field, we have already decided upon the ways that we think will best answer the question, we are already limiting the scope of what we will be studying and what we will be allowing to influence our understanding of the subject. We essentially are choosing what is relevant and what information we should consider before our field research even begins. This is problematic as it greatly skews the conclusions we will reach by eliminating information that could be informing those said conclusions. In beginning our research projects with our minds open to allowing the cases to determine what methods are used, we allow a

wider range of data to inform our studies and end up with more holistic understandings in our conclusions.

I find that in field research, particularly at its start, taking this exploratory approach is best. By going to the field and allowing our experiences there to guide us, we are best able to discover the sources where information lies in our case. We are less likely to impose our own preconceptions in our research process if we wait and see what the field presents us before making methodological decisions. Of course, even in waiting until after field work has begun to select research methods, one still will be imposing limits on what and how information is considered. There is, for example, a great deal of my own personality, theoretical lenses, methodological strengths, and assumptions informing the research I completed for this project. And while my own biases and lenses can certainly pose a threat to the objectiveness of the study

(something that cannot be truly achieved in any project), I think it strengthens it as well.

While methods might be chosen, how we employ those methods helps to create new angles of looking at subjects and new frameworks for understanding the information we discover. Such individuality is imperative to the creation of knowledge. These lenses, as such, still influence how I process information and ultimately my decision to include and exclude it based on my perception of its relevance. Further, these lenses are inescapable, and cannot, and as such, should not, be attempted to be stripped from a research project. The inevitability and the advantages of our own personal lenses limiting the frameworks of our research make them preferable and qualitatively different from those imposed by preselecting methods.

By allowing the type of information and resources available to me determine my methods for collecting them, a more organic and exploratory research process unfolded.

As such, for those looking to classify and develop political science into a hard science, this study is likely to frustrate as my methods frequently were informal, lacked systematic structure, and, in many cases, were organic in nature. The specific criticism could be made that, given that the field research is based off of information and resources that presented themselves to me, relevant information and data were missed in my study. That is, without actively pursuing pre-selected methodological lines in- depth, information will be missed. Responding to this concern, I would first acknowledge that there is a possibility for some sacrifice in the depth of inquiry when one uses a more exploratory methodological approach. While I do not sacrifice depth entirely, as in addition to the exploratory approach I also began selecting methods that complement the context and type of information I discovered the further into my research I progressed, there was, given my more organic approach, some sacrifice to the depth of some paths and sets of information. Yet this loss of information that comes with sacrificing depth in a study should not be seen as fundamentally different from the loss of information and data that comes with determining methods before beginning research, in which, instead of depth, you sacrifice scope. For me, particularly in a study of film in which cultural, historical, social, economic, and political contexts are imperative for understanding both the content of, and responses to, a film. Because of this, the choice to choose scope over depth is an obvious one in this study. Further, given the unique nature of completing research in Cuba, completing in-depth and highly focused studies was not a plausible option for me. While initially I wanted to combine

exploratory field research with some pre-selected methods, I soon found that the more systematic design I went into the field with was not suited for the contextual realities I discovered once there.

The decision to abandon much of the systematic design in my project and to lean towards embracing a more informal framework in my methodological approach originally stemmed from my discovery that formally doing research in the Cuba was going to be a challenge for me for two main reasons. First, receiving research permission— particularly for someone from the United States, at the University of Florida, who is studying political science—is difficult to obtain. The first time I planned to go to Cuba to do preliminary research for a week, I, at the suggestion of a University of Florida natural science’s professor who had completed agricultural research in Cuba, applied for a research visa from the Cuban government. The Cuban government never responded to my request, and, as the professor informed me, this was the government’s polite way of saying “no.” Having been denied the research visa, I was unable to do the preliminary research in Cuba at that time. Because of that response, the next time I decided to try and go to Cuba, the same professor suggested that I apply for a student visa instead.

By signing up for a Spanish class at the Universidad de Habana, I was able to enter

Cuba and get a visa that would allow me to stay in the country for up to two months at a time. I did this on each of my four trips to Cuba.

While the student visa permitted me access to a great deal of information and opportunities to complete research, it did pose limits that I would have been able to pass with a research visa. Some of the libraries and institutions, for example, require a research visa for those entering and using them. Archival research, as a result, became

more difficult to conduct as my access to documents, information, and data were more limited. As such, I had to begin accepting the reality that rather than conducting a systematic study, my approach to research in Cuba needed to become focused on those things I could do, such as observing, learning, and gathering information about

Cuban film, society, and politics. The process of conducting field research would not be systematic, but rather largely exploratory.

The second and more significant reason for the informal nature of much of my research, is the reality that many Cubans were wary of, and reluctant to, discussing politics when asked directly about their opinions on the matter—especially with someone from the United States. Before my first trip to Cuba, I wrote up a set of questions for film producers and a set of questions for film directors. I intended to ask each director and producer I met these uniform sets of questions and compare and consolidate their responses. After attempting to conduct a couple of interviews with film directors, however, I quickly realized how futile of an exercise conducting these interviews was going to be. While I was able to receive some limited answers to these questions, it soon became apparent, both from some respondents’ reservation in answering the questions, along with guidance from some close Cuban friends cautioning against asking direct questions with political significance, that interviews with a set of formal questions was not the best approach to collecting information.

Initially the realization that I would be completing my doctoral research without the ability to ask a set of uniform questions was daunting and discouraging. Yet I soon discovered that if I allowed Cuba to guide me in how I went about trying to acquire information, I would often find myself with answers to questions I did not directly ask.

Through chance conversations with strangers met in places like buses and taxis, I discovered that when I asked fewer questions, I received far more information. After asking me a few general questions about me and my interest in Cuban film, individuals often opened up and began telling me their thoughts on a host of issues—including, often times, Cuban cinema and Cuban politics. By trying this method of waiting for someone else to volunteer thoughts, as opposed to me probing for them, I found that many, though of course not all, of the questions I had were being addressed in the unprompted discussions with the people I met. It seemed when I asked the fewest questions, I received the most answers—so I learned to embrace that approach, and, on most occasions, refrained from asking direct or non-organic questions. While not originally an intent motivating me to take this approach, it fit into my understanding that preliminary research should have as few limits place on it as possible. In allowing people to share what they found interesting and relevant with me, instead of choosing the questions that would arrive at information for which I was actively looking, the scope of information I received was expanded. I learned what was relevant from what others chose to share as well as from paying attention to what others chose not to share.

One method I did choose to use ahead of time that I was able to utilize, given how incredibly well it worked in the case and context of Cuba, was the wave method. In the wave method, you rely on the individuals you meet to serve as the ones to put you in contact with another set of individuals, who will in turn, help to further introduce you to others they know. You essentially meet those you are receiving resources and information from in waves of contacts. My first wave began the day before I made my first trip to Cuba, when I was put in contact with a former University of Florida student

who had completed agricultural research in Cuba. She mentioned she had some

Cuban friends who had moved to Florida and had previously been part of the Arts department at a university in Havana, and she told me she would try to contact them to see if they knew anyone back in Havana who might help introduce me into the cinema scene.

Within days of my arrival to Cuba, I received an email with the contact information of a documentary filmmaker. Upon my first meeting with him, he introduced me to another film director who also held a position at ICAIC (Instituto Cubano del Arte e Industria Cinematográficos), acquired tickets for me to attend La Muestra Joven (a young filmmakers festival going on the next week in Havana) as well as a pass that gave me access to all of the activities and tutorials offered to the filmmakers, and spoke with a woman working in the archives at ICAIC to get me access to their materials. At the film festival the following week, I met more directors, who put me in contact with additional individuals who provided me with insight and information that would end up influencing the conclusions that I reached. Outside of the cinema world, I also employed the wave method—meeting friends of friends who shared stories, ideas, films, and portions of their lives with me. The knowledge gained about public reactions to cinema in Cuba was limited to chance meetings, observation, and recorded accounts.

Again, because of the random factor in who might volunteer information, I seldom directed specific questions about cinema, but rather was open to whatever was mentioned after I shared my interest in Cuban cinema with the individuals.

Because I collected a good deal of information through chance conversations, shared narratives, and observation, there may be some concern that some of the

explanations and support I provide in this work are anecdotal in nature. That is, because my collection of information was not systematic, lacking controls and the ability to comprehensively and exhaustively research a given issue or idea, it may be inadequate for drawing broad conclusions. To this concern of the inclusion of anecdotal support in my research and its conclusions, I have two responses. First, I make no efforts to deny that anecdotal evidence exists within my work and conclusions here, and while recognizing their limitations, argue that those limitations do not dismiss the relevancy of the anecdotal evidence nor their ability to inform research. From a scientific standpoint, this approach of including anecdotes can be troubling as it remains unclear if the content of the anecdote is an isolated incident, and as such, an anomaly, or something that is the norm occurring the majority of the time. Yet from a philosophical standpoint, particularly if one is looking through a Kantian lens, a single occurrence is enough to merit attention. Anomaly or not, the fact that an event occurred or experience was had makes it worthy of consideration. Particularly when studying art, the individual experience and interpretation of that art is often personal in nature, and as such, all responses, regardless of their frequency, are of importance. Further, the films themselves are in many ways anecdotes. They are the stories of the experiences, understandings, and ideas of the writers and directors who create them. It is theoretically possible that a film represents and illustrates a singular experience, and as such is anecdotal. The inclusion of anecdotes then, is driven by both the case I am studying, Cuba, as well as the subject of what I am studying, cinema. Because the films can be seen as anecdotal, it makes sense that the methods and types of information I utilize and collect would include some anecdotal features.

And finally, on this point, the majority of my conclusions are not ones of generalization. I do not argue in Chapter 10, for example, that all Cuban films contain contestation of the Cuban government, nor that in all cases, that contestation within

Cuban films is permitted by the Cuban government. I simply assert that there are cases of Cuban films that contain political contestation. This matches my thesis as well, in which I claim that democratic elements exist within the cinematic industry, but do not go so far as to say that the industry is democratic. I choose to stay away from generalizations in my project and its conclusions 1) because this project is exploratory and 2) because using regime types, which are laden with contradictions and problematically categorized, as adjectives to describe entire institutions is problematic and thus I avoid giving them generalized labels. Many of my conclusions then, rather than making universal and definitive claims, are descriptions of portions of institutions. I describe the existence of features and experiences without claiming that their presence is the norm or can be extended to others. My first defense for my decision to use anecdotal evidence then, is that it reflects the nature of the subject I am studying, and while wrought with limitations, also, particularly in the case of researching film, presents benefits in this exploratory study in which I make descriptive rather than generalizable conclusions.

My second response to the concern of my inclusion of anecdotal evidence is that, aware of the scientific limits anecdotal evidence poses, I chose to include other sources and methods of research in my study besides information acquired through the wave method. One of the ways I bolstered support that extends beyond individual conversations or experiences was in conducting archival research at ICAIC. Research

at this film institute provided me with access primarily to books and magazines dealing with Cuban cinema, ICAIC, and festivals within the state. Yet while ICAIC gave me access to some helpful information, given the limitations of access to comprehensive materials there, I also needed to rely on other scholars' previous research on Cuban cinema as well as discussions of Cuban films by directors and critics in film magazines and newspapers to inform my understanding of the industry. Further, by attending film festivals, I was able to both observe the processes and discussions occurring in the film community.

Additionally, I include in this study, analyses and discussions of a selection of

Cuban films that exhibit democratic features such as contestation and contain discussions of the features the Cuban government looks to create in its understanding of a democratic system: equality and sovereignty/nationalism. In addition to analyzing the scripts, images, and themes of these films, I also include statements made by the directors in interviews with others. While I would have preferred to have been able to conduct interviews in which I could have chosen specific questions, many of the interviews contain relevant statements to my discussion, and as such, proved valuable assets in informing my analyses. I also made use of film critiques as well as other scholars’ discussions of the films to supplement my own interpretations and analyses as much as possible.

I initially hoped to code films based on whether or not they contained political and social critiques. By coding the films throughout Cuba’s cinema’s history, I hoped to be able to determine 1) if there was a correlation between changing political circumstances and the number of films with political critiques and 2) if films with political and social

critiques were the norm in Cuba. This quantitative data would have been particularly useful to my future research in which I hope to expand my study to include two other cases. While I hoped to be able to code film in Cuba, when I began completing my field research I soon discovered that acquiring films was difficult. Tourist shops only carried a handful of films and the ICAIC film archive, along with notable directors and members of ICAIC, were unable to locate copies of certain films for me. Circumstances forced me to rely on what films friends had, what I could find for sale in small film shops, what I could buy on the black market in Cuba, what I could locate online in the United States, and what movies were playing at theaters in Havana. Many of the more famous (for political and societal reasons) films I was able to locate and view. While I was able to secure many films, because of the lack of a comprehensive collection, coding films was not an option for the present project, and as such, I was forced to drop it from my original methods design. While such realizations and limitations were initially frustrating, these complications I encountered in trying to conduct research provided me with valuable information about my case. By allowing my case, Cuba, to determine the direction my research was able to go, I was learning more about it. In the difficulties of trying to conduct archival research, I learned about the bureaucratic and financial challenges of ICAIC. In experiencing the difficulty in acquiring films, I discovered not only how pervasive the black market in Cuba is, I also discovered the informal communal system of sharing film in Cuban society. In short, I learned the challenges within the film industry and how Cubans accessed films—both valuable lessons, even if learned in inconvenient ways.

In addition to studying cinema in Cuba, I also researched the political and social realities of the state and society. Just as I contextualized my cinematic field research through study of other scholars’ works about the cinematic industry and history in Cuba, so too, in studying the Cuban political and social realities I supplemented my informal experiences and exploratory observations. I contextualized my field work with historical analysis. I researched the political, economic, and social development of Cuba to better understand the reasons motivating both the design of the present regime and the social realities. Such research was vital to informing the discussion of Cuban democracy in

Chapter 3 and Chapter 4. Further, the historical analysis helped to ground and focus the scope of my project and its conclusions.

As is evidenced by my discussion above, my research design altered from that which I originally intended it to be—that is, I became dependent on the circumstances to dictate what information I could collect and how I could collect it. Yet while the contextual constraints were largely the reasons inciting the approaches I employed, my continued utilization of informal methods, proved to me, the most appropriate given the goals of this project, which, from the start, I aimed to be exploratory in nature. In my trips to Cuba, I opened myself up to whatever I found and was motivated, intrigued, and persuaded by. This led me to truly explore the nature of the society without constraints confining the themes, individuals, and subjects studied. Rather than focusing on single issues, going into depth, and excluding information, ideas, and experiences that did not directly inform a narrower question or subject, I allowed for a more holistic and organic research process to guide and inform my project.

I allowed the subject, Cuban art, politics, and society, to guide my approaches in conducting research. Doing so was important not only because it removed preconceived limits, to a degree, from my work, but also because the study of film requires a more generalized knowledge of culture and society. To pick up on the nuances, jokes, and references in a film, one must be steeped in the culture and history of the society producing that film. I missed a great deal of information and failed to understand films fully in those that I saw before having spent time in Cuba. By embracing the exploratory approach to research in Cuba, I became better qualified to understand and analyze the subject of my research: Cuban film. In using more organic research approaches and methods, as opposed to formal and systematic ones, my project and its conclusions largely serve as a starting point for understanding the nature of Cuban politics and Cuban cinema. My work largely offers descriptions of elements of these institutions, not definitive statements about the institutions in their entirety because of the exploratory approach I allowed to guide my research. As such, in many ways, the ideas and information that follows is a basis to build upon for future research.

CHAPTER 3 CUBA’S DEFINITION AND DEVELOPMENT OF DEMOCRACY: THE ABSENCE AND FOSTERING OF SOVEREIGNTY

While the current government in power in Cuba classifies its regime as being a social democracy, most scholars label it otherwise. As the focus of this project is to encourage academia to begin to sincerely examine self-definitions proposed by other states, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 and Chapter 6 will be chiefly endeavors to explain what democracy means to the Revolutionary regime in Cuba, offer evidence of the existence of the democratic features in the Cuban political system, and explain why traditionally accepted necessary democratic features are absent in Cuba’s current regime. To understand why the regime has developed the term democracy as well as its implementation of the system the way it has, we must examine Cuba’s political history. What we will find, with a historical analysis of the political development in Cuba, is that there are chiefly two features that have taken primary importance in defining democracy for the Revolutionary regime given the state’s political past: sovereignty and positive rights. The focus on these two features will help to explain not only why the

Cuban classification is one we ought to consider them as upholding, but also help to offer insight as to why the features we generally see as being necessary in a democracy are absent from the Cuban system. In this coming section, we will see that in several respects democracy, as conceived by the Revolutionary regime, does in fact exist in some capacity.

To support this point, Chapter 3 will discuss the importance of sovereignty and a strong national identity in Cuban democracy—chiefly by giving a historical overview of the state’s political development. In Chapter 4, the discussion will turn to examine the

second feature of Cuba’s democracy, positive rights, and the important role they play in instituting a democracy. I will argue that they are just as important as negative rights to a democracy, and therefore should be considered as equal qualifications for a democratic state. Having discussed both the importance of these features to democracy as well as Cuba’s efforts at achieving them, we will next look in Chapter 5 at why despite the state’s implementation of these said features, most scholars refuse to classify Cuba as a democracy given its historical limitation of negative rights. As criticisms of the lack of democratic structures and negative rights in the Cuban system often focus on its party structure and electoral system, it is these two features we will examine in greater detail to see in what ways they hinder democracy and in what ways they support it. I will contend that the traditionally accepted institutional designs may not be as integral to democracy as is argued in present literature and that the designs of the Cuban institutions may not only have some more democratic qualities, but also that the democratic limitations that they do have are motivated by concerns for sovereignty.

In Chapter 6, the last on the political system present in Cuba, we will examine how and why in present Cuban politics, negative rights continue to take a second place to the government’s greater concern: sovereignty. Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 and

Chapter 6 together will thus support the argument that the Cuban government’s concern for providing and protecting both its sovereignty and positive rights for its people are among the chief motivators for the presently lacking negative rights within its democratic structure.

Presently, I will be focusing on the importance of sovereignty and national identity to the Revolutionary regime’s conceptualization of democracy, will first define

the term sovereignty and explain its importance to democratic regimes. Having defined and explained the importance of sovereignty, the next section will provide a historical analysis of the lack of sovereignty within Cuba since the Spanish arrival to the island.

Next, with the analysis providing support for the argument that there is a historical lack of sovereignty in Cuba complete, I will move on to discuss how the Revolutionary regime recognized that absence and sought to remedy it in its new institutional design.

At that point, I will also discuss the continued threats to that sovereignty, particularly by the US, concluding that such threats may offer us insight into why some negative rights are limited in Cuba—an argument that will be discussed in further detail in Chapter 6.

What Sovereignty Is and Why It Is Important

Sovereignty is seldom discussed as a necessary requisite for democracy, yet it is a foundational requirement and one that has rightly been the concern of the Cuban governments to create and maintain since the Revolution. For our present purposes, I define sovereignty as the capacity of a state to ultimately determine and exercise its interests over the interests of external actors in the decisions and actions it makes for its citizens and within its territory. Put simply, it means domestically, the state has the ability to exercise its interests over the interests of external actors. That is to say, when a state has sovereignty it is able to exercise a type of self-determination. Without sovereignty, the population of a state is unable to have self-determination and unable to rule in its own interest, and as such, the citizens of that state cannot have democracy if sovereignty does not first exist.

While the importance of sovereignty for any political system, particularly a democracy, may be seemingly obvious, we seldom trouble ourselves to look at its existence when discussing the degree of democracy present within a state. That is, if

we see that a state is recognized as being a democracy from the international community, we often fail to look to see in what ways and to what degrees, domestic self-determination exists within a state. This is increasingly becoming an issue, however, as globalization and its consequences continue to rise. With increased inter- connectedness—something no doubt with its own set of advantages—also come problems—including for democracy. Particularly with the rise of outside influence and pressure—be it international governmental organizations such as the IMF, international nongovernmental organizations looking to influence policy and socials decisions within states, international corporations, or, of course, other states—we find individual citizens within those states continually losing the ability to guide themselves and their states and the states without the ability to make decisions in their own interest. While the political science community has recognized and discussed the challenges of globalization at length, it has failed to discuss significantly how this influences whether or not a state’s regime can be labeled democratic.

Despite scholarly neglect in considering the sovereignty of a state when determining how democratic or undemocratic it is, both Cubans and the Cuban

Revolutionary governments have long recognized the importance and necessity of establishing sovereignty to create a democracy. In fact, the desire to achieve and maintain sovereignty is something that has existed throughout the island’s history.

While one may argue that Fidel Castro’s allusions to earlier independence fighters such as José Martí are merely attempts at helping to gain legitimacy (something such connections, no doubt, do help to establish), the reality does exist that such individuals were concerned with the members of their societies having the ability to pursue their

own interests and structure their society as they deemed fit. Sovereignty has been historically absent in Cuba, and we can find the first bit of success in its creation (be it still admittedly limited in its scope), with the advent of the Revolutionary government after the overthrow of Batista.

The Historical Absence of Sovereignty in Cuba

Since the Spanish arrived in 1492 and created their first settlement in 1515, the people of the island of Cuba have failed to exercise sovereignty over their land. Yet despite their inability to gain sovereignty at several historical junctures, it is something that has been at the forefront of the discourse of Cuban independence fighters. This discourse is first evident in the confrontation that existed between the indigenous populations and the Spanish conquistadors. Prior to the Spanish arrival, three indigenous populations are known to have populated the island. The first two societies living in Cuba were the Guanajatabeyes and the Ciboneys. The Guanajatabeyes gathered food and lived in caves in the Western region of the island.1 The second group, the Ciboneys, originated from South American Arawak indigenous society and relied on agriculture and fishing to subsist.2 When the third indigenous population, the

Taínos, emigrated from the West Indies in the early 1400s, the Ciboneys became their servants as the Taínos were a more advanced society with more extensive economic, social, and political systems.3 So by the time the Spanish first arrived, it was the Taínos who were the dominant population on the island. One of the Taíno leaders, Hatuey, fled from the Dominican Republic to Cuba and began warning the indigenous population of

1 Clifford L. Staten, The History of Cuba (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 13. 2 Ibid. 3 Ibid.

the intentions and advances of the Spanish. Eventually Hatuey was captured and was condemned to be burned at the stake. As was the custom, he was given a chance to convert to Christianity before his death so that he might receive salvation. As the priests offered him this opportunity of conversion, he pointed to the Spanish conquistadors and asked if they would be going to heaven. When the priests replied in the affirmative, Hatuey announced that he would then prefer to go to hell. This narrative is one that continues to resonate amongst, and have significance for, the Cuban people.

In the Cuban National Art Museum, for example, a painting depicting the scene of

Hatuey on the stake hangs in one of the galleries. When going through the museum, a

Cuban friend pointed out that painting and told me the story that inspired it. In her sharing of the story, a smile crossed her face and it was clear that she identified with, or at the very least admired Hatuey. A recent film, También la lluvia, also contains a scene depicting the Hatuey incident.4 The film makes clear that it is not just the Taíno population that can relate to Hatuey’s defiance and triumph, but all indigenous populations throughout Latin America. Further, the story of anti-imperialism can be expanded beyond its reliability to indigenous populations, as it is one Latin Americans can identify with as well. This narrative continues to resonate now, hundreds of years later, because at its heart it is a story that illustrates the passion for, and protection of, independence from external actors. Hatuey represents a rejection of European religion and norms. He chooses death over a loss of sovereignty for the Taíno people. His defiance is a perfect example for Cuban independence fighters, and for the revolutionary fighters and their subsequent government looking to eliminate foreign

4 Dir. Iciar Bollain. También la lluvia. 2010. Film.

exploiters, who, in this later case, was the United States. The story of Hatuey is essentially the nebula of the national identity in Cuba, and the desire to fight for sovereignty.

While some scholars, such as José Barreiro, argue that there is still a presence of an indigenous population in Cuba, and indeed there are some small scattered indigenous populations who remain on the island today,5 the generally accepted consensus is that the indigenous population was almost completely wiped out by the

Spanish—both through attacks, diseases, and being over-worked in the encomienda system which “legally tied the indigenous peoples to Spaniards” and in which “the indigenous people served as laborers and in return were converted and given instruction in Christianity.”6 With the indigenous population largely gone, the Spanish needed a new labor force to take over their duties, and as such, in 1513, they began importing African slaves. Because the Spanish had not found much gold or silver on the island, Cuba’s development and function were limited, and so too, was the need for a huge labor force. The number of slaves imported in 1544 was thus about 800 individuals.7 The Spanish, being much more interested in what South and Central

America could offer them in the way of mineral resources, particularly gold and silver, began using Cuba as primarily a port to stop at between trips from Iberia to the

Americas.8 The island focused on raising cattle, harvesting forests to equip the ship- building industry, and growing tobacco. It would not be until the 1700s, with the arrival

5 José Barreiro, “Survival Stories,” in The Cuba Reader: History, Culture, Politics, ed. Aviva Chomsky, Barry Carr, and Pamela Maria Smorkaloff (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2003), 28-36. 6 Staten, The History of Cuba, 14. 7 Ibid., 14-15. 8 Ibid., 15.

of temporary English rule, that the sugar industry would become dominant and the number of slaves grow exponentially to support it—both changes which would help foster Cuban nationalism.

For a brief period in 1762, the English overtook the island from the Spanish.

While the British rule on the island was short, its impact was lasting. The British rule offered considerably more economic freedoms to the Cubans than did the Spanish rulers who exercised strict controls on trading, originally only permitting Cuban producers to trade with Spain and maintaining a monopoly over the slave trade. With the British ruling, Cubans were able to begin trading with other countries, including the

US, which gave Cubans access to new technology and products.9 Such freedoms and ability to make a greater profit offered by British rule would wet the Cubans’ appetite for independence in Spain.10 The British rule also motivated Cubans to fight for more independence and freedom because it the British grew the slave industry in Cuba. By

1792 there were over 84,000 slaves in Cuba.11 While slavery initially aided the sugar- industry, it thus also created even more inequality and restricted freedoms.

With the exception of the brief rule of the British, the Spanish dominated the political, social, and economic affairs of those that inhabited the island from their arrival in the late 1400s through the end of the 19th century. While power was originally decentralized, in 1532, the Spanish centralized power and granted political posts to those capable of affording them—for the most part, this meant only those born in Spain had the resources to do so, and the Creole population—those born to Spanish parents

9 Ibid., 18. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid., 19.

on the island of Cuban—were without full political, social, and economic rights.12 While the Creole population had more rights as well as greater economic opportunities than others, they were still disadvantaged in the system compared with the Spanish-born citizens, and, in their desire for economic advances in particular, were largely responsible for the initial conceptualization and materialization of Cuban nationalism.

With tensions brought on by the social and political inequalities instated from

Spanish rule in Cuba and a national consciousness nebulizing, motivations for independence mounted into the first half of the 19th century. Jaime Suchlicki argues that these grievances and the birth of a nationalist spirit were best expressed by a group of Cuban poets in the mid nineteenth century.13 While one poet in particular, José

Martí, who will be discussed shortly, is often noted for his role instating a nationalist spirit in the Cuba people, already in the 1830s (twenty years before Martí was even born), Cuban poets were writing of the need for a Cuba separate from Spain. Poets had begun to reference what had happened to the island’s indigenous population as an example for the need for an authentic Cuban identity no longer suppressed by the

Spanish. Suchlicki explains that “poets like Fornaris and El Cucalambé eulogized the

Indian past and used Indian themes to attack oppression and to foster a love for the island’s tradition.”14 Citing other poets, including José María Heredia, Juan Clemente

Zenea, and Miguel Tueurbe Tolón, Suchlicki goes on to write, “it was through the verse and prose of these men that a national consciousness and a separate identity began to be fostered in a society previously oriented toward self-enrichment and permeated by

12 Ibid., 16. 13 Jaime Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 5th edn. (Washington, D.C.: Potomac Books, 2002). 14 Ibid., 51.

political cynicism.”15 Just as Benedict Anderson argues in Imagined Communities that the printing press helped foster the creation of nationalist identities, so too, is it written work, though this time poetry rather than newspapers, that helped to conceive of, and bring into reality the Cuban national identity—an identity that would require political sovereignty and freedoms to accompany and nourish it.16

Early arguments of overthrowing Spanish rule in Cuba were accompanied by a plan for annexation to the United States as some felt the US support on the issue of permitting slavery would be needed if the Spanish were no longer in control.17 By the mid-19th century, however, support for the cause of annexation to US was dwindling as

Cubans witnessed the imperialist expansion of the US as the thought that the US would protect the institution of slavery was dismantled with the results of the US Civil War, and as nationalism continued to grow especially among the Creole population.18 The growing rise of nationalism amongst the Creole population was particularly significant for the rejection of annexation. One notable Creole poet, José Antonio Saco, while originally being a proponent of annexation, later rejected the idea on the grounds that it would threaten Cuban nationalism. Suchlicki explains that Saco began to fear that “the

United States would impose its will and culture on the island” and that “the Cubans would then be converted into an oppressed minority within their own country.”19 As such, “Saco warned that Cuba would not only be annexed but absorbed, thus

15 Ibid. 16 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (London and New York: Verso, 2006). 17Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 51. 18 Ibid., 52. 19 Ibid.

preventing the development of the Cuban nationality.”20 Artists and writers continued to develop this nationalism, and “through their works they fostered not only a pride in being a Cuban and a love for Cuban subjects but also a sort of shame over the fact that the island still remains a Spanish colony.”21 Cuban nationalism was gaining strength and the desire to fight for and protect this budding identity was growing along with it.

In 1868, those desires for independence motivated by Cuban nationalism finally erupted in the form of an armed offense, and the fight for Cuban independence officially began with the onset of the Ten Years’ War. Conditions in Cuba had been exasperated by the “arbitrary and ruthless” rule of “captain-generals” like “Miguel Tacón and

Francisco Lersundi.”22 Suchlicki explains that “Tacón conspired to prevent the Cuban deputies from being seated at the revived Spanish Cortes”23 and “increased the powers of the military tribunals and exiled several distinguished Cubans, among them José

Antonio Saco,” while “Lersundi suppressed political meetings and the reading of newspapers and books and reading areas” and with the exception of Tacón’s, his “iron despotism was the harshest brand of administration experienced on the island.”24 This political repression, accompanied by the growing nationalism on the island, served as a catalyst for the first major armed rebellion.

The Ten Years’ War started in Eastern Cuba with the actions of a wealthy and highly educated Creole, Carlos Manuel Céspedes. Staten explains that Céspedes provided

20 Ibid. 21 Ibid., 59. 22 Ibid., 58. 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid. 59.

many reasons for the rebellion against Spain. They included the inability of Cuban Creoles to serve in their own government, excessive taxation, corruption, the lack of religious liberties, suppression of the press and the denial of the rights of petition and assembly as reasons to rebel against the Spanish, Céspedes freed his slaves to help him fight for Cuban independence.25

Upon inciting the revolution, Céspedes created a manifesto. The manifesto “called for complete independence from Spain, for the establishment of the Republic with universal suffrage, and for that indemnified emancipation of slaves.”26 Along with the manifesto,

Céspedes also created a provisional government that he headed, which given pressures from other rebels who grew concerned that he had too much power, he later made more democratic through a constitutional convention in which it was converted into “a republican–type government.”27 Céspedes retained power of the rebel government, as he was elected its president, and as such was able to push for, and declare the abolition of, slavery—a platform that was not shared by all of his fellow rebel fighters.

The rebel fighters, largely consisting of peasants and known as Mambises, were led militarily by Máximo Gómez who was Dominican and whose strategy concentrated on causing Spain economic hardship. This economic hardship was to be achieved by targeting and decimating the sugar industry. By emancipating slaves, the industry could not function, and by slashing and burning fields, the sugar crop would be devastated, and as such, these were chief tactics utilized and encouraged by Gómez.28 Because of the devastation caused to the industry by these tactics, there was some resistance from

25 Staten, The History of Cuba, 32. 26 Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 60. 27 Ibid., 61. 28 Ibid., 62-62.

the conservatives opposed to abolition as well as those whose economic interests were tied to the sugar industry to the plan set out by the Mambises’ leadership. One individual who was on board with Gómez’s plan was another soon-to-be military leader,

Antoni Maceo, who was trained in guerrilla warfare by Gómez.29 Because Maceo was mulatto and because he grew to power quickly in the rebel army, some rebels, particularly landowners in the West who were against abolition, became concerned about the direction the island would go if independence were achieved. Specifically, they worried that he might instate a “black-rule” if the independence fight were successful and as such became weary of his efforts.30 Division amongst the rebels led to contestation over leadership decisions. In the early 1870s, both Gómez and

Céspedes were pushed out of their positions because of dissent amongst the rebel ranks. Céspedes was killed in 1874 during a Spanish attack, and in the aftermath of the death of this figurehead, Gómez was reinstated in his previous position.31 Gómez’s reinstatement, however, would prove to be temporary, as internal divisions within the

Mambises and contestation over his post would push him out again in 1876.32 The

Mambises continued fighting despite their internal divisions, lack of unified leadership, and dwindling resources.

In February of 1878, without either side being capable of decimating the other, a peace settlement was reached between the Mambises and the Spanish. While the

Spanish were not victorious in a clear and definite dismantling of the rebel forces, they

29 Staten, The History of Cuba, 32. 30 Ibid., 33. 31 Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 63. 32 Ibid.

did prevent the rebels from achieving the independence they desired. Further, as they still had control over the island, they largely set the terms of the settlement and its implementation—which largely rewarded loyalists and punished those who fought for independence. Maceo tried to temporarily continue to fight, refusing to accept the

Peace Accords, but given the futility of his singular efforts, he left Cuba, and the violent struggle for Cuban independence was put on hold.33 Yet despite the failure to win, which will be discussed shortly, the Mambises did help to further develop a national identity. As Suchlicki points out, the Mambises and the Ten Year’s War made it so

“regionalism collapsed and a common cause emerged” and “provided numerous symbols that became part of Cuba’s historical heritage” including “the national anthem and flag as well as the national weapon, the machete.”34 The Cuban national identity was materializing and would help to propel the independence cause, even after the failure of the Ten Years’ War.

One of the main reasons for the failure of the Mambises is clearly that, despite their creating a unifying national identity, there was a great deal of internal division amongst them—a problem that would have almost surely plagued their new state had they succeeded in gaining independence.35 Not only were there disagreements about whether or not complete abolition would accompany independence, there were also disagreements on what independence ought to look like—that is, how much autonomy was actually desired and what strategies ought to be employed to best achieve it.

Individuals began putting their own economic interests as well as their own selfish

33 Ibid., 63-64. 34 Ibid., 64. 35 Staten, The History of Cuba, 32.

concern for power above the goal of independence, and as such, were unable to execute a successful and coherent rebellion. In addition to the internal division obstructing the Mambí forces success, the Spanish were also motivated to maintain control over the island. Having to deal with inner turmoil which included the deposal of

Queen Isabella II, an unsuccessful experiment with the First Spanish Republic, and then a return to Spanish monarchical rule in the mid-1870s, the Spanish government was already fighting to establish and maintain legitimacy and stability on the mainland.36

The prospects of losing Cuba was a motivator to direct attentions to gaining legitimacy elsewhere. In addition to their motivation to maintain some semblance of an empire, the

Spanish also had the advantage of having a more organized and better equipped military than the Mambises. Finally, the Mambises were unable to garnish international support for their cause, with both the US and England refusing to back their fight for

Cuban independence.37 These combined factors led then, to the failure of the first concerted effort at independence by the Mambises.

Despite the US’s official neutrality during the Ten Years’ War, already in the aftermath of this war, US interest and influence in Cuba was growing. Given the level of destruction caused from the 10 Years’ War and changes to the global sugar industry, the sugar industry in Cuba was greatly crippled.38 Large companies and wealthy individuals from the US took advantage of the disseminated industry and began purchasing the land at cheap prices. With the US capital, the industry began being rebuilt. The purchasing of land by the US and the Spanish redistribution of land after

36 Ibid. 37 Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 64. 38 Staten, The History of Cuba, 33-35.

the Ten Years’ War left most Creole landed-aristocracy without land. US companies modernized the sugar industry, and “by 1894, the United States had invested more than

$50 million in Cuba, purchased 87% of Cuba's exports and accounted for almost 40% of the island's imports.”39

As US economic influence on the island grew, the Spanish continued to largely control the politics there. Despite hopes that the peace accords would bring about an increase in the Cubans’ political power, very little changed for the positive in the social and political lives of Cubans after the end of the Ten Years’ War. The exception to this was the abolition of slavery. Beyond that, however, the socio-economic and political realities for Cubans, particularly those who had fought against the Spanish, were quite bleak. Because very little changed to the advantage of Cubans after the Ten Years’

War, for about the next decade a host of independence fighters tried several more times to rebel against the Spaniards. The offenses were much smaller in scale, and all of them failed. It would not be until the mid-1890s, that the separatists would begin a fight that would actually lead to their success.

In 1895, Cuba resumed its final push at becoming a state separate from Spain with the War of Independence.40 This time, the movement for independence was motivated by a leader who articulated Cuban nationalism to a degree that no other leader in Cuba had before, and perhaps no other leader has since: José Martí. Born in

1853, Martí started his rebellion against Spanish rule in his youth. At the age of sixteen starting and writing for an underground newspaper aimed against Spanish rule.

Roberto González Echevarría, in the introduction to José Martí: Selected Writings,

39 Ibid., The History of Cuba, 36. 40 Ibid.

notes that in 1869, Martí was arrested for “activities disloyal to Spain,” and spent time serving in a labor camp in 1870 as a result.41 At the request of his mother, Martí was released early from his labor camp sentence and was exiled to Spain when he was seventeen, where he studied at the University of Saragossa.42 Martí ended up traveling in his exile, and spent time in both Mexico and Venezuela where he left do to political circumstances, but ultimately ended up spending about ten years in the United States.

While there, he wrote for newspapers and documented the social, economic, and political realities in the United States.43 Further, Martí exercised his skills as an orator, traveling the country and speaking out about the need for Cuban independence.44

It was during his time in the United States that Martí, previously a supporter of the democratic achievements in the United States, now begins criticizes the country’s democratic failures—the continued racial discrimination and violence being among his biggest concerns. Martí, fueled by a Cuban nationalist fervor and the desire for Cuba to gain complete independence and true freedom for its people, also became weary and critical of the threats the US could pose to it, and vehemently argued for Cuba to refrain from involving the US in the fight for independence.45 In 1892 Martí began the Cuban

Revolutionary Party while in the United States which set out to systematically plan and execute the next stage of Cuba’s fight for independence.46 After having planned and

41 Roberto González Echevarria, “José Marti: An Introduction,” in José Marti: Selected Writings, ed. and trans. Esther Allen (New York: Penguin Books, 2002), ix-xxv. 42 Carlos Ripoll, “Introduction,” in José Martí Thoughts: On Liberty, Social Justice, Government, Art and Morality, sel. and trans. Carlos Ripoll (New York: Editorial Dos Rios, 1995), 5-10. 43 Ibid., 5-7 44 Echevarria, José Marti: An Introduction, xv. 45 Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 68-69. 46 Echevarria, José Marti: An Introduction, xv.

staged it for years, Martí and the other members of the Cuban Revolutionary Party set the armed struggle of the War of Independence into motion in 1895. Martí was killed in battle early on, despite protests from Maceo and Gómez to stay out of the fighting.

Martí, rejecting the notion of being an unarmed prophet, however, rode into battle at

Dos Rios being shot and killed, leaving only his passion for Cuban nationalism and independence to guide the other independence fighters.47 One of the last correspondences he wrote was to Mexican undersecretary of the interior, Manuel

Mercado, on May 18, 1895, which was the day before he was killed in battle. In the letter Martí prophetically speaking of his efforts to keep at bay the dangers to Cuban independence that the US posed writing,

every day now I am in danger of give my life for my country and my duty– as I understand it and have the spirit to carry it out–in order to prevent, by the timely independence in Cuba, the United States extending its hold across the Antilles and falling with all the greater force on the lands of our America. All I have done up to now and all I will do is for that.48

Martí, well aware of the US interest in the island, feared already as the War of

Independence was starting, about whether or not that independence would be hijacked by the US. Adamantly against the prospects of the US annexing Cuba, in the same letter, he went on to scathingly detail his disdain for those Cubans who rejected true independence and freedom, writing,

men of the legal ilk who, having no discipline or creative power of their own, and as a convenient disguise for their complacency and subjugation to Spain, request Cuba's autonomy without conviction, contend that there be a master, getting key or Spaniard, to maintain them and grant them, in reward for their services as intermediaries, positions as leaders, scornful of the vigorous masses, the skilled and inspiring mestizo masses of their

47 Ibid. 48 José Martí, José Marti: Selected Writings, ed. Esther Allen (New York: Penguin Books, 2002), 347.

country – the intelligent, creative masses of whites and blacks go to sleep.49

According to Martí, to accept annexation was to betray one’s liberty, to betray the

Cuban people. And for Martí, there were no more precious possessions worth fighting for and defending than freedom, justice and nationalism. Martí embodied the Cuban independence movement, and was immortalized with the sacrifice he made for Cuba’s sovereignty.

With Martí, gone, the fight for independence continued under the leadership of

Maceo and Gómez. The two now more experienced in their military tactics, and having the advantage of having planned out the offensive over a period of three years, began moving their forces West across the island, and making huge gains against the

Spanish. This time, with the issue of abolition already having been dealt with, and with a strong sense of nationalism and the leadership of Martí, the independence fighters were more unified and ultimately more successful.50 Further, as Louis Pérez, Jr. argues, that because of the vast social inequalities that existed within Cuba by this time, rather than the War of Independence being just about achieving independence from

Spain, they saw “the war as a method of redemption and a means of social revolution” and as such “the separatist enterprise was conceived as both a rebellion against

Spanish political structures and a revolution against the Cuban social system.”51

Essentially, then, not only were there desires for to throw off the political control abroad, but even more strongly, according to Pérez, there were motivations to overturn the

49 Ibid. 50 Echevarria, “José Marti: An Introduction,” xiv. 51 Louis A Pérez, Jr., Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 120-121.

social order on the island.52 In many ways then, this latest movement, with its concerns for social equality, no doubt inspired by Martí’s calls for social and political justice, in many ways marks the beginning concerted efforts at positive rights in Cuba. With these fundamental differences, the fight for independence that began in 1895 was considerably different from, and having considerably different outcomes than, the previous movements and fights for Cuban independence. Indeed, independence was within the sights of the fighters by 1898, but before it was acquired, Martí’s worse fears of US involvement in the struggle for Cuban independence were realized.

Throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, evidence of increased US involvement in Cuba mounted and provided justification for Martí’s weariness of US involvement in Cuba. As the US’s interest in protecting its economic interests grew, so did its involvement in the Cuban’s War of Independence from Spain. In 1895 Grover

Cleveland declared neutrality, siding neither with the Cubans nor the Spanish in the

War. By 1897, however, the US began expressing a vested opinion on the conflict, when President McKinley, under pressure from both public opinion in that was aware of the cruelty inflicted by General Valeriano Weyler against the Cubans as well as US corporations who were concerned about their economic investments in Cuba, announced that the US would become involved if Spain did not clean up its act.53 It is at this point that the US’s interest in Cuba became exceedingly evident and later magnified in 1898 when the Battleship Maine exploded. Despite mixed reports on the incident, some citing it as an accidental explosion on the US’ part rather than a malicious attack by the Spanish, the US alleged it was the Spanish who sunk it, and used this event as a

52 Ibid., 120. 53 Staten, The History of Cuba, 38.

pretense and justification for war. April 25, 1898, the US thus declared war on Spain and became directly involved in the Cuban War for Independence while waging battle under the title of the Spanish American War, which in addition to Cuba, included a fight over the political control of Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippine Islands.

Before the US joined the war, Cuba was succeeding in defeating the Spaniards, and the US knew and was troubled by it. Pérez explains,

in January 1898…The collapse was all but complete. “The enemy is crashed, Gómez reported with some surprise from central Cuba, “and is in complete retreat from here, and the time which favored their operations passes without they are doing anything.” Spain's failure to mount a new winter offensive confirms the Cuban belief that the enemy was exhausted and lacked the resources and resolve to continue the war…Never before had Cubans been as certain of victory as they were in the early 1898.54

According to Pérez, the US decision to join the war was not because they thought the

Cubans were incapable of winning it, but rather because it seemed all but certain that they would. In fact, this was a concern that US officials and been nursing and seeking to address for some time. Pérez details this concern held by the US writing,

the success of Cuban arms threatened more than the propriety of colonial rule or traditional property relations in the colonial regime. It challenged, too, pretensions of colonial replacement. For the better part of the 19th century the United States had pursued the acquisition of Cuban with resolve, if without results. The United States had early pronounced its claim to imperial succession in the Caribbean, but this proclamation had failed to deliver the coveted island into the North American union. In attempting to end Spanish sovereignty, Cubans also endangered the U.S. aspirations to sovereignty. Acquisition of Cuba was envisioned by North Americans as an act of colonial continuity, formally transferred and legitimately ceded by Spain to the United States—a legal assumption of sovereignty over a territorial possession presumed incapable of a separate nationhood. The Cuban rebellion changed all this. Cuba was lost to Spain, and if Washington did not act, it would also be lost to the United States. By early 1898, U.S. officials were acknowledging what was already evident in Cuba: the days of Spanish rule were numbered. “Spain

54 Pérez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, 135.

herself has demonstrated she is powerless either to conciliate Cuba or conquer it,” former U.S. minister to Spain HannisTaylor concluded in late 1897; “her sovereignty over (Cuba] is... now extinct.” “To-day the strength of the Cubans [is] nearly double…,” Assistant Secretary of State William R. Day wrote in a confidential memorandum in 1898, “and [they] occupy and control virtually all the territory outside the heavily garrisoned coast cities and a few interior towns. There are no active operations by the Spaniards… The eastern provinces are admittedly ‘Free Cuba.’ In view of the statements alone, it is now evident that Spain's struggle in Cuba has become absolutely hopeless.”55

Rather than join the war out of concern that Cuba would not acquire its sovereignty, the

US joined it to guarantee that it would not. Pérez continues,

so it was in April 1898, Pres. William McKinley requested of Congress authority to intervene militarily in Cuba. War ostensibly against Spain, but in fact against Cubans—war, in any case, as an alternative medium of political exchange, just as Clausewitz posited. The president’s war message provided the purpose of policy: no mention of Cuban independence, not a hint of sympathy with Cuba Libre, nowhere even an allusion to the renunciation of territorial aggrandizement—only a request for congressional authorization “to take measures to secure a full and final termination of hostilities between the Government of Spain and the people of Cuba, and to secure in the island the establishment of a stable government, capable of maintaining order and observing its international obligations.” The U.S. presence in Cuba, McKinley explained, consisted of a “forcible intervention… as a neutral to stop the war.” “Neutral intervention” offered a means through which to establish, by virtue of arms, U.S. claims to sovereignty over Cuba. “The forcible intervention of the United States…” McKinley announced to Congress on April 11, “involves… hostile constraint upon both the parties to the contest.” This meant war directed against both Spaniards and Cuban, the means to establish grounds upon which to neutralize the two competing claims of sovereignty and establish by superior force of arms a third.56

When the US joined in the fight then, “a Cuban war of liberation was transformed into a

U.S. war of conquest.”57

55 Ibid., 135-136. 56 Ibid., 136 57 Ibid., 137.

The war ended within the year the US joined the fight, and, as Roberto González

Echevarría writes, “Spain's defeat by the United States in 1898 deprived the Cuban insurgents of a hard-fought victory that was within their grasp, and installed yet a new colonial power in Havana.”58 The toll the Cubans had paid in their decades of fighting against the Spanish was overshadowed and left unrewarded by the US who seized the control of the island under the pretext of helping them break free from Spain. By

December, Spain had conceded control of Cuba and the other islands, and a peace treaty was signed with the United States. Pérez argues that there was an intentional strategy and purpose behind excluding Cubans from the peace process: namely the US wanted to ensure and justify its political rule of Cuba. It did this by spinning a narrative that the war was between Spain and the US, and that the US alone had pushed the

Spanish out of Cuba. This was “the basis upon which the United States would precede to establish its claim of sovereignty over Cuba.”59 Pérez details the crafting and strategy of this narrative writing,

the Cubans seem to have achieved little in their own behalf, the North Americans concluded. The lack of decisive battles in the war and the apparent absence of noteworthy insurgent military achievements were attributed immediately to the deficiency of Cuban operations, if not to Cuban character. These impressions served to encourage the belief that Cubans had accomplished nothing in more than three years of war and that North American arms alone determined the outcome of the war…North Americans wanted more than credit…In appropriating credit for the military triumph over Spain, the United States established claim to negotiate unilaterally peace terms with Spain; in appropriating responsibility for ending the Spanish colonial government, the United States claimed the right to supervise Cuban national government. So it was that the Cuban war for national liberation was transfigured into the “Spanish-American war,” nomenclature that denied Cuban participation and presaged the next series of developments. This construct served to

58 Echevarría, José Marti: An Introduction, xvi. 59 Pérez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, 137.

legitimize the U.S. claim over Cuba as a spoil of victory…The denial of the Cuban success over Spain denied them more than laurels of victory—it deprived them of their claim to sovereignty.60

Despite the reality that the US officials previously owned for getting involved in the war

(namely that Cubans were about to gain their sovereignty), the US thus changed the official discourse in an effort to validate its usurpation of Cuban independence and sovereignty.

So while Cuba gained independence from Spain, as Martí had feared, the control over the state merely transferred into the hands of the United States’ government and businesses. Even in the independence victory itself, Cubans’ participation was restricted as black Cubans were forbade the opportunity to take place in the official surrender.61 In similar suit, at the treaty signing, no Cuban leaders were participants and in the final celebrations, no Cubans included.62 The terms of the original agreement and the stipulations added with the later drafted Platte Amendment passed by the US

Congress and signed President Theodore Roosevelt in March 1901 with more terms of a “government handover” to the Cubans, constituted US occupation formally until 1902, though a US military base in Guantanamo along with continued government interferences lasted long after that given the provisions and powers given to the United

States in the Platte Amendment. The Platte Amendment, while drafted under the guise of helping Cuba to maintain its independence through a guided transition allowing it to institutionalize as strong government, was largely about protecting US interests in the state it had just fought for against the Spanish. While each of the articles within the

60 Ibid., 137-138. 61 Staten, The History of Cuba, 39. 62 Ibid., 39-40.

Amendment expresses a limitation of power for Cuba and/or expansions of power for the US the first, third, and seventh make abundantly clear that sovereignty is not, and will not, be in the hands of the Cuban government. These Amendments are as follows:

I. That the government of Cuba shall never enter into any treaty or other compact with any foreign power or powers which will impair or tend to impair the independence of Cuba, or in any manner authorize or permit any foreign power or powers to obtain by colonization or, for military or naval purposes or otherwise, lodgment in or control over any portion of said island. III. That the government of Cuba contends that the United States may exercise the right to intervene for the preservation of Cuban independence, the maintenance of a government adequate protection of life, property, and individual liberty, and for discharging obligations with respect to Cuba imposed by the Treaty of Paris on the United States, not to be assumed and undertaken by the government of Cuba. VII. That is to enable the United States to maintain the independence of Cuba and to protect the people thereof, as well as for its own defense, the government of Cuba will sell or lease to the United States lands necessary for calling naval stations at certain specified points, to be agreed upon with the president of the United States.63

The mere fact that the Amendment gives the US power “to maintain the independence of Cuba to protect the people thereof, as well as for its own defense” and to “exercise the right to intervene for the preservation of Cuban independence, the maintenance of a government adequate protection of life, property, and individual liberty” is telling of just how very little sovereignty Cuba had and how little sovereignty the US intended it to have once the Spanish were pushed out of the island. The line shared from the third article is also telling of one of the primary motivations for limiting the sovereignty of

Cuba: US economic interests. This concern is made more explicit in the fifth article in the amendment which states:

63 President Theodore Roosevelt, “The Platte Amendment,” in The Cuba Reader: History, Culture, Politics, ed. Aviva Chomsky, Barry Carr, and Pamela Maria Smorkaloff (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2003), 147-149.

V. That the government of Cuba will execute and as far as necessary expand, plans already devised or other plants be mutually agreed upon, for the sanitation of the city of the island, to the end that a recurrence of epidemic and infectious diseases may be prevented, thereby ensuring protection to the people and commerce in Cuba, as well as the commerce of the southern ports of the United States and of the people residing therein.64

The US was chiefly concerned here about how disease might impact not only the people, but also the commerce of Cuba and United States, and as such, was stipulating appropriate measures to protect those interests within the Platte Amendment.

While, as indicated above, protecting US economic interests was one of the main reasons for US involvement in post-Independence Cuba, other justifications, such as those based on understandings of racial inequalities, were given to drum support for limiting Cuban sovereignty. One of many justifications for empire, particularly present in

Scottish Enlightenment works, was based on a stage understanding of civilizations, in which societies were normatively ranked for their level of development—both in terms of their formal and informal institutions. Those societies that were argued as being in earlier stages of development were often compared to being children in need of being raised and cared for by a benevolent parent. Such was the case for those societies gained through the Spanish American War, who, according to the United States, could benefit from its guidance. An examination of political cartoons created and distributed at the time illustrates this racism, as the cartoons depict the United States as an altruistic imperial power charged with the responsibility of caring for its acquired states and their inferior people.

64 Ibid., 148

Many political cartoons of the time evidence that the US did not view the Cuban people as equals nor the state of Cuba as independent.65 The Cubans are instead depicted as being inferior, less-developed people incapable of governing themselves.

The Cubans being portrayed as being unruly, undisciplined and childlike, permitted the

US to justify its continued political control and presence within Cuba. Of course, given the true economic rather than altruistic motivations of the US involvement in Cuba, which mirror the intent of all empires, the US was hardly a benevolent parent looking out for the good of the Cuban people. Rather, given that its biggest concern for creating stability in Cuba was to make sure that its economic interests were secured in the island, the US acted purely in its own self-interest with no intensions of fostering the development of a self-determined Cuban state that would rule in its own best interest.

Another ugly indicator of the US’s reliance on imperial justifications for its actions in Cuba that is present in these cartoons is the racist depictions of the Cuban people.

Despite the fact that the US had already gone through the Civil War and Abolition instated, racism, as Martí observed in his Letters from New York, was still a huge problem in the state.66 This racism clearly came out even in the midst of the Spanish-

American War and the peace settlements that followed it. As Staten details the interactions between US and Cuban troops near the end of the war,

the Cuban forces under Garcia were almost entirely African and Mulatto while the American troops were almost all white. The Americans treated the Cubans with paternalistic contempt and, according to Hugh Thomas, in many ways preferred the company of the defeated Spanish to the black, “inferior and uncivilized” Cubans. US General Rufus Shafter even

65 John J. Johnson, “U.S. Cartoonists Portray Cuba,” in The Cuba Reader: History, Culture, Politics, ed. Aviva Chomsky, Barry Carr, and Pamela Maria Smorkaloff (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2003), 135-138. 66 José Martí, José Marti: Selected Writings.

suggested that they should serve as laborers rather than as soldiers in battle… The United States did not allow the black Cuban troops, who fought the Spanish for three years, into the city to participate in the surrender ceremony.67

Racism, as is evidenced in the example above, was thus one of the justifications utilized by the US for its treatment of Cubans and its policies towards Cuba. Staten reiterates this point explaining that the reason for the US limiting Cuban participation in the ceremonies celebrating the Spanish exit had less to do with concerns for state security and more to do with “the U.S. belief in its mission of bringing civilization to the “inferior” people of Latin America…The policies…reflected arrogance, paternalism, and racism.”68

And just as degrees of development were used as justification for empire, so too, was race—which just like the theories concerning the stages of development—normatively ranked how “developed” races were. Those who were lower on the development scale could justifiably be overtaken by those races who were more developed, moral, and fit to rule. The decision thus, to depict Cubans as all being black, which is far from the demographic racial make-up of the island, is far less likely an act of ignorance, and one chosen to further build support for US imperial behavior. In other cartoons, Cubans were similarly depicted as being black—though instead of as misbehaving children, they were shown as being fat, lazy men. As such, imperial theories based on racism fueled

US justification for involving itself in the political affairs of Cuba and preventing the

Cuban people from gaining true independence and sovereignty after Spanish rule was expelled.

67 Staten, The History of Cuba, 39. 68 Ibid., 40.

Louis Pérez, Jr. evidences, at length, examples of US officials’ attempts to portray Cubans, based on their race, as unfit for rule self-rule. He writes,

this was a proposition from which North Americans drew a number of inferences: first, Cubans were not prepared for self-government. Again and again the same theme came up. The ideological imperative of empire took called early, and deeply. The consensus was striking. Admiral William T. Sampson, a member of the U.S. evacuation commission, insisted that Cubans had no idea of self-government – and “it will take a long time to teach them.” Some U.S. officials believed Cubans incapable of self-government at any time. “Self-government!” Gen. William R. Shafter protested. “Why those people are no more fit for self-government than gunpowder is for hell.” Gen. Samuel B. M. Young concluded after the war that the “insurgents are a lot of degenerate, absolutely devoid of honor or gratitude. They are no more capable of self-government than the savages of Africa.” For Major Alexander Brodie the necessity for a protectorate, or outright annexation, is as self-evident as it was self- explanatory. “The Cubans are utterly irresponsible,” Brody insisted, “partly savage, and have no idea of what good government means.” A similar note was struck by Major George M. Barbour, the U.S. sanitary commissioner in Santiago de Cuba. The Cubans, he insisted, “are stupid, given to lying and doing all things in the wrong way…under our supervision, and with firm and honest care for the future, the people of Cuba may become a useful race and a credit to the world; but to attempt to send them afloat as a nation, during this generation, would be a great mistake.” Govenor General Leonard Wood agreed: “we are going ahead as fast as we can, but we are dealing with a race that has steadily been going down for a hundred years and into which we have to infuse new life, new principles and new methods of doing things.”69

According to Pérez, the reason for depicting the Cubans this way was to justify the need for US political leadership in Cuba. Indeed, such justifications helped to guarantee US presence in Cuba in the years immediately following Cuban Independence.

Immediately after independence, Cuba fell under US military occupation, being led by

General Brooke and later General Wood up until 1902.70 While US involvement in

Cuban politics was expected and planned from 1898-1902, it extended well beyond its

69 Pérez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, 138-139. 70 Staten, The History of Cuba, 40.

scheduled occupation. In fact, for the first half of the 20th century, up to the Cuban

Revolution, the US remained integrally involved in both Cuba’s political and economic affairs despite officially handing over political rule to the Cubans. The first Cuban to assume the presidency post-Independence was Tomás Estrada Palma. Hardly the emblem of democratic politics, “corruption, intimidation, fraud and graft became a staple of his administration” which was supported by the US.71

Suchlicki argues that such US involvement early on in Cuba’s independence led to the Cubans’ failure to develop the democratic attitudes and behavior necessary for self-democratic rule. So despite the desires of the US, who, while still had interests it wished to protect in Cuba, sought to be less directly involved in the political affairs of the

Cuban government, the US government continued to be pulled into Cuban politics— often times at the behest of the Cuban governments themselves who sought support.

Without the democratic staples, corruption became rampant in Cuban politics, making it so a true democratic system failed to develop. The Cubans essentially, were not socialized in a compatible way with democracy early on, and this made them unfit to rule democratically on their own—necessitating continued US involvement.

Louis Pérez, Jr., however, paints another picture of the situation. Rather than the masses being untrained or uninterested in self-rule, Pérez contends they were greatly interested in taking the reins of government so long denied them. It was the US and

Cuban land-owning elites who preferred the masses remain out of politics—not to create a democratic system, but to protect their own interests. He explains,

if the United States found no support in the antiannexation majority, it derived some consolation in the quality of the proannexation minority. The

71 Ibid., 47.

“better classes,” the propertied, the educated, the white—those sectors, in short, most deserving of North Americans solicitude—wanted close and permanent ties with the United States. This offered North Americans some hope, for the purpose of the intervention was to foreclose more than the rise of a new political force; it was also to forestall the fall of an old political system. Propertied elites greeted the U.S. intervention as nothing less than the providential deliverance from expropriation and extinction. It was to this group that the United States looked for political leaders and local allies. North Americans early detected in the shattered ranks of Creole property owners natural allies in its pursuit of control over Cuba. Both opposed Cuban independence. Both opposed Cuban government. Policymakers needed supporters, property owners needed security. The United States searched for a substitute for independence; peninsular and Creole elites sought a substitute for colonialism…U.S. efforts during the occupation centered on enrolling the services of the propertied elites as political surrogates in opposition to the independentista polity. The ascendancy of a political coalition organized around colonial elites promised not only to obstruct the rise of independentismo but also to institutionalize U.S. influence at the point of maximum effectiveness—from within. It would matter slightly less, then, if Cuba were to become independent, if that independence were under the auspices of a client political elite whose own social salvation was a function of U.S. control.72

The masses then, were incredibly interested in making Cubans governing Cuba a reality. It was the elites and the US who wanted to maintain the political and economic system that benefited them that sought to prevent the masses from participating and changing the system. Rather than Cuban masses not being ready to rule themselves, the Cuban elites and US government were not ready for their self-rule which would leave them out of it.

Pérez goes on to explain that the US, trying to ensure its political influence on the island, sought “to deny the independentista leaders the opportunity to mobilize the vast political forces Cuban nationalism.”73 The US did so by trying to make sure that those who were voting, were voting in favor of US and elite interests. This could best be

72 Pérez, Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution, 139-140. 73 Ibid., 140.

achieved by having limited suffrage in Cuban electoral competitions. Pérez details the content of this limited suffrage writing,

Secretary of War Elihu Root proposed limited suffrage, one that would exclude the “massive ignorant and incompetent,” and “avoid the kind of control over which leads to perpetual revolutions of Central America and other West India islands.” All voters are required to be Cuban males over the age of twenty and in possession of one of the following: real or personal property worth $250, or the ability to read and write, or honorable service in the Liberation Army. All Cuban women and two thirds of all adult Cuban men were excluded from the franchise. Suffrage restrictions reduced the Cuban electorate to 105,000 males, approximately 5 percent of the total population.74

Despite the US’s best efforts to ensure that the elite would comprise the Cuban government, the Cubans voted in many of those who supported the independista’s platform. It was the results of the early 1900s elections that spurred the fear of the US to draft the Platt Amendment to ensure that the US would have the ability and right to intervene in Cuban politics (both domestic and foreign).75 This way, regardless of whatever electoral and political choices the Cubans made, the US could involve itself whenever it deemed it necessary for the sake of its interests. Given that in the years immediately followed the war, US economic elites moved to take advantage of the opportunity to dominate the system, there were plenty of interests the US saw as its advantage to protect.76 Rather than being uninterested in the political system, the

Cuban masses were largely marginalized from institutionalized channels to participate and represent their interests.

74 Ibid. 75 Ibid., 141-143. 76 Ibid., 142-144, 147-153.

Foreign involvement and interests continued to dominate political, economic, and social structures within Cuba in the first half of the 20th century.77 By the time Batista was in power, what Cuba was left with as a result of this lack of sovereignty was an economy dictated by the interests of foreign states and corporations, a highly nondemocratic regime, and a system which severely disadvantaged the majority of

Cubans. These realities exasperated the Cuban people and the political system, paving the way for the Revolution. The mass support for a Revolution, while generated by a host of non-democratic variables that were in part due to the absence of Cuban sovereignty, can be largely attributed to problems found within both the economic and political structures that were present in Cuba in the first half of the 20th century. To begin with, the pre-revolution economic structure prevented Cuban democracy and incited discontent. The main structural problems with the economy were 1) that it was foreign dominated, 2) that the agricultural structure was a one-crop-economy, 3) the employment levels were low throughout the state, and 4) there was socioeconomic disparity that existed in the highly stratified population.78 As discussed earlier, it was largely foreign states’ and their corporations that were most influencing and profiting from the Cuban economy.79 As such, their interest in the state was not for its long-term sustainability, but much like the Spaniards who had dominated the Cuban economy prior to US companies, but was instead the profit they were able to generate for

77 Ibid. 78 Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 119. 79 Staten, The History of Cuba, 84.

themselves. Further, Cuba remained highly dependent on the US for trade and investment.80

This led into the second problem, the one-crop economy structure. Once again following in the paths of their Spanish predecessors, foreign companies were focused on the production of primarily sugar—though tobacco was a second crop that did have some prominence within the Cuban agriculture scene. The reliance on these crops— especially the sugar, which as had been previously demonstrated by the economic disasters earlier when the global sugar market left Cuba with little profit, left the Cuban economy once again at the mercy of the market on this single crop.81 The third main economic problem, this one also related to agriculture, for many Cubans was the high level of unemployment and the fact that many positions—especially agricultural—were only sources of seasonal, not permanent, employment.82 As such, many Cubans were without access to consistent work and the ability to sustain themselves.

The final main problem of the economic structure in Cuba was that it was based on huge socioeconomic divisions and disparities in the population. Top positions with businesses were reserved for Americans.83 Cubans were viewed and treated, by and large, as second class citizens and were limited in their employment mobility.84 Those

Cubans who were wealthy enough to own their own land, also acted as a class superior to the majority of Cubans. The economic disparity between this upper class and the masses was represented in a social and spatial division in that while rural agricultural

80 Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 119. 81 Ibid. 82 Ibid. 83 Staten, The History of Cuba, 54-55. 84 Ibid.

workers live in the country, wealthy land owners often spends the majority of their time in Havana. The spatial division had huge economic and social consequences. In urban

Havana, residents had access to better healthcare, electricity, and education. In the case of those living in rural areas, many of these resources were severely limited and in some cases nonexistent. Education levels, which during Batista’s reign were lower than those that existed during decades prior to his role, were extremely low and high levels of illiteracy plagued the island—particularly in rural areas.85 This low level of education in rural areas once again disadvantaged (economically, socially, and politically) this section of the population. Within Havana, of course, there was also social and economic disparity manifested in spatial division. Opulent tourist sectors were contrasted with the poor shantytowns of Havana. Yet again, foreigners had more access to the best services in Cuba than Cubans.

In addition to the problems within the economic structure in Cuba, political structures and behaviors were also wrought with non-democratic features and highlighted the lack of autonomy Cubans were able to achieve within their still largely, non-sovereign state. First and foremost, the system was plagued by corruption. Even the most promising of leaders often times because perpetrators of corrupt, non- democratic actions. Another structural problem with the Cuban government was its highly politicized military. As was the case in many other Latin American states, the

Cuban military was utilized to take and maintain power within domestic politics. Every time a new leader came into power, that individual purged the military of those individuals who were not politically or personally loyal to them or their party in the past.

85 Suchlicki, Cuba: from Columbus to Castro and Beyond, 119.

This of course was likely to lead to the creation of hostilities (particularly among those weeded out of their military positions), and served as a basis for the opposition to begin attempts to overthrow the new government. Those who managed to survive the purge, quickly became of interest to those opposing the new government, and were sought out as allies to help maintain the new government.

Additionally troubling was the political structure’s failure to facilitate discontent and maintain order through peaceful institutional constructs. Mass levels of violence and gangstarism overwhelmed Cuban society, evidencing the government’s lack of legitimacy and capacity.86 Violence was both committed by “terrorists,” (those looking to over-throw leaders and governments) and by the government. With little recourse within a legitimate system, the terrorist violence was one of the only means available to individuals looking to change the nature of their corrupt, non-democratic “democracy.”

With each attack against the government, state-sponsored violence increased—leading to huge amounts of violence in, and dead bodies strewn about, the streets of Havana.

The violence was particularly high during the rule of Machado who, after losing power, escaped and went into exile in the United States—where he never stood trial or was held accountable for his violence against the Cuban population.87 This evidences yet another time where, because of US interests and involvement, the Cuban people were unable to exercise and political self-determinism and hold their leaders accountable for the actions in office. Batista also used state violence to suppress the action-realized discontent amongst the Cuban population.88

86 Staten, The History of Cuba, 68. 87 Ibid., 58. 88 Ibid., 76.

The strong degree of factionalization amongst all sectors of population coupled with violence and instability made it difficult to advance interests through formal institutions and establish a stable government. Instability and corruption essentially fostered more instability and corruption as contending groups vied to influence Cuba’s political reality. Even within sets of interest groups there was disagreement. The existence of multiple labor and student groups without uniform agendas, flooded the already ill-functioning system. With so many competing interests to try to represent, it was difficult for any leader to gain popular and lasting support. Discontent seemed to be the only stably institutionalized feature present in Cuban politics.

The Revolution and Its Struggle to Create and Protect Sovereignty

Such were the economic, social, and political circumstances confronting the

Cuban people prior to the Revolution. While I will not go into specific detail here on how the Revolution occurred, the above context should help to provide a basic explanation for why it happened. As can be seen from the details listed, the Cuban people had very little ability to effectively influence their government through formal institutional channels. Further, although at times, even by leaders such as Machado and Batista, some policies were introduced that sought to improve the conditions of the Cuban masses, by and large, the system disadvantaged them greatly and left them without full rights and full citizenship within their state. This non-democratic reality, filled with economic, political, and social inequality, was further magnified by a series of important national independence anniversaries that were being celebrated during the years leading to the Revolution. The anniversary of Martí’s birth and of the Independence fight, reminded Cubans of the heroic efforts of the past to achieve independence, and how they were currently living without it. As such, feelings of guilt and discontent with

their lack of a free and democratic government began fueling the Cuban peoples’ desires and actions for revolution against their military-based, foreign-backed government. The desire for sovereignty and the ability to self-rule propelled the nation into and through a successful Revolution. The success of the Revolution on the first of

January, 1959 would mark the first time in Cuba’s history that it had a true ability to self- govern free of foreign interests.

Despite the great advances Cuba made in gaining its sovereignty with the success of the Revolution, this sovereignty continued to be challenged and threatened even after the new regime came to power. The United States, feeling the sting of its economic interests being thwarted, was more motivate than ever to become involved in the political affairs of Cuba. As US corporations in Cuba lost their land, capital, and ability to operate and profit because of the new Revolutionary government’s policies, the

US interest in involving itself in the politics of the island increased. Accompanying the threats to US businesses that came with the Revolutionary government’s designs, was the fear of the spread of communism that now framed US foreign policy in the context of the Cold War. With the advent of the Cold War, US economic and political interests within Cuba only heightened as the US looked to stop the spread of its competing ideology—especially when that ideology was spreading so close to home. Concerns for democracy within Cuba were, as historically had been the fate of Cuba and many other

Latin American states, trumped by economic interests. The United States, similar to its treatment of other Latin American States throughout the 20th century, was more concerned with preventing the spread of communism than actually fostering democratic regimes that respected human rights (be they positive or negative rights).

Motivated chiefly by this Cold War mentality, the US focused on ousting Fidel

Castro from power in Cuba. Efforts to do so were varied in their methods. While arguably the most notorious attempt was the Bay of Pigs Invasion which looked to help

Cuban exiles to incite rebellion and overthrow Castro, the US also sponsored direct assassination attempts that, like their Bay of Pigs efforts, ultimately failed. The Cold

War structure also brought about Cuba’s allied relationship with the Soviet Union that, while it limited its independence to a degree, was a chosen relationship in which Cuba still maintained relatively much of its political sovereignty. The Soviet’s respect for

Cuban sovereignty was challenged when, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Soviets decided to remove the missiles from Cuban territory in their negotiations with the US— leaving Cuba out of the decision making process. Despite that move by the Soviet

Union, the infringement on Cuban sovereignty largely came from the US.

Even after the Cold War ended, US respect for Cuban sovereignty managed to further deteriorate. In fact, between 1996 and 2014, the US spent 264 million dollars

“trying to instigate democratic reforms on the island.”89 Many of these renewed and more draconian measures to change the government in Cuba came in 1996 when the

Helms-Burton legislation was passed through by Congress without restriction from

President Bill Clinton. In their piece, “The Real Reason It’s Nearly Impossible to End the Cuba Embargo,” Peter Kornbluh and William Leogrande discuss the origins of the

Helms-Burton legislation and the implications of its inception. As they explain, the aim of the legislation, co-sponsored by Senator Jesse Helms and Representative Dan

Burton, was to prohibit “U.S. assistance to Cuba until the advent of democracy and

89 The Editorial Board, “In Cuba, Misadventures in Regime Change,” The New York Times, Nov. 9, 2014.

imposed sanctions against foreign countries and corporations that did business on the island.”90 The legislation’s very purpose was thus to change the nature of the political system in Cuba. The legislation was making its way through Congress at the same time that President Clinton was looking to improve relations with Cuba as he argued that

“’Anybody with half a brain could see that the embargo was counterproductive’” and that the policies towards Cuba “’defied wiser policies of engagement that we had pursued with some Communist counties even at the height of the Cold War.’”91 President

Clinton, motivated to turn away from such strategies, thus initially opposed the Helms-

Burton legislation.

Kornbluh and Leogrande go in on their article to explain how it was that the legislation came to be passed with Clinton’s blessing, despite his early opposition to it.

Because Clinton’s change in behavior comes about because of direct violation of Cuban sovereignty, a brief examination of what altered his attitude is relevant to our discussion now. The source of Clinton’s change, Kombluh and Leogrande contend, was a chain of events brought about because of the actions of the group, Brothers to the Rescue

(BTTR). BTTR was an organization of Cuban-American pilots founded and led by José

Baulto who had, on multiple occasions in his past, sought to use violence to overthrow

Fidel Castro. He claimed his efforts within BTTR, however, were humanitarian in nature and focused on using peaceful means to change the political reality in Cuba. While starting in “1991, the Brothers had been flying search missions for distressed Cuban rafters who had begun to flee Cuba for the U.S.” because “secret back-channel

90 Peter Kornbluh and William Leogrande, “The Real Reason It’s Nearly Impossible to End the Cuba Embargo,” The Atlantic, Oct. 5, 2014. 91 Ibid.

diplomacy ended the rafters crisis in the fall of 1994, Basulto shifted BTTR’s mission from rescue to provocation.”92 No longer were rescue missions the goal of the pilots, rather efforts to directly challenge the authority of the Cuban government became the intent of the BTTR.

Kombluh and Leogrande describe some of the BTTR’s early assaults on Cuban sovereignty writing,

on November 10, Basulto dropped Brothers to the rescue bumper stickers over the Cuban countryside. Repeatedly over the next eight months, BTTR planes violated Cuban airspace. Their most provocative act in 1995 came on July 13, when Basulto’s Cessna Skymaster buzzed Havana, raining down thousands of religious medallions and leaflets reading “Brothers, Not Comrades” along the Malecon, Havana’s broad seaside avenue. “We are proud of what we did,” Basulto exalted on local TV after landing back in Miami. “We want confrontation,” Basulto declared, boasting that his bold incursion served “as a message to the Cuban people…the regime is not invulnerable.”93

As Kombluh and Leogrande aptly assessed, “the overflights constituted a direct challenge to Cuba's national security and a flagrant affront to its sovereignty.”94 Several different parties pleaded for a stop to the BTTR’s actions. The Cuban government, frustrated by the lack of respect for its airspace, “filed one diplomatic protest after another” and “in Miami, US Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) officials met face to face with Basulto to warn him to stay away from Cuba.”95 Yet despite these pleas, the

BTTR continued, unabated in their efforts to undermine the Cuban government. Such efforts further culminated when,

92 Ibid. 93 Ibid. 94 Ibid. 95 Ibid.

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on January 13, 1996, Basulto again flew his planes over Havana, this time dropping a half 1 million leaflets exhorting the Cuban people to “Change Things Now.” His ability to penetrate Cuban airspace, Basulto bragged on the radio back in Miami, demonstrated that “Castro isn't impenetrable, that many things are within our reach to be done.”96

Basulto’s words demonstrated a true intent to undermine the Cuban government and offered a vague indication of the means by which such change was intended to come about by the BTTR. Such intent and such vagueness in the description of how this intent was to be realized posed a legitimate threat to the Cuban government.

Multiple efforts were made by the Cuban government, to thus urge the US government to prevent the BTTR from making these flights into Cuban airspace. Such pleas, however, were largely met with silence. The most drastic efforts at getting the

US government to reign in the BTTR came when, in January of 1996, Fidel Castro sought to negotiate with Congressman Bill Richardson, who had “close ties to President

Clinton.”97 Within the negotiations, Castro “told Richardson he would release some political prisoners if the congressman could secure Clinton’s assurance that he Brothers to the Rescue flights would be stopped.”98 Despite apparently agreeing to the deal, the

US failed to respect the terms of the negotiation even after Castro released three prisoners, and shortly after, BTTR was once again flying into Cuban airspace. By this point, the Cuban government had lost patience with the flagrant attacks on its sovereignty. When another set of BTTR flights came on February 25, 1996, and the pilots did not heed the warning of the Cuban controllers to leave the Cuban airspace,

96 Ibid. 97 Ibid. 98 Ibid.

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the Cuban air force shot two of the planes down (Basulto escaped in a third plane), killing 4 members of the BTTR.

It was in the wake of this event that Clinton, under pressure to respond to the

Cuban attack on American citizens, ended up permitting the Helms-Burton legislation to pass. Because of the anger fueled by the attack, “anti-Castro forces in the Congress added a dramatic new clause to the bill—codification of the embargo into law,” thus making it even more drastic than the original legislation posited.99 So it was that despite

Clinton originally intending and working to alter the policies towards Cuba, he ended up permitting those within the status quo to become even more fortified. After Clinton, “in the early years of the Bush administration, spending on initiatives to oust the government surged from a few million a year to more than $20 million in 2004.”100 Both

Clinton and Bush evidence post-Cold War presidencies which thus continued to support policies which looked to limit Cuban sovereignty by seeking to challenge and change the Cuban political system.

With the recently proposed changes made by President Obama in December

2014, efforts have started to be made on the side of the US to improve US-Cuban relations. With both sides making concessions to the other, it marks a historical change in the US recognizing, to a degree, the sovereignty and will of Cuba. Yet, while the restoration of more normal relations brings about some recognition by the US of Cuba’s state sovereignty and government legitimacy, the intent to respect Cuban self- determination is not at the heart of the policy and relations changes. Rather than being an indication of accepting the Cuban revolutionary government and a true change in

99 Ibid. 100 The Editorial Board, “In Cuba, Misadventure in Regime Change.”

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intent, US foreign policy is simply shifting its approach. Just as before, the goal remains to increase negative rights, foster a market economy, and create a democratic structure that more closely resembles the US’s within Cuba. The method of bringing about these changes is the only thing that has changed. After decades of heavy handed policies, the US is now trying to work with Cuba to bring about these desired changes. The discourse motivating policies continues to consist of concern for changing Cuba, not learning to respect the direction its people choose to take it. As such, these latest policies largely operate with the same purpose as their predecessors and similarly serve to undermine and limit the sovereignty of Cuba.

Conclusion: Sovereignty’s Role in a Democratic Cuba

Cuba's struggle to gain and then maintain sovereignty illustrates the important role sovereignty plays not only in Cuban democracy, but all states looking to become and remain democratic. For academics looking to study democracy and democratizing states, the issue of sovereignty, particularly in this age of globalization, is one that warrants more consideration. While remaining completely sovereign is unlikely in an economically, socially, and politically connected global system, there are degrees of sovereignty—in which some states have the ability to make more decisions in their own interest and the interest of their citizens. From a realist or dependency theorist perspective, this idea is not novel, but rather the expected result of the global structure in which power is unequally distributed and utilized between states. Those with more power, which are usually those with more economic resources and economically developed societies, are better equipped to use that power to meet the needs and desires of their own state, corporations, and citizens—often at the expense of other states and their citizens. This is the point that is of primary concern to dependency

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theorists, and should be of concern to democratic scholars. For if we accept this description of the global political system as being accurate, we must also recognize the consequences that reality brings—which, in this case, include the disadvantage of citizens in the weaker states (not necessarily in their political development—though this could certainly play a role—but in their position of power relative to other states in the international system) and subsequent reality that some states will be more democratic than others, not necessarily because of a difference in domestic political institutions, but rather because of the amount of power and influence they are able to exert on an international stage.

As such, when we look at citizens and their ability to articulate their interests within their democratic state, we should not only be focusing on whether or not their regime's institutions are designed to facilitate and respond to those interests. Instead, we should also be looking externally from the domestic political institutions to see what other factors and what other actors are influencing the economic, political, and social decisions and realities within the state. Low citizen efficacy may, in some cases, be the result not of a non-democratic regime or government, but instead a state with little international power. The discussion of sovereignty and its relation to democracy should motivate scholars to start asking the question of how much sovereignty is necessary to have a democratic state and if protecting state sovereignty is necessary and more important to achieving a democratic state, than necessarily providing all democratic rights—particularly negative rights.

Cuba since the Revolution has consistently, through its actions, chosen to protect its sovereignty, and at times at the expense of its citizens’ negative rights. Whether or

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not this is justified (prioritizing sovereignty) or even necessary for creating and maintaining a democracy is something we must consider seriously, instead of just dismiss this action as being one of an authoritarian regime looking to maintain its power and limit the rights of its citizens to prevent a true democracy from forming.

Sovereignty, as demonstrated here, has been sorely lacking from Cuba, and its presence is necessary for creating a true democracy, and the Revolution clearly has recognized this and prioritized it in their conceptualization and manifestation of a democratic regime. As we move forward to Chapter 4, we will begin examining the second feature Cuba has focused on cultivating in its conceptualization of democracy: positive rights.

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CHAPTER 4 CUBA’S DEFINITION AND DEVELOPMENT OF DEMOCRACY: THE FOSTERING OF POSITIVE RIGHTS

Having discussed in Chapter 3 that sovereignty is one of the main democratic features the Revolutionary regime has sought to create and protect in Cuba, we turn now to examine its second main democratic focus: the creation and maintenance of positive rights. Positive rights are socioeconomic material rights governments are expected to provide for their citizens. They are contrasted with the negative rights that motivate the political system in the United States. Negative rights, rather than being rights that are to be provided to a population by its government, are natural rights that an individual is born with and that a government is not supposed to take away from its citizens. Examples of negative rights include political liberties such as the freedom of speech and the right to property. Whereas a government has a responsibly to create positive rights, it has the responsibility to only protect, and not impede on, its citizens negative rights.

Additionally, instead of being socioeconomic in nature, negative rights are often civil and political in nature. While liberal democracies focus largely on negative rights, as they developed hand-in-hand with the liberalism and its application, socialist democracies tend to put more of an emphasis on positive rights which are supported by

Marxist ideology—though not all negative rights are necessarily excluded from their focus just as all positive rights are not generally excluded from liberal democracies.

The governments in power since the Revolution, while not entirely ignoring negative rights, have concentrated more of their efforts on developing positive rights through their efforts to provide their citizens with free public education, free public healthcare, and socioeconomic equality between men and women. Through its consistent efforts at

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providing these rights, services, and resources for its citizens, the Revolutionary regime has embodied the socialist democratic system it has defined itself as having.

To see the role positive rights play in democracies generally, and in Cuba’s democracy specifically, in this chapter, I will first discuss the Revolutionary regime’s development of public education, public healthcare, and gender equality and how their creation made Cuba’s citizens more equal and gave them more political efficacy.

Having discussed how the Revolutionary regime has worked to create and provide these rights for its citizens, I will next discuss why positive rights are important features within democracies. In this discussion of positive rights, I will argue that they are integral to the formation of a democracy—contending that with negative rights alone, true democratic participation and citizen equality are unlikely to exist. Further, I will suggest that there may be support for the idea that the democratization process would be most effective and produce a more democratic system and society if positive rights were developed prior to, or at the very least, alongside of, negative rights. Implicit in this discussion will be the conclusion that the inclusion and the prioritization of positive rights in Cuba evidence the Revolutionary regime’s intention and commitment to, and success in, creating a democratic system and the suggestion that those liberal democratic states, such as the US, who do not prioritize the development of positive rights, may suffer democratically, as a result.

Education

One of the revolutionary regime’s greatest achievements in providing positive rights is its development of free public education. The government, in the aftermath of the Revolution, made education, particularly eradicating illiteracy from its population, one of its primary foci. The government began a literacy campaign which required the

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mass participation of students and teachers to achieve success. For over a year and a half the Cuban government and population sacrificed and devoted their time and efforts to wiping out illiteracy—particularly in rural areas that previously were with very limited access to education and healthcare. Along with its efforts to educate its citizens how to read and write, the government also utilized the literacy campaign as an opportunity to educate its citizens about the ideological values (primarily Marxist principals) motivating the structure of the new regime. Critics of the Revolutionary government could argue then that the primary motivation of the literacy campaign was not to make the population educated so that it could effectively participate within the government, but rather to indoctrinate the citizens to convince them to embrace the values of socialism. In short, providing this positive right of education was not the act of a democratic government, but an effort at bolstering support for an authoritarian regime.

Certainly the Cuban government was abundantly clear in its efforts to change the political and social values of its citizens. “Socialism and Man in Cuba,” a short essay by

Ernesto “Che” Guevara, provided an argument for the need to create a new type of individual to accompany the new political, social, and economic system now in place in

Cuba.1 Because scholars usually identify and classify Cuba as being an authoritarian state, the actions of its government are viewed, understood, and categorized through that lens. The reality is that the attempt to inculcate the values and ideologies supporting a regime is not at all unique to authoritarian governments. In fact, the need to convince people of the merits of a new regime is present in all governments looking to establish legitimacy after the upheaval of the previous regime. Democracies

1 Ernesto Che Guevara, “Socialism and Man in Cuba,” in The Che Guevara Reader: Writings on Politics and Revolution, 2nd edn., ed. David Deutschmann (Melbourne and New York: Ocean Press, 2003), 212-228.

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especially necessitate the political education of their citizens. The democratic system’s functioning relies on the educated participation of its citizens. The population must know how to participate within the system effectively and efficiently for the democracy to properly function. This is the reason civic courses remain part of the high school education system within the US.

Despite the fact that political education is beneficial to, and utilized by, many types of regimes—democracies included—the Cuban revolutionary government’s attempt to educate its citizens, is often times argued to be a means of indoctrination rather than a policy agenda built out of concern for a democratic positive right. In fact, one would be hard-pressed to put forth cases in which authoritarian governments were trying to increase the ability of individuals to inform themselves and participate within the political system. Yet this was precisely one of the primary goals of the Literacy

Campaign put forth by the Revolutionary government. The government wanted people to be able to inform themselves on the new values structuring the new regime, to become better citizens within that regime, and to actually be informed on and able to influence state policies. This last point is one that is generally left out of academic discussion concerning the political classification of Cuba and is of a great deal of importance when looking at whether or not it is a democracy.

The desire to have citizens participate within the policy-making process was central to some of the initial institutional designs of the new revolutionary government.

Beyond the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (an institution democratic scholars are usually critical of and one we will discuss in more detail in Chapter 6), we see other examples of government efforts to include the masses in policymaking. One

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such example was the process surrounding the passing of the Family Code. The

Family Code, a piece of legislation passed by the government in 1975, was primarily designed to target inequality in domestic relationships between men and women. While more detail about the specifics of this code will be discussed later when I talk about the efforts of the government to increase social equality between men and women, for now, what I want to focus on is the way the code evolved and became law. The law was first drafted and debated by the government officials. Once the draft was complete, however, the government printed off copies of the Family Code and distributed them to the masses.2 The desire was for the citizens to be able to familiarize themselves with the legislation and to have the opportunity to respond to it. Here, then, is a reason why the literacy campaign was so vital to the process in a way other than just political education/indoctrination. To know what the policies were about, and to be able to articulate their reactions to them, literacy was a necessity.

Once people were given time to read over the draft, meetings were set up throughout neighborhoods for citizens to come together and discuss it. Designated officials were there to record the comments, questions, and criticisms, and desired changes to the draft. After all the local meetings were complete, the information from each was sent to the government officials, who then reconvened in the Central

Committee (now the National Committee) to take into consideration the public feedback.

The final version of the Family Code included changes that were proposed by the public, so the argument that it was a mere formality or effort at creating a façade of public participation is without grounding. One such change was listening to a

2 Margaret Randall, “The Family Code,” in The Cuba Reader: History, Culture, Politics, ed. Aviva Chomsky, Barry Carr, and Pamela Maria Smorkaloff (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2003), 399-405.

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recommendation that the minimum marriage age be the same for both men and women—a point that was contradicted by the original draft.3

It can be assumed with some certainty that a version of the code was going to pass—this was not a referendum on which the public was voting yes or no. Instead, it was a direction the government was deciding to go, but willing to take into consideration the opinions of the public to reach its desired goal: equality of the sexes. This process illustrates the value placed on having citizens informed and participating in the making of specific policies, not just educated on general political ideologies and values.

Another important goal of this policy-making process and the literacy campaign that facilitated it was to generate informed public discourse. The policy, as will be discussed later, in many ways was more about changing attitudes than actually enforcing all aspects of the code. As such, by giving people the ability to read the draft (both through literacy initiatives and mass distributions of the policy), the government hoped to have societal discussions about the changes. The code became a talking point of neighbors, couples, and friends who had conflicting reactions to, and opinions about, the policy.4

Such an initiative then—one built to facilitate the informing, discussion, debate, and participation of citizens in government policies—is not the act of an authoritarian government, but rather the act of a democratic government providing a positive right, education, to give its citizens more efficacy.

Education continues to be a priority today. One of the hallmarks of the system is free higher education. Further, the Cuban government looks to bolster learning outside of formal classroom education, by providing educational television programing.

3 Ibid., 400. 4 Ibid., 402-403.

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Television shows with the intent of educating the masses on given topics, such as fundamental science material or language, are aired on a regular basis for people to learn in their own homes. Additionally, documentaries are frequently shown on television and often include panel discussions whose members react to the content of the film for the public. Of course the government also looks to keep the citizens informed on the policies and issues it is focusing on, so there are a number of news programs, political speeches, and round table discussions aired as well. The focus on the education system is of such importance that even during the Special Period, publicly funded education remained a priority and was not sacrificed to deal with the harsh economic realities confronting the state and its citizens. While there are still some problems with the Cuban Education from a democratic and positive rights standpoint— particularly the system for determining who has the ability to enter university studies

(something determined based off of school grades and exam scores while students are still in middle school)—in general, the Revolutionary regime has taken great strides since its inception to provide education as a positive right for all Cuban citizens.

The importance of public education within a democratic state cannot be underestimated. Even Adam Smith, a political theorist at the forefront of capitalist thought, argues that a basic education for all is necessary.5 It should be noted, however, that Smith is not concerned with creating an equal society—in fact, the system he proposes is one based off of maintaining hierarchical relationships, and therefore his reasoning for a basic education is somewhat sinister and not generated out of the concerns for Democratic equality. The importance of public education is absolutely

5 Adam Smith, An Inquiry into The Nature and Causes of The Wealth of Nations: Volume 1 (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1981).

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fundamental to basic democratic principles and functioning of the democratic system and preventing the type of hierarchical system Smith looks to protect. When only the wealthiest members of society are able to afford private education, an aristocratic system develops in which family lines determine who has access first to knowledge, then higher education, better jobs, higher salaries, and ultimately, more resources to influence politics. Those born into poor families unable to afford education for the children, are immediately disadvantaged within a system and are less likely than their wealthy counterparts to gain the tools and resources necessary to influence politics to the same degree.

Inequality in education creates a class system with not only social and economic inequalities, but political inequalities as well. The difference and lines between an aristocratic and a democratic system are muted when public education is not provided, as families’ economic circumstances largely determine their ability to effectively participate within the political system. Ideally, to provide all individuals with equal educational opportunities, at least through high school, only public educational institutions would exist. That said, however, the basic purpose of this positive right is achieved when free education is made available to all individuals. Free public education, in addition to providing individuals with the opportunity to have more political influence, also provides citizens with the means to make themselves more informed and effective participants within their political system. This is advantageous and arguably vital to a democracy—informed citizens are better able to understand the needs of their political system and act responsibly and informed within it when they have a sound

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education. As such, education is not only good for creating political equality between citizens, but also for creating a stronger, better-functioning democratic state.

Healthcare

A second positive right provided by the Cuban government, and one that receives much international attention, is the free healthcare it seeks to ensure both its own citizens, as well as those in other states. While many liberal states will champion the right to life to which all citizens should be entitled, the Cuban Revolutionary regime, like many other states with socialist democracies, seeks to help ensure that the lives of the citizens are healthy. The regime has done this through restructuring its healthcare system, giving a free education to its healthcare workers, and providing healthcare services, preventative education, and nutritional assistance to its citizens. In addition, it has made efforts to improve the health of citizens in other states as well.

Just as there was unequal access to education in Pre-revolutionary Cuba, so, too was there unequal access to healthcare. Pol De Vos argues that healthcare was largely determined by the amount of money that an individual had. Describing the Cuban healthcare system in the years before the Revolutionary regime and how access to healthcare was predicated on socio-economic status, De Vos writes,

in the pre-revolutionary 1950s, Cuba's health system was built on the same three pillars that characterize most other Latin American health systems up to this day: a private health system for the rich, the Social Security system for employees, and in underfinanced public healthcare system for the indigents. Private health services were accessible only to a small wealthy elite. About 20% of the population was covered by health insurance funds through their employer; about 45% of the country's hospital beds per covered by the insurance funds. The greater part of the population had access only to the underfunded, low quality, public healthcare services.6

6 Pol De Vos, “No One Left Abandoned: Cuba’s National Health System since the 1959 Revolution,” International Journal of Health Services 35, no.1 (2005): 189-207.

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The right to healthcare was thus largely determined by an individual’s wealth.

In addition to socioeconomic status, location, too, influenced the type of health care Cuban citizens received prior to the Revolution. Just as was the case with the rural areas in Cuba being largely without access to the same quality and levels of education as those in the cities, so too with healthcare was the rural population severely underserved. De Vos, referencing the three pillars of the pre-revolutionary healthcare system, writes that they “were concentrated in the cities, especially in the capital,

Havana. In rural areas, many people had never seen a doctor.”7 Cooper, Kennelly, and

Orduñez-Garcia bolster the image of this unequal access to healthcare, noting that before the Revolutionary regime began restructuring the system, “two thirds of the 6300 physicians lived in Havana. ‘Mutual aid’ health facilities served employed groups, especially the cities, primary care for the poor and rural population was weak or nonexistent.”8 Working to extend access to healthcare was one of the main, early objectives of the Revolutionary regime. Drain and Barry explain that systematic efforts to increase rural access to healthcare occurred in 1960 “when Cuba created the rural social medical service to encourage young physicians to work in rural areas” and were bolstered in 1974 when “medical graduates were expected to spend up to three years practicing community medicine in a rural area.”9 Since these initial changes, the

Revolution has successfully improved access to the previously marginalized communities. Susan Eckstein discusses the Revolutionary regime’s unique

7 Ibid., 190. 8 Richard S Cooper, Joan F Kennelly, and Pedro Orduñez-Garcia, “Health in Cuba,” International Journal of Epidemiology 35, no. 4 (2006): 817-824. 9 Paul K. Drain and Michele Barrry, “50 Years of U.S. Embargo: Cuba’s Health Consequences and Lessons,” Science 328 (2010): 572-573.

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achievements in increasing access to healthcare. Comparing Latin America to other states that have not viewed healthcare as a positive right, Eckstein writes,

Rural facilities have improved more than urban facilities. Yet the ruralization of hospital facilities occurred primarily in the early Revolutionary years, when the main income redistribution reforms were initiated. Cuba is the only Latin American country with an extensive, institutionalized system of free rural and urban health care utilizing a semiskilled medical cadre. In the capitalist countries in the region, public and private medical facilities are more doctor oriented than in Cuba, were concentrated in the major cities, and less accessible to the masses; they are invaluable primarily to the wealthy and the small percentage of the labor force who can afford private care or who are employed in bureaucratic or national jobs that offer health plans partially subsidized by the employer. While we lack comparative data on utilization of health services, the medical needs of low income groups, above all in rural areas, are unquestionably better met in Cuba than in any other Latin American country currently. Hospital facilities continue to be concentrated in the cities, the Cuba is the only country to make access to healthcare a basic social right…The revolution made the changes possible. The changes reflect the government's distinctive class bias and the reduced power of doctors and other private medical interests to influence state policy; however, sufficient state revenue was essential.10

The Revolutionary regime, by providing health services to the previously marginalized populations made the system more democratic. Even before the Revolution triumphed, its members were already committed to improving the health of Cubans, particularly those living in rural communities. As De Vos explains,

under the leadership of Fidel Castro, the revolutionaries were able to unite people in an anti-imperialist and Democratic program that revolves around the Cuban people's aspirations to lead a healthy and productive life, with job security, housing, education, and healthcare. Part of this program was already put into practice by the Cuban guerrilla fighters during the period of armed struggle in the Sierra Maestra mountain range… Where the guerrillas’ own rudimentary medical facilities also provided primary health care services to the presence in the area, many of whom used such services for the first time in their lives.11

10 Susan Eckstein, “The Impact of the Cuban Revolution: A Comparative Perspective,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 28, no. 3 (1986): 502-534. 11 De Vos, “”No One Left Abandoned,” 190.

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From its inception then, an understanding that health was a right that all citizens were entitled to was at the heart of those committed to the Revolution.

Democratizing the healthcare system and making it accessible to all citizens required the Revolutionary regime to completely restructure it. To make this positive right guaranteed to all citizens, after addressing the immediate and critical needs of its populations (including some contaminable diseases), the regime’s restructuring focused on disease prevention through providing education and routine access to medical care.

Drain and Barry, referencing these points of focus and how they differ from those found in the US, argue that

Cuba has one of the most proactive primary health care systems in the world by educating their populations about disease prevention and health promotion, the Cubans rely less on medical supplies to maintain a healthy population. The converse is the United States, which relies heavily on medical supplies and technologies to maintain a healthy population, but at a very high cost.12

One of the earliest and most significant restructuring developments the new regime made to the health care system that worked towards increasing access and education was the creation of municipal polyclinics throughout the country in the 1960s. As José

Díaz Novás and José A. Fernández Sacasas explain, the polyclinics

were defined as the Cuban healthcare systems basic unit, and were charged with directing all health activities aimed at persons or the environment within their jurisdiction. This included activities at workplaces, schools, childcare centers, and production and service units located in the municipality.13

12 Drain and Barrry, “50 Years of U.S. Embargo: Cuba’s Health Consequences and Lessons.” 13 José Díaz Novás and José A. Fernández Sacasas “From Municipal Polyclinics to Family Doctor-and-Nurse Teams,” Revista Cubana de Medicina General Integra 5 (1989): 556-564.

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While the polyclinics successfully increased Cubans’ access to care, in 1983, the government bolstered its efforts to further increase access to quality and efficient care with its proscription for, and introduction of, “family physicians…located directly in each residential area.”14 Spiegel and Yassi explain that “these physicians, each given a home and equipped medical clinic, work alongside a nurse to care for approximately

120 families. Some physicians, in lowered–density remote rural areas care for as few as 75 families.”15 The local physicians fit within Cuba’s larger healthcare structure to provide complete care to the citizens and allow the state to track and address the issues affecting the population. Spiegel and Yassi detail this structure writing,

for more specialized care, the Cuban system links each consultorio to a specific polyclinic in the neighborhood. Polyclinics staff refer patients for hospital care, if necessary. Cuba's healthcare system is thus vertically integrated…Discharged patients are systematically visited by physicians in their own home. Cuba also links consultorios, polyclinics, and municipal, provincial, and specialized national hospitals programmatically. They contribute to a national system of disease surveillance and control.16

These neighborhood level doctors thus greatly aided in bringing about more routinized access to quality healthcare for Cubans, by linking local and national levels of care.

Spiegel and Yassi go on to say that the 1980s addition of the neighborhood doctors not only helped to increase access to care, but to also create a community for health education and a healthy culture. They write,

the primary health care system provides a holistic, family, and neighborhood approach to comprehensive care of the community. The doctor and nurse live in the neighborhood clinics so that they form a part of the community and are available in cases of emergency. The consultorio, the primary health care unit, often directs health promotion

14 Jerry M. Spiegel and Annalee Yassi, “Lessons from the Margins of Globalization: Appreciating the Cuban Health Paradox,” Journal of Public Health Policy 25, no. 1 (2004): 85-110. 15 Ibid., 98. 16 Ibid.

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activities with the support of neighborhood-based organizations such as the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution and the Federations of Cuban Women. The family doctors activities explicitly extends beyond diagnosis and treatment to community education about general health issues and environmental health…The primary health care system focuses on the social aspects of health, creating a healthy culture.17

The need for education and appropriate culture evidence that integral to the plans for, and success of, this healthcare structure was the participation of Cuban citizens.

Spiegel and Yassi discuss some of the ways and programs in which Cubans can become involved in improving healthcare writing,

in 1989, Cuba launched a “healthy municipalities strategy” to enhance explicit attention to nonmedical health determinants (including implement, nutrition, sports, culture, education and housing), and support the free, integrated and primary care focused care system.18

Díaz Novás and Fernández Sacasas also note the communal involvement required of all writing, “Ample community participation in priority health activities was encouraged through community-based social organizations. These activities included vaccination campaigns, blood donations, and community clean-up drives.”19 The idea of collective responsibility and citizen support for the healthcare system is thus vital to its success.

In addition to increasing its own citizens’ access to efficient and quality care, the

Cuban Revolutionary regime has been noted on the international stage for its efforts to provide this positive right of healthcare to individuals beyond its own borders. Its achievements and the figures related to its efforts at improving healthcare abroad are impressive. Huish details these achievements explaining that, “over 38,000 Cuban health workers working in 76 countries as of 2013. In 2014 the total number increased

17 Ibid., 98. 18 Ibid., 99. 19 Díaz Novás and Fernández Sacasas, “From Municipal Polyclinics to Family Doctor-and-Nurse Teams.”

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approximately 50,000, in 65 countries including 11,400 Cuban healthcare workers serving Brazil's rural areas.”20 Huish goes on to draw out the significance of Cuba’s contributions to the international health field by noting that Cuba “a larger workforce than the Red Cross, Medicines sans Frontíeres and UNICEF, combined” and “more healthcare workers providing care in foreign countries than all group of eight (G8) nations directly employed in overseas medical outreach.”21 The idea that health is a right to which all individuals are entitled is one the Revolutionary regime clearly embraces and is committed to providing beyond the borders and state of its own citizens.

The Cuban healthcare system since the Revolution, while largely successful in its level of democratization, has faced a number of challenges and critiques along the way.

Both the US embargo and the Special Period, constraining the resources available to the Cuban governments, presented dilemmas to the Revolutionary regime’s efforts to provide quality healthcare to all of the citizens. While these realities were problematic,

Drain and Barry argue the state was still able to provide quality healthcare for its citizens through these times. They write that,

despite the embargo, Cuba has produced better healthcare outcomes than most Latin American countries, and they are comparable to those of most developed countries. Cuba has the highest average life expectancy (78.6 years) and density of physicians per capita (59 physicians per 10,000 people), and the lowest infant (5.0/1000 live births) and child (7.0/1000 live births) mortality rates among 33 Latin American and curbing countries. In 2006, the Cuban government spends about $355 per capita on health, 7.1% of total gross domestic product. The annual cost of healthcare for an American was $6714, 15.3% of total US GDP.22

20 Robert Huish, “Why Does Cuba ‘Care’ So Much: Understanding the Epistemology of Solidarity in Global Health Outreach,” Public Health Ethics (2014): 1-16. 21 Ibid., 1. 22 Drain and Barrry, “50 Years of U.S. Embargo.”

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Not only has the Revolutionary regime worked through these challenges, but, in doing so, arguably has come out to provide a far more efficient system than the US, while providing this positive right that the US has historically failed to successfully recognize, address, and provide.

In addition to such challenges, the Revolutionary regime has also received criticism for some of its actions and policies related to restructuring the healthcare system. One of the main criticisms alleged against the regime is that it takes advantage of, and puts an exhausting burden on, its healthcare workers. Andrea Warman argues that, while the idea of community access to doctors may be beneficial to patients, it requires that healthcare workers always be available to their patients, taking a huge toll on them.23 Others argue that the Cuban government profits off of the international service of its doctors who go without the compensation given to the Cuban government for their work. This criticism came out in the press in fall 2014 when Cuba sent its doctors to aid in the fight against the Ebola outbreak. Although much is demanded of the Cuban medical professionals, and there is room to limit their responsibilities, it is important to remember that they are aware of what their duties are before they join the field and their medical education is paid for by the government. While there is always room for improvement, Cuba’s health record is the best in Latin America and among the best in the world. The regime has continued to evolve Cuba’s healthcare system— addressing inadequacies, and making it so more individuals have access to a healthy life, and the state, as a whole, is a healthier one.

23 Andrea Warman, “Living the revolution: Cuban health workers,” Journal of Clinical Nursing 10 (2001): 311-319.

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Socioeconomic Equality between the Sexes

Another positive rights issue the initial Revolutionary government looked to address, and subsequent governments have continued to try to address, is creating socio-economic and political equality between men and women. One of the first big steps the regime took on this front was its drafting and enacting of the Family Code.

This code, as was discussed earlier, was primarily concerned with making equitable responsibilities and structures of relationships between men and women in the private sphere. This is a step many liberal democracies have failed to address when confronting the problem of gender inequality. Yet it is vitally important that the private life is addressed, as especially was the case in the development of liberalism and its implementation, that the public life was established for men to participate within and was a sphere where behaviors and structures could be regulated by the government, while the private sphere was where women were to be confined to, and was largely outside of the reach of government concern/regulation. When liberal democracies, such as the US, began to extend rights to women, they only focused on extending and addressing the rights that were previously missing for women in the public sphere. Yet as many feminist theorists have pointed out, inequalities (such as the hierarchical relationship between men and women in the home and the household duties and child- raising delegated almost exclusively to women) has far-reaching impacts on the social, economic, and political structures in the public sphere and the opportunities women have within them. So, even though now liberal democracies allow women to participate in the political public sphere, because no formal institutional changes have been made in the private life, those unequal relationships and realities in the home continue to permeate into the public sphere and maintain the inequalities that existed before. As

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such, it is absolutely necessary that if a state wishes to have gender equality, it must examine and legislate on both the private and public spheres generating this inequality.

This is precisely what the Cuban government did by introducing the Family Code.

Margaret Randall, in her article, “The Family Code,” explains that the Family Code stipulated “a new equality between women and men in their social relationships.”24 The goal of the code was thus extending beyond just the confines of public life and into the realm of private sphere as well. Creating equality between men and women in the private and public sphere required addressing many institutions that had both private and public components and consequences. Randall, detailing the scope of the Code’s division of responsibilities and the structure of familial relationships, writes that it “covers marriage, divorce, marital property relationships, recognition for children, obligations for children’s care and education, adoption and tutelage.”25 To emphasize the depths that these changes reached, Randall includes in her article a list of the most discussed clauses from the code (Clauses 24-28), which she explains are included in Cuban marriage ceremonies.26 Because of their radical and explicit departure from other patriarchal norms and institutions, it seems prudent to list them here as well to demonstrate the Revolution’s reach on ensuring equality between men and women. It is important to note, as Randall does, that these clauses are “applicable only in cases where a man’s wife works or studies.”27 These clauses are stated here:

24. Marriage is constituted on the basis of equal rights and duties of both spouses.

24 Randall, “The Family Code,” 400. 25 Ibid., 400. 26 Ibid., 402. 27 Ibid., 404.

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25. This spouses must live together, the faithful to one another, consider and respect each other, and each mutually help the other. 26. Both spouses are obligated to care for the family they have created and cooperate with each other in the education, formation and guidance of their children in line with the principles of socialist morality. As well, each to the extent of his or her capabilities and possibilities must participate in governing the home and cooperate toward its best possible care. 27. That spouses are obliged to contribute toward satisfying the needs of the family they have created in their marriage, each according to his or her faculties and economic capacity. Nevertheless, if one of the spouses contributes only through his or her work in the home and child-care, the other spouse must provide full economic support without this meaning that he or she be relieved of the obligations of cooperating with the housework and child-care. 28. Both spouses have the right to exercise their professions or crafts and must lend each other reciprocal cooperation and aides to this effect, as well as in order to carry out studies or perfect their training, but in all cases they will take care to organize their home life so that such activities be coordinated with the fulfillment of the obligations imposed by this Code.28

As the clauses above indicate, the household and child-rearing duties that used to fall primarily on women and structures that traditionally favored men were addressed and challenged within this code. All duties were now to be shared instead of divided along gender lines.

As it is a law, the Family Code is enforceable. So if an individual feels a spouse is violating the Code, he or she is able to report it. Randall, expecting that given the nature of the changes, it is more likely that a man would be in violation, explains that if a wife is witness to a violation, she “can go to the president of her CDR, or the leadership of her own or her husband’s trade union, and she has a legal, and not simply a subjective, basis on which to request help in an unequal home situation.”29 While the

Code is enforceable, Randall explains that it “depend(s) on women themselves actually taking their husbands to court for violations” and that “not enough” of them are doing

28 Ibid., 402. 29 Ibid., 403.

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this.30 While it has this legal power, according to Randall, its real power comes from its ability to change behavior through education and discourse.31 While legally codifying gender equality was important for formally setting the standards of the Revolution, the discussion it generated amongst the populace grappling with the new law went even further in its ability to influence the culture and society at large. With the law, peoples’ previous mindsets were challenged by the Revolution’s notions of what constitutes a truly equitable social and political Cuba.

Another example of the interest took in increasing the equality of women in

Cuban society by the Cuban government was its efforts to decrease prostitution and better the lives of former prostitutes. After years of sexual exploitation, the

Revolutionary government looked to end prostitution on the island. Initially, the government did not criminalize prostitution. Instead, it required the registration of all prostitutes and began making health checkups for these women mandatory.32 In 1961, however, the government made prostitution illegal. At the same time, however, the government began offering former prostitutes the opportunity to receive a free education so that they might find another line of employment.33 Education included basic knowledge and usually focused on teaching the women specific skill sets that would prepare them for a particular profession. So in addition to the classwork, they also completed work in machine shops and workshops which taught them practical

30 Ibid. 31 Ibid., 402-403. 32 Oscar Leis, Ruth M. Lewis, and Susan M. Rigdon, “The ‘Rehabilitation’ of Prostitutes,” in The Cuba Reader, ed. Aviva Chomsky, Barry Carr, and Pamela Smorkaloff (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2003), 395-398. 33 Ibid., 396-397.

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applications and skills that would aid them in finding employment later.34 Women with children were provided with childcare, food, and clothing for both themselves and their children.35

The inequality and disadvantages created from the previous institution of prostitution were also addressed through the manner in which the government dealt with pimps. Whereas prostitutes were initially given the chance to continue their occupation and later given the opportunity at an education and training, the work of pimps was criminalized right away by the Revolutionary government, and those pimps who did not end up in jail, usually went into exile abroad.36 The pimps, according to the new government, represented all that was wrong with the societal structure before the

Revolution. They were essentially members of a profession of exploiters—they made money off of the women who they provided little to in return. For the new socialist government, this Marxist imagery realized in the relationship between pimps and prostitutes was the perfect illustration of why a new system, and one that was not capitalist in nature, was needed. The government thus took this situation as one in which it could assist the prostitutes, who it showed as being victims of an unjust system, and giving them the means necessary to succeed within the new system free from exploitation. Such a concentration on providing the means necessary for a previously marginalized and under-educated population to receive the training, knowledge, and assistance necessary to become fully participating members of society, again makes clear the Revolutionary government’s efforts to provide positive rights for its citizens.

34 Ibid., 397 35 Ibid., 397. 36 Ibid., 395-396.

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The Special Period presented challenges to the government’s efforts at creating gender equality. As economic hardships grew, in the home life, it was women who largely took on extra duties. As Maria Lopez Vigil explains in her piece, “Heroines of the

Special Period,”

some women have been forced to give up their permanent or temporary jobs to tackle the crisis at home, where they have to improvise some kind of breakfast, lunch, and supper, stand in line for hours to buy what there is whenever it becomes available, work out how to deal with shortages in care for old or disabled parents and in-laws and shrinking resources.37

The very household duties that the Family Code worked to de-gender were once again burdening women in unequal proportions. Further, the prostitution that the

Revolutionary government had worked so hard to eradicate at the regime’s start also began resurfacing as economic resources dwindled.38

Yet despite the setbacks of the Special Period, since the initial Revolutionary government came to power, the place of women in Cuban society has largely continued to rise. There are more women in the workplace and in politics now than there were before the Revolution. In looking at women's status in the workplace, it is evident that even with the problems and consequences incurred from the restraints of the Special

Period, women have continued to hold increased professional positions. Raisa Pagés, in “The Status of Cuban Women,” argues that despite the challenges imposed on women during the Special Period, women have actually increased their presence in the workforce. Pagés explains that this is due “to the fact that 66.1% of professionals and

37 Maria Lopez Vigil, “Heroines of the Special Period,” in A Contemporary Cuban Reader: Reinventing the Revolution, ed. Philip Brenner, Marguerite Rose Jiménez, John Kirk, and William LeoGrande (Lanham: Rowan and Littlefield Publishers, 2008), 309-310. 38 Raisa Pagés, “The Status of Cuban Women: From Economically Dependent to Independent,” in A Contemporary Cuban Reader: Reinventing the Revolution, ed. Philip Brenner, Marguerite Rose Jiménez, John Kirk, and William LeoGrande (Lanham: Rowan and Littlefield Publishers, 2008), 311-315.

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intermediate – level technicians are women” and that “the greatest shortages of resources were in production sectors which are traditionally male dominated.”39 She goes on to cite that “women represent 45% of the scientific and technical sector,” “more than 70% of bank employees” and “more than 50% of the workforce in the Ministry of

Public Health.”40 The area in which women continue to be underrepresented is in the tourist industry, which given the structure of the economy, is of vital interest in terms of economic advances. Because of the economic opportunity the tourist industry affords, the Federation of Cuban women “is promoting measures aimed at obtaining equity in terms of gender among those selected to enroll in tourism training schools.”41 So despite some setbacks, it is still clear that the Revolutionary regime has made efforts that led to the advancement of women in the workplace.

In the political sphere, women also have continued to make gains in Cuba.

48.9% of the members of the National Assembly are women which puts it in third rank in the world for percentage of women in such political positions.42 It should be noted that despite these high ranks for women in Cuba, in other political positions of power, women are still lacking. Luisita Lopez Torregrosa, discussing some of the findings from the report, “Women’s Work: Gender Equality in Cuba and the Role of Women Building

Cuba’s Future,” written by Sarah Stephens, states,

like women just about everywhere, women in Cuba want more female leaders in the high ranks of government and party. According to the report, they make up only 7 percent of the Cuban Communist Party’s ruling Politburo, 14 percent of the Party Secretariat and 22 percent of the

39 Ibid. 40 Ibid. 41 Ibid. 42 “Women in National Parliaments,” Inter-Parliamentary Union, http://www.ipu.org/wmn- e/classif.htm.

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Council of Ministers; only one has enjoyed the rank of vice president (there are five).43

Certainly these percentages are problematic for the regime's efforts at creating gender equality, and as such, there remains a desperate need to continue to addresses and remedy these inequalities. Fortunately, on matters concerning gender equality, the regime has been receptive to making changes. Pagés explains one such case of the

Revolutionary government confronting issues of inequality writing that,

after the world conference on women in Beijing, Cuba initiated a government program incorporating more than 80 measures directed towards improving the situation of Cuban women, with the participation of all state bodies and institutions involved in the search for solutions to the range of problems remaining.44

So in spite of the shortcomings of the Revolution to achieve complete equality between men and women, the vastness of the advances it has made and its continued effort to increase those advances cannot be denied. Lopez Torregrosa writes, again speaking of findings of Ms. Stephens’ report, “Fidel and Raúl Castro, with mandating and enforcing rules and laws guaranteeing gender equality and women’s rights… have made Cuba among the highest-ranking nations in the advancement of women.”45 The political and social advances of women, while not complete, have drastically improved in Cuba since the Revolution.

Why Positive Rights Matter for Democracy

Although there is reason to argue that the combination of both negative and positive rights would be the ideal for a democratic system, if one of the two is to be

43 Luisita Lopez Torregrosa, “In Cuba, Equality is Two-Sided,” The New York Times, March 5, 2013. 44 Pagés, “The Status of Cuban Women,” 312. 45 Lopez Torregrosa, “In Cuba, Equality is Two-Sided.”

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lacking, the argument that positive rights are those that ought to be gained first is a strong one. The idea that it is necessary to initially limit the masses civil and political rights is actually at the forefront of democratization literature in the field of comparative politics. Yet when we see a case such as Cuba, in which many of those civil and political rights are limited while positive rights for the masses are provided, much criticism for the lack of negative rights comes from both the scholarly community as well as Western states. In this next section this contradiction will be discussed and I will ultimately contend that if positive rights are instituted prior to negative rights (should the two not be able to be achieved simultaneously) during the on-going and never complete process of democratization, the longevity and the quality of the democracy will be greater. In short, a state will have a more stable transition with a more complete and meaningful form of democracy achieved in the end if positive rights are achieved prior to negative rights.

As mentioned above, the idea of it being necessary to limit negative rights is based on the concerns of fears of reversal in a transitioning democracy. While my intent here is not to argue that such a stage (of any limited rights) is necessary for a successful transition as such a topic is beyond the scope of this current study, it is worth noting that the dominant literature in the field has addressed the problem of successful democratization by arguing that there should be gradual inclusion of participation from the masses, and that openings of contestation should only happen amongst elite players. Scholars such as Samuel Huntington and Robert Dahl argue that this is the surest way to have a smooth democratic transition. Huntington argues that as a scholarly community, particularly in the US, we have been so blinded by our desire to

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limit government, that in transitioning states, we encourage actors to do the same. We thus prevent a democratic regime from successfully developing because we are too busy limiting institutions that strong ones are not able to be created in the first place.46

So rather than having the masses look to limit government’s institutional reach, newly democratizing states need to have the ability to create strong institutions capable of handling the transition.

To create such institutions, the masses must not be participating in the process.

Rather, a select group of elites as should make the main political decisions as the masses participating initially would likely overwhelm the newly formed and likely weak, as a result of their youth, institutions. Dahl, like Huntington, argues that on the road to becoming a polyarchy, a state should look to increase limited forms of contestation amongst an elite set of actors before drastically increasing the number of participants within the system. This is one of the reasons why the idea of democratic pacts is so appealing for democratic transitions—they inherently limit participation and make it so an elite set of actors is working to resolve conflict and make decisions, rather than an entire society. As such, the negative rights triumphed as being so vital to a democracy, are often left out of transitioning democracies, and scholars advise states to do so in the hopes of stabilizing the transition and paving the way for states to reach the next stage of democratic consolidation.

In addition to arguing for limiting the public from participating in politics, scholars have argued that other civil and political rights should also be constrained during the initial transition to help stabilize the new regime. Scholars such as Jack Snyder and

46 Samuel Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies, 3rd edn. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1969).

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Karen Ballentine argue in “Nationalism and the Marketplace of Ideas47” that limiting negative rights such as freedom of the press is often necessary in newly democratizing states. They argue that in societies where such limitations do not exist, elites are more able to manipulate the press to gain power for themselves and protect their interests and seek to limit democracy rather than create it. This has led to cases of genocide in states like Yugoslavia and Rwanda. James Petras and Frank Fitzgerald, in

“Authoritarianism and Democracy in the Transition to Socialism” also argue that to become a social democracy, the first stage of limiting negative rights in Cuba was necessary.48 The problem, they argue, is that this has become institutionalized behavior and that the second stage of opening up those negative rights has not occurred. While I will be addressing their conclusion about Cuba’s failure to pass through the second stage of social democratization later in this chapter, for now I want us to focus on their argument that limited rights and stricter government control are necessary features in the first stage of transition. Petras and Fitzgerald, drawing on the failures of Chile under Allende and Jamaica under Manley and the success of the

Sandinistas in Nicaragua and Castro in Cuba, argue that restricting participation of opponents early on is necessary to making the socialist transition as opponents will not respect democracy nor the socialist restructuring. They say further restrictions, such as the suspending or reforming of the legislative body, and the weeding out of opponents within the military, are also necessary for aiding in a successful transition. Cuba, they argue, successfully made it through this first stage because it took these measures.

47 Jack Snyder and Karen Ballentine, “Nationalism and the Marketplace of Ideas,” International Security 21, no. 2 (1996): 5-40. 48 James Petras and Frank Fitzgerald, “Authoritarianism and Democracy in the Transition to Socialism,” Latin American Perspectives 15, no. 1 (1988): 99-111.

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In addition to offering support for the argument that limiting negative rights to foster a stable democratic transition, scholarly literature also provides us with reasons to contend that the promotion of some positive rights by a transitioning government may help prevent regime reversals. Literature focusing on states that are transitioning to democracy often discusses the problem of disillusionment that comes about when people realize that the changes they had assumed would come with a democracy have not been realized. One of the most common sources of such disillusionment is the realization that economic conditions may remain largely stagnant with a transition to a democracy. Here scholars argue that people must realize that they need to value democracy for democracy’s sake—and not expect that their lives are going to necessarily improve immediately with the advent of democracy. Such lowered expectations and realizations, they argue, are necessary for a democracy to have time to institutionalize properly.

This hardly seems a practical nor even historically accurate proscription. The opening of political participation has historically been associated with groups fighting for more power—both economic as well as political. One cannot have political self- determination, if one does not have economic self-determination as well (a point that will be discussed more shortly). Be it the US Revolution with the “no taxation without representation” call to action, the gradual transition to democracy in the United

Kingdom, or the mass revolutions in France, the desire and struggle for democracy has traditionally been associated with securing economic advances as well as political ones.

For scholars to ask newly democratizing societies to do otherwise thus seems absurd and historically unfounded.

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Besides there being few historical of cases to support the claim that democratization functions best when people “support democracy for democracy’s sake,” one faces a combination of both normative as well as practical challenges when asking individuals to be patient with their circumstances—no matter how dire—and to simply wait for the democracy to become more stable before taxing the system with their needs. On the normative end, in many of the present transitioning democratic states, survival alone is an issue—so asking that such individuals value a democracy only for its institutions in theory, and not what they actually produce, seems to deny that existence. The right to life means very little if there are no changes that make that right to life a viable one. One need look no further to present cases of democratizing states—many of which have populations struggling to acquire basic resources. In recent years, indigenous populations in Latin American states have struggled to acquire basic necessities, like water, at an affordable price and maintaining the integrity, access to, and ownership of natural resources. The problem of acquiring basic resources during the democratization process is further complicated by the reality that in many of these states, especially those in Latin America, liberalization frequently happened at rates faster than democratization. This has led to those with economic advantages— often foreign corporations and individuals—to have the most access to acquiring these resources, and prevented local population from access to their own domestic resources.

So although democratization may be occurring, the liberalization process has led to a distribution of resources that often disadvantages the domestic population, and, at times, makes mere survival, a genuine challenge.

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With such circumstances facing individuals in these democratizing states, we must ask why, normatively, should one be more concerned with, and committed to, a political system than material survival? Is the type of political system truly more important than its ability to sustain life, and if so, why? If scholars are going to begin making this argument for the inherent value of a democracy, they must come better prepared with a normative explanation not only for why a democracy is a better political system than others, but why being concerned with the type of political system is more important than everything else (including the ability to sustain oneself). Further, if scholars are able to provide support for a normative argument that it is better in the long-run to support a given political system than to address present economic hardships, they must be then prepared to address the normative question as to why is it okay to marginalize a group of people for the long-term benefit of a society. Any adherent to Kantian philosophy would be deeply troubled by the prospects of one generation being asked to sit patiently through unchanged circumstances so that future generations might someday later enjoy the benefits of an institutionalized democracy, and scholars, if expecting individuals to do so, must provide a normative explanation for why that is permissible.

In addition to the normative problems posed by a scholarly demand that citizens in democratizing societies accept the value of democracy for its own sake, practically this solution to the problem of disillusionment is wrought with issues as well—especially if we view individuals as being rational actors. Seen from the lens of rational choice theory, it seems only natural that people should want a change in their political system to be accompanied by changes that improve their lives. In advanced democracies, the

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state of the economy is at the center of political debate and the voters’ electoral decisions, so why would we expect people in newly forming democracies, with far greater economic strife, to act, as rational actors, any differently? One must look no further than Clinton’s campaign against George H.W. Bush to know “the economy, stupid” is at the center of peoples’ political concerns, decisions, and actions. To argue that people should thus value democracy for its own sake seems a very unconvincing argument to make if one is looking to voter behavior and the reasons why people most often seek a democracy in the first place. It may be the ideal for democracy to be sought for the value of people having political control of their government, and nothing more, but this hardly seems a reality, and, as we shall discuss shortly, political control is seldom achieved without economic power accompanying it.

If a transitioning democratic government then, wishes to prevent its people from becoming disillusioned, rather than argue they should “value democracy for its own sake,” the government ought to consider the benefits of providing positive rights to those citizens. If it is in fact the case that many people associate a change to a democratic regime with an increase in socioeconomic rights and benefits, then perhaps it behooves the newly created regime’s government to attempt to provide them. If people see a political opening as an opportunity to have access to material resources, along with more political influence, why should not the new government, a government that is part of a new regime that is based on the supposed will of the people, attempt to provide such goods for its people? In societies that previously were non-democratic, it is most likely that there was a great deal of economic inequality accompanying the political inequality. As such, moving forward, this economic inequality is something that

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most individuals likely would like to see addressed. When a government focuses on providing positive rights for its citizens, at least initially and at least to a limited degree, such socioeconomic disparities are acknowledged and addressed—leading to a populace feeling as though it has efficacy in the new democratic regime and like they are the ones directing the government (which is another expectation people have for democracy). Appeasement and satisfaction with the system is likely to give the new government more time to institutionalize its democratic regime and to help people begin seeing the value in the democratic system (even if it is not for “its own sake” quite yet).

In addition to arguments for initial limitations of rights based on concerns for the success of democratic transitions (that is the argument that a prioritization of positive rights over negative rights may increase the stability and longevity of democracy), the institutionalization of positive rights prior to negative right may be beneficial for the quality of democracy, as well. If there are inherent socio-economic problems that are unaddressed with positive rights, then those said inequalities will become institutionalized with political, economic, and social frameworks designed when only supporting or considering negative rights. Formal institutions created at the start of these governments, serve then, to continue to institute unequal relationships of power.

Such concerns and realities are at the center of both race and feminist theories. When societies are built upon unequal foundations from the start, there is little reason to believe that equality (political, social, or economic) will spring naturally from them later.

If we look to political theorist, Carol Pateman, we find an example of a basis for such a concern. In her book, The Sexual Contract, Pateman discusses the way that in many western states, democracy has been built on foundations of fraternal liberalism

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make it so fraternal institutions continue to shape the behavior and structure of our political, economic, and social systems—leading, in many cases, for such structures and behaviors to be non-democratic.49 It is also why Pateman argues that to achieve political democracy, the whole of society must be democratized. Pateman, looking at that power structures instituted in contractual relationships across society (be it in personal relationships such as marriage or public relationships such as in the workplace), argues that once these structures are formalized in contracts, inequality will be a permanent feature of the relationships. Such inequality prevents true democracy from existing within a society, even after new democratic institutions are introduced. It is necessary therefore, according to Pateman, that to achieve a democratic state, the whole of society and societal relations must be democratized.

While Pateman focuses primarily on altering the nature of contractual relationships she also has solutions based on notions of positive rights. For example,

Pateman argues that it would be beneficial for states to offer a basic wage to all citizens.50 Such steps are especially necessary early on in the democratization process. If they are merelyadded to the pre-existing system later, as has been the case with the adjustments made to liberalism (such as extending women the right to participate in the public sphere—particularly through giving them the right to vote), the foundations are still undemocratic as is the systems they continue to produce. This can be seen in the reality that even though women are now able to participate, institutional hold-overs continue to disadvantage them. One such hold-over is the democratic

49 Carol Pateman, The Sexual Contract (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1988). 50 Carol Pateman, “Democratizing Citizenship: Some Advantages of a Basic Income,” Politics & Society 32 (2004): 89-105.

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identity/citizen founded on an understanding of male citizenship. Women are asked to duplicate an identity that was created intentionally as juxtaposition to their exclusion.

They were prevented from first defining citizenship and the democratic instituions to use that citizenship within, and now, rather than create their own form of citizenship or political insittutions, are expected to replicate another that does not necessarily embody their interests or needs. Further, it is easy to see how women, initially without an independent economic holding in many liberal democratic states, now, even though many formal institutional barriers have been removed, still struggle to attain economic, political, and social equality. When formal and informal institutions are created in such modes of inequality, then, it is difficult to reverse such inequalities later, once the regime has consolidated. This is a primary reason why, in new democracies, it is important to have people equally advantaged (especially on their political and socio-economic status). Equal footing at the start of the democratic regime is necessary so that all have the ability to influence its structure and shape their identity within it. If they are excluded or marginalized from the new democracy, they will become a member of a system of which they have not designed nor defined. Not having this influence and ownership should be seen as a troubling point both for the normative purpose of democracies and the practical application of them. If people are without efficacy in foundationally unequal democracies, they have very little reason to stay committed to that regime type.

Other theoretical frameworks, in addition to feminism and race theory, also argue that once original power relations are instituted within a new system, those within that said relationship are instituted in a structure of inequality that it is difficult, especially within contract-based systems, to break free of. This is at the heart of the concerns

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Marxists and Constructivists who argue that if those with power (economic and political) are the ones to create the initial institutions and to shape the values and ideas of a society, the long-term implications for democracy are incredibly troubling. Those with economic power tend to influence politics more, and will design institutions that perpetuate those powers and interests. Looking to Gaventa’s discussion in Power and the Powerlessness, we see how those in positions of economic power are even able to create the rhetoric, values, desires, and ideas that shape the patterns of thought and behavior of others within the society—particularly those who are poorer and stand to gain the most in a change to the present system.51 By studying communities within the

Appalachian region of the United States, Gaventa seeks to explain why the poorest and most disadvantaged individuals within the system continue to remain complacent and quiescent within it.

To understand the patterns of behavior, Gaventa contends we must understand the three different dimensional approaches to power that structure relationships between different sets of people. In the first dimension of power, built off of Dahl’s understanding, is exerted when entity A gets entity B to do something he/she/they would not otherwise do through the use primarily of “superior bargaining resources.”52

In this dimension of power then, A and B have different articulated interests, but A’s interests trump B’s because A has more resources available to succeed in advancing his/her/their agenda. In the second dimension of power, B exerts power over A by effectively constructing obstructions to A’s participation. Such obstructions not only

51 John Gaventa, Power and the Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1982), 106-131. 52 Ibid., 5, 21.

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prevent A from participating, but also prevent issues that may be of concern to B from entering the discourse and political arena.53 In this case, B does not even attempt to put forward his/her/their interests because there are barriers preventing participation, A is the actor with the means to decide what is an issue and who has access to addressing the issue, and because B expects defeat and therefore sees no reason to attempt to advance his/her/their interests.54 The third dimension of power goes beyond just A having more resources than B to keep Bs interests at bay or to prevent B from participating in the process with his/her/their interests in the first place. In the third dimension of power, A actually shapes the interests of B to the point that B does not even realize what his/her/their interests are, and may even be motivated to accept ideas that are not in his/her/their interests at all. Gaventa, building off of Steven Lukes’ conceptualization of power, concludes that it is the three dimensional approach to power which explains the nature of the relationship between the poor masses and the rich elites within these communities and why the poor individuals fail to rebel. Gaventa, referencing Lukes’ work, explains that the three dimensional approach is distinguished from the first two approaches in that

‘A may exercise power over B by getting him to do what he does not want to do, but he also exercises power over him by influencing, shaping or determining his very wants.’ Not only might A exercise power over B by prevailing in the resolution of key issues or by preventing B from effectively raising those issues, but also through affecting B’s conceptions of the issues altogether…‘This may happen in the absence of a discernible conflict, which may have been successfully averted,’ though there must be latent conflict, which consists, Luke argues, ‘in a contradiction between the interests of the exercising power and the real interests of those excluded.’… Analysis of power must avoid the individualistic, behavioral confines of the one—and to some extent the

53 Ibid., 9. 54 Ibid., 9, 20.

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two-dimensional approaches. It must allow for consideration of the many ways in which potential issues are kept out of politics, whether through the operation of social forces and institutional practices or through individuals’ decisions.’55

Essentially in the third dimensional approach, A is able to manipulate B to the point where B is no longer even conscious of his/her/their true interests, and thus he/she/they never even entertain(s) the thought of contesting the interests put forth by A. When looking at the Appalachian communities from this understanding of the structure of power, Gaventa argues that the poor individuals are convinced that they are responsible for the situation they find themselves within and believe that if they wanted to alter their circumstances, they possess that power to do so—a narrative they have been fed by the elite who look to maintain their positions of economic and political power. With this type of consciousness (the very type of “false consciousness” at the heart of a Marxist analysis), the Appalachian poor (the B’s) believe that the source of the problems they encounter lies not within the design of their system but within their own actions. The reason then that they do not rebel against the system is because they believe the system is just and is designed to facilitate and advance their interests, when as we see from Gaventa’s analysis, their interests are actually being inherently worked against within the system. While each of the three dimensions of power is constructed on relationships of resource inequality, it is this third dimensional power construction that is especially troubling to democracy as in this case, a vast disparity in economic levels can lead to populations being manipulated and prevented from realizing what their own interests are. Without the ability to realize interests, individuals remain unable to pursue a defense of those interests in the political system. If we accept as political scientists

55 Ibid., 12.

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the idea that voters need to make decisions rationally (that is, be able to define a list of interests and vote according to their priorities as articulated within that list) for democracy to be functioning effectively and for citizens to have efficacy within that system, then this is a truly problematic reality for democracies where positive rights failed to develop early on in the transition as interests are able to be manipulated and institutionalized by those with the most economic resources.

In Sven Steinmo’s “American Exceptionalism Reconsidered,” we see another example of how economic inequalities can lead to political inequality through the utilization of narratives created by those with economic power to structure the behavior of the masses.56 Steinmo argues that the reason a strong welfare state developed in

Western European states but not in the United States is not because of historical cultural differences and traditions, but rather because of structural development variances—particularly the fragmentation of power in the United States.57 In making this argument, one example Steinmo provides is a historical analysis that makes it clear that the idea of American rugged individualism, rather than being a long-held tradition within society in the United States, is a narrative that was promoted by the American

Medical Association-funded public relations campaign looking to prevent socialized healthcare in the mid-20th century.58 Steinmo illustrates why the rejection of socialized healthcare is not a matter of American traditions and values of individualism, but is rather a result of the structure of power by going on to compare it with public education.

56 Sven Steinmo, “American Exceptionalism Reconsidered: Culture or Institutions?” in The Dynamics of American Politics: Approaches and Interpretations, ed. Lawrence Dodd and Calvin Jillson (Boulder: Westview Press, 1993), 106-131. 57 Ibid., 106. 58 Ibid., 111.

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He notes that while public education was already created in the United States and was a policy initiative that was acceptable to the masses and the “American tradition,” public healthcare, a policy rooted in much the same basic ideological premises, was deemed

“un-American” and thus rejected. As Steinmo explains,

free public education succeeded and became as American as apple pie, while health care became associated with an intrusive state—not because of fundamental differences these two types of policies. Instead, private education did not have wealthy and powerful organized interest group that could use the checks and balances of the American political system to veto this legislation.59

The fact that policy outcome was so clearly a matter of economic influence, illustrates how dangerous economic advantages can be for democracy. If given individuals, companies, or organization have a distinct advantage in that access to, and use of, economic resources, not only are they more likely to effectively shape policies and legislation, they are also more likely to create the ideas values, and norms that influence the behavior of the rest of the members of society. When inequalities held over from the previous regime become institutionalized within the new democratic system, those with the economic advantage from the previous system are most likely to design and benefit from the new regime and both its informal and formal institutions. Through the

Marxist and constructivist lenses then, like through feminist and race-theory lenses, we can see the potential danger in institutionalizing socio-economic inequalities and failing to provide some basic positive rights to the citizens at the inception of a democracy.

To prevent such a socioeconomic disparity from being institutionalized, a government might consider providing a threshold of positive rights to the citizens particularly during the early stages of democratic transition. By focusing on providing

59 Ibid.

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resources and tools promoted in positive rights (such as a basic sustainable income, land (in the case of rural populations), education, healthcare, social equality, and access to affordable food and water) new governments are not only enabling its citizens to survive, but also providing them with the ability and the resources to participate effectively within the new democratic system. Citizens with positive rights are democratic citizens with efficacy. They are able to inform themselves and define and articulate their interests and their preferences in government. If then, it is agreed by scholars that a limitation of rights is necessary (an argument I have not ruled on), it seems more beneficial to limit negative rights over positive rights in initial transitions.

Further, rather than just limiting negative rights, a promotion of positive rights seems advantageous given normative and empirical theoretical concerns and historical analysis. This combination of limited negative rights and ensured positive rights (the system introduced by the initial Revolutionary government in Cuba) helps not only in the stability created by limited quantities of contestation, but also by providing masses with what they often (correctly or erroneously) expect from democracy: socio-economic advances. Not only is the democratic transition more likely to succeed, but the quality and the degree of democracy are more likely to be higher when positive rights are introduced initially. One can contend then, that there is reason to preference governments transitioning to democracy to choose to provide positive rights for their citizens. At the very least, the assumption that negative rights are the only rights that matter for making a state democratic must be questioned.

Conclusion: Cuba’s Focus on Positive Rights

Looking at the political inequalities that existed prior to the Revolution, the

Revolutionary regime discovered that accompanying, and in many ways, fostering these

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political inequalities were the socio-economic inequalities that existed between Cuban citizens. To create political equality, socio-economic equality needed to exist. As such, the Revolutionary regime’s initial goals and policies focused on fostering such equality through the promotion of positive rights. More than the civil rights focused on by liberal democracies, the socialist democracy being built in Cuba primarily concentrates on such positive rights as education, healthcare, and equality between the sexes. Moving forward into Chapter 5 and Chapter 6, we will discuss how, despite the predominance of the focus on positive rights in building democracy in Cuba, the Revolutionary regime also allows for limited and newly conceptualized forms of negative rights, though limits such rights more. As we move now to Chapter 5, we will be discussing academic criticism of institutions in Cuba’s present regime for their constriction of the negative right of contestation and examining the reasons why those limits on contestation may not be as threatening to democracy as normally perceived.

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CHAPTER 5 SCHOLARS’ CRITICIMS OF CUBAN DEMOCRACY AND MY REPLIES FOR WHY SUCH FEATURES MAY NOT BE “THE DEFINING” DEMOCRATIC QUALITIES

Despite the socialist democracy self-definition with which the Revolutionary regime in Cuba has labeled itself, scholars generally categorize Cuba as being a non- democratic state. The rejection of a democratic categorization arises partly because western scholars largely focus on negative rights and specific formal institutions that are admittedly lacking to some degree within the Cuban system. Two of the chief institutional features of the Cuban regime that are of concern for western scholars are its one-party design and its electoral system. Both of these features are of prime importance to democratic scholars because they formally institutionalize and allow for the exercise of contestation—a negative right that is central to most conceptualizations of democracy. In this chapter, I will examine and discuss both the party and electoral structures in Cuba. I will argue that while there are democratic disadvantages with the

Cuban designs, there are also democratic deficits found within other traditionally accepted democratic designs.

The Single-Party System and Democracy

Cuba, for much of the Revolutionary regime’s existence, had a single-party system. Up until the early 1990s, the only party legally recognized in the state was the

Communist Party. Despite the former proscription that only the Communist Party was able to exist and operate within Cuba, it is no longer required that all individuals, nor in fact all candidates/public officials, be members of the Communist Party. It should be noted, however, that while public officials in Cuba do not have to belong to the

Communist Party to be elected, it is difficult to do so without the backing of organizations strongly influenced by, and in support of, the Communist Party. What one

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will find particularly interesting about the nature of the Communist Party in Cuba, is its lack of an overt involvement in the elections of officials, who, while often need to be in the favor of the party to make their way to higher government positions, do not rely on party support for campaigns. Campaigns, as shall be discussed in the next section on elections, are not permitted in Cuba. As such, the Communist party serves less as a foundation to propel individuals into office, and more as a structure largely dictating the interests, values, and goals of the Revolution within the political space in Cuba

Scholars have long argued that at least two parties are necessary for institutionalizing contestation, and as such, have charged that Cuba’s regime is undemocratic because of its one-party system. Even understandings of democratic consolidation, for example, are built under notions of having at least a two-party system.

For a democracy to be considered consolidated, according to this particular framework, power has to peacefully exchange hands from Party A to Party B and then back to Party

A again before it can be considered democratic. It is for this reason that Mexico, for example, was not viewed as being truly democratic until the exchange of power from

PRI to PAN and then back to PRI again. It is worth noting that this party focus is almost exclusively used as a tool at the national level, particularly within the executive position.

While playing an important level at lower levels, when trying to determine whether or not a state is democratic, local politics are seldom studied as necessary points of focus in democratic systems, though Jonathon Fox did break this pattern in the field by studying local politics, providing sound evidence for just how crucial local political behaviors and institutions are to democratic levels.1 Despite Fox’s well supported conclusion that local

1 Jonathon Fox, “Latin America’s Emerging Local Politics,” Journal of Democracy 5, no. 2 (1994): 105-116.

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politics are crucial to determining national regime types and effectiveness, by and large, is national level institutions that remain the chief criteria and subjects of study for determining whether or not a state is democratic.

There are several reasons why having more than one political party at the national level has been seen as a key component of democracy. Steve Levitsky and

Maxwell Cameron write about the necessity of institutionalized parties for the functioning of democracies in their article, “Democracy without Parties?” The two argue that one of the obvious reasons why having an institutionalized party system with more than one party is seen as being positive and necessary for a democracy is that it is argued to make the citizens’ act of voting more authentic, meaningful, and effective.2

Parties are able to do this by simplifying issues and providing general stances on, and approaches to, issues. Instead of having to be educated on individual candidates’ stances on all issues, a voter can have a basic understanding of the parties’ platforms, their past behavior, and ideological preferences when going to vote.3 This allows individuals, who may not have the time and resources to be educated on every issue and every candidate, to be able to make more informed decisions than they would be able to without a party-system to simplify and generalize differences between candidates. Past party behavior gives an indication to voters on what they might expect from the future decisions made by candidates within those parties. This point is what makes it so critical that these parties be institutionalized. If new parties are constantly arising, the voters do not have the same advantage in being able to predict the behavior

2 Steven Levitsky and Maxwelll Cameron, “Democracy without Parites? Political Parties and Regime Collapse in Peru,” Latin American Politics and Society 45, no. 3 (2003): 1-33. 3 Ibid.

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of the candidates and making a rational calculation in their voting.4 This is exactly the issue that was at heart of the threat Fujimori posed to democracy while president in

Peru, as pointed out by Levitsky and Cameron.5 In every new election, Fujimori created a new party under which to run. These parties, being new, provided no track record for voters to gauge what Fujimori’s policy preferences might be. Additionally, these parties, not being institutionalized, had little control over their candidate who used the party only as an empty façade, rather than the party providing structure and regulation of the candidate. The result is an unrestrained political leader.6

This weak party, unfettered public official structure leads into another problem that can help be tempered by parties: personalism.7 Parties help voters to make decisions between candidates based off of ideological, rather than based off of the charisma of the candidates which results in people voting for those candidates they find most likeable, rather than necessarily only on their ideological or policy stances. While not always resulting in anti-democratic consequences, the obvious danger with voting for someone based off of their personality rather than their political stances is that one risks voting in someone who is charismatic, but not democratic, and who, with the people’s support, gradually suspends democratic institutions becoming an autocratic leader and creating a non-democratic state. Further, while knowing someone’s character could aid the voters in deciding on whom they trust in office, it gives them little to go off of in actually predicting an individual candidate’s future behavior in office on a

4 Ibid. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid.

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given set of policy issues or political circumstances. A party helps to ensure that voters are looking at issues, and also helps to, varying with the nature of the particular party system, provide some levels of control over the elected official.

While there is theoretical and empirical support to bolster the ways in which systems with more than one party can be of benefit to a democratic regime, there is also support for the claim that they can hinder democracies as well, and at the very least, are not necessarily fundamentally different from single or no-party systems.

Further, just as two-party and multiparty systems have their advantages, there is reason to believe that there are some democratic advantages to a single or no-party system as well. Looking first at the two-party presidential system, we find that while parties are supposed to streamline choice and make the act of voting more meaningful for citizens, the two-party system in many ways severely limits and constricts choice for those citizens. The two-party system, as Downs posits with his median voter theorem in An

Economic Theory of Democracy, leads to parties both moving to the center of the political spectrum.8 To maximize votes received, parties go towards the center of the spectrum, thus abandoning, often times, more extreme differences and policy stances to receive the backing of more of the voting constituency. While some claim this to be an advantage of the system in that it is better able to represent the masses and is a more stable system in that there will not be drastic changes or sways every time there is a change of parties in power, having parties that more people vote for because of the amount of space they take up on the spectrum does not mean that those are the parties that people want to vote for or are truly representative of more people. As indicated in

8 Anthony Downs, An Economic Theory of Demcoracy (New York: Harper and Row, 1957).

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the US system, as a rational actor, in such a system, to make one’s vote the most meaningful and most likely to represent your interests, one must vote for whichever of the two parties is closer to one’s political preferences, even though there may be a third party with which the individual may better identify. Voting for a third party not only is unlikely to result in that third-party winning, but it also risks making it more likely that, out of the two main parties, the one that the individual identifies with the least could win.

Voting for the party that one best identifies with then, in this system, is often against the individual's best interest if he/she is acting as a rational, calculating individual. Rather than simplifying the process of choosing, this party system constricts the voters’ ability to select a candidate that is most representative of them.

The two party presidential system, as found in the US, also limits representation because of the structured division that exists in the regime design and because of the parties’ desire to gain power. Because power has been divided between an executive and legislative body separated from one another, it is possible for the executive and legislative branches to be ruled by different parties. While this division can be seen as a positive for democracy in that it prevents any group from gaining too much power and any legislation from being made in haste, it often results in gridlock as the two parties disagree over policy issues and fail to compromise in strategic efforts to gain popular support. The results can be huge inefficiency in policymaking and the failure to address the concerns of the public and best represent their interests. This lack of compromise, which is the result of the purposely divided structure, additionally leads to the public being ineffective in voting because it becomes difficult to determine who is responsible for the lack of change or for bad policy decisions. With two parties in power and with

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the executive and legislative branches acting independently of one another, it becomes complicated to hold elected officials and political parties accountable because specific actions or inactions cannot be pinpointed as the responsibility of anyone. A blame game in which there are outs for all actors and parties absences responsibility and, subsequently, accountability. Voters are left guessing who is most responsible, as parties point fingers for faults and claim responsibility for victories. Rather than making it simpler for voters to best make a decision that represents them, this structure convolutes the political process and hinders voters from being able to effectively convey their political desires. This is problematic not only for voters seeking democratic representation, but also for parties and candidates looking to the public for guidance.

What message, for example, does it send to elected officials in an election where a

Democrat is elected president and Republicans win the majority in Congress? With this type of electoral results, what is it that the public is truly asking for in terms of political direction? Such a seemingly contradicting and incoherent political body being elected, does not make it clear to officials what it is exactly the public desires. Of course, one may argue that the public is able to send a clear message if it votes a party to have the majority in the House of Representatives and the Senate, as well as that same party to take control of the executive, however, this does not absent the concerns that exist when the results, such as in my example above, are mixed.

Finally, just as the single or no party system can suffer from personalism, so too, can the two party presidential system, like the one in the US, lead to voters voting based more off of personality than the policies of the candidates. In this system in the

US, parties, while, as indicated in the point above, having a huge presence in the

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political process, are relatively weak compared to parties found within parliamentary systems. Rather than parties choosing candidates, like in many parliamentary systems, it is largely the general populace that decides which candidates will be running on the party's ticket through the caucus and primary processes. Candidates who may have less experience with, and loyalty to, a party are capable of gaining the nomination if able to sway and win over the public. As such, in decisions concerning who becomes the nominee, the general populace is able to consider factors such as personality and be swayed on characteristics such as charisma, rather than just focusing on the political substance of the candidates. In systems with more party control, on the other hand, it is the party that decides which candidates will be on the ticket, and does so on the basis of political allegiance and past political behavior.

Additionally leading to voting based more off of personalism, is the nature of the executive in the presidential systems as is found in the US. In this system, the executive must act both as head of government, which allots that leader with substantive political duties, as well as at as head of state, which has proscribed ceremonial and symbolic duties. These ceremonial duties found in the head of state role leave the executive with responsibility of acting as the symbolic representation of the state, and as such, the exexcutive ends up being a reflection of the state’s character. This gives the populace genuine incentive to vote based not just on the policies of the candidate, but on the candidate’s personality. Voting for a candidate based off of his/her personality is thus not a flaw of the citizens, but an encouraged behavior given the nature of the executive institution. Voting based off of personality, which is most often associated with candidates with perceived charisma, can lead to

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voting for a nondemocratic candidate. While the concerns of voting in a charismatic leader who suspends democratic rights may be lower in institutionalized and consolidated democracies, within a state that has recently made the transition to being democratic, this threat still remains a genuine possibility as both Arturo Valenzuela9 and

Juan Linz10 caution is a concern with a presidential system. As such, the concerns of personalism hurled at a single party or no party system may also exist within the two- party presidential system.

The multi-party parliamentary system is not one without its own set of problems for democracy as well. To begin with, in this system, actual compromise is made very infrequently when there is a single party majority. Because the executive and legislative branches are fused in the parliamentary system, the ruling party is able to pass legislation as it deems with relative ease. Because it has majority, while it may entertain the criticisms and concerns of the non-ruling parties, it is still able to pass the legislation however it sees fit as it has the majority it needs to do so without compromise. While this helps voters keep parties accountable, as it is clear who is responsible for the policies made, it can lead to drastic policy changes as the majority changes, and it leaves the minority party with very little power. When there is not a single majority party, and the formation of the coalition becomes necessary to gain a majority, compromise between parties does become a necessity. Yet these coalitions present their own set of challenges to a democracy. In making compromises to attain a majority, parties contradict some of their stances. While this in many ways is seen as a

9 Arturo Valenzuela, “Latin American Presidencies Interrupted,” Journal of Democracy 15, no. 4(2004): 5-19. 10 Juan Linz, “The Perils of Presidentialism,” Journal of Democracy 1, no. 1(1990): 51-69.

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hallmark of democracy, it can also lead to high levels of incoherent policies that, in the end, because of all the compromises, are not only inefficient, but also no longer representative of the constituency.

The multiparty parliamentary system is additionally problematic for democracy in the huge amount of power it places in the hands of parties and takes from the people.

Whereas in the two-party presidential system, like that found in the US, the party has little control over selecting the candidates that become the party nomination, in some multiparty parliamentary systems, the party can have almost complete control over selecting candidates. The problem here becomes that only those candidates who have received the favor of their parties from past practices of loyalty (which the parties will determine what constitutes such favor), will move up on the candidate list. This means that either those who are highest in the party, or the majority in the party, will have the power to decide which candidates will be placed at the top of the list. The reason this is troubling for democracy is because it leaves little room for dissent within the party for any candidate interested in becoming a public official. While not ruling out contestation, it gives little incentive to party members to disagree with the party platforms.

This level of party discipline continues to exist once candidates are in office. All party members vote together. The idea of the candidate acting on his or her own conscience is largely inconceivable within this system. Contestation by individuals within the party has little place in the system. Contestation, which is supposed to be one of the products of a party system, is thus severely limited because of the strength parties have within the parliamentary system. If we are going to criticize other systems for not having the contestation Dahl argues to be necessary for a functioning

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democracy, we must be willing at present to criticize the same features in our own systems which we usually label as being democratic.11

Having looked at the ways in which having a two party or multiparty system can hinder democracy, we now look at the ways in which a single party system may actually benefit democracy. To begin with, while contestation is admittedly an important feature of democracy, institutionalized division may not be inherently democratic. In fact, institutionalized division, such as that provided by having multiple parties, is inherently exclusionary in nature. Such division provided by parties with their ideological platforms, forces a single worldview for addressing all issues. These ideological differences deter thoughtful and open-minded efforts at understanding others' opinions and creating legislation. Members from opposing parties have different goals in mind when making legislation. While both or all parties may say they are ultimately concerned with the same thing (most likely the good of the state), what they believe that good to be is often fundamentally different. With not being able to work towards the same goals, contestation to the degree of the inability of parties to work with one another becomes a likely outcome.

Additionally, the two and multi-party systems in their institutionalized division increase the game-like approach to politics. That is to say, political goals and preferences become something to be won at the expense of others. Other parties literally become known and understood in terms of being the opposition. In this opposition mentality framework, parties begin seeing other parties, their members, and their constituencies as competition, rather than as individuals with whom to work to

11 Robert Dahl, Polyarchy: Participation and Opposition (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1971).

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reach democratic solutions. It essentially becomes a winner takes all system, and thoughts of compromise or any changes or concessions to original plans are seen as a loss. Debates become meaningless, as officials talk at one another with no intention of listening to any reason provided by the members of the other parties. This is the exact opposite of the type of discursive democracy Habermas argues is desirable.

Contestation is only valuable in its ability to find the best solution—that is, it only works when all parties come to the table willing to understand one another and those points being contested. Tolerance of the other is not enough in contestation, one must be aiming for shared understanding. The idea that contestation for contestation’s sake is good does not necessarily resonate as being beneficial to democracy. Contestation, without efforts to understand, leads to inefficient and uninformed policy-making. Parties talk past one another with no intent to actually listen to, or address the concerns of, the other parties. When concession or changes are made to policies, it is not usually because the party conceding agrees or has been convinced of the changes, but because these concessions are necessary for gaining the required amount of votes for the legislation to pass. The policies become hodge-podges of incoherent agendas, and often are ineffective when implemented as a result. Consequently, not only does this type of contestation slow down policy-making (as some democratic theorists argue is a good thing), but it actually makes the policies that are passed not necessarily as optimal as they could be had genuine discourse concerning them occurred. Contestation disrupts, rather than aids, policy-making in such a structure.

The acceptance of contestation without the accompaniment of understanding as a necessary feature of democracy is troubling not only as it relates to the competition

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between parties, but also in the call for tolerance of all parties. More contestation, on

Dahl’s chart, equates being more democratic, or closer to being a polyarchy. So theoretically, more parties should equate more contestation and higher levels of democracy. Yet, as has been pointed out in criticisms of Putnam’s desire for social capital, not all organizations or parties people join to express their contestation are democratic. When parties form to inherently exclude populations based on race, for example, or are created to reduce democratic institutions, such contestation is not beneficial to democracy, and actually injures it. Contestation must exist within a system based on shared understanding and desires to work with, not against, those with differing views.

This institutionalized division and game-like structure created in the party system, besides leading to inefficient policy making, also can lead to a demonizing of the other and eventually, if the difference between the “other” is exaggerated enough, violent conflict. In discussions of nationalism, scholars often argue that while ethnic nationalism, a nationalism that is inherently exclusive and based on involuntary factors, is potentially a negative form of nationalism for democracy, civic nationalism, based off of the political traits, values, and behaviors of a population’s regime, is a positive feature. The argument goes that because of the inherently exclusive nature of ethnic nationalism, there is no chance at a unified, inclusive, and voluntary identity, whereas a civic identity is one an entire population can share, and all individuals can choose to join. States see merit not only in the unification such an identity brings, but the legitimacy it brings the regime and governments as well—hence the prevalence of civic government classes. Yet much discussion has not delved into the ways in which civic

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identities, which can include party identifications, can be negative for democracy. While parties are generally civic in nature, they still can become exclusive and non-tolerant of the others. Permitting anyone to join the party, does not mean certain populations or those with given political ideologies are not discouraged from joining such groups. For while anyone might be able to join a given party, it may not be in his/her best interest to do so. In fact, a party could very well work against the interests of that individual, and political ideologies between the individual and the party could be diametrically opposed with one another. In such a case, the fact that one can voluntarily join the party is meaningless if that individual has no rational incentive to do so.

The exclusive nature of these ideological differences, if the said differences are drastic and exaggerated enough, can be used as discriminating factors, and political repression and violence may result when fear and power are used to exploit these differences. Rather than political violence based off of ethnicity, such as genocide, political violence based on political ideologies when one party excludes the participation of other party members is the result. The political realities in Chile after Allende was overthrown or in Argentina during the Dirty War are evidence of how political preferences as articulated in party platforms can lead to political violence and repression. In such cases those in power tortured, executed, and disappeared those who had opposition party affiliation. Anyone suspected of loyalties to the opposition party was seen as a threat and dealt with accordingly. Party identification, rather than providing civic identity promoting positive unification amongst the population, served as a means to discriminate against and marginalize those with differing political views.

Party identities do not have to lead to violence to still lead to negative consequences for

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population unification. One must look no further than the US currently for such an example. Ideological preferences and differences have at times been so demonized, that the mere mention of the ideology is a condemnation in itself with all of the negative connotations it is meant to incur. Those on the right for example, to incite fear into the

American population and draw votes away from the left, merely have to insinuate and suggest that a specific policy, platform, candidate, or agenda of the Democratic Party are socialist. The ideological term has become a dirty word in the American political vocabulary. Rather than being a reasonable ideological stance, the term has been made synonymous with something being un-American, and those who embrace the term are portrayed as being extremists. Parties take advantage of their ability to influence discourse and to create irreconcilable space between themselves and the other parties. Trying to exaggerate differences by demonizing the other party is a tactic parties are encouraged to use in the game-structured arena of party politics. Politics thus must no longer be approached as a game, and parties presently help to provide that game-like structure of unproductive contestation.

At this point then, it is necessary for the field to begin accepting the idea that institutionalized division, through the creation and maintenance of party systems, is not synonymous with, nor necessarily conducive to, democracy. Although contestation remains an important feature to the survival of democracy, it is imperative to take note the manner in which that contestation is achieved and to realize that a two or multiparty system may not be the most effective way of institutionalizing or developing contestation conducive to democracy. In short, it is not division that helps democracy, but rather the flow of multiple vantage points coming from actors determined to understand others and

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to work towards achieving a common good-- not presently a feature of most party structures. Productive contestation remains missing—including from most of the states we presently label democratic. If we accept the important function provided by contestation within a democratic system, we must begin to think more critically about what structures are most likely to produce and sustain it.

As I have discussed why two and multiparty systems may not be adequate in achieving productive democratic contestation due to their exclusionary and polarizing natures, it is now worth exploring whether or not single party systems, such as the one found in Cuba, are able to achieve it. As the state of the discipline currently condemns single-party systems in its viewing two and multiparty systems as being necessary for democracy (for the reasons listed above), more time here will be focused on offering support for the idea that single party systems may be beneficial to democracy.

Whereas a two or multiparty system inherently is designed to divide groups, a single- party system at least offers the possibility of unification and shared starting points or goals for a population. Its design is inclusive in nature and encourages individuals to work under the same set of premises and towards the same goals. There are, of course, given this set-up, expectations that all individuals accept certain foundational ideological starting points and conceptualizations of what the government’s purpose is.

In the case of Cuba, the starting point is accepting the regime’s efforts to build and maintain a socialist state based off of the understanding that political equality is tied to economic equality and political freedom is attached to state sovereignty. While different ideas on how to achieve the socialist and sovereign goals are permissible within such a

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system, alternative goals and systems are not. Fidel Castro makes this point explicitly clear in his “Speech to Intellectuals” in June of 1961 stating,

this means that within the Revolution, everything goes; against the Revolution, nothing. Nothing against the Revolution, because the Revolution has its rights also, and the first right of the Revolution is the right to exist, and no one can stand against the right of the Revolution to be and to exist, No one can rightfully claim a right against the Revolution. Since it takes in the interests of the people and signifies the interests of the entire nation…What are the rights of revolutionary or non-revolutionary writers and artists? Within the Revolution, everything against the Revolution, no rights at all…It is a basic principle of the Revolution. Counterrevolutionaries—that is, the enemies of the Revolution—have no right against the Revolution, because the Revolution has a right: the right to exist, the right to develop, and the right to win.12

What Castro is making the designs for in this speech is a constained plurality, a tempered contestation. Critical discussion and creations are allowed, insofar as they seek to aid or improve upon the Revolution’s efforts at reaching its goals. The government allows for multiple ideas on how to best achieve the Revolution's goals, but it does not allow for goals involving the pursuit of alternative regime types or alternative agendas.

There is certainly evidence of clear efforts and tolerance of contestation within the bounds determined by the government. In the 1990s, for example, there was a split between those looking to maintain a hardline stance at interpretations of the Revolution

(primarily a stance inhabited by those who had been a part of the government for more time) and reformers, who tended to be newer members of the government.13 It is worth noting that once the new direction was chosen, those who had been contesting were

12 Fidel Castro, “Castro’s Speech to Intellectuals,” Latin American Network Information Center: University of Texas, Austin, 1961. 13 Javier Corrales, “The Gatekeeper State: Limited Economic Reforms and Regime Survival in Cuba, 1989-2002,” Latin American Research Review 39, no. 2(2004): 35-65.

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expected to concede or get out of the way of the new efforts. Contestation is to serve as a way of informing and understanding, but once a decision is made, allegiance and commitment to that decision are expected. While this perhaps makes policies more effective, and in the end, better, for a population, there is some concern with what it means for the fullness of the democratic process and the negative rights of both citizens and political officials.

The negative rights that liberal democracies and many academics stress to be central to a democratic state and society are limited in the Cuban case and made subservient to the right of the regime to survive, which Castro argues best protects the rights of Cubans. The limits to plurality are primarily motivated by the concern for the ability of the regime to survive. This chief priority for the continued survival of the regime is clearly indicated and defended by Castro in the quote shared above. The

Revolution and its efforts must be protected and preserved at all costs, and this means being vigilant of both domestic and foreign threats. Castro’s effort to limit the extent and type of contestation is not qualitatively different from other states’ efforts at determining what is permissible contestation or dissent within their socieities. As was indicated earlier in this chapter, given the historical relationship between Cuba and other states, most recently the US, Cuba has reason for legitimate concern about outside interference and threats to its sovereignty. The issues concerning its limitations of negative rights and its desire for a single-party system may have just as much to do with its desire to maintain sovereignty as it does with its vision of what a democratic society is.

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As will be discussed later in the work, there are times since the Revolution in which the government has censored and restricted the freedoms of directors and the cinematic industry citing the threats they posed to the Revolution because of their anti-

Revolutionary content. While interviewing a Cuban director with a prominent place in

ICAIC who was present both during the Revolution and ICAIC’s founding, I inquired as to whether or not looking back at any of the governments’ actions or censorship of the cinematic industry if he found any of it to be unnecessary or if there were any policies with which he disagreed. The individual responded by explaining that under certain circumstances, particularly those involving state security, decisions that are not normally made, are. He explained how things at that point in Cuba’s history were different given the Cold War structure and concerns. Concerns that may seem trivial in another setting take on more importance when state security is threatened. Citing examples of similar behaviors in US history such as the Japanese internment camps during World War

Two, the Red Scare and McCarthyism that led to witch hunts in film and journalism during the Cold War, and the Patriot Act created and implemented post-September 11th,

I explained that given perceived external threats to state security, my own state had suspended negative rights as well in the name of protecting the state and its democratic regime—a point to which, he immediately agreed.

The suspension of negative rights then, does not seem unique to single party states, but is one rather of states who feel a threat to the security of the state and/or regime. We might, then, as is the case in the United States, argue that in such moments, policies may be undemocratic in nature, but such assessments of individual policies seldom interferes with the overall label of our democratic regime. That is,

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undemocratic policies do not generally call into question whether or not the regime is democratic in cases we have already labeled consolidated democracies—they are merely mars on an otherwise democratic state. Yet for academics to use a similar behavior of what is not normally considered to be a consolidated democratic state as grounds for the argument that the state is not democratic, is hardly an acceptable grounds of qualification. Instead, the motivation from the non-democratic policy must be considered—and in these cases there is a striking similarity in the motivating factors: concerns for state security. During perceived external threats, negative rights are often suspended and the democratic nature of a state is jeopardized or at least reduced in scope. What must be looked at, and will be examined at the end of this chapter, is how pervasive of a threat exists, and if the nature of the right limitations is warranted given that threat level. That is, is there something to be concerned about that would legitimate a state’s claims that the limitation of rights was done in the true interest of the state and its citizens, and was not a means of limiting democratic rights for the sake of limiting democracy? In short, it may be the case that intent of policy decisions must be considered as much as their content and the process by which they are made when making determinations about the degree to which a state can be labeled democratic.

This conceptualization of the place of contestation and its limits concerning the greater efforts to protect the Revolutionary regime must be considered when examining the one-party system present there. Castro has laid out a vision of a society working together towards a unified goal. While he still retains an end goal that is similar to other leaders and states (a claim towards trying to do what is in the peoples’ and state’s interest), he goes beyond this vague motivator and sets out to defend and create a very

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specific ideological goal. Achieving this goal necessitates a coherent and unified effort, not only because as Che Guevara points out, of the challenge posed by creating a new type of citizens with a new pattern of thinking and desires (given the shift from a liberal to a socialist society), but because of the institutions that need to be created and maintained in a post-revolution state ninety miles from a hostile neighbor.14 Fidel

Castro’s brother and predecessor, Raul Castro, has echoed this as a concern in his defense and assertion that a single-party system remains necessary in Cuba in a speech in January of 2012. As the BBC reports,

“giving up the principle of one party would simply amount to allowing the party or parties of imperialism on national soil,” Mr. Castro added that those who thought Cuba should return to multiparty democracy ignored "the history of permanent aggression, economic blockade, interference and media siege" that Cuba had faced from the US.15

Not only is the state having to deal with internal threats to power in wake of the

Revolution it just went through, but it was also in the midst of external threats to its sovereignty given the Cold War context originally, and continues to . For such reasons, seeking unified solidarity is a necessity for the new regime. Having a single party with defined goals is one way to achieve this solidarity and to prevent division and contestation about the direction of the state from overwhelming the regime and leading into a collapsed state.

Even without the threat of a state collapse or international efforts at regime sabotage, there are other reasons why a single-party system could be best for a democracy. One such reason is the efficiency and efficacy in can bring to policy

14 Ernesto Che Guevara, “Socialism and Man in Cuba,” in The Che Guevara Reader: Writings on Politics and Revolution, 2nd edn., ed. David Deutschmann (Melbourne and New York: Ocean Press, 2003), 212-228. 15 “Raul Castro Defends Cuba’s One-party System,” BBC News, January 29, 2012.

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making. Although both the Democratic and Republican parties in the US technically are adherents to Liberalism, their interpretations of that ideology and what the ideal society look like are vastly different from one another. As discussed earlier, the divisive nature rooted in such different conceptualizations and goals makes productive contestation incredibly difficult to achieve. Parties talk past one another, or worse, belittle one another, and often become more concerned with making the other party appear bad to the electorate than with making sound policies that benefit the state and its citizens.

The single party system prevents such distractions from arising and encourages civility as its structure demands that all citizens and politicians be working towards the same set of goals. More policies can be developed when officials are discussing policy design, as opposed to debating over what the set of goals should be in the first place.

The focus instead tends to remain on the goals set by the Revolution, and policy- making becomes less of a competition and more of a concerted, collective effort centered on achieving those goals. As such, the unification offered by a single-party system can actually help to better achieve the goals of the people in a timely and coherent manner (assuming, of course, that the people’s goals align with the regime’s).

While, as noted above, the current government in Cuba headed by Raul Castro continues to argue the necessity of a single party system as it contends that “allowing other political parties would threaten Cuba's independence and the socialist system established by the 1959 revolution,” Raul does argue for more democratic reform within the single-party system.16 The BBC reported that Raul Castro, in his aforementioned speech in 2012, “said the Communist Party should promote greater democracy and

16 Ibid.

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open debate within its own ranks and in the mass media.”17 Again, this harkens back to a reiteration of the official stance set by Fidel Castro in his speech. While immediately after the Revolution, given the infancy of the regime, there was stricter control over the scope of debate and contestation, Raul Castro now, over 50 years after the Revolution, is easing that control and allowing for that scope of debate and contestation to be expanded. This suggests that while the Revolutionary regime continues to place limits on contestation and debate, such limits may be motivated more by concerns with sovereignty than with a genuine desire to prevent democratic contestation. The intent then may be less sinister than is sometimes assumed in our scholarly literature and fundamentally no different from the limits other states traditionally labeled democratic place on their citizens in times of political uncertainty. This is a line of inquiry we will discuss in greater detail in Chapter 6.

Electoral Systems and Democracy

In my teaching experience, I have discovered that most of my undergraduate students, when asked to explain what democracy is, will define it in one of two ways.

Either it is 1) a government, by, of, and for the people (a definition that quickly becomes inadequate when the students are pressed to detail how this is manifested in formal and informal institutions), or 2) is a regime system centered on “free and fair elections.” It is this second understanding of democracy that often is used as a reason for discrediting the Cuban government’s claim that it is a democracy. While most scholars do not make the claim that elections are necessary for a democracy (rather, it is accountability that is important to the regime, and elections are one means of achieving some form of

17 Ibid.

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accountability in a representative democratic system), as a field, particularly one devoted to the building of democracies, we are concerned with the study of elections, and as such they do remain, both in academic and political scrutiny, a necessary feature for determining democratic levels in states.

The idea that elections are not necessary features of democracies goes back to many early democratic states. Some ancient democratic systems, for example, had lotteries rather than elections to determine leaders. While the ancient Greeks, for example, severely constrained the pool of who was eligible to be a leader, amidst that group, a single name was drawn to be the leader for the term. Anyone, within the eligible applicants, could become leader. This random and temporal nature of the leadership position served as a type of accountability within the system. One must be careful while ruling, because anyone else may have that position in the future. This can help to curb abuses of power and encourage one to act in the best interests of the state as in the future, that power and responsibility will belong to someone else who one would like to see act similarly. The lottery system also, most notably in contrast to the present system in the US, saves a great deal of money, time, and other resources used to determine a candidate. Further, one may even argue that such a system is more democratic in that it quite literally makes it possible for any individual to become the head leader of the state. And for those concerned with the possibility that an unqualified or potentially undemocratic candidate could be chosen in a lottery system, as Plato has pointed out, this possibility exists and is likely in an electoral system as well.

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We do not have to look back in history to find examples of democracy without elections. We have today a host of cases of direct democracy, in which citizens vote directly on issues rather than voting for representatives charged with deciding on those issues. This system, much like the lottery system, garnishes much debate concerning its democratic merit. Some argue that it is most democratic since it allows people to directly select their preferences, without relying on a representative to decide for them.

Others argue it is undemocratic, because 1) the average citizen does not have the time nor the resources to research issues and make informed judgments on them, and 2) a collection of peoples’ preferences does not equate democracy necessarily.18 The process of allowing all to vote their preference does not guarantee that the substance or content of the policies will be democratic. This was the crux of the founders’ concern with the tyranny of the majority—a mass of uninformed individuals would dominate the political arena, and the rights of the minority would be trampled. Still, whatever the controversies they bring with them, the fact remains that there are a host of systems, like direct democracies and lotteries, we accept as being democratic that are without elections.

Cuba, while it has neither a lottery nor a direct democracy system, does have an electoral structure that is significantly different from traditional electoral designs, and as such, is the subject of democratic scrutiny. The electoral process and regime structure are somewhat complicated to follow. Particularly telling of this reality is the reaction a host of Cuban friends had when I showed them a chart of the regime’s structure. The chart was provided by the Cuban government, and I had received it from the flight

18 Jean Bethke Elshtain, “Poll Positions: Leaders’ Over-Dependence on Public Opinion” in Principles and Practice of American Politics: Classic and Contemporary Readings, ed. Samuel Kernell and Steven Smith (Washington, DC: CQ Press, 2000), 595-597

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company on my way to Havana on my fourth trip. One of my friends, upon seeing the chart, stared with fascination at it, and then asked if he could take a picture of it so he could show his friends as he had never seen it before. Another, even when looking at the chart, was unable to explain to me the structure of the power between the different branches. A third friend, when asked to explain the structure of power to me, at first began trying to come up with an explanation, and then said that it was very simple and that all the power came from the top (pointing to the executive position the Castro brothers have held). It is important to note, that all of these individualsl had attended college and were well-educated, and all struggled to explain how the government actually was structured. Of course those concerned with efficacy in democracy will find this a troubling point. It is worth noting, however, that this ignorance seems to be something that the government is trying to address, as a host-sibling I stayed with was actually given a similar chart at school where they were learning about how the state was structured. So it appears there is an effort on the part of the government to educate its citizens on how the regime in place is structured and functions, even if for many within the population, the structure currently remains one that is somewhat difficult to articulate.

From the current democratic literature standpoint, there are a number of problems with this system. One of the concerns with the system is that citizens do not directly vote in the executive. As it is the General Assembly that elects the executive, citizens only indirectly influence the selection of the state’s highest office. While upon first examination, this may seem problematic for democracy, it is not drastically different from the parliamentary systems in which the majority parties select the prime minister.

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In the parliamentary system, rather than the public deciding which candidate they desire, they vote for a party which makes that determination if it (the party) wins the majority. If it is through party loyalty that individuals within the parliamentary system are able to increase their odds of becoming public officials. In the Cuban regime’s structure citizens indirectly influence the executive selection by voting for municipal level officials and by taking part in different organizations that influence official selection at higher government levels. And only those who have shown commitment to the party are able to participate in the selection of the candidates. The Cuban system is thus not categorically different from a strong party parliamentary system. To receive a higher government position, a candidate must show loyalty to the values of the Communist

Party. Similarly, to influence the selection of the candidate, those who are part of organizations that support the Communist Party have the best opportunity to do so.

What we find then in both the parliamentary and Cuban systems is that those most invested and committed to the system are rewarded and their ability to receive a position within government and also the ability to influence the selection of other candidates seeking to inhabit government positions.

A second concern with the system is that it gives the advantage to incumbents— particularly those who have been a part of the Revolutionary regime the longest. The concern here becomes that those who historically have had power in the government are able to maintain those positions of power even if the voting demographic and its interests have changed. This is not a situation that is unlike many other democratic states. As I have already mentioned, parliamentary systems reward those individuals with records and histories of party support, and in the United States, incumbent officials

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often have the advantage in elections (be it because of their name recognition, the advantages they have in securing financial support for their campaigns, etc.) and in securing positions on committees. Having people in office longer does not mean the system is less democratic; in fact, arguments could be made for how this benefits government efficacy. Many democratic states then, are built with institutions that give preference to officials who have been in power the longest. What is different in the case of Cuba, however, is that since its victory, the Revolutionary government has held staunchly to, and imparted to the population, the idea that the Revolution should never die. For a regime that is based off of the principle of constant Revolution, which the

Cuban system is, stagnancy does present a genuine problem. A friend I met while in

Cuba, who is both a staunch supporter of the Revolution and the socialist ideals it stands for, one day expressed concern to me about the fact that there was stagnancy within the Revolutionary government because the older members of the government were unwilling to yield to the ideas of younger revolutionaries: in short, older revolutionaries had a monopoly on what constituted acceptable revolutionary policies.

While some may argue such a government ideal (a revolutionary government) is a contradiction as the idea of an institutionalized political body is seemingly at odds with a call for revolution, it is one that not only the government, but some of the Cuban population as well, believes is possible. What they seek is a structure that institutionalizes change. When then, change is not occurring because those with the most power are those with dated preferences, the constant revolution regime is not fulfilling its own design goals.

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Raul Castro, while not eliminating this problem, has begun to address it. One way he has sought to do so is introducing the idea of having term limits. This stance dovetails nicely with his other argument for more debate within the party, as both point towards a desire to become more inclusive in determining the direction of the

Revolution. The term limits, unlike the call for more debate, however, are a concrete and formally institutionalized way of making certain that no individuals’ agenda monopolizes the shape of the Revolution. Term limits thus, while not solving all problems with stagnancy within the design, nor limiting the involvement or power of those with the most time devoted to other bodies that influence the government greatly—like the Communist Party—does still make a constant revolution a more achievable reality by preventing elected officials from making the General Assembly a system wedded to a dated status quo.

The friend’s concern about the stagnancy of the Revolution is one I heard echoed by others, and is one that, whatever the designs of the system, will be addressed—even if it is not directly by the government in term limit laws, but rather the laws of nature. The original Revolutionary government is gradually dying. Now, over fifty years after the Revolutionary regime institutionalized, original members are starting to fade from the scene. Many scholars and observers, considering the age of the leaders, speculate what the Cuban government will look like once Fidel and Raul Castro are deceased. Yet arguably just as vital as these two executive leaders’ presence has been the presence of career incumbents in the General Assembly. They were not only officials who helped shape the values of the original Revolutionary governments, but are those who are most likely to be committed to its original causes and motivated by its

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values. As they die off, hardliners lose their hold on directing the Revolution and their stagnant positions are weakened. At some point, the balance will inevitably shift to other generations of Cuban Revolutionaries in the General Assembly, and a new revolutionary government will be born. So even those who argue that the pervasive influence of the original Revolutionary government officials is anti-democratic will find that this problem, if it is one for democracy, will fade on its own (though it, like many other systems, is likely to favor incumbents who have been in power the longest).

A third criticism of the nature of the elections and political structure in Cuba is that voting is seemingly forced, and as such, turnouts cannot be considered evidence of support for the system nor the candidates elected. Citizens are strongly encouraged to vote by groups such as the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR), which will be discussed in Chapter 6. If individuals within a neighborhood CDR’s jurisdiction have not yet voted, at some point later during the election day, CDR members will visit those individuals and encourage them to vote. This surveillance of citizen voting may appear to be either nondemocratic or evidence that the regime is struggling to gain legitimacy. This first criticism, that there is a strong encouragement, almost forcefulness, to get individuals to vote is one that we must exercise caution in accepting.

To begin with, in the case of Cuba, the government does not actually make voting compulsory. While the government encourages citizens to vote, and while the CDR may make not voting uncomfortable, the government itself takes no direct action against citizens who make the choice to not exercise their right to vote.

Secondly, we should be cautious in arguing that such strong encouragement to vote is undemocratic as there are many states which are labeled democratic in which

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voting is compulsory. In such systems, states mandate voting because it is seen to be not only a citizen right, but a citizen’s duty to vote. As an individual benefiting from, and living within, a democratic state and society, one has the responsibility to take part in the selection of the government. While voting for any particular candidate is not mandated in such systems, all citizens are required to make a selection. To accommodate for this, such states often make election day a holiday so that all citizens have the opportunity to vote. Some may argue that compulsory voting, particularly when it is accompanied by efforts to make voting an achievable reality for all citizens, is actually more democratic than a system which makes voting optional, and therefore does not make as great of efforts to make it available for all individuals to achieve with ease. We cannot then, label some states as being democratically acceptable in their having compulsory voting, and criticize others for having non-government structures which strongly encourage it.

On the second concern for democracy, that the strong encouragement of voting is done in an attempt to show legitimacy where none exists, we must also excersise caution in reaching conclusions. Some states and scholars argue that citizens need to have the ability to not vote to be able to exercise their right more effectively in illustrating their support, or lack thereof, for a given regime or candidate. While there is some merit in this argument, one must also question how much we can derive from citizens’ decisions to refrain from voting and show skepticism in what citizens are able to achieve in not voting. A low-voter turn-out may not signify that the populace does not believe in the candidates or the system. It may also mean that a set of citizens felt too uninformed to vote, did not have the means to go vote, felt doing so would have been an

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inconvenience, were discouraged from heading to the polls by bad weather, or were ambivalent to the outcome of the election. Similarly, a high voter turn-out does not necessarily signify that more individuals are satisfied with the system. Participating voters, in such cases, may only think there is a drastic difference between the candidates, and the cost of not voting, even though the system is unsatisfactory, would be too high to not vote. As such, they vote only because as rational actors, it is in their best interest to do so. They may also participate in elections only because they feel it is their responsibility as citizens to cast a vote. Just because citizens are participating within a system by voting, does not necessarily mean that they are giving their approval of legitimacy to the government or their regime.

In looking at voter turn-out rates at all then, we must be cautious in using them to determine the level of satisfaction citizens have for their governments, regimes, and states. While it is the case that governments such as the one found in Cuba may use high statistics to argue they have the people’s support, we must not rely on such data to determine their level of democracy. On the same token, however, we cannot condemn the state for being undemocratic and not having real legitimacy based off of informal, near compulsory voting. Those who vote likely are doing so for their own best interests, which may or may not be connected to their feelings towards the legitimacy of their governments.

Further, we should begin questioning the idea that not voting is an effective way for citizens to illustrate their lack of support for a regime. Not voting has the potential to marginalize those people who do not find the system legitimate more, and does not necessarily result in better representation of their interests. In fact, inactivity would be

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the perfect end-point for discontented individuals to arrive at for a status quo government. Rather than having to respond to their pressures for change, such individuals take themselves out of the equation in their abstention and leave the government able to continue to pursue its interests. As such, arguments for non- compulsory voting being beneficial and necessary in a democracy may be actually producing more non-democratic behavior. To argue then, that Cuba’s pressure for individuals to vote is only producing false-legitimacy for the Cuban government and is therefore not democratic, denies the possible consideration that the high participation rate, whatever its motive, may actually be positive for democracy even if it does not indicate legitimacy.

Conclusion: Questioning Conceptualizations of Contestation

While contestation undoubtedly plays a role within democracy, this chapter suggests that we begin reconceptualizing contestation and the assumptions we have about the institutions within which it is seen to best reside. We must begin questioning whether unrestricted contestation for contestation’s sake is desirable and beneficial for democracies, and whether or not we are able to foster new forms of contestation within institutions traditionally seen as hampering it and other negative rights. The

Revolutionary regime in Cuba has put forth a new conceptualization of what contestation is, what its purpose in a democratic system is, and designed a set of institutions the operate and function with this understanding of contestation. This chapter suggest that negative rights have been limited in Cuba and the meaning of contestation altered to fit the regime’s perception that contestation should be used only as a means of offering different ideas to reach the same goals and not as a free license to contest for the sake of contesting. In Chapter 6, we will examine, in addition to the

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differences in conceptualizations of the term, why contestation and negative rights have been limited in Cuba. Primarily, we will be looking at how concerns for protecting sovereignty have led to a greater limitation of negative rights than the regime may actually desire.

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CHAPTER 6 AN EXPLANATION FOR THE ABSENCE OF NEGATIVE RIGHTS IN CUBA

Although the necessity of the previously discussed institutions and negative rights for a democracy is debatable, little question exists concerning their absence in the

Cuban system. As was made clear in the historical examination of politics in Cuba, negative rights’ absence is not something unique to the Revolutionary regime, but a feature of every government that preceded it as well. As the Revolutionary government set-out early on to differentiate itself from previous regimes, it is worth discussing reasons for the continued absence (even if it is to a lesser-degree) of negative rights in

Cuba during the current regime’s rule. While in Chapter 5 I discussed one reason that contestation was limited was due to the different conceptualization that the

Revolutionary regime has of it, the contention of this chapter is that a second main reason for the absence of negative rights and contestation in Cuba is the state’s desire to maintain sovereignty.

Whereas I made the case earlier for why historically Cuba has struggled to gain and retain its sovereignty, the efforts in this chapter will be focused on examining the

Revolutionary regime’s concerted effort to guard its sovereignty since it came to power by connecting the pursuit of this goal to its restriction of negative rights. This detailed examination of sovereignty connected to the limitation of negative rights will focus particularly on the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR) which has been the subject of much scrutiny in its interference with democratic rights and democratic culture in Cuba. While admitting that the CDR does threaten and infringe upon democratic principles and practices, I will make and support the argument that some infringements may be necessary, or at the very least be perceived as necessary, for the

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continued sovereignty of the Cuban state. That is, I will offer a possible explanation for why these negative rights have been intentionally limited not in an effort to uphold an authoritarian regime, but rather in an attempt to protect state sovereignty and maintain positive rights within Cuban society. Ultimately I contend that in our assessment of whether or not certain organizations and government policies are democratic, we must also be considering the motivations behind those policies in an open-minded manner, and that, in short, government intent matters in our assessments and classifications of regimes.

The CDR and Negative Rights

One area in which the Cuban government receives the most criticism concerning its democratic label and absence of negative rights is in the CDR. Before delving into those concerns with the CDR, it is first imperative that we discuss the history of the organization and the purposes it was to serve. The CDR officially was sanctioned by

Fidel in a speech he made in 1961 where he called for the organization’s formation.

The speech made clear that the main function of the organization was to protect the revolution from both internal and external threats to its sovereignty. As this was shortly after the Revolutionary government came to power and there was still internal resistance to the new regime (two bombs actually went off nearby while Castro was giving this speech) as well as external threats (the United States was opposed to the new direction of the Cuban government), the idea of having citizens taking responsibility to monitor themselves and their surroundings made tactical sense.1 The Revolutionary government knew it was still in a vulnerable stage, and it called for the creation of the

1 Richard Fagen, The Transformation of Political Culture in Cuba (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1969).

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CDR to foster and harbor its new regime. The CDR’s popularity increased in the wake of the Bay of Pigs invasion, as the Revolutionary government’s claim that there were imperial threats to the state’s sovereignty were seemingly legitimized by the efforts at an attack by the US.2 CDR members began locking up anyone they suspected of being an imperial collaborator or anti-revolutionary. In the chaos of the moment, the youth and relative lack of comprehensive organization of the CDR became apparent and problematic. Some individuals took advantage of the opportunity to accuse others of being counter-revolutionaries, not because the accused indviduals were actually at odds with the new government, but because they had done something to annoy or upset their neighbors who now looked to have them imprisoned. With no initial systematic way to apprehend, and no immediate due process for the accused, many innocent individuals were locked up for a period of time. Fidel acknowledged in the aftermath that “errors” were committed, but that they were inevitable and worth the protection of the state and the Revolution. Further, he contended, true revolutionaries who had been falsely accused of being otherwise would forgive the mistake and understand that the safety of the Revolution was worth their temporary sacrifice.3

The lack of organization extended beyond the chaos of false apprehensions in the Bay of Pigs episode. One of the glaring errors in its structure was that it was possible for individuals to belong to more than one chapter of the CDR and the delineation of duties within those chapters became diluted. Because of the double memberships caused by multiple organizations having ties with, and chapters of, the

CDR, the organization membership started being based solely on location. The CDR

2 Ibid. 3 Ibid.

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also looked to increase organization and improve its ability to calculate its membership by issuing membership cards and having members pay dues.4

Richard Fagen, in his 1969 book, The Transformation of Political Culture in

Cuba, argues that the CDR serves five main functions: integrator, socializer, mobilizer, implementer, and protector.5 All of the tasks and activities of the CDR fall under one or more of these functions. It is worth looking at each of the five functions in more detail and exploring in what ways they may aid democratic development, and in what ways they may hinder it. The first role, integrator, centered on working to incorporate people into the Revolution and revolutionary projects who may be left out otherwise. That is, it worked to make the new regime an inclusive one. For any regime, but especially one that is new and looking to be democratic, inclusiveness is a necessary feature—albeit one that often necessitates some limitation of that inclusiveness (giving too many people power to participate too quickly, as pointed out by Robert Dahl and Samuel

Huntington, can be dangerous for a new democracy). By encouraging citizens to take more ownership in the protection of their state, not only did the government gain vigilantes devoted to the protection of the Revolution, but also individuals with a greater stake in their new government. The local nature of the CDR made it so citizens were given the opportunity to be directly part of the new regime. Joining the group meant showing one’s dedication to the new regime and being a part of building and supporting its visions for Cuba. Yet despite the intent to grow a truly active membership devout to the cause of the Revolution, the organization sticks true to its goal of trying to be inclusive with its considerably lax membership requirements. While Castro did stipulate

4 Ibid. 5 Ibid.

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that one had to be a supporter of the Revolution and this necessarily meant those enemies of the Revolution would be excluded from the organization, as Fagen writes,

emphasis on continued expansion, reasons for denying membership in the CDR are kept to a minimum…To be eligible to join, one has to be favorably disposed toward the revolution. For the leadership to insist on more would result in a dramatic shrinkage of the total membership, an outcome directly contrary to the notion of the CDR as centros de aglutinamiento popular.6

In its relatively lax joining requirements, the CDR has been able to build a huge membership base. In its call for all revolutionaries to join the organization, the CDR managed to quickly expand its membership in a matter of years. It went from having

70,000 members in 1961, to over 2,000,000 members in 1964, helping to grow the base of support from direct citizen involvement.7

Attached to the desire to make it so as many people can be included in the

Revolution as possible is the CDR’s effort at unification. In offering members across societal demographics the chance to join, a diverse group of citizens was being united by a common purpose. In a society that had been plagued by racial, gender, social and economic division prior to the Revolution, this effort at unification, although somewhat inhibited by the fact that the organization’s membership was divvied up by geographic location, did help to bring a common identity and a collective effort within the new regime. A Cuban identity which celebrated and included all Cubans (at least those committed to the cause of the new Revolution), offered a chance at unifying a diverse population and offering its citizens equal opportunities at participating within the new regime. For the first time in Cuba, there was a political organization that included both

6 Ibid., 82 7 Ibid., 77.

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sexes, all races, youth and adults, and rural and urban workers. It was an organization that sought to erase distinctions between citizens and unite them in a common societal project. In this effort to bring people together to work towards common political initiatives, a comradery and universal Cuban identity were created. This inclusive nationalism is what would give both the Revolution and the CDR a strong and broad basis of support.

The comradery forged by the CDR now extends beyond its original political pursuits as the CDR has expanded to unite people in social celebrations as well.

Today, for example, local CDR’s facilitate neighborhood parties in which those attending bring a dish to share and enjoy listening and dancing to music. These parties are not just for those who are dedicated to the political cause of the CDR, but are, in fact, attended by citizens with varying support for the organization. A friend of mine from

Cienfuegos writing to me of an upcoming CDR neighborhood party wrote, “It’s a tradition and despite that I am not into the whole hypocrite communist deal in here, this

(is) one of my favorites things.” Such functions as the CDR parties then, can and are embraced even by those who are critical of the organization and play an important role in Cuban politics. Again, this illustrates the organization’s original intent of being inclusive in nature and uniting people across the political spectrum (so long as they were not anti-revolutionary). And while my friend’s opinion of the CDR was not one they were hoping to cultivate in their group and not the intended purpose of the CDR’s effort at inclusiveness and unification (which included efforts at influencing political behavior and ideas and bringing them into direct support of, and participation in, government projects and processes), his excitement for the CDR’s social event does, nonetheless,

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indicate an important democratic function the CDR serves in that it, at least in this case, successfully created and strengthened communal bonds.

Such efforts and achievements in the organization’s seeking to make people a part of the new political system, rather than distance them from it, lend support to the conclusion that, overall, this first purpose of the CDR is democratic in nature. To begin with, the CDR’s efforts to be an inclusive organization illustrate its desire to be a group that is owned and representative of the Cuban population. Certainly it is the case that there are some people who are excluded in the process, and that this exclusion does create some division in society, and that this division brings with it more pressing concerns as the CDR is largely a local/neighborhood based organization. Fagen points this out writing,

the pressures of a committee in any neighborhood or place of work…automatically brings at least some divisive consequences. Even when committee members do not engage in vigilance and public denunciation of their neighbors, the fact that some citizens are “in” and others are “out” establishes a new and highly political basis for differentiation in the community.8

He goes on to explain that the consequence of being in the “out” group is especially problematic as it indicates, in this communist, participation-based society, that one is not committed to the betterment of the community when given the opportunity to do so.

Yet, despite the fact that some people who are anti-revolutionary will be excluded from the organization, the lax nature of the CDR’s membership requirements optimizes the level of inclusiveness, and, as indicated by the membership numbers, makes it so the vast majority of citizens are participants within it.

8 Ibid., 84.

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The second reason the CDR’s efforts at inclusiveness are democratic is that the organization has sought to cultivate this inclusiveness at the local level, increasing citizens’ access to political participation. Strong national and centralized government systems, like Cuba has, can make it so the citizens lack efficacy or feel detached from their government. The CDR offers citizens a chance to feel like they can influence and be a part of politics, and the opportunity to do so, is not far removed from them. By being in a neighborhood based organization, opportunities to participate are abundant and accessible. And, as Dahl points out on his polyarchy chart, participation is one of the measurements of democracy. The more people are able to participate within the government, the closer the system gets to becoming a polyarchy. Its efforts at localizing the political process are indicative of increasing the opportunities for individuals to participate within the new regime and are thus demonstrative of its democratic intent.

The second purpose of the CDR according to Fagen is socialization. Here,

Fagen is referring to the regime’s desire for the organization to work towards educating the society, both in Marxist ideology through academic instruction and in creating a communist citizen dedicated to the Revolution’s goals through practical experience. As citizens had previously been socialized in a capitalist canon of behaviors and attitudes, a direct education of the new socialist thought patterns and behaviors was needed to support the new political system. Fagen explains that the challenges of doing so are immense as

the socialization task faced by the system is not simply one of transferring loyalty from one set of institutions to another. It is one of creating an

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essentially new set of orientations toward self and society, orientations that involve both specific and more general behavior.9

In its efforts at socializing through academic instruction, the CDR set out to educate the citizenry on both the ideologies motivating the new regime and society as well as the new government policies being instituted. At first, neighborhood seminars going over the material, which included discussions of policies, speeches, and the Rebel Army’s civic training manual, occurred about once a week.10 CDR instruction evolved, and in following years the seminars turned into study circles. In addition to the study circles, there was another level of education occurring in section meetings which met about three times a week and were originally complete with more educated instructors than the study circles.11 As demand for the instruction increased, however, the number of available and qualified instructors was spread thin, and the meetings were soon held by students who had just begun learning the material themselves.12

Yet Fagen argues that despite the inadequately trained staff and relatively abstract ideological material being taught at times, the socialization meetings the CDR provided were absolutely vital to the Revolutionary regime’s functioning in that it was able to increase its legitimacy through the education the CDR meetings provided citizens.13 The Revolutionary government, both at its inception and still now, utilizes the media as a means of informing people about the policies being made by the state.

News programs, documentaries, educational programs, and round table discussions are

9 Ibid., 98-99. 10 Ibid., 86. 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid., 87. 13 Ibid., 87-88.

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regularly broadcasted and serve to try to make policies and government ideological stances more accessible to the average citizen. Yet, as Fagen points out, the education opportunities initially provided by the CDR in the circle and section meetings were still needed in addition to these media education efforts as, “despite the volume of direct elite-mass communication, the small face-to-face group is viewed by the Cubans as the basic weapon in the struggle to build revolutionary consensus and legitimacy.”14

Some may argue that the idea of a group actively working to socialize a society through academic instruction in a new regime is a form of propaganda. Connotations with propaganda are generally negative and most assume democracy and propaganda to be antithetical or mutually exclusive. The idea that people are being inculcated to believe and think a certain way seems to go against the critical thinking required of democratic citizens and their right to plurality in a democratic system. Certainly propaganda can be a danger when it is either unaccompanied by explanation or not open to discussion. Material that preys upon people's emotions rather than appeals to their logic is a threat to democracy as is preventing that material from being open to debate. Information and ideas that are presented in this manner, rather than informing the public and making them more educated, merely makes them drones at the disposal of whoever is dispensing the propaganda.

Yet despite the dangers propaganda can pose, socialization is not necessarily at odds with democracy for two main reasons. First, socialization through academic instruction is not unique to non-democratic systems. All states require and rely on their citizens being immersed in a political culture that works with the political system in

14 Ibid., 88.

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place. While governments work to varying degrees to socialize a society in a manner conducive with their regime, in general and over time, behaviors and attitudes become reinforced by societies and require less direct education and discussion as they become unconscious and unquestioned behaviors. Even institutionalized democracies necessarily utilize forms of socialization to maintain and reinforce political cultures amiable to the regime. Civics courses are an example of an effort at socializing individuals to make them better citizens within their own political system. Such courses emphasize the values, ideologies, and civic responsibilities required of citizens. That these efforts at socialization are utilized by democratic governments that are already accompanied by relatively institutionalized political cultures should be enough to illustrate that it is neither a system unique to non-democratic states nor to new regimes—though in the latter case, more effort at socialization is arguably needed.

Even when behaviors and ideas have already been normalized in a society, these initiatives reinforce those norms and offer reasoning for their existence.

Socialization thus need not be seen as an effort at brainwashing when it is accompanied by reasoning and discussion. In fact, socialization may arguably be the most important within a democratic system. It is in being socialized within the system that a citizen is most capable of understanding the process and being an effective actor within it. Clearly, while the Revolutionary government wanted the citizens to understand and support the ideology motivating the regime, and, as Fagen points out, wanted to increase its legitimacy, it was also offering people the chance to understand and respond to policies being made by the new government.15 In understanding the

15 Ibid.

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processes and policies, the citizens were better educated and capable of articulating their interests within those processes. Given that citizen efficacy is a cornerstone of a democratic system, efforts at socialization can, in such cases, be seen as aiding democratic building.

In addition to generalized forms of socialization aiding democracy, propaganda as a particular form of socialization can be seen as a great advantage and one that may even be necessary to democracies. Documentary filmmaker, John Grierson, argues this point contending that while propaganda’s role in authoritarian states is recognized, most fail to acknowledge that it plays an even more vital role in democratic states. He explains that propaganda is not as necessary in non-democratic states because “in the authoritarian state you have powers of compulsion and powers of repression, physical and mental, which impart at least take the place of persuasion” which is “not so in a democracy. It is your democrat who most needs and demands guidance from his leaders.”16 Where authoritarian states are capable of unifying and educating/socializing citizens given their centralized structure, norms and institutions, the structure, norms, and institutions of democratic states make achieving a unified, educated, and motivated public difficult. One of the features of democracies that create this shortcoming is the unguided and minimally regulated realm of public discourse. John Grierson details this problematic feature for the regime type writing,

a democracy by its very nature and by its very virtues lies wide open to division and uncertainty. It encourages discussion; it permits free criticism; it opens its arms wide the preaching of any and every doctrine. It guards jealously this liberty of the individual, for it is of the essence of democracy and, in the long run, makes for justice and civilization. But in times of

16 John Grierson, Grierson on Documentary, ed. Richard Griffith and Mary Losey (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1947), 210.

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stress it is difficult to see the wood for the trees. Most were consulting this reason that, we may lose that discipline, that centralize power and dynamic, by which the principle of liberty itself is safeguarded from those who are less punctilious.17

Because of the liberties fundamental to the design and practice of the discursive process within democracy, ensuring that the truth in a matter is discovered cannot be guaranteed. Ideas are considered equally or not at all by citizens who see them exchanged with equal merit and value despite the possibility that all thoughts exchanged may not be equal in nature or truth. Some guidance in educating the masses is needed in a democracy because of its free-flowing design which democratizes information. Education on ideas, policies, and concerns of the society is especially needed because public opinion is often under-informed in democratic states and is not currently structured to encourage action amongst the populace, which, as we shall discuss shortly, is necessary for a functioning democracy according to Grierson.

In addition to the democratic obsession with freedoms concerning discourse,

Grierson argues that the unreasonable expectations bestowed upon citizens in democracies also lead to another fundamental failing of the regime type when it rejects the use of propaganda. He explains that our notions of democracy thus far have made it so citizens are expected to be fully informed on all matters and to make decisions appropriately based off of that information.18 Grierson denies that this feet is a possible one, and that, as such, we must

abandon that purely mystical concept of democracy which encourages the illusion that 10 million amateur thinkers talking themselves incompetently to death, the music of the spheres. We want to arrive at the point where

17 Ibid., 209. 18 Ibid., 211.

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the democratic ideal can be brought down to the realm of practical consideration and achievement.19

Essentially, Grierson is arguing that expecting the citizens to find and sift through all the information without guidance is unreasonable. It is important to note here, that Grierson was writing in the 1940s, far before the advent of the internet. While some may argue that access to information has increased with the advances of this technology, and therefore that the citizen is capable of being better informed, Grierson would have likely argued the opposite is actually the case. The internet, while providing more information, is actually problematic because of the excess and lack of regulations of that information.

The liberty of discourse mentioned earlier is problematic because the citizen either lacks the time, resources, or interest in weighing the information and obtaining a comprehensive and accurate understanding on topics. The citizen will likely either become paralyzed by the excess of information or a dangerous actor making decisions based off of erroneous or incomplete information. Guidance through information,

Grierson would argue, is needed more than ever.

This notion that government has a place within guiding citizens through information is traditionally rejected because of the strong political culture in the US which is centered on the idea that freedom from the state is the ideal to be sought after.

According to Grierson, this ideal is outmoded and erroneous.20 He argues that the state being seen as “a necessary evil” is problematic for democracy and that propaganda

19 Ibid., 243. 20 Ibid., 253.

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through the state’s stewardship is central to democratic leadership.21 Rather than being foreign and problematic for democracy, propaganda

has developed hand in hand with the responsibilities of the State and has grown in direct proportion to the use of the State as a creative instrument of the community, operating as a whole to definite purposes. And it has tended, as it has found its democratic bearings, to become less and less the propaganda of legend and, more and more, part of that process of persuasion or education which is the tap–root of the democratic idea.22

The modern democratic state requires the government’s involvement across a plethora of institutions, including educational ones.23 When the government leadership decides to provide this education it actually is acting more democratically, according to Grierson as it is explaining “its directives and give an account of the new stewardship, which has, by democratic process, been thrust upon it.”24 That is to say, Grierson is arguing that in the context of the modern democratic state, it is actually the government’s duty to responsibly lead its people. So when governments use propaganda that serves to educate the masses to participate more effectively, it is actually helping to make a stronger democratic state.

While admitting propaganda’s possible benefits to democracy, one might still question if those benefits outweigh the possible threats it presents democracy.

Grierson is fully aware of and acknowledges the potential problems that may present themselves when the government acts as the provider of information. Articulating these potential dangers and how they might be avoided when governments utilize propaganda, Grierson writes,

21 Ibid., 255. 22 Ibid., 256. 23 Ibid., 255. 24 Ibid.

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there is the danger of a political head creating a public myth about himself, and the danger of a department concealing its incompetence, and the danger of the political party using the power of information to perpetuate its existence and thus thwart the democratic process. But these dangers can, by ordinary Democratic watchfulness press in Parliament or Congress, be avoided.25

Grierson, having freshly witnessed the German government’s use of propaganda in

World War II, certainly was aware of the dangers of propaganda. But he also was made aware of the powerful role it could play given the World War II context of which he was a contemporary. Indeed it is the power that he sees within propaganda to unify and incite quick action that reinforces the certainty of the benefits it alone can play in the process of educating and motivating citizens.

It is, in fact, the function of educating and motivating citizens, that makes propaganda such a useful and vital tool for democracy. As already mentioned, Grierson argues that to have the most success in educating citizens through government communication, propaganda is necessary. The reason why propaganda, as opposed to other means of educating, is so vital in the process is because of the reality that sentiments, loyalties, ideas, and ideals determine actions, not just knowledge. When knowledge and information are shared without an appeal to the emotions, it is less likely to incite a call to action within the recipient. Grierson argues that democratic societies suffer from their inability to motivate people into action, given the aforementioned freedoms of discourse and their focus on educating only through appeals to reason.26

This issue of inaction is one that Grierson sees as being particularly troubling for the prospects of democracies primarily because it fails to generate a desire within the

25 Ibid. 26 Ibid., 246-247.

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people to serve the state and the interests of its people. Without propaganda it is difficult for democracies to generate this desire because citizens feel less duty to a state and a society with which they are not emotionally connected.

This failure to use propaganda is one of the chief problems with the structure of education in democratic states. As Grierson writes, “education has concentrated so much on people knowing things that it has not sufficiently taught them to feel things. It has given them facts but has not sufficiently given them faith.”27 Because the education system in-place focuses on teaching citizens only through reason, it is inadequate in generating concern for public welfare as it ignores the vitality of appealing to the emotions of the people. Propaganda, given its nature of appealing to sentiments, must begin being used by democratic states in their efforts to educate society to best bring about a desire within citizens to serve the state as it is necessary within a democracy for citizens to learn to participate for the public good and for the benefit of the state.

Grierson explains that, “we can, by propaganda, widen the horizons of the schoolroom and give to every individual, each his place and work, a living conception of the community which he has the privilege to serve” and create “a sense of public purpose” within citizens.28 Further, it makes citizens more effective in their actions as it helps them better process the wealth of information they encounter.29 Thus propaganda creates active citizenship and loyalty to others and the public good. Because of these fundamental features of propaganda and democracies we can conclude as Grierson does that “instead of propaganda being less necessary in a democracy, it is more

27 Ibid., 211. 28 Ibid., 212. 29 Ibid., 247.

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necessary.”30 As such, we can argue that CDR’s efforts at academic instruction to socialize can be seen as bolstering democracy in Cuba.

In addition to the academic instruction efforts at socialization, the CDR also socializes by providing the public with opportunities at becoming a communist citizen and learning the necessary values through service and learning opportunities offered within the CDR. That is, not only does the CDR use academic instruction to explain

Marxist principles, it encourages individuals to learn their meaning by directly serving in projects that illustrate the principles and necessary features and functions of a society with communist ideals. One learned what it was to be communist serving others and the state, and one better understood communist principles through discussions of the specific policies and efforts of the government.

This is certainly the case with the teaching opportunities offered to members to lead and instruct the study circles and section meetings. The Literacy Campaign is an example of the government’s efforts to create a citizenry active in achieving the goals of the Revolution. Citizens became embodiments of the revolutionary ideals in their stepping up and educating others. The CDR repeatedly offers this same opportunity to citizens. This means that individuals can learn what it is to be a revolutionary not only by studying, but in practicing the principles. Again, this chance to participate in the political efforts of the state is a boost for democratic culture. Overall then, we can conclude that the CDR’s efforts at socialization, both through academic instruction and practical experience, are conducive to democracy.

30 Ibid., 210.

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Attached to the practical applications of socialization is the third purpose of the

CDR: mobilization. The CDR’s efforts at socialization are not education for education’s sake. That is, they are not just educating citizens to make them aware of the ideologies motivating the political structure, but rather they are equipping them and encouraging them to become active participants within that structure. The CDR thus works to increase citizen participation in various political and social events including elections, protests, rallies, neighborhood meetings, the distribution and rationing of materials, government initiatives such as cane cutting, and even neighborhood parties.31 The vast and varied list of projects in which the CDR works to mobilize citizens and members not only helps to build support for the government and its policies, but also, as Fagen explains, “involves boosting participation in symbolic and ceremonial activities with no immediate and obvious financial or administrative payoffs.”32

Fagen gives the example of the cane cutting initiatives to illustrate that while there are “productive” payoffs for having individuals volunteer to cut sugarcane, what is arguably a bigger payoff is the symbolic message imparted at “the sight of cabinet ministers and bank clerks swinging machetes alongside campesinos.”33 Seeing individuals with different academic and career backgrounds (including those with political positions) all working equally to achieve a common goal conveys to the public that 1) all are equal within the Revolutionary regime, and 2) that all have an equal part in working towards and obtaining its objectives. This marks a drastic change from the previous regime, its divisions within society, and the role of government officials.

31 Fagen, The Transformation of Political Culture in Cuba, 88-89. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid., 89.

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Certainly in such a symbolic act, the Revolutionary government is hoping to build democratic behaviors and structures of relationships, while simultaneously increasing its legitimacy.

From a democratic standpoint, this purpose of the CDR can be seen as both being positive and negative to a democratic system. Beginning with the negative, the main problem with the CDR’s efforts to mobilize concerns the methods used by the

CDR, at times, to entice or coerce people into participation. If citizens were solely encouraged to participate within the organized political opportunities provided them by the CDR, there would be little controversy about the group’s efforts at mobilization. Yet the reality is the means by which the CDR has at times achieved citizen participation is problematic for democracy. The CDR, while not directly politically punishing those who do not participate in its campaigns and projects, does have forms of imposing its will on individuals who may otherwise not participate in the events if there were no negative consequences to them for doing so. One of the chief ways this has been done, particularly now as private enterprise is on the rise, is to make economic threats to individuals who are not cooperating in the CDR’s activities.

One such example of the CDR overstepping its bounds as a supporter of the

Revolution to somewhat of a neighborhood bully making economic threats, I heard from a friend I met in Cuba who was explaining the CDR to me. The neighborhood CDR was hosting a parade and celebration honoring a historical figure. In an effort to maximize historical accuracy, the CDR went around to the homes the parade was to pass by, and compared them to photos of the homes in the past at the time that the historical figure was present. Those homes that had exterior images different from those in the photos

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were told they would have to make changes to their homes to reflect the previous state they were in. My friend’s house deviated from the CDR's photo in two ways. First, it was now painted green instead of its original color, white. Second, it now had a garage in the yard where there was not one before. The neighborhood CDR informed my friend that they would be painting his house, and that he would need to deconstruct his garage for the duration of the celebration. My friend, not wanting to see his home painted another color, particularly because he would be responsible for buying and using the paint to return it to its original color after the celebration, and having no interest in deconstructing his garage, refused to comply with the neighborhood CDR's requests.

Later, my friend received a phone call from the CDR reader at the next level up within the organization. He explained that he was told that my friend was not complying with the request made by the neighborhood CDR. My friend, reiterated his discontent with the idea of altering his home for the purposes of a single parade, and confirmed that he had no intention of implementing these changes. The CDR leader then replied to him suggestively, “Mr. ---, you do not want to make any trouble for yourself,” and went on to insinuate that my friend could lose his permit that allows his family to rent rooms out of his house if he did not comply with the CDR's requests. As his livelihood depended on his ability to rent those rooms, my friend relenting, complied—though he was able to get the CDR to compromise somewhat. The CDR members still came over to his house to paint it, but my friend only removed the tin roof of his garage for the parade and left the rest of it intact.

While in no way is the above story a generalizable example of the agendas or function of the CDR, it is rather emblematic of the means by which the CDR can

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encourage and obtain compliance from Cuban citizens. The relationship between the

CDR body and the lay members is almost clientelistic, in that the CDR will either provide members who show their loyalty to it with rewards or will refrain from taking away privileges. Those individuals who are not supportive of, or loyal to, the local CDR, however, may find themselves without access to privileged services, much as those who without pledging and showing loyalty in the clientelistic system may find themselves without given services. The difference between this system and clientelism, is that it is achievable for anyone with an interest to become more influential in the organization—to gain access to the power, whereas in most clientelistic systems the structure of power is institutionalized and not easily altered. Those with money and power are those who maintain the advantage in clientelism, whereas power is more fluid in the case of the CDR. One merely has to show interest in the organization and loyalty to it, to move up within its ranks and be in the position of power within it.

Despite its difference from clientelism, the CDR, like clientelism, does pose obvious problems for democracy—most notably the use of threats for bribes to coerce inauthentic behavior from citizens. And as permits for private restaurants and room rentals become increasingly desirable and attainable given the increase in private businesses since Raul came to power, the power the CDR has in threatening democracy increases as well. Only those with nothing to lose are and will be able to remain autonomous from the CDR. Another friend I met is one such example of an individual uncoersed by the CDR. As she was without a space to rent or convert into a restaurant and had very few other material incentives to threaten, she chose not to follow the instructions of the CDR as she knew there was nothing that could be taken

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away from her. In such cases then, individuals are able to maintain autonomous from this organization. For those looking to alter their lot, however, the CDR does continue to have power to influence their political or civic actions.

Despite these threats to democracy, the CDR’s effort at mobilizing can also be seen as a positive for a democracy. Participation within a democracy, when chosen, indicates a manner in which people can voice and influence the political process. In short, participation offers a chance for more efficacy within the system. Further, just as strong encouragement for near compulsory voting can be seen as a reasonable demand of government’s on their citizens in a democratic state, so too, can other forms of participation be the responsibilities of democratic citizens.

A truly democratic state requires a democratic society. As such, while voting for elected officials may help produce a democratic government, it does not increase democracy throughout society. Participation in groups outside of formal political processes not only helps create a democratic culture as has been argued by Robert

Putnam, but also brings ownership of, and commitment to, the creation of democracy in institutions outside of formal government structures. Mobilization then, is potentially a very positive democratic initiative and may not only be a way for citizens to have more efficacy, but may be their responsibility to the social and political system of which they are members.

Cuba is not the only state to mandate participation that extends beyond compulsory voting. States, such as Israel and Lebanon, have required mandatory military service. The Cuban government also requires military service from men, and either military or voluntary service from women. Certainly the argument that in a

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democracy citizens need to take ownership of, and contribute to, their democratic state and society, is not new. The structure provided by a state, and the rights afforded in a democracy especially, warrant governments to make demands on their citizens to protect and maintain them. As such, the existence of an organization that lists mobilization as one of its functions is not inherently non-democratic, and can, in fact, be seen not only as a legitimate demand by a government, but one that actually increases democratic culture.

The Cuban government’s initiative to get the people involved in the Literacy

Campaign is an example of the state encouraging and providing structure for citizen participation. If the CDR were to take up similar initiatives now, its potential to be an asset to democracy in Cuba is staggering. So while inauthentic or coerced participation is certainly problematic for democracy, encouraging the importance of participation and responsibility within a democratic system is not. Certainly, as should be clear from the discussion above, coercion has been used to gain participation, and, in addition to this coerced participation, the government itself has actually prevented some forms of voluntary participation such as unauthorized protests. Both actions hinder the democratic process and negative rights. The Cuban government’s desire for the CDR to serve as a means of mobilizing citizens, despite these examples of democratic transgressions, retains the potential to support and increase democracy if utilized in the correct manner. That is, the structure and desire for participation are conducive to growing democracy, they just need to be used responsibility—as was the case in the government’s Literacy Campaign initiative.

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The fourth function of the CDR is its role as an implementer. In what is a large and highly bureaucratized state, implementation of policy is a huge task in Cuba, and the CDR is vital to its administrative success. Fagen explains that some of the types of projects the CDR helps to implement include food rationing, “urban reform, education, and public health” programs and that their primary methods of implementation include,

“legwork, doorbell ringing, the distribution and display of printed materials, neighborhood meetings, and at times bringing social and political pressures to bear on those remain recalcitrant.”34 Fagen argues that, by and large, the extensive involvement of the CDR in implementing and organizing government projects and in working closely between the national and local levels of government led to the organization basically becoming the administrative arm of the state.35 In times of crises, it is often the CDR that is relied upon to organize and implement a timely response given its grassroots capacities. Because of its effectiveness in serving this administrative purpose, however, CDR leaders have had

to remind the membership that this is not…its main task…The CDR’s work…should always have a ‘learning’ component…To simply turn the CDR into an administrative...appendage of the government would be…to sap the system of its true meaning and importance.36

Maintaining appropriate levels of the instructing capacity in its implementer role then, is a challenge for the CDR.

In examining how this function influences how democratic the CDR is, it would appear its objectives as an implementer are democratic. One way the CDR’s actions as an implementer are positive for democracy is that, just as was the case in many of the

34 Ibid., 92. 35 Ibid., 90-93. 36 Ibid., 94.

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other CDR functions, it has the effect of decentralizing politics in what is a relatively strong, centralized state. Fagen cites a CDR organizer explaining in 1967 that,

the structure of the CDR system makes it the ideal organization for working with the local administrations. Local administrations have to have eyes and ears among the people to learn of situations that might affect the masses or of the problems that may arise in a community.37

Essentially, the CDR, in its implementer role, serves as a link between the government and the citizens. Not only is the government able to lean upon the CDR to help administer its policies and projects, but the citizens are able to rely upon the CDR to voice the concerns and problems that become evident at the local level. This second feature, particularly, has the potential to increase the efficacy of the citizens and the government. Citizens may have their needs better addressed with the CDR serving to draw awareness to them to the government, and the government is better able to make and alter policies to meet the needs of the citizens. Citizens, in short, potentially become more effective, and the government becomes more responsive when the CDR works to connect national and local levels of politics with citizens.

Further, many of the programs and services that the CDR helps to implement are ones that help to provide positive rights for Cuban citizens. The CDR, for example, has aided in the distribution of food and making sure children are receiving a public education and vaccines.38 So not only does the CDR help to build democratic processes that create more responsive policies, but it also encourages citizens to take part in the projects that help to guarantee positive rights are accessible and a reality for all of Cuba. If pushed to see how this function of the CDR might be a danger to

37 Ibid., 93. 38 Ibid., 92.

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democracy, one could postulate that the fact that, in this role, the CDR leaders and members are monitoring to make sure that policies are being followed by citizens is a potential threat to democracy. When monitoring and following up on citizens behaviors concerning policies and laws, the CDR takes on a type of policing and/or watchdog role, that could, as we shall see in its next role, lead to a distrustful society.

The fifth and final purpose of the CDR, according to Fagen, is to be a protector of the Revolution. While each of the above purposes aid in the strengthening of the regime and the Cuban state, it is this final purpose of the CDR that most directly makes clear the concerted efforts to guard the sovereignty of the state. It is also, given the methods and lengths it goes to protect this sovereignty, the most likely of the five purposes to infringe on the negative rights of the citizens. Therefore, as we begin to discuss its effects on democracy later, it is one of the larger threats to the regime’s efforts at being democratic.

As it is the CDR that is responsible for drumming support for the Revolution and for monitoring the revolutionary spirit of the citizens, it is often seen as a watchdog for the government, and therefore it has the potential of being a group infringing upon, rather than guaranteeing, democratic rights. In its monitoring the activities of other citizens, it runs the risk of taking on spy-like behavior and thus, creating distrust between citizens—especially, as Fagen points out, given the local structure of the CDR and the intimate reach the organization is able to have on citizens. Certainly, the watchdog role that the government gave to the CDR, along with its own general concern with monitoring the levels of revolutionary spirit and government legitimacy, does influence citizens’ behavior of trust and interaction. Individuals were careful with whom

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and where they would have certain conversations—particularly if the conversations were political in nature. I was made aware, for example, of individuals who were

“snitches” or who I should be careful discussing my research around. The individuals were not shunned by the public for their watchdog actions, but it was commonly known that such individuals acted as “revolutionary guardians,” and as such, people behaved around them with that knowledge motivating their words and actions. When individuals are uncomfortable with sharing their political thoughts, attitudes, and values with others, particularly other citizens, out of fear of reprisal, democracy is indeed threatened. As

Almond and Verba argue, trust is integral to a health democratic culture—without it citizens are incapable of placing confidence in the democratic decisions of the populace and unable to debate and discuss political issues.39 If citizens fear they are being monitored by others, as is the case in Cuba due, in part, to the CDR, trust does become more difficult to foster.

In Cuba, the level of trust between citizens is difficult to measure and there is evidence both for concern for the degree of trust, as was mentioned above, and also some reasons to believe that there is a level of trust that exists between citizens—albeit not a result of positive democratic structures, but rather out of economic security. We turn now to examining in what capacities trust remains within Cuban society in spite of the watchdog behavior of the CDR. Because of the protector function of the CDR “there was neighborhood surveillance, and there were threats, exposures, and denunciations” of citizens by the CDR members.40 Fagen explains that the efforts of the CDR, while

39 Gabriel Almond and Sydney Verba, The Civic Culture: Political Attitudes and Democracy in Five Nations (Newbury Park, London and New Delhi: Sage Publications, 1989). 40 Fagen, The Transformation of Political Culture in Cuba, 96.

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initially focused on anti-revolutionaries plotting against the government in the first years of the revolutionary regime, turned to monitoring those acting in selfish ways that went against the spirit of the Revolution. Yet despite the efforts of the CDR to monitor revolutionary activity and make sure that no one is breaking the rules or mores of the

Revolution, people are building up networks of trust to be able to carry out the very activities the CDR denounces. Because of the scarcity of some items and because of economic constraints, a huge black market has developed in Cuba. Anything from cellphones, to DVDs, to even food can be purchased through this underground marketplace. There is even a page similar to craigslist where individuals can list products they are looking to sell. As these activities are illegal and anti-revolutionary in nature, citizens run the risk of punishment if caught taking part in them. Yet it is commonplace that citizens buy and sell products and services through these means.

While the government is aware of the commonplace of black market activity and denounces it, it only occasionally will crack down and make an example of someone who is participating in these illegal affairs. Because that threat of punishment exists, however, and because the CDR is ever-monitoring, citizens must rely on a level of trust with one another when making black-market transactions.

While I was aware and present for a number of transactions of this nature, one in particular illustrates the degree of trust and the network of individuals involved in the success of a black-market operation. In Havana there was a gentleman who sold films illegally out of his home. Within the hour that I was there, at least three other customers also arrived to have this man copy films to hard-drives for them. To get to the seller’s home, one had to walk up several flights of stairs that went by the dwellings of this

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man’s neighbors. Certainly these neighbors were privy to the large number of people coming and going, and aware of the business he was operating, but none of them reported him. The business itself was quite complex and required the participation of several other individuals. The films were acquired by a relative of the man who lived about 4 hours outside of the city. This relative had a satellite on his home (which is illegal), and is able to receive and record films from the US off of it. Once a week, he sends all of the latest films he has recorded with a bus-driver who takes them to the gentleman in Havana who sells them. All of the individuals involved and all of those, including neighbors and customers aware of the dealings, had to trust one another for the process to be successful. They essentially have to trust one another to have their own interests met. Even people who may not directly benefit from this particular business may stay quiet as there may be other black market products or services that they require. In a strange way then, the CDR’s efforts at monitoring and curbing these behaviors may actually force an increase in trust amongst those people participating within them. And, given the shortage and cost of certain products and services, the prevalence of these activities and people participating within them is quite high.

Despite this potential for increased trust, adding to the distrust caused by the watchdog behavior of CDR members is the potential for corruption that exists within the

CDR given its grassroots nature combined with its protector capacities. As Fagen explains,

certain responsibilities of the CDR allow and even encourage the public expression of personal and social hostilities, antagonisms, and vendettas. Turning the watchdog responsibilities over to groups of citizens has made possible and even inevitable the use of public power for personal advantage, revenge, and catharsis.41

41 Ibid., 102.

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While it might initially sound democratic to turn over such responsibilities to the citizens, there is, as Fagen points out, a threat to democracy given the lax standards of membership and the fact that membership is not professional. In some cases, individuals within the group take advantage of its power to influence, and, like any organization, it has the potential to become corrupted when these individuals use it as an institution for personal advancement. Rather than being representative of the people’s support of the government, the CDR can be seen as a group that forces that support through the use of threats for some of its members’ own interests. Fagen argues that because of this known corruption, the CDR, rather than building support for the Revolution, has actually at times detracted from its legitimacy. He writes,

the committees have been plagued from the beginning by various forms of arbitrary, officious, self-serving, and corrupt behavior on the part of some of their members, behavior that has cost the revolution dearly in the coin of support and best of legitimacy.42

People see members of the group acting hypocritically, and the idea of a pure cause for the Revolution corrodes, and citizens have less reason to believe that it can be achieved and that they should act according to its mores. This corruption, which is fundamentally anti-democratic in nature, takes away from the trust the citizens can place in the political process and the CDR, and thus takes away from the legitimacy of the government.

Despite the clear infringements on negative rights it can pose when encouraging vigilance throughout society, the CDR does have a purpose motivating its action: the desire to protect the state’s sovereignty. As mentioned earlier, Petras and Fitzgerald

42 Ibid., 100.

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argue for control and limitation of rights in nebula regimes transitioning to democracy.43

The CDR has historically helped to serve this function in Revolutionary Cuba. While

Petras and Fitzgerald claim such actions were necessary at first in Cuba, they argue that they are no longer necessary nor acceptable, and that in keeping their limitations, are failing to move successfully through the second phase of transition to a socialist democracy.

While Petras and Fitzgerald argue that the Cuban government no longer is in a level of jeopardy sufficient to warrant its democratic limitation, many of the limitations, such as those foundational to the CDR, do exist to protect sovereignty and are motivated by real and legitimate threats to state sovereignty. The US continues to fail to recognize the legitimacy of the regime, continues the embargo on the state despite the international community’s criticism of the act, forbids Cuba from participating in regional political meetings, and punishes companies that do business with/in Cuba. So while a physical threat is unlikely at this point, the United States does thus still pose a threat to the economic and political sovereignty of Cuba. What greater threat could exist to a state than another not recognizing its legitimacy and preventing it from taking part in regional governance issues and meetings that would permit it to voice its concerns and preferences as a state?

It is these non-violent threats that remain concerns for the Revolutionary regime.

Fagen discusses that after the immediate physical threats to the Revolution passed after the first couple of years of the new regime, the focus of concern for vigilance shifted and was recognized within the efforts of the CDR. He writes,

43 James Petras and Frank Fitzgerald, “Authoritarianism and Democracy in the Transition to Socialism,” Latin American Perspectives 15, no. 1 (1988): 99-111.

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in the revolutionary view, the specific enemies and the threat that these enemies pose may change, but the larger threat continues to exist. The safety of the revolution depends on eternal vigilance. Watched also be necessary for a very long time to come and in this effort the CDR have a crucial part to play.44

He goes on to further detail,

the CDR are seen and used as a bulwark against the return of the old order. For the leaders continue to see the revolution as threatened in many ways, even if there is no longer an immediate threat of the fifth column intent on violence and destruction.45

While it is possible, and even likely, that Cuban government leaders have taken advantage of this to bolster their calls for limitations of negative rights within Cuba, which may, in fact, secure their own positions of power, it does not deny the reality that genuine threats to the regime do exist. And threats to sovereignty and a state’s regime, do, as indicated by the actions of democratic states feeling threatened, warrant, or at the very least produce, limitations to negative rights.

Conclusion: Moving forward with Democratic Labels

The Cuban system is far from a complete democracy. This qualification, however, as Dahl points out, is one that is necessarily bestowed upon all other systems and states labeled democratic. This chapter, along with Chapter 3, Chapter 4, and

Chapter 5, have sought to challenge readers to begin allowing for plurality in the definition of democracy. We have examined the way the revolutionary regime in Cuba defines democracy and the historical reasons for its emphasis on sovereignty and positive rights, as well as for its unique interpretation of contestation and its limitation of negative rights, in general, and contestation, in particular. Moving forward, we will begin

44 Fagen, The Transformation of Political Culture in Cuba, 96. 45 Ibid., 95.

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to examine the norms, institutions and productions in the cinematic industry in Cuba. In

Chapter 7, Chapter 8, and Chapter 9, we will discuss the processes and culture of production within the Cuban cinematic industry and in Chapter 10 we will look at the content of the films produced. We will find that the democratic norms, institutions, and understandings that underlie and structure the political system in Cuba are also present in the Cinematic industry’s institutions and productions.

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CHAPTER 7 SOVEREIGNTY IN CUBAN CINEMATIC PURPOSES, PROCEDURES, AND INSTITUTIONS

Having established that the Revolutionary regime has sought to build democracy, largely defined in terms of creating and protecting sovereignty and equality in Cuba, we turn next to see if this type of democracy is also present in the Cuban cinematic industry. One way of determining whether or not democracy is present within the

Cuban cinematic industry is to examine its procedures and institutions. Just as I allowed a pluralistic understanding of democracy, including a self-definition based on the Cuban Revolutionary regime’s priorities, to inform my analysis and discussion of

Cuba's present regime, so too, did I employ the same approach here as I began examining the procedures and processes within the Cuban cinematic industry. As my research question seeks to understand whether or not the political nature of the regime type is reflected in the cinematic industry, in the case of Revolutionary Cuba, I have sought to discover if the same qualities that the revolutionary governments have prioritized, sovereignty and equality, were also present within the purposes, procedures, and institutions of Cuba’s cinematic industry. Not only did I discover that sovereignty and equality features are present in, and triumphed by, the cinematic industry, I also discovered that a democratic culture of the discourse and negative rights also existed within the Cuba cinematic realm. In this chapter, as well as in Chapter 8 and Chapter 9, we will be examining the presence of these three democratic features in turn.

In this chapter, I will arguing that concerns for sovereignty have informed, and continue to inform, the cinematic industry's purposes, procedures, and institutions in

Cuba. Further, I contend that efforts to establish and protect this sovereignty and to create a strong Cuban cinematic identity have wavered in their success throughout the

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regime’s rule. I will support these conclusions by first looking at the original goals that both the government and ICAIC had for Cuban cinema. Here I will be primarily looking at the ways in which the government and ICAIC envisioned and utilized film as a means of combating imperialism and asserting Cuban identity. Next, I will look at some of the challenges facing Cuban cinematic sovereignty. In particular, I will be examining the ways in which economic constraints have hindered both the autonomy of Cuban cinema and ICAIC. The greatest threat to both, I argue, is the increase of co-productions with foreign companies.

The Envisioned Goals for, and Purposes of, Cuban Cinema

The cinematic industry has played a vital role in the political efforts of the revolutionary regime and in the building of a democratic Cuban society. As we shall see in this section, one political role of the Cuban film industry has been to fight cultural imperialism. Particularly, the Revolution and many of the directors in early post- revolutionary Cuba worked to create a uniquely Cuban cinema to combat the imperialism of the Hollywood cinematic industry. Before going into the details of how cinema in Cuba has come to serve this function, it is first prudent to give a brief historical context of cinema in Cuba prior to the Revolution as the prior cinematic structure in many ways served to motivate the Revolutionary regime’s decision to utilize cinema in its political efforts—including combatting cultural imperialism.

One of the foremost experts in Cuban cinematic history is Michael Chanan. In his book, Cuban Cinema, documentary filmmaker and professor of Cultural and Media

Studies, Chanan, discusses the nature of the Cuban cinematic industry and its place

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within, and relationship to, the Revolutionary political institutions.1 In his expansive and impressive historical analysis, Chanan contextualizes the role and style of cinema in

Revolutionary Cuba with details about cinema prior to this regime. In this contextualization, it is clear that though the Revolution elevated its influence in the whole of Cuban society and politics, cinema did have a prominent role in Cuban society prior to the Revolution. It was, in fact, its prominence and its structure, which will be discussed shortly, that helped to motivate Revolutionary cinema to build off of, and diverge from, the styles and purposes of this cinematic industry that preceded it.

Presently, we are focusing on the structures that helped to lead the revolutionary regime to make use of cinema, particularly as a means of creating Cuban cultural sovereignty.

The efforts to create cultural sovereignty through film can largely be seen as stemming out of the reality that prior to the Revolution, despite a relatively strong cinematic culture, cinematic sovereignty failed to exist in Cuba. We see evidence of a form of cultural imperialism first in the reality that in the decades prior to the Revolution, as Chanan points out, film distribution was dominated by US companies and Hollywood, which, Chanan contends, “discovered…that in the cinema, cultural imperialism works just as well as colonialism but at less expense.”2 US distribution companies grew to have almost complete control over the system, not just in Cuba, but throughout Latin

America, and to a lesser extent, due to protection laws put-in-place there, Europe as well.3 Taking advantage of their power, these companies largely controlled what films were exhibited in Cuba, leaving the exhibitors often at their mercy to not only play the

1 Michael Chanan, Cuban Cinema (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004). 2 Ibid., 77. 3 Ibid., 69-77.

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films they were offered, but to also pay for the technological upgrades in their cinemas that were necessary over time for exhibiting films in the constantly evolving industry.4

Those films that were primarily distributed in Cuba were made in the Hollywood format.

In addition to the films created in the US, Mexican films were also popularly distributed in Cuba. While arguably the Mexican films offered a closer approximation to the Cuban experience and desires of a Cuban audience, as Hollywood grew to have more influence over that market as well, Mexican films largely became engineered in the same format as Hollywood films.5 As such, an authentic Cuban cinema with films organically developing out of Cuban society, from Cuban directors, and out of the

Cuban experience, were greatly limited.

While some Cuban directors and productions did exist, co-productions, particularly with Mexican companies, were prevalent, and often a necessary concession for being able to produce a Cuban (at least, partially so) film. Although the Mexican coproductions offered a chance to create Cuban-themed and Cuban-crafted films, they still posed challenges to creating authentically Cuban films. Evidence of this comes with the coproduction, La Rosa Blanca,6 which is a film about José Martí. Although the film is about the Cuban independence proponent and fighter who has come to symbolize Cuban nationalism, both the director of the film along with the actor who played Martí were Mexican.7 Seemingly little room thus existed for creating films that were truly Cuban. Chanan points out that the lack of films that truly reflected societies

4 Ibid, 82-83. 5 Ibid., 77. 6 Dir. Emilio Fernández. La Rosa Blanca. 1954. Film. 7 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 80.

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throughout Latin America when explaining how the melodramas failed to capture authentic national identities and sentiment. Discussing the style and consequences of these melodramas, he writes,

return to the primitive past was seen as a journey to the fountain of authenticity, and the blemishes of underdevelopment were celebrated as old popular values. True popular values were nowhere to be seen. The idea of the nation itself became completely general and empty, and a historical archetype that was detached from the evolution of society and real social conditions.8

A cinema that authentically represented Cuban identity and nationalism, was thus largely lacking and with it a more general cultural sovereignty.

Despite the saturated Hollywood style of films, during this time film culture was pervasive to an extent in Cuba—at least among those capable of attending the theaters.

Admittedly, who could attend the cinema was constrained by the fact that cinematic theaters were largely concentrated in the large cities and film viewing was an activity limited to those who could afford the ticket prices—which was likely those who benefited from the imperialist structures in place. Despite these constraints, there were a record number of cinemas in Havana prior to the Revolution. In addition to the large number of cinemas and the profits being made, at least by the distributors, more evidence of the presence of cinema in Cuba could be found in the existence of cine-clubs which were popular organizations attended and joined by film-makers and non-filmmakers alike. It was in these cine-clubs, Chanan contends, that Cubans first began combatting

Hollywood and where “film came to occupy its key position in radical cultural consciousness in Cuba.”9 Chanan argues that an alternative, organic, and authentic

8 Ibid. 9 Ibid., 108.

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Cuban culture could be born out of these clubs and as such that “the cine-club movement represented a breach in the defenses of cultural imperialism,” and that “in this battlefield lie the origins of ICAIC.”10 The cine-clubs thus served as breeding grounds for the bud of what would become an institution creating authentic Cuban cinema. They also served as spaces for expressing and developing anti-Batista politics.

Manolo Pérez supports this point in an interview he gives to Ambrosio Forent.

Pérez explains that one of the cineclubs he joined prior to the Revolution, Cineclub

Visión, “was an organization directed by the young socialists” and

“developed…clandestine activity as part of the fight against the Batista dictatorship.”11

Just as the socialist houses provided a space for radical change in fascist Italy as argued by Margaret Kohn in her book, Radical Space: Building the House of the People, so too did Cuban cine-clubs prior to the Revolution like Cineclub Visión serve as grounds for creating political change in Cuba. Yet despite this opening that the cineclubs provided for combatting cultural imperialism, an authentic Cuban cinema would remain at a minimum until after the Revolution took place. What we can conclude then, is that although the cinematic industry had a basic structure and presence in Cuba, it was one that was dominated by foreign interests and distributors until after the regime change. Cultural sovereignty within the cinematic industry was thus largely lacking prior to the Revolution.

After the fall of Batista, both the Revolutionary regime and a host of directors from the new generation of filmmakers that came with it took note that the cinematic

10 Ibid. 11 Ambrosio Fornet, “Contextos Históricos y Polémicas Culturales en El Cine de La Revolución: Primera Parte,” Cine Cubano 176 (2010): 66-82.

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structure which existed in Cuba up until that point was one which was not necessarily producing authentic Cuban cinema for a wide-Cuban audience. They recognized the

Hollywood dominance along with the vast reach the potential political and social functions that cinema could serve in Cuba because of the unique reach of the medium.

The Revolutionary regime’s recognition of the industry’s importance is evidenced by

Chanan when he points out that “ICAIC was recreated less than three months after the

Rebel Army…entered Havana on January, 1, 1959.”12 ICAIC, which was shaped by many of the Revolutionary directors who belonged to the cineclubs discussed above, became the principal source from which a Cuban national cinematic industry developed.

Central to ICAIC’s goals, is combatting imperialism through the creation of an authentic

Cuban cinema. Interestingly, ICAIC has asserted that for such authentic Cuban cinema to be created, its (ICAIC’s) own autonomy is necessitated. As such, ICAIC has habitually sought independence from the Cuban government to create cinema authentically, much like the government has sought an authentic Cuban cinema independent and free from the constraints of a Hollywood-dominated film marketplace.

Surprisingly, by and large, and in comparison to other art and media institutions created by the Revolutionary regime, ICAIC has maintained a great deal of institutional independence and autonomy. Chanan explains this unique relationship between the government and ICAIC, writing,

ICAIC was set up as a non-militarist alternative with the same political commitment, but took the form of a novel kind of public entity: an autonomous Institute not unlike what Britain is called a quango (quasi- autonomous nongovernmental organization), but empowered to take over any part of the country film industry that might be nationalized. While the press and broadcasting became a site of ideological confrontation where

12 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 35.

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the state would soon take direct control, cinema in Cuba came to occupy a unique cultural space as a major site of public discourse that at the same time enjoyed a de facto autonomy because of a privileged relation to the source of power and authority. The result is much the same relationship to the state as the BBC in Britain, which operates according to what the British call the arm’s length principle: a major part of the cultural apparatus of the state that is nonetheless trusted to run itself, and as a result the street experiment in the full glare of the public.13

ICAIC’s unique autonomy relative to other institutions inevitably prompts the question of why the regime has consistently granted and respected this particular institution’s independence. As such a line of inquiry would warrant an in-depth study outside the bounds of this present project, however, the focus here will remain on the fact that this anomaly does exist, and that it represents a keen awareness of the desire to create an authentic and anti-imperial cinema amongst Cuban filmmakers.

The Revolution recognized the potential for combatting imperialism in ICAIC and filmmaking. Given the industry’s previous lack of sovereignty, concentrating on creating a national cinema in Cuba became an obvious and early priority as evidenced by the quick creation of ICAIC. This anti-imperial purpose was one of which ICAIC’s leaders were entirely cognizant proponents. The Cuban cinematic magazine, Cine Cubano, which was created in 1960, featured an essay by the founder and first president of

ICAIC, Alfredo Guevara, in its first publication. The magazine, in honor of its 50th anniversary, decided to republish this article in its 177-178 edition. In the introduction summarizing Guevara’s re-printed essay, the magazine asserts that it

evidencia que el grupo creador del ICAIC tenia plena conciencia, desde sus inicios, de los objetivos esenciales de la naciente instituición y del cine auténticamente Cubano, anticolonialista, comprometido y del más alto aliento cultural y estético que nuestro pueblo demandaba.14

13 Ibid., 17-18. 14 Alfredo Guevara, “Realidades y Perspectivas de Un Nuevo Cine,” Cine Cubano 177-178 (2010): 2-14.

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Indeed Guevara, writing in 1960, explicitly and frequently references both the imperial nature of the cinematic industry at the time and the desire and need for authentic Cuban cinema to combat it throughout his essay. Discussing the 1960 status quo of cinema, for example, Guevara argues at the start of the essay that in cinema was found “el ejemplo más claro de la esclavización del arte en la sociedad contemporánea.”15 In response to this imperialism of the media, Guevara contends that Cuban cinema needs to receptáculo del cine como arte” and in doing so, create a “cine de la libertad.”16

Guevara argues in the article that just as there was a revolution to create a new political regime in Cuba, so too, is a revolution needed in cinema to create the freedom necessary to overthrow cinematic imperialism. Guevara contends this need for change within cinema was recognized by the new revolutionary regime as

la Ley que establece la fundación del Instituto Cubano del Arte e Industria Cinematográficos…fue la primera medida revolucionaria tomada en el campo del arte y los por cuantos de la Ley explican sobradamente cuán grande importancia concede nuestra Revolución al cine.17

Even the intent of the magazine in which Guevara’s essay was featured mimics that of

ICAIC—providing a space for Cuban cinema and combatting the imperialism of

Hollywood. The magazine, also born out of the early development of the Revolution, displays many of the same political and cultural goals as ICAIC. Claudio González

Machado writes that Cine Cubano, “constituye un mapa útil no solo de la identidad cultural cubana, sino latinoamericana, sobremanera en lo que atañe al cine y al

15 Ibid., 3. 16 Ibid., 4. 17 Ibid., 5.

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evolución de un pensamiento estético relacionado con la descolonización cultural.”18

Both ICAIC and Cine Cubano thus illustrate the efforts within the Revolution’s budding regime to utilize cinema as a means of combatting imperialism and asserting Cuban sovereignty and national identity.

In addition to the creation of ICAIC and the magazine, Cine Cubano, one of the main ways that the film industry came to fulfill this purpose of battling imperialism was through the creation of a distinctly Cuban cinematic style which rejected the Hollywood mold. In Guevara’s essay referenced above, he actually discusses the need to study non-Hollywood film styles and the need to begin the creation of an authentic Cuban cinema as what existed prior to the Revolution was merely the “prehistory” of the nation’s cinema.19 He explains that the

prueba mayor de que el inconformismo y esta constant búsqueda de autenticidad y genuina expresión nacional nos oblige a una difícil y acaso larga y complicada tarea, pero también a un curioso reencuentro. El reencuentro del arte cinematográfico y el público. Nos referimos, claro está, al público, al gran público olvidado de Hispanoamérica.20

Guevara then, is looking to create, for the first time, a genuine Cuban cinema not only for the state itself, but the whole of Latin America. In the development of this new national and revolutionary cinema, Guevara lists six key features this Cuban cinema must possess. Two of the features and their explanations are of particular relevance in illustrating Guevara’s and the Revolution’s interest in creating a truly Cuban national cinema. The first of these comes in the second point on the list that the new cinema

“will be a national cinema.” Guevara details this feature writing,

18 Claudia González Machado, “Revista Cine Cubano: Sin La Sombra del Hastío,” Cine Cubano 176 (2010): 44-51. 19 Alfredo Guevara, “Realidades y Perspectivas de Un Nuevo Cine,” 6. 20 Ibid., 13.

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no pretendemos ceñirnos al estrecho nacionalismo de las canciones, la rumba y los tipos populares o los argots regionalistas. Pero debemos encontrar, acercarnos cada vez más a nuestra fisonomía nacional, a su más auténtico carácter. Es esto lo que marca una cinematografía, le da perosonalidad propria y reconocible. No se trata de imponer un estilo, o de fijar ciertas líneas generals. Se trata de que nuestro país y psicología en la medida en que son singulars, encuentren de mil maneras y sin limitación los modos de expresarse, de aflorar en la obra de arte.21

Guevara reinforces this need for the new cinema to be strongly national in purpose and character when he goes on to the third requirement on his list that “it will be a non- conformist cinema.”22 Under this point, Guevara demands that within the Cuban film industry “tratamos de encontrar el carácter cubano, nacional, de acuerdo con nuestra cultura y psicología y voclados sobre el medio social y el individuo, nuestros filmes no pueden menos que buscar la más total autenticidad.”23

To create a Cuban cinema, Guevara suggests in his essay that Cuban filmmakers study and adapt other film forms that deviate from and challenge the

Hollywood style. Two of the styles that he discusses in the piece and that Chanan argues were heavily influential in Revolutionary Cuban cinema were Italian neorealism and the French New Wave cinema. While, as Chanan explains, the Cuban filmmakers ended up borrowing off of these cinematic movements and styles from other states and directors, they effectively created films and styles that were uniquely Cuban. Guevara, in his critical discussion of Neorealism and New Wave cinema, while explaining how they are useful to the budding Cuban cinema, also makes clear their shortcomings and their need to be crafted in a way reflective of Cuban identity. Nonetheless, because of

21 Ibid., 14. 22 Ibid. 23 Ibid.

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their distinctly anti-Hollywood elements, they were a helpful starting point for developing a national cinema capable of combatting cultural imperialism.

Neorealism became a focal point for Revolutionary Cuban film-makers because it was in many ways the antithesis of Hollywood cinematic productions. Chanan, detailing the features of the neorealist style as it developed in Italy, explains how these features were in many ways ideal for filmmaking in Cuba after the Revolution. He explains, for example, that the largely low-budget style of neo-realist cinema was perfect for Cuba at the time given the financial constraints that came not only with the aftermath of war and the building of a new regime, but also the limits placed on the country and industry by the US. The low-budget was achieved by other features of the neorealist style which included filming on-site, as opposed into expensively constructed and designed studios, and through the use of nonprofessional actors to create a more authentic realism in the films. Chanan points out that the Cuban directors adapted this final feature, by using a mixture of both professional and nonprofessional actors in their productions. Chanan explains that neorealism was seen by these Cuban directors in the early years of

Revolutionary cinema as “a model for an appropriate cinema—a humanist and progressive aesthetic that offered a real alternative to the dominant modes of Hollywood and Latin American commercial production.”24 An adapted neorealism was thus a perfect formula for creating a distinctly Cuban cinematic style to contrast against the

Hollywood “other.”

The second main cinematic style employed by filmmakers in Cuba in the early years of the Revolutionary regime which helped to combat the dominance of the

24 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 163.

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Hollywood format film was that of the French New Wave. Guevara makes clear in his

1960 essay that the French New Wave cinema is a useful study and example for Cuban cinema to learn from writing,

la nouvelle vague…ofrece una interesante y válida lección para nuestro cine. Cine de jóvenes, cine barato, cine sin estrellas, cine que quiere ser rebelde aunque no lo logre totalmente, cine protesta, cine formalmente inconformista, innovador e iconoclasta, se enfrenta a los valores “respetables” y los echa al suelo sin consideraciones de clase alguna. Esta es su virtud. Un aire fresco y límpiado lega con su obra.25

French new wave cinema, like the neorealist style, was thus an appropriate and convenient, albeit imperfect, option for cinema in Revolutionary Cuba as many of its features diverged from the Hollywood mold and reflected the virtues of the Revolution.

Further, just as was the case with Neorealism, it appealed to the practical limitations the government faced given the economic conditions at the start of a new regime.

Both Italian Neorealism and French New Wave cinema offered foundations for

Cuban filmmakers to develop an anti-imperialist cinematic industry. Indeed, without merely copying these cinematic movements, but rather permitting them to offer inspiration, early Revolutionary filmmakers helped to foster a uniquely Cuban cinema in the first decades after the Revolution. Chanan explains that,

by 1968, Cuban Cinema was identified not only with anti-imperialism, but with film such as Alea’s Memorias de subdesarollo and Lucia by Solás, in which the aesthetic of the European new wave is metamorphosed through a kind of revolutionary transfiguration; and the documentary Santiago Alvarez… With films like these ICAIC threw down an exhilarating and infectious experimentalists challenge to the hegemony of the culture industry headquartered in Hollywood.26

25 Guevara, “Realidades y Perspectivas de Un Nuevo Cine,” 9. 26 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 5-6.

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The cinematic styles in Cuba thus served, from the start of the Revolutionary regime, as means of combatting the Hollywood hegemony. The industry actively worked to create a cinema that was uniquely Cuban by employing and developing styles of film that directly contrasted with the Hollywood format.

In addition to creating films in distinctly Cuban styles to combat imperialism,

ICAIC and Cuban authorities hosted film festivals as means of countering the Hollywood cinematic monopoly. One of the largest and most important film festivals in Cuba is the annual International Film Festival of New Latin American Cinema which exhibits films made not only by Latin American directors, but directors from countries around the world that produce works outside of Hollywood. Chanan, writing of the important purpose this film festival has served in disrupting the Hollywood hegemony, explains,

when the end of the 1970s saw Cuba cautiously opening up again, ICAIC played a leading role with the creation of the International Festival of New Latin American Cinema in 1979, held ever since in Havana every December. Since very few films made in Latin America, and especially not those that espouse any kind of revolutionary politics, were seen in any country other than their all – a consequence of the monopoly control of distribution by the Hollywood-based majors – Havana became the cotton and capital as cinema, practically the only city where everything made in Latin America were seeing can be seen, and a home away from home for many who, like several Chilean filmmakers after the coup of 1973, were forced into political exile.27

The festival then, was intentionally designed to celebrate non-Hollywood cinematic productions—paying particular heed to films produced in the region. Havana, during the week of the film festival, serves as a haven for non-Hollywood directors to celebrate their achievements by having an international audience. Although now likely more films from Latin American states are shown across borders, as indicated in the quote above

27 Ibid., 8.

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from Chanan, Latin American films in the Cold War era were largely confined to the states in which they were produced. The festival then, not only has given directors a chance to share their films outside of their home states, it also has given audiences a chance to experience films from other states within the region and to witness and celebrate their shared Latin American cultural identity. The International Film Festival of

New Latin American Cinema thus serves as a space for combatting the imperialism of

Hollywood cinema and culture by giving non-Hollywood films—especially those from

Latin American—a space to exist and be celebrated.

Since its inception, The International Film Festival of New Latin American

Cinema has continued to serve this function of battling cinematic and cultural imperialism. In addition to serving, as mentioned above in the discussion of its original intent, as a space for Latin American films to be exhibited, it took on an additional means of combatting imperialism when Espinosa took over leadership of ICAIC.

Chanan details these additional measures assumed by the festival writing that,

Espinosa… argued successfully for funds to build up the film festival, and scored high on the international propaganda stakes by bringing to Havana sympathetic film stars and directors from Europe and especially North America… At the same time, ICAIC took advantage of the relaxation of relations with Latin America is to extend coproductions with independent film makers throughout the region, which fortified the projection of a Latin American image and Cuban screens all year round.28

Essentially then, Espinosa designed the festival to combat imperialism in two additional ways. First, he brought in Hollywood giants who supported the efforts not only of Latin

American directors, but also, in many cases, the efforts of the political Left in Latin

America. Such figures not only challenged the imperial behaviors of Hollywood, but

28 Ibid., 9.

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also the imperial political behaviors of the US. Most importantly, because of their fame, these celebrities garnished international attention with their presence in Havana at the festival. The second addition to combatting imperialism within The International Film

Festival of New Latin American Cinema that Espinosa and ICAIC helped to foster was the encouragement and facilitation of coproductions. Coproductions have the potential to help to connect Latin American states by creating a shared identity and experience that contrasts with the Hollywood other. Unfortunately, while they have this potential for helping to combat imperialism, co-productions have come to pose one of the greatest threats to the autonomy of the Cuban cinematic industry, as will be discussed later in this chapter. Yet despite this reality that coproductions are in many ways problematic for the autonomy of the Cuban cinematic industry, as we see from

Espinosa’s original intent with the Latin American film festival, that ICAIC’s goal was to safeguard cultural and cinematic sovereignty with the fostering of coproduction across state lines.

In looking then at the features of the cinematic industry since the Revolution, we find a concerted effort at creating and protecting an authentically Cuban cinema. The directors, particularly at the start of the new regime, purposely crafted film styles that intentionally challenged Hollywood cinema and reflected the changing political and social structures, norms, and goals of Revolutionary Cuba. These film styles were thus as much about creating a unique Cuban cinematic identity as they were about creating a Cuban national identity. The film festivals promoted by ICAIC and political leadership offered the perfect venue for displaying these newly created identities. They were a space in which non-Hollywood films could assert non-American norms and values, Latin

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American directors could have their films celebrated outside of their own states, and filmgoers could experience a shared cultural identity as well as be exposed to the unique styles and cultures of films produced outside of Hollywood. While both the styles of films and the nature of these film festivals have evolved over the course of the

Revolutionary regime, they still fulfill their original functions and purposes of creating and protecting an authentic and culturally sovereign Cuban cinematic industry.

Challenges to Cinematic Sovereignty

Since the Revolution came to power and took aim at conquering imperialism, it has struggled to create and maintain cinematic sovereignty in the midst of economic pressures. Economic constraints, in fact, challenged the revolutionary regime’s efforts at sovereignty early on in its rule. Most notably, its reliance on foreign companies for filmmaking equipment, materials, technology, and equipment for showing the films in cinemas made it difficult for the Cuban cinematic industry to be self-reliant. Chanan details the extent to which the material shortages and equipment inadequacies posed genuine challenges to the film industry after the Revolution came to power writing,

ICAIC’s experience was entirely typical. Most of the cinemas were in terrible condition, the projection gear was old and decrepit, and the previous managers had relied on the readily available supply of spare parts. As you less trade investigators had reported years before, most of the equipment was purchased secondhand in the first place. Now it urgently needed maintenance and replacement. The Institute conducted a technical survey discovered that it had inherited 70 different types of projector—a real nightmare. It made a count of the most common types and send samples of the basic set of spare parts to the East European partners so that they could make molds from them and stave off disaster. It found, with the new parts arrived and were installed, that they were not correctly engineered for tropical conditions, and they buckled in the heat.29

29 Ibid., 167.

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Because the Cuban cinematic industry had previously been propped by foreign production, in its fight to assert sovereignty, it immediately ran into the trouble of trying to be independent when its existing production and exhibition infrastructure were anything but autonomous. The need for materials was especially troubling for the regime’s and the cinematic industry's efforts at combating imperialism, given that many of the cinematic materials and equipment at the time came from the US, and, as

Chanan describes in the quote above, the early assistance from Eastern Europe largely proved unsuccessful. Further, as the infrastructure in place in Cuba was designed prior to the Revolution and thus heavily influenced by the US film industry, after the

Revolution, with the economic resources tight, it was difficult to veer away from that infrastructure. As such, that infrastructure could not be abandoned, but rather needed to be sustained. Obviously, given US-Cuban economic and political relations, this became a difficult task for the Cuban cinematic industry.

Although economic constraints challenged Cuban cinematic sovereignty since the Revolutionary regime’s institutionalization, arguably the most drastic and threatening economic pressure to challenge that sovereignty came with the onset of the Special

Period. In her piece, “Filmmaking with Foreigners,” Cristina Venegas examines how the

Special Period changed film-making in Cuba. She ultimately contends that,

the extreme scarcity of the period led to an increase in foreign coproductions, the emergence of an independent cinema reliant on digital technology, and an increase in production of both documentary and fiction films about Cuban culture from a vantage point located outside Cuba.30

30 Cristina Venegas, “Filmmaking with Foreigners,” in Cuba in The Special Period: Culture and Ideology in The 1990s, ed. Ariana Hernandez-Reguant (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 37-50.

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Venegas’ conclusions, particularly those related to the increase in coproductions and what this meant for Cuban cinema and its efforts at an authentic identity, have great implication for the Revolution's effort at creating cultural sovereignty. While, as

Chanan’s work points out, coproductions existed in Cuba before the Special Period, their prevalence within, and their necessity to, film production in Cuba increased dramatically during the Special Period and fundamentally changed the Cuban cinematic industry. And Chanan, like Venegas, sees the growing number of coproductions as a possible threat to Cuban cinema.

Venegas argues that the extreme economic hardships caused by the collapse of the Soviet Union fundamentally changed how films were made in Cuba. To begin with, far fewer films could be made solely with ICAIC’s production assistance. In fact, as

Venegas points out, “Between 1991 and 2001, only 31 feature films were made through the ICAIC…, as compared with 10 a year before then.”31 The funds for ICAIC to make

Cuban films simply were not available, and as such, outside economic assistance was sought and “from 1991 onward, Cuban industrial cinema produced through…ICAIC regularly ventured into the international film market.”32 The need for foreign coproduction thus came about during the period, and with it, the decrease in cinematic institutional sovereignty.

Relying on coproductions to make films in Cuba threatened sovereignty in Cuban cinematic identity on a number of fronts. First, it required a complete change in the approach and process of filmmaking. Coproductions brought with them new norms, values, and processes. Some of the most drastic changes in norms, values, and

31 Ibid., 38. 32 Ibid., 37.

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processes came with the reality that, for the first time, Cuban filmmakers were exposed to, and forced to work within, capitalist values and systems. Venegas explains how previous socialist structures and state financing had permitted ICAIC and its directors to work outside of capitalism's confines writing,

until the late 1980s, state support had insulated Cuban filmmakers from the onslaught of market driven industrial concerns, at least at the level of both production and local distribution, making them, according to filmmaker Gerardo Chee Honan, “the spoiled children of Latin American Cinema.” Indeed, the revolutionary government had guaranteed financial backing for its cinema while allowing for certain degree of autonomy. It had appointed filmmakers rather than bureaucrats to high-ranking ICAIC positions, who then were able to negotiate the terms of production, distribution, and exhibition, both domestically and internationally.33

ICAIC and the Cuban cinematic industry had achieved their sovereignty essentially because they were not dependent on the international market place. Socialist values and norms were able to dictate cinematic processes and productions because there was no concern for the financial success of the films being made. Now that international assistance was needed to finance and produce films within Cuba, however, those socialist norms and institutions which helped to define the Cuban cinematic industry came under direct contradiction by the capitalist norms motivated coproductions. The coproductions changed how films were conceptualized and made, along with the processes and conceptualizations of Cuban filmmakers. Venegas explains,

filmmakers with no experience in the funding process outside the state subsidiary system had to adapt, living to navigate international partnership and financing systems. Working mainly with European partners, Cuban filmmakers found themselves at a disadvantage as they aren't fixed salaries paid through the ICAIC, while their foreign counterparts were free to negotiate higher salaries, profit points, and the like. As analyzed by

33 Ibid.

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Hernandes–Reguant… the tensions that ensued in the clash between “old socialist ethics and capitalist practices” set the stage for “a decisive shift in signifying practices of authorship.” Copyright protections now extended to individual filmmakers: even though they continue to be salaried employees, many of them were able to cash in royalty payments, particularly as they joined the Spanish authors society – which opened an office in Havana in 1997 – or able to obtain Spanish citizenship, thus evading both Cuba's travel restrictions and the strictures of the US embargo. One result of these developments was a new, elite film community's professional survival depended not so much in state support than foreign partnerships and professional relationships.34

As directors relied on support from foreign individuals, companies, and institutions, the fundamental socialist ideological assumptions and motivators of the Revolution and its cinematic industry were directly undermined by the international marketplace its directors were now forced to enter in coproductions. This contradiction that occurred in cinema extended throughout the rest of Cuban society and commerce, as to survive the

Special Period, the Revolution had to make concessions to its ideology and the sovereignty it had worked so hard to create and safeguard. Within cinema, we see how explicitly that sovereignty and those ideological norms were compromised by these concessions that forced the industry into the capitalist system of coproductions.

Because coproductions relied on marketing films to foreign audiences, the style and content of films needed to be palatable to the audience outside of Cuba. So in addition to the ideological shift in Cuban filmmaking, the styles and themes of films in the state also changed to accommodate foreign audiences. Cuban films, because they were no longer just for Cubans, were made with others, in addition to Cubans, in mind.

The coproductions thus began redefining the Cuban cinematic industry's identity in

34 Ibid., 41.

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relation to the style of films it was producing. Venegas explains this change to the style and content of films that coproductions brought writing,

the numerous coproduction spurred by the special period often tell the social concerns and economic problems taking place in Cuba, but those are treated in a way that could be understood by foreign viewers. The most commercially successful narrative vehicle employed in them to bridge cultural differences while exploring the existential and absurd drama of Cuban daily life was comedy – used about half of those films coproduced by foreign parties. In this fashion, Cuban cinema joined in increasing international trend in the global market where laughter would make money.35

Venegas is suggesting then, that the comedy format was used in part as a film genre for

Cuban co-productions because of its marketability to a foreign audience. Certainly, it is worth noting that just because the comedies were marketable to foreign audiences, does not mean they were inauthentic choices or unrepresentative of the tastes of a

Cuban audience. Indeed, the comedy format has a rich history in revolutionary Cuban cinema, as the laughing at problems and shortcomings has been a cultural feature represented in a host of enormously popular and critically acclaimed Cuban films, including a host of them created before the Special Period. As such, to jump to the conclusion that catering to a foreign audience automatically means abandoning a form that represents and speaks to a Cuban audience simply is unfounded.

Yet with the dramatic decrease in films solely produced by ICAIC during and after the Special Period, there is a concern if films made purely with Cuba and Cubans in mind will be produced. Surely sovereignty and national identity are sacrificed when the demands of foreign audiences are part of the film-making process for the style, genre, and format of a film is deeply connected to national cinematic identity. As mentioned

35 Ibid., 41-42.

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earlier in this chapter, it was, after all, through the creation of uniquely Cuban styles of films that ICAIC and the Revolution looked to define Cuban identity and cinema. Genre selection was an expression of sovereignty. So even if the film is still enjoyed by

Cubans, if it is not made with asserting its own Cuban identity, it is a direct deviation from the original purposes of film after the Revolution.

With the change of identity of Cuban cinema, also came a changed identity for the whole of society. What it meant to be Cuban began shifting with the new changes.

Perhaps motivated by their own changing work circumstances, Cuban directors began showing and/or creating a new national identity in their films. Venegas argues this point writing,

this increasingly international and complex structure of the Cuban films sphere of the 1990s was a major factor in shaping new visas Cuba. Just as events of the special period contributed to a visual representation of the individual self as a part from the state, the nation began to be constructed as independent from the revolutionary state.36

If one accepts Venegas’ analysis of post-Special Period films concerning the portrayal of the individual and the nation vis-à-vis the state, the implications for the Revolutionary regime and its development and protection of a Cuban national identity to motivate the state’s fight for sovereignty are profound. The national identity which the revolutionary regime, along with the early members and directors of ICAIC, looked to foster is seemingly contradicted by the new identity generated out of the Special Period and the changes it brought the cinematic industry.

In addition to altering the Cuban national identity directors disseminated in films, co-productions also allowed foreign directors and foreign audiences to define Cuban

36 Ibid., 41.

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identity. Rather than Cuban identity naturally following from the fact that the films were made by Cubans and with a Cuban audience in mind, the increase in foreign directors and foreign audiences that came with coproductions, meant that Cuba, and what it meant to be Cuban, were being defined consciously, purposely, and from the outside.

The obvious problem here for the Cuban governments’ and film industry’s attempt at protecting sovereignty and national identity, is that the Cuban identity, the Cuban population and the whole of the Cuban state become portrayed in the terms of others’ needs and interests. Rather than Cuban films defining Cuba and permitting non-

Cubans the chance to be exposed to and process this identity, foreigners used Cuban film coproductions as means of defining Cuba through their own lenses and for their own purpses. In short, this meant that Cuba at least partially lost the ability to define its own identity through film.

Venegas acknowledges the controversy this reality brought about writing, “Some

Cuban critics argued over the accuracy of these foreign representations, while others read international media attention as an opportunity to export Cuban culture.”37

Accuracy of the representation aside, as my discussion in the paragraph above suggests, the mere fact that Cuban films are presenting or motivated by foreign depictions or interests in Cuban identity is troublesome on its own for Cuba’s cultural sovereignty in cinema. Concerning the potentially positive aspect of the identity being exported, I think, by and large, the result is still negative for cultural sovereignty.

Venegas’ own description, which follows below, of the demand for all things “Cuban,”

37 Ibid., 47.

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illustrates that Cuban identity is being commodified as it is pedaled to an international market in Cuban coproductions. She writes,

the audio visual representation of Cuba created outside the nation fed a growing appetite in global markets for all things Cuban. Many forms of Cuban culture from music, dance, and politics, to identity and personal histories were explored through film. Narratives of “discovery” and return worked on themes of nostalgia and exoticism, taking the path of global popularity laid down by Cuban music.38

Venegas seems to arrive at the conclusion that this demand for Cuban identity as defined and decided upon by foreign markets is ultimately a good thing for Cuba as she writes,

ultimately, globally circulated audiovisual products from and about the special period have enlarged, diversified, and propagated the images of Cuba that linger in the international imagination. A small, sometimes irritating, sometimes glamorous, widely forbidden, always exotic, always socialist spec of an island now looms as a much larger, louder, more colorful and textures, all-encompassing enigma of the world stage.39

She goes on, to similarly conclude that the global market is actually beneficial to Cuban film writing,

reduced state subsidies and bureaucratic centralization force the new ICAIC leadership to pursue options for international coproduction, most notably with the expanding Spanish film industry as well as with emerging European initiatives. International coproduction appeared key to the industries survival, despite fears of a loss in the pot pendants, and effectively expanded the market for Cuban film.40

In these statements, Venegas is insinuating that the fact that Cuban identity, no matter who is defining it, is being distributed around the world, is in and of itself a good thing.

In fact, it may be ultimately combatting Hollywood imperialism by promoting its own identity outside of its state. Indeed Venegas may find support for such a conclusion in

38 Ibid., 46. 39 Ibid., 47. 40 Ibid., 40.

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the book, Tragic Sense of Life,41 in which the scholar, Miguel de Unamuno, argues that in an effort to achieve a type of immortality, we must will our identities on others. So, while it may lose some of its autonomy in defining itself completely, the Cuban cinematic industry, through coproductions, has a better chance at exporting its identity, thereby becoming a stronger identity while simultaneously combatting the Hollywood cinematic identity.

Yet despite the potential for exporting an identity, the manner in which it is done is incredibly troubling for the type of identity the Revolutionary regime and the Cuban cinematic industry have historically sought to foster. The mere reality that a socialist state is commodifying its identity is an affront to the socialist values and assumptions upon which it is built. This sacrifice in socialist values was, in fact, not limited to the cinematic industry. Indeed, after the Special Period, the Cuban government worked hard to make Cuba attractive to foreigners—both tourists and those looking to purchase its cultural works. While some may see this as not being threatening to Cuban identity and not a reverse to previous foreigner-Cuban power structures based on inequality, it is problematic because the Cuban identity is often not an authentic one and is created to please foreigners, rather than be a true expression or in the interest of Cubans.

Cuba, in being commodified, is existing for the purposes of others. This is troubling not only from a socialist standpoint, which was to inform the Cuban national identity post-

Revolution, but also for cultural sovereignty. Venegas argues that “Cuban cinema…is still creating a place where ordinary people might recognize themselves,”42 but what she

41 Miguel de Unamuno, Tragic Sense of Life, trans. J.E. Crawford Flitch (New York: Dodo Press, 2007). 42 Cristina Venegas, “Filmmaking with Foreigners,” 50.

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fails to grasp is the fullness of the implication that it is foreigners who will be increasingly creating that identity for which Cubans to recognize.

Conclusion: The Struggle to Maintain Sovereignty

The degree to which Cuban cinema will continue to serve as a means of creating and protecting Cuban cultural sovereignty remains unknown. If, in fact, foreign coproductions continue to be the norm in the Cuban cinema, cultural sovereignty,

Cuban cinematic sovereignty, and the sovereignty of ICAIC are likely to decrease. The globalization and market economy that the Revolutionary regime and ICAIC first worked so hard to combat in efforts to assert Cuban sovereignty and Cuban identity will necessarily influence Cuban cinema and Cuban audiences with the institutionalization of foreign coproductions. While, as illustrated earlier in this chapter, cultural sovereignty is something of deep importance to the Revolutionary regime, the necessity to sacrifice it, at least somewhat, given the economic constraints threatening the state and the cinematic industry since the Special Period seems to outweigh its unadulterated preservation.

Indeed, without making some sacrifice to sovereignty by opening up the cinematic industry and a host of other industries to the global free market, the regime in

Cuba would struggle to survive and risk losing the state’s sovereignty in its entirety by remaining rigid in both its socialist and autonomous institutions and policies. Cuban director, Fernando Pérez, in an interview with Director Daniel Díaz Torres, acknowledging the role played by coproductions in Cuban cinema, states, “gracias…a la coproducción, el cine Cubano logró sobrevivir en un período crucial.”43 And for

43 Daniel Díaz Torres, “El Cine Es La Diversidad: Entrevista a Fernando Pérez (Segunda y Ultima Parte),” Cine Cubano 180 (2011): 10-19.

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Pérez, who has made several coproductions, the sacrifices that came with them have been far less threatening than he originally imagined they would be. Explaining how his views on coproductions have evolved Pérez states,

recuerdo que a principios de los noventa, tenía muchos prejuicios hacia las coproducciones, debido a la idea de que vendría un productor capitalista tipo Hollywood, a imponer su criterio, y a adueñarse de la película. Todo lo contrario de nuestra práctica en el ICAIC, donde la autoridad máxima de una película siempre pertenecía al director, cuya condición de autor era respetada absolutamente. Así crecimos todos en el ICAIC.44

He goes on to state, however, that since his experience with coproductions, his

“prejuicios iniciales ya no existen.”45 Pérez’s experience lends some hope then, that in their economically necessary employ, coproductions are not entirely dismantling Cuban cinematic sovereignty entirely. That is much is gained, chiefly that Cuban cinema continues to be produced, and not too much sovereignty is sacrificed in the process—at least so far.

We must also consider the new autonomy that is created as a result of the new norm of seeking foreign assistance in films. Whereas Cuban directors previously were largely dependent on making films with the assistance of ICAIC or on their own entirely, with the increase in foreign assistance, Cuban directors now have increased access and exposure to funding assistance outside of the near monopoly ICAIC once had.

Films thus potentially produced without ICAIC finances could be more representative of

Cuba than films produced by ICAIC. Yet despite this potential, the reality that Cuban directors with foreign production support will necessarily be at least partially catering to an international audience does still manage to constrict their autonomy in their films.

44 Ibid., 11. 45 Ibid., 12.

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How Cuban film develops in the coming years will be telling of just how much autonomy and cultural sovereignty ICAIC, Cuba, and its directors have sacrificed because of coproductions.

The sacrifices to sovereignty and autonomy that come with co-productions are felt beyond the choices of the content and style of the films themselves. As we shall begin examining in Chapter 8, equality between actors in the film community has been a hallmark of Cuban cinematic culture since the Revolution. As we move to examine how this second democratic feature has been central to the Cuban cinematic industry’s institutions and procedures, we must consider the risks that the decrease in sovereignty brought about by increases in foreign coproductions may bring to it. New actors with new structured relationships and processes will be influencing the process by which

Cuban filmmakers create their works. So now that we have examined the ways in which concerns for sovereignty motivate goals, procedures, and institutions of Cuban cinema, we move to discuss the presence of the Cuban Revolutionary regime’s other democratic feature in the cinematic industry, equality, keeping in mind how this feature may be influenced by the perceived loss of its partner in Cuban democracy, sovereignty.

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CHAPTER 8 EQUALITY AND POSITIVE RIGHTS IN THE INSTITUTIONS AND PROCEDURES OF CUBAN CINEMA

Just as the championing of sovereignty exists within the goals and institutions of the Cuban cinematic industry, so too, do we find that the second feature of democracy in Cuba, a focus on equality and positive rights, exists within the cinematic industry’s institutions and procedures. To support this finding, in this chapter I will examine and discuss three main places we find efforts to create equality and positive rights within

Cuba’s film industry. These three places include within film production, within film distribution, and finally within the role and process of making documentaries. Within the discussion of each of these examples of places where we find the triumphing of equality and positive rights, I will conclude with a brief discussion of the past and present threats to those efforts at creating equality. In many of the cases we find that the greatest threat to equality in Cuban cinema, economic constraints and technological advances, are also the source of new democratic structures and opportunities for equality in the industry.

Equality in Film Production

As mentioned earlier in this work during the discussion of why the creation of positive rights prior to negative rights may be preferable, political theorist, Carol

Pateman, argues that a complete democratization of society is necessary for creating a true, functioning democracy. Pateman, supporting this point, like many other feminist scholars contends that this democratization is necessitated in a place that has been traditionally relegated as a private sphere, the home. She goes on to argue, however, that another realm, the workplace, which particularly in the wake of liberalism has been come to be seen as a type of private sphere as well, also needs to be democratized for

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democracy to flourish. Particularly, relationships between workers, need to be democratized. Hierarchy is inherently anti-democratic and allots more power to some individuals over others. As such, only by making individuals equal within a company and workplace can democracy exist.

Interestingly, we find this effort to democratize the workplace at the center of the cinematic industry and the film-making process after the Revolutionary regime came to power. These efforts to democratize cinematic production were taken to an unprecedented level by Julio Garcia Espinosa when he led ICAIC in the 1980s and, in his assumption of leadership of ICAIC, “quickly brought fresh vision to ICAIC, pursuing a policy of low-budget production, democratizing the internal decision-making process, and giving a new generation of directors a chance to prove themselves.”1 Espinosa structured the production arm of ICAIC with the objective of creating democratic relationships and procedures in mind. Venegas details this structure writing,

the production arm of ICAIC had been organized into three autonomous working groups each one led by a prominent filmmaker. The general social climate in the structure of the apprenticeship in the ICAIC fosters its creative friend all through an intimate artistic culture, mentorship, and professional partnerships. Projects were essentially workshops in each of the three groups, before being readied for production. In general, the then extant institutional culture facilitated creative risk-taking by filmmakers, precluding the strict exigencies of financial procurement for the projects, while promoting a plurality of aesthetics without subverting revolutionary values.2

Espinosa’s restructuring of cinematic production in ICAIC was based thus on preferencing egalitarian and democratic relationships and procedures. The very democratization of the workplace Pateman calls for, Espinosa and ICAIC executed.

1 Michael Chanan, Cuban Cinema (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004). 2 Cristina Venegas, “Filmmaking with Foreigners,” in Cuba in The Special Period: Culture and Ideology in The 1990s, ed. Ariana Hernandez-Reguant (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 37-50.

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Chanan, like Venegas, notes ICAIC’s efforts at completely restructuring the film industry’s processes and relations of production in Cuba, particularly under Julio García

Espinosa. Chanan extensively explains that this conscious restructuring was largely based on efforts to manifest collective participation which supports the revolutionary ideals and values largely underlying and motivating the film-making process.

Describing how collective participation was achieved and worked in ICAIC, Chanan writes,

to meet the principles of collective participation, ICAIC evolved the managerial system in which, while decisions are made by a director's members have various collective and individual responsibilities, these decisions were based on collective discussion. In 1983, the year after Julio García Espinosa succeeded Alfredo Guevara as head of ICAIC, one of the directorate, Jorge Fraga, for some years head of production, explained to a group of visitors from Britain some of the ways collective discussion in the Institute works: “We don't plan anything without first having a collective debate with the directors, cameramen and everyone else involved. We base our planning on their consensus.3

It is clear then that hierarchical relationships found in liberal workplaces were being done away with within the film-making process and relationships in ICAIC. Rather than the directors or producers making the decisions and merely assigning people positions based off of their own visions, all members of the film-making process had agency and were involved in determining the direction and execution of creating the film.

This restructuring of relationships between those working on films, in addition to democratizing the workplace and creating equality amongst the workers, also helped to improve the quality of the films being made. Chanan, discussing how the soundtrack composers were involved at all stages of the process, argues that the result of having such individuals, who were usually excluded from some of the stages of the film-making

3 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 174.

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traditionally as not seen as relevant to their contribution, involved and active throughout the entirety of the process was a “more organic approach,” and created a better finished product.4 Additionally, the films benefited from the scrutiny from multiple perspectives and the generation of ideas through on-going discussions throughout the film-making process. Chanan describes how this happens by discussing how film scripts are chosen and refined by ICAIC writing,

individually, the selection of films is based on treatments, or scripts in the case of fiction, submitted by directors (or for the first films, which are always documentaries, by members belonging to other grades) to the head of the appropriate department. Ideas are discussed, and the advisers may be called in, who are drawn from among the directors or scriptwriters with most experience…Directors are always at work and earning their salaries, a necessary provision when resources are limited and only a few films can be shot at the same time. This way, you are either working on your own script, on the basis of an agreed proposal, or else you are working with someone else on theirs. Each project goes through several stages, from synopsis to treatment to script, which aids the process of planning and organization.5

By having a film discussed between multiple participants at multiple stages, collective participation essentially brings plurality in thought and approach to films. The discourse amongst film-makers (a feature that will be discussed more in Chapter 9) during the film-making process thus gives the film the advantage of having a community creating and critiquing it throughout its conception and development. The advent of collective participation in ICAIC, then, began motivating and structuring all stages and aspects of the film-making process, and arguably, making both the process of film-making more democratic and the films stronger.

4 Ibid., 360. 5 Ibid., 175.

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While some, particularly those accustomed and wedded to liberal values and championing of individualism, especially in art, may see the fostering of collective participation in film-making as detrimental to the individual and art, those within ICAIC argue, much like Che Guevara did in his piece, “Socialism and Man in Cuba,” that the success of the individual is wedded to, and best realized within, a group or society.6

Chanan notes that director Alea expresses an underlying understanding of this idea when he stated that “this isn't a question of personal success, but rather of the conviction that you're giving all you can in an environment where everyone, without exception, has the same possibility.”7 This process is not only beneficial to the success of film-makers then, but is essential to the institute’s commitment to creating and maintaining equality.

Collective participation did not confine itself to those involved in a single film, but rather encompassed the whole institute. Just as it was seen that films were best made through the equal participation of all of the workers, so too, were films at their best when they included the input and influence of other ICAIC members. Chanan, explaining how collective participation led to continuity and shared film themes, writes,

in the same way, the pursuit of related themes of the series of films by different directors over the same period, like those on the hundred years of struggle that were made in the late 1960s, with the result not of some kind of directive but of collective discussion, and the consensual feeling that there is more to be gained by making films that support each other than by films that in their choice of theme remain isolated.8

6 Ernesto Che Guevara, “Socialism and Man in Cuba,” in The Che Guevara Reader: Writings on Politics and Revolution, 2nd edn., ed. David Deutschmann (Melbourne and New York: Ocean Press, 2003), 212-228. 7 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 175. 8 Ibid., 174-175.

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Much like the argument that the individual artist is the most effective and successful with the support of, and devotion to, the collective, so also are films the most powerful when they are connected to, and speaking with, one another. With equality and democratized relations across the film-making industry and community then, plurality and discourse not just between film-makers but also between films and their viewers, could flourish.

The decision for ICAIC to restructure the relationships of workers within the filmmaking process was intentional and motivated by the institute’s original goals and its socialist foundations. Chanan aptly argues that “ICAIC set out from the beginning to create the Communist political awareness.”9 Many of the founding members and leaders of ICAIC were committed to the socialist cause, while simultaneously, as

Chanan points out, adopting a viewpoint of the role of the artist somewhat different from traditional socialist thinkers proscribed. After the revolutionary regime came to power, there were film institutions besides ICAIC that did not share the same political and artistic conceptualizations and goals for film in Cuba as ICAIC. The reason for, and way in which, ICAIC came to be the national film institute and the other institutions dissolved, requires a study and discussion in and of itself. Juan Antonio García Borrero, in Cine

Cubano de Los Sesenta: Mito y Realidiad, details how ICAIC’s hegemony unfolded, providing the political and historical contexts which brought it about.10 For our purposes presently, what is important is knowing that from its inception, ICAIC was committed to socialist values and fostering a society of equals in Cuba through film while also remaining committed to artistry. Chanan notes ICAIC’s early desire to create equality in

9 Ibid., 124. 10 Juan Antonio García Borrero, Cine Cubano de Los Sesenta: Mito y Realidiad (Madrid: Ocho y Medio, Libros de Cine, 2007).

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the filmmaking process and how its efforts to do so served to not only to illustrate its connection and commitment to the Revolution, but also justify the demise of other film organizations like Lunes de Revolución (one of its biggest rivals). He writes,

ICAIC took away their (members of Lunes de Revolución) opportunity of exercising cultural hegemony. The Revolution in this way established better conditions for different artistic tendencies to engage with each other on more equal terms. This was a correct, a revolutionary solution.11

From its beginning then, ICAIC was concerned with creating equality amongst film makers.

ICAIC’s desire to create egalitarian structures motivated its members to alter the structures and processes within the cinematic industry. Detailing this, Chana explains,

the nature of the labor process and the relations of production were the subject of active discussion and even experiment within ICAIC, and ways of working were modified in response to collective discussion about the best interpretation of the socialist principles of productive relations.12

The commitment to democratizing the labor process within the film-making community extended also to the subjects of ICAIC’s films—particularly in the case of documentaries. ICAIC recognized the need for its own relationship between workers making films to reflect the changing structures of the workplaces throughout society that it was filming. If the institute wanted society to change and become more equal, it had to change with it. Chanan explains ICAIC’s vision and changes writing,

in applying the procedures of works meetings and workers’ councils (paralleled, of course, by the meetings of the Institute’s party committee) ICAIC developed working methods that fostered a constant sharing of experience with real aesthetic benefits, because each production department felt supported and they consequently all worked well together. When the filmmakers went out to film this type of work meeting in other places…They did so not like film crews shooting and industrial dispute in

11 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 142-143. 12 Ibid., 359.

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the liberal democracy, as foreigners to the scenes they were filming, but rather as participants and observers in a social process they shared with their subjects.13

This evidences once again that ICAIC sought to make an increase in equality in the filmmaking process at the heart of its objectives.

While great strides were made in democratizing the relationships and processes within filmmaking, unfortunately, as pointed out by Venegas, the Special Period undermined Espinosa’s renewed efforts at creating the egalitarianism envisioned by

ICAIC’s founders. She explains that,

under financial constrains and the direction of non-filmmakers, ICAIC dissolved the three working groups established by García Espinosa in the 1980s, thus losing the democratic structure that had fostered egalitarian access, creative flexibility, and open artistic dialogue. Different values and practices, adjusted to hard commercial realities, took their place.14

Many of the democratic structures and norms began being challenged during the 90s and continue to be now.

In addition to the changing economic system in the 90s, audiovisual technology was also changing dramatically. The technological changes accompanied by the challenges in acquiring expensive filmmaking equipment and materials began drastically altering how films in Cuba were made. These changes to the filmmaking process, as we shall see, both aided and undermined the democratic structures and relationships that were present in ICAIC prior to the Special Period and the change in

ICAIC leadership. In an interview published in the Cuban cultural magazine, Temas,

Roberto Smith explains that one of the main structural differences that has arisen in the wake of the Special Period and the advent of technological advances is that, “en esta

13 Ibid., 360. 14 Venegas, “Filmmaking with Foreigners,” 40.

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época no se puede identificar el cine Cubano con el ICAIC…Hoy en día, cuantitivamente, se produce mucho más fuera dele ICAIC que dentro.”15 The economic constraints the Special Period posed filmmakers necessitated that they sought funding outside of ICAIC. Fortunately, the advances in technology also generated since this time period have made it so that filmmakers can more accessibly make films without

ICAIC’s assistance.

Documentary filmmaker, Alejandro Ramírez Anderson, aptly notes in an interview in Temas that “estas nuevas tecnologías tienen muchas ventajas, y también desventajas.”16 Ramírez’s analysis of these advantages and disadvantages makes clear that technological advances have both supported and detracted from previous democratic structures in the filmmaking process. One of the first advantages that he notes is that “cualiquiera tiene acceso a ellas y los costas se abaratan mucísimo; es muy fácil hacer un documental con una pequeña cámara de mano y una computadora en la casa.”17 That anyone can now make a film, on the one hand, inherently democratizes the process as it is now an activity open to individuals who previously would not have had access to the resources necessary to make a potentially costly production. Yet, as Ramírez points out, negative consequences accompany the more equal access individuals have to making films:

toda esta era digital también tiene algunas desventajas, porque hace que, a veces, los creadores peinsen mucho más en la forma que en el contenido. Yo me he encontrado opinions que, en mi criterio, son bastantes absurdads. Hay quien me dice: “Tengo en proyecto un nuevo material que va a ser muy experimental,” y cuando le pregunto de qué se

15 Mario Piedra, Alejandro Ramírez, Roberto Smith, and Denia García Ronda (Moderador), “Controversia: Que Pasa con El Cine?” Temas 53 (2008): 106-121. 16 Ibid., 110. 17 Ibid.

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trata, me contesta: “No sé, pero va a ser muy experimental.” Eso me preocupa, porque creo que para hacer un material, lo primero que uno debe tener es algo que decir, y la forma se la va dando la temática y el background cultural que tenga el creador, y la vía expresiva que seleccione. Me parece que a esto hay que ponerle atención, porque puede ir en detrimento de la producción audiovisual.18

Ramírez’s concern with the increased access and availability to making films that individuals have is that although they now have the material means, they do not necessarily have the training or knowledge to do so responsibly. As Cuban cinema after the Revolution has focused on both its artistic and political purposes, and film has been so integral to the democratic education and processes on the island, having irresponsible and untrained individuals making films could ultimately pose more of a danger to democracy and a setback to filmmaking in Cuba. More individuals participating in the filmmaking process then, does not necessarily bring about more democracy in the cinematic industry or society.

Ramírez goes on to note another change to the filmmaking process that comes with technological advances. He explains,

otra ventaja-desventaja que veo en las nuevas tecnologías es que los procesos se han hecho más indivduales; ya no se require de un equipo grande, especializado, ya no se tiene que filmar con treinta personas. A veces, el mismo director hace la cámara sin muchos conocimientos fotográficos; el mismo editor hace la mezcla de música sin conocer realmente cómo se hace; eso facilita el trabajo, pero también puede afectar la calidad de la obra. El ICAIC está hacienda películas digitales con la concepción anterior, o sea, con el gran equipo de especialistas, sin el empirisimo con el que se están hacienda las cosas en la calle. Esto último es triste, porque muchas veces son temas muy buenos, cosas que se deben decir en la actualidad, pero el resultado no tiene la calidad que tendría si se pudiera hacer el trabajo un poco más colectivo, buscando a las personas que pueden realizarlo con eficiencia. Esta es una de las

18 Ibid.

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coasas que quería decir en cuanto a las nuevas tecnologías y la diversidad de realizadores.19

Again, this change both aides and detracts from efforts at democratizing the filmmaking process. Because an individual is now able to create a film on his/her own, there is the possibility that the project will be more authentic and representative of that individual’s original vision. The individual essentially has complete autonomy in making the film. As was discussed earlier, however, autonomy in filmmaking, particularly while Espinosa headed ICAIC, was seen as being detrimental to the filmmaking process. In working in the absence of the community of filmmakers, the filmmaker has less specialized knowledge, and is not able to benefit from the perspectives of others. As Denia García

Ronda echoes in the interview with Ramírez, “El director se convierte en todo: guinista, camarógrafo, editor, y no todo el mundo es Chaplin,”20 and one must see as a result that the film itself is likely to suffer in quality because of the loss of specialization and the loss of discourse that comes when a community is sacrificed and an individual works on his or her own. While technology may thus be giving Cubans a more equal opportunity to be filmmakers, it has also made it possible for them to do so on their own, thus leaving behind the democratized and specialized work relations that existed before.

The structure of the filmmaking process in Cuba is thus largely in a state of transition. Both the economic constraints brought on in the 90s along with the increased access individuals have recently had to more affordable and intuitive filmmaking technology, have made it so more individuals than ever are making films outside of ICAIC and without the assistance of a traditionally sized film crew. Earlier efforts at

19 Ibid., 110-111. 20 Ibid., 112.

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democratizing the workplace have been lost to a large degree with the collapse of the traditional film crew and the detachment from ICAIC which, after Espinosa left its leadership, also changed in its production structure. Whether the equality in opportunity for making films will outweigh the benefits of the previous democratic structures found within ICAIC’s filmmaking process remains to be seen. Further, we must wait and see how continued, and likely increasing, coproductions influence the filmmaking process in

Cuba. While equality has had an important place in the production of film in Cuba since the Revolution, the place it will inhabit moving forward remains uncertain, although it seems to still be in the consciousness of the members of the film community.

Equality in Film Distribution

As mentioned in Chapter 7 during the discussion on sovereignty within Cuban cinema, prior to the Revolution, much of the distribution process was dominated by foreign states and companies. With the Revolutionary regime, however, came the initiative to put distribution in the hands of Cubans and to democratize its process and objectives. While there are many structural changes that accompanied the formal distribution of film, one of the main areas we find efforts at democratizing film distribution is in the government’s and ICAIC’s efforts at increasing public access to films. As both the rural and poorer populations in Cuba were largely without access to cinema prior to the Revolution, the focus under the new regime became centered on improving film accessibility, especially for these two groups. ICAIC and the government increased these populations’ access to films early in the regime’s installation through a number of measures. Detailing some of these strategies and measures Chanan writes,

the new regime decided to take cinema to them and the mobile cinemas were set up; their showings were free. Nor was this a stopgap policy. They continued to operate until replaced by video salons in the 1980s.

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There were also a growing number of noncommercial fixed location 16 mm exhibition outlets, located in cultural centers, film clubs, schools, colleges, and so forth; these too collected no box office. By the start of the 1980s, there were a total of 741 16 mm outlets, including mobile cinemas, which held 332,700 showings between them to the audience of 33 million. In some, as one Latin American commentator put it, “by enormously expanding the cinema public and multiplying the opportunities of access to a variety of presentations, conditions for the diversification and enrichment of taste have been set in motion, also leading to the intercommunication between regions of the country that used not to know each other, and the construction of an organic national culture.21

What is noteworthy about Chanan’s summary of the efforts made by the revolutionary regime and ICAIC to increase Cubans’ access to film, is that it was not just an initiative taken in the immediate years following the installation of the regime. Rather, it was, and continues to remain, a project to which ICAIC remains committed. The government took advantage of the increased access Cubans had to their own televisions and aired films, especially documentaries, on Cuban television programs. This was yet another way for reaching more Cubans with the national cinema. ICAIC and the government are adapting to changing circumstances to continue to remain committed to their concern with creating equal opportunities for Cubans to have access to film.

In addition to the government actively working to create access to films through efforts such as creating mobile cinema and charging low ticket prices, the public also took its own initiative to increase its access to film. The public’s efforts have been largely successful because of the development of a pervasive black market and their increased access to technological advances which permit Cubans the ability to watch films obtained through the black market within their own homes. Just as technological advances make it so more people have the opportunity to produce films without

21 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 32-33.

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assistance from ICAIC, so too, do these advances make it possible for more people to have access to watching films outside of the space of ICAIC (ie the theaters it shows films at or the DVDs it sells). Now individuals are able to easily copy films from one another and watch them on their computers.

Directors and members of ICAIC have varying opinions on the development of increased access to private film-viewing that has come with the development of technology and a strong black market. Director Fernando Pérez presents a comprehensive and progressive analysis of this issue in an interview conducted by

Danial Díaz Torres that was published in Cine Cubano’s 179th issue. Pérez discusses first the challenges presented by advances in technology stating,

tengo la impression de que el espectador cubano ha ido perdiendo, con el tiempo, la oportunidadde desarrollar una passion por el cine, por el espectáculo cinematográfico. Porque no hay cines en Cuba. En La Habana existe el Chaplin y, por suerte, el Infanta. Pero dónde tú puedes ver una película en 35 mm?22

Pérez notes that a movie cannot be experienced the same way and to the same degree outside of the cinema—particularly a cinema which projects 35mm films, as “una cosa es el DVD y otra coa es el cine.”23 Lamenting the fact that this distinction has been ignored in the evolving development of Cuban film-distribution, Pérez goes on to explain that,

lo más doloroso y complejo es que el espectador, sobre todo los jóvenes que no son cinéfilos, pierden la posibilidad de apreciar lo que es el cine, no tienen la más mínima idea de lo que el cine es. Yo creo que uno puede ver películas en DVD, pero después que las haya visto en el cine.24

22 Daniel Díaz Torres, “El Cine Es La Diversidad: Entrevista a Fernando Pérez (Primera Parte),” Cine Cubano 179 (2011): 2-14. 23 Ibid., 11. 24 Ibid., 12.

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For Pérez then, technological development which has increased private viewership is not a bad thing necessarily for cinema, but its shortcomings need to be acknowledged and addressed. Indeed, as Pérez argues, there is actually space for ICAIC to become more involved in the distribution of pirated copies of the films because of the current financial limitations constricting the industry’s ability to show films at cinemas accessible to everyone. This leads Pérez to directly address the issue of piracy and its place within the cinematic industry’s efforts at a democratic distribution of films in Cuba. He asserts,

no estoy en contra de la piratería: estoy a favor de ella, pero que sea con calidad. De Nuevo, la excelencia. Esa copia pirata (que está subtitulada al inglés) la sustrajeron del cuarto piso del ICAIC y es una copia de trabajo, sin la banda Sonora, sin el doblaje, sin nada. Y anda dando vueltas por ahí y la están cobrando. Por suerte, ya lleó un DVD de España que, si yo pudiera, pondría un anuncio clasificado o un spot: “Vayan a vermet a mi casa en Infanta y Manglar. Traigan su disco y yo lo quemo.” Muchas espectadores no puededn trasladarse a los cines y tampoco pueden pagar 15 CUC por un buen DVD, pore so alquilan las películas en los bancos (o barcos?) piratas. El cine Cubano tiene también que pensar cómo divulger Buenos DVD a un precio asequible, or colaborar co los piratas para que las copias salgan con calidad.25

From Pérez’s analysis, we may argue that rather than hurting the Cuban cinematic industry, piracy may actually be increasing the democratic distribution of, and access to, films. While trying to obtain Cuban films myself, I quickly discovered that it was difficult finding copies of them being sold at governments stores. So even with my ability to purchase a 15 CUC DVD (something that Pérez aptly noted is not the case for most

Cubans), it was difficult for me to buy legal copies. And while pirated copies of films are sold in Havana, I was able to obtain many films for free from friends and even from the directors of some of the films. Indeed, while pirated films are sold, there is also an extensive culture and network of film-sharing. This informal structure of film distribution

25 Ibid., 12.

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thus leads to Cubans having more access to films, thus making distribution more democratic.

While, as Pérez’s comments illustrate, there is a strong commitment to creating equality of access to films within the distribution of Cuban cinema still today and support for the public’s efforts to increase this access themselves, there are some threats and actions, particularly on the part of the government, that contradict these goals. One of the largest concerns for equality in film distribution presently is that ICAIC and the government have the ability to select which films will play in the limited theaters available. This is particularly problematic now given the increasingly large number of films being made in Cuba that are produced independently. What Cubans have access to then, may still be largely limited, though ICAIC has prided itself throughout its existence on its distribution and showing of diverse films—including those made outside of the state. Non-ICAIC produced Cuban films, however, may be having a difficult time being distributed and exhibited, at least officially and in national theaters. Additionally, those films that are non-ICAIC produced that are selected, are likely to be the ones that meet ICAIC’s approval (in content and style). As a higher percentage of Cuban films are not made in ICAIC, this is an issue that must necessarily be addressed if the government and ICAIC want to remain committed to giving all Cubans access to Cuban cinema.

Of particular concern for efforts at creating equality of access to films and the public effort to increase their own access is the government’s declaration in the fall of

2013 that privately run 3D cinemas and videogame lounges were considered to be operating illegally and must close. Tomás E. Pérez, in an article featured in OnCuba,

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an online Cuban news and culture publication, discusses the controversy surrounding this recent announcement by the government and ultimately critiques the decision.

Pérez points out that while the government claims that it has always been illegal for these businesses to operate, Pérez, along with a group of individuals who owned these businesses, claim that they have been operating in the public eye and never before have they been told that they were illegal. The announcement by the government first came the 27th of October, 2013 when as Pérez notes that in the newspaper, Juventud

Rebelde,

public el artículo, “La vida en 3D?,” donde se citan las siguientes palabras de Fernando Rojas, viceministro de Cultura, a propósito de los cinees 3D: “Qué hacer entonces: prohibir o regular? Creo que se trata de regular, a partir de una premise fundamental: el cumplimiento por todos y todas de lo que establece la política cultural.” Y más Adelante: “nuestro interés no es limitar estas ofertas, sino lograr que promuevan, repito, productos culturales de mayor calidad.26

Pérez does not seemingly take issue with the idea of regulating the businesses, but goes on to argue that presently, the government has nothing designed to offer a

“regulating” option, and thus, the default position has been that all of these establishments were forced to close. He explains that following this first announcement in Juventud Rebelde, there was an updated announcement in the newspaper, Granma, on November 2, 2013 which,

dio a conocer una “Nota informativa sobre el trabajo por cuenta propia,” firmada por el Comité Ejecutivo del Consejo de Ministros, en la cual puede leerse: “la exhibición cinematográfica (incluye las salas de 3D) y los juegos computacionales, cesarán de inmediato en cualquier tipo de actividad por cuenta propia.”27

26 Tómas Pérez, “Muchísimas Preguntas (Y Casi Ninguna Respuestas) Sobre Los Cines 3D,” On Cuba, 3 de Noviembre, 2013 27 Ibid.

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In essence, Pérez is pointing out that the government has taken away the opportunity for people to see films in 3D at privately owned cinemas, without offering any viewing alternative at the publically owned theaters which are without the resources to update with the necessary equipment. While Rojas speaks out against the type of films that are shown in 3D, arguing that their content is frivolous or banal, Pérez rejects this justification on the grounds that Cuban television also airs frivolous and banal programs, and goes on to insinuate that some such types of films may not be a threat to Cuban political culture, but may even be a necessary alternative that the Cuban public craves.

Pérez writes,

los cines 3D particulares son una alternativa mediante la cual el público de Cuba, un país subdesarrollado, bloqueado, etc., puede acceder, aunque no cuente con las condiciones ideales, a una novedosa y revolucionaria manera de experimentar el cine. El Estado cubano, por el momento, no puede asumir la tarea de introducir el 3D en nuestras salas, porque, dice Smith, aún “no tenemos la oferta más indicada ni el financiamiento para ello.” La sala de proyección radicada en el ICAIC constituye, cómo no, una iniciativa encomiable. Ella sola, sin embargo, no satisfaría las necesidades que hoy satisfacen los cines 3D particulares.28

If Cubans desire access to 3D films, and the government is not able to presently offer them, then, as Pérez notes, it would behoove the government to permit these privately owned cinemas to continue to operate until the government is able to do so. In the meantime, regulations and the taxes that are in-place for other privately owned businesses could be introduced to the 3D cinemas and gaming lounges. Not doing so would seem to contradict the government’s and ICAIC’s efforts at, and commitment to, increasing access to films which, since the Revolution’s triumph, have been consistently championed.

28 Ibid.

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Documentaries and Equality

One of the final main areas we see a strong effort at creating equality in Cuba is through documentary film-making. As we shall discuss in this section, documentary- film-making has been integral to achieving the objectives of the Revolution, particularly in its efforts to educate Cuban citizens, and it is the type of film-making that Cubans have the most access to take part in creating. It thus lends itself as having the potential to being the most democratic, in terms of its focus on equality and positive rights (in this case, education), of all of the forms of film-making. A promising history though documentary films have had since the Revolution, we do find, however, that since the

1990s, documentary film-making’s place in Cuban society has been challenged due to a lower rate of exhibiting documentaries and advances in technology that, while making it easier for individuals to make them, has made it so un-trained individuals are acting as documentary filmmakers.

The Revolutionary regime has prioritized and utilized documentary film-making since its installation. As Chanan points out, “when the Revolution took power, the rebel army set up a film unit even before ICAIC was created, to make documentaries for the cinema explaining policies in key areas like agrarian reform.”29 At the heart of making and distributing documentaries was the desire to educate the Cuban public. Just as was discussed in Chapter 7 with the focus on the place of positive rights in Cuba’s cinematic industry, documentary filmmaker, John Grierson, argues that documentaries can play a fundamental role in educating citizens on policies and instigating discourse to come up with solutions to problems, and, in the case of the US, help to connect an

29 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 17.

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otherwise large and spread-out population. In Cuba, ICAIC and the government have created and supported documentary films playing this role. Chanan echoes Grierson’s vision of documentary films when he explains how since the Revolution they have played this role of educator. Having listed a few of the monumental Cuban documentaries, Chanan explains,

films like these, together with the forty or more shorter documentaries that ICAIC used to produce every year, fulfilled one of the prime functions that liberal democracies is ascribed to the public-service responsibilities of the broadcasting companies, that of keeping the public informed in a manner that also educates them in the issues of the day. That ICAIC evidently did this in a manner that audiences found both more entertaining and more effective than broadcasting and the press ensured that the Institute enjoyed a high reputation, which lent its filmmakers a capacity to connect with different social sectors—intellectuals and campesions, artists and sugar-cane workers, even party bureaucrats and marginal youth—through the same films.30

The documentaries gave ICAIC and the government the ability to educate across traditional factions and to reach people who were marginalized by the previous regime.

The films served thus to both educate and incorporate citizens into the system—lending many efficacy and the chance to participate that did not and could not prior to the

Revolution.

Documentaries may be seen as especially important in their function of educating and informing given the nature of the news industry in Cuba that is more controlled by the government than is filmmaking. Because television stations and newspapers are controlled by the government, the content of their news stories is as well. The result of having the government oversight in all of the news media is problematic because it has the potential of stories and issues being examined and portrayed from a single

30 Ibid., 20

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perspective. This concern has very much become a reality in Cuban news media.

Having documentaries created by different directors in the more autonomous ICAIC thus offers individuals to see issues more comprehensively studied and discussed from multiple angles.

It is perhaps preferable in any system that documentaries are used to educate and inform over the other mediums of news delivery—even liberal democracies. In the

US, for example, while many news agencies are privately owned, there is a striking degree of similarity between the issues discussed and the depth of which they are discussed within them. Television news in particular, in its efforts to be balanced and fair, has taken merely to providing sound clips from the two sides debating the issue, and fails to actually investigate the validity of either party’s claims. News coverage is largely superficial, and thus does relatively little to adequately inform individuals and give them efficacy as citizens. The in-depth and investigatory nature of documentary films could go a long way in educating citizens, as has been done in Cuba.

Through the production and distribution of documentaries, the Cuban government and ICAIC began to create a public and a culture of documentary- appreciation. By doing things like showing documentaries at feature screenings and broadcasting them on television, “the audience…began to change their viewing habits they started, for example, taking documentaries seriously.”31 Alejandro Ramírez

Anderson points out the unique place of privilege documentary filmmakers had in Cuba compared to other states that came about because of the opportunities they were afforded from ICAIC and government efforts. Echoing Chanan then, he states that

31 Ibid., 18-19.

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ICAIC tenía una producción asignada para documentales, que, además, era muy fuerte; tenía todo un programa de exhibición de documentales en los cines; existió un excelente Noticiero ICAIC durante mucho tiempo; y había una cosa que para mí es un privilegio: un público formado, que aprciaba los documentales.32

The opportunities for education that documentaries afforded Cubans, was thus well- received by the population and evidences the success at the efforts to reach and enfranchise the previously marginalized citizens.

Unfortunately, as it did to the rest of the cinematic industry, the 90s undermined many of the goals and efforts of documentary filmmakers, ICAIC, and the government to use the genre to help educate and create equality amongst citizens. While all of cinematic industry suffered from the economic hardships this time period brought,

Chanan asserts that “it was the greatest loss of Cuban cinema in the 1990s that the production of documentaries was largely curtailed.”33 Indeed, because of the economic crisis, funding to ICAIC was cut, and within it, a drastic cutting to documentary filmmaking. Processes and structures for documentary filmmaking and distribution were altered and curtailed as a result. Ramírez describes the cuts and the detrimental toll these changes had on documentary film-making stating,

creo que el ICIAC no ha encontrado, después que terminó el Noticiero ICAIC y del la profunda crisis de los 90, una estrategia de producción y de exhibición, y mucho menos de distribucioón, de los docuemtnales. Los que hace el ICAIC son, por situaciones que se están dando en el país, un tanto eventuales; salen de una forma emergente, o por algún proyecto perdido que se recupera; pero no hay una proyección específica, ni una planificación No pasa como con las películas, aquello de “esta año vamos a hacer tales prodcuciones.” Tampoco se les da el mismo espacio ni el mismo reconocimiento. Aunque a veces en los artícuolos sobre el

32 Piedra, Ramírez, Smith, and García Ronda, “Controversia: Que Pasa con El Cine?” 120. 33 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 20.

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ICAIC se lea que el organismo le pone atención a los documentales, yo siento que no se tratan de la misma forma que la ficción.34

As Ramírez’s commentary makes clear, the losses to documentary filmmaking were disproportionately large. Not only were fewer documentary films being produced by

ICAIC, but the structure of creating dialogue between documentary films was lost as the community planning process was abandoned. The communal process of making films in ICAIC that educated citizens on a subject from multiple angles was thus lost. With this change in structure and a decrease in documentary films, citizens were no longer holistically educated and informed on issues through this medium. The efforts at making citizens equal in their political efficacy through education were thus undermined.

Because the citizens no longer had documentary films playing this integral role in their education on the same scale as before, it invariably changed how they perceived their importance. Ramírez, lamenting and explaining the loss of the edge documentary filmmaking previously had in Cuban society and audiences states, “Mi preocupación es….ahora no existe (“un público formado”); carecemos tanto de estrategias de producción como de posibilidades de exhibición.”35 Ramírez’s analysis makes clear that a society that previously valued documentary filmmaking started to diminish with the decrease in documentary film production and distribution. With audience views on documentaries changing, and with citizens not getting information the same way, the citizens’ ability to be educated and informed were thus compromised.

A further loss that Ramírez points out that was particularly damaging to the role of educating and enfranchising citizens was of Noticiero ICAIC. Noticiero ICAIC was a

34 Piedra, Ramírez, Smith, and García Ronda, “Contoversia: Que Pasa con El Cine?” 111. 35 Ibid., 120.

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newsreel which, as a report by UNESCO writes, was “produced weekly from 1960 to

1990, informing the Cuban, but also the Latin-American viewers, about Cuban and world events, making them participants in their own history.”36 The newsreel served to inform citizens on current events within their own state as well as the world—something that is particularly important in this island state where insularity can become a problem.

With the loss of Noticiero ICAIC, the efforts to educate citizens were thus undermined as fewer documentary films were being produced and distributed by ICAIC in the 90s.

In addition to the loss of a documentary viewing audience and the collection and distribution of educational and informational materials, another one of documentaries’ functions was undermined with the loss of support the filmmaking style received in the

90s: the ability to document historical moments as they happened. Ramírez finds this point particularly troubling, as he explains the importance of this function of documentaries. He states,

creo que lo más importante es que los jóvenes,y también los viejos, no dejen de hacer documentales, porque es la única forma que tenemos de dejar plasmada nuestra oca en el audiovisual. Pienso que es una mission que tenemos los documetnalistas. Muchas veces yo les digo a mis alumnus en el ISA, o a los compañeros con quienes trabajo: “Hagan el documental sin temor a lo que vaya pasar después, porque hay necesidad de registrar un hecho o un fenómeno; si no sale en este momento, más tarde va a salir, y va a tener un valor, porque es una visión de nuestra época. Nadie lo va a contar mejor después, somos nosotros mismos los que estamos contando lo que estamos viviendo.”37

Documentary films are thus not only important for informing the present citizenry, but the future public as well. Recording moments now allows future citizenry to understand

36 UNESCO, Memory of the World: Original Negative of the Noticiero ICAIC Latinomericano, http://www.unesco.org/new/en/communication-and-information/flagship-project-activities/memory-of-the- world/register/full-list-of-registered-heritage/registered-heritage-page-6/original-negative-of-the-noticiero- icaic-lationamericano/. 37 Piedra, Ramírez, Smith, and García Ronda, “Controversia: Que Pasa con El Cine?” 111.

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the historical circumstances and complexities that may continue to influence their lives and political decisions. Only when they are familiar with the reasons motivating decisions can they act in an informed and effective way. Ramírez details how the inability to record historical moments in Cuba that came with the decrease in documentary filmmaking is particularly troubling. He states,

casi no se hicieron documetnales en la década de los 90; los que se hicieron, se realizaron casi todos fuera de las organismos oficiales. Sin embargo, fue una etapa tan difícil para el país que se volvió un centro de atención para muchos documentalistas y para muchas empresas cinematográficos del exterior, qu vinieron e hiceieron documetnales sobre Cbua. A mí me resulta muy triste que haya pasado esa etapa sin un peso fuerte en el documental Cubano, porque lo que queda de memoria audivosual son visiones extranjeras de lo que pasó aquí, y creo que teníamos que haber sido nosotros los que contáramos la historia nuestra. Cada vez que veo uno de esos documentales hechos por extranjeros, compruebo que dan una visión transformada, caricaturesca de nuestra realidad de entonces, y muchas veces con una gran falta de respeto.38

For a state and an industry looking to create and protect cultural sovereignty and promote nationalism, the idea that directors from other states would become responsible for making documentary films in Cuba and choosing how to portray its people, moments, and issues through their lens, is indeed a troubling contradiction.

The decline of Cuban documentaries then, does seem to be problematic for not only creating equality in Cuba, but also sovereignty.

Despite the negative impacts the decrease in documentary production and distribution had, it may have been a decision made consciously by the government.

Ramírez suggests that although much of the reason for the decrease of documentary films was due to the economic hardships brought on with the Special Period, there were also non-economic factors motivating their decrease. He states that cinema

38 Ibid., 115.

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había una política de registro, y yo creo que eso se perdió, un poco por la crisis, y también por la intención de muchos cuadros oficiales en enmascarar realidades que se estaban dando. Ser perdió el documental que reflejaba problemas, y han pasado cosas importantes de las cuales no hay documentales.39

Because of the hardships and problems brought about with the Special Period were so dramatic and crippling, the government may not have wanted these moments to be recorded—for Cubans and non-Cubans alike. At such a critical time period, any footage that may have decreased legitimacy for the regime both within and outside of Cuba could have been seen as too great of a threat to the regime—even though the documentary films aided in reaching many other government goals. This reality could go a ways in explaining then, why the loss to documentary filmmaking was greater than it was to fictitious films.

In addition to the changes and hardships the documentary filmmaking endured as a result of the economic collapse of the 90s, just as was the case with the fiction filmmaking, advances and access to technology greatly changed the documentary film industry. Certainly, these advances often made for more equality. Given documentary films’ important and unique ability to document particular historic moments or phenomena, the increased access people had to making such films may have been even more important at efforts to create equality than the fiction films. Now it is easier for more Cubans’ moments, issues, or experiences to be recorded and shared. Yet while some of these changes were for the better, as was the case with the fiction films, there were also problems that came about with the increased access to making documentaries. Ramírez explains,

39 Ibid., 120.

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ahora cualquiera dice: “Quiero hacer un documental,” y lo hace, en muchos casos sin tener el conocimiento y el talento para realizarlo bien. Para hacer un documental hay que aprender algunas cosas fundamentales. Mucha gente obvia completamente el proceso de investicagción, entonces ya no es un documental, es un reportaje, un género periodístico, cualquier cosa, pero no un documental. Por no investigar, muchas veces se cae en la superficialidad y en el mal resultado de los materiales.40

Not only is the artistic quality and integrity coming into question then, as more untrained individuals make documentaries, but the films they make inadequately look at issues.

In doing so, they risk misinforming the audiences who watch them—again, a potential danger to creating equal citizens with efficacy. As such, a danger exists in the increased access to documentary filmmaking individuals have outside of ICAIC and film schools. The hope that remains is that if enough individuals make a film on an issue

(even if they are not coordinating their efforts), a fuller understanding of that issue may emerge. As this increased access is relatively new, some time will have to lapse before any definitive conclusions on how the industry covers issues in documentaries will emerge.

Conclusion: Keeping Equality in Filmmaking

Since their inception, both ICAIC and the revolutionary regime have used films and the film industry as a means of creating equality in Cuba. Whether it be in the democratization of film-production relations, efforts at reaching audiences in distributions processes and structures, or educating people through documentary films,

ICAIC and the reevolutionary regime have consistently championed these efforts at equality and in many cases succeeded in their efforts. Unfortunately, the Special Period undermined these efforts and changing technology is challenging both ICAIC and the

40 Ibid., 111.

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government to re-think film’s place, how it is and should be produced, and how it ought to be distributed. Directors, both those in and outside of ICAIC, perhaps have the best insight into the matter and seem to be the most valuable resource in addressing these issues. How they, ICAIC, whose role, as we have seen, will likely be changing as a result of these changes, and the government respond will determine if the equality that has historically been a part of Cuban filmmaking since the Revolution will continue to exist in the future. Moving forward to Chapter 9, we will examine how another democratic feature, a democratic culture of discourse, exists within Cuban cinema.

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CHAPTER 9 CUBAN CINEMA’S BIRTH OF A DISCURSIVE DEMOCRATIC CULTURE

Having discussed in Chapter 7 and Chapter 8 how concerns for creating and protecting cultural sovereignty and equality are central to the institutions and goals of the Cuban cinematic industry since the Revolution, we now move to look at how a third democratic feature, a democratic culture based on discourse, exists through the cinematic industry. This culture is based on the understanding of limited contestation set out in Fidel Castro’s “Speech to the Intellectuals.”1 Within this understanding, contestation is permitted, so long as it is a contestation that is committed to working towards the ideals and values of the Revolution. To support this contention that a discursive democratic culture is present in Cuba through cinema, I will first briefly discuss theoretical support concerning the importance of discourse and the creation of democratic cultures. As we have already examined the theoretical support for contestation, this discussion will be focused primarily on democratic culture.

With this basis, I will move on to show how both discourse and a democratic culture exist in Cuba through the cinematic industry. I will begin doing this by first examining the discourse that exists within the filmmaking community and its processes.

I will argue that discourse among members of ICAIC is central to the process of creating films, and also that the films themselves become vehicles for contestation. As Chapter

10 will be looking in more detail at content from a selection of films that demonstrate contestation in Cuban cinema, here the conversation will be kept more general with a focus on how films serve as starting points for discussion and change. This

1 Fidel Castro, “Castro’s Speech to Intellectuals,” Latin American Network Information Center: University of Texas, Austin, 1961.

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examination will serve to support the point that a limited form of contestation exists in

Cuban cinema, and directors take advantage of film as a space to exercise it. In addition to plurality in thought being exercised in the filmmaking process and in the films themselves, I will argue that plurality, a necessary feature in a democratic culture, is also present in the cinematic industry’s and many Cuban directors’ goals and the types of films produced and distributed in Cuba. Having discussed how discourse exists between those making, producing, and distributing films, I will next go on to explain how

Cuban cinema creates discourse for the audience members viewing the films. Relying on the findings put forth by Michael Chanan, who contends that film serves as a public sphere in Cuba, I will argue that film is central to creating political discourse amongst the Cuban population. Next I will discuss the other cinematic-themed venues outside of film production, distribution, and viewing in which discourse and contestation exist.

Finally, I will conclude the chapter by offering a brief discussion of possible threats to the democratic culture and discourse that have been present as a result of the cinematic industry and its culture in Cuba.

Discourse and Democratic Culture

The theory that a democratic culture throughout society is needed to support a democratic regime was first examined both quantitatively and qualitatively by Gabriel

Almond and Sydney Verba in their collaborative work, The Civic Culture.2 In this book,

Almond and Verba explore what qualities are necessary for creating the ideal civic culture and democratic citizen. To determine these qualities, Almond and Verba conducted 1000 interviews in each of the five states they were studying (the US, Great

2 Gabriel Almond and Sydney Verba, The Civic Culture: Political Attitudes and Democracy in Five Nations (Newbury Park, London and New Delhi: Sage Publications, 1989).

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Britain, Germany, Italy, and Mexico). With these interviews, they were measuring the individuals’ attitudes toward the government, fellow citizens, political parties, the ability they perceive to have in the political process, being politically competent and having political influence, pride towards their political system, their participation in political processes, and their participation in non-political organizations and situations. Having conducted their interviews, Almond and Verba conclude that there are a number of citizen traits that help to create a civic culture which include being aware and exposed to politics, being open to make choices and have opinions in political affairs, viewing oneself as having an impact on the government and likewise having the view that the government has an influence on one’s life, having national pride, feeling connected to fellow citizens and being able to organize with them, actively discussing and feeling able to discuss politics, being politically competent and having political influence, and finally, being pluralistic in accepting other parties.

As the discussions in the last two chapters evidence, Cuban cinema helps to foster and create some of these qualities. The industry’s concern with creating cultural sovereignty and displaying national pride in films, for example, helps with creating national pride in citizens. Likewise, efforts at educating through film also exhibit how the cinematic industry helps to make citizens politically competent and increases their ability to have political influence and participate in politics. As we shall see in this chapter, through cinema, contestation and plurality of thought emerge and are given a space in

Cuban society where differences in political opinions can be aired and citizens are able to organize together and feel connected. From Almond and Verba’s understanding of what is necessary for a democratic culture then, we will find that while it does not

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necessarily exhibit all of the features, many of them are present within, and are bolstered by, the Cuban cinematic industry.

Since Almond and Verba’s seminal work, political scientists have discussed the idea of a democratic culture, with the most notable one of recent being Robert Putnam.

Putnam, building off of the ideas introduced by Almond and Verba, discusses how important a democratic culture is in his book, Making Democracy Work, in which he examines how political systems developed in relation to their political cultures in

Northern and Southern Italy.3 Whereas Northern Italy exhibited having a democratic culture based on social capital and developed a more democratic political system,

Southern Italy developed a non-democratic system based on a non-democratic political culture. Putnam thus portrays the important relationship that exists between a regime and political culture.

He goes on to reassert the importance of a democratic culture in his book,

Bowling Alone, in which he discusses the decline of social capital in the United States in recent decades and why it is problematic for democracy.4 Putnam argues that social capital, which consists of citizens trusting one another and being able to discuss and respect each other’s differences in political opinions, was previously gained in the US through individuals joining more social clubs and organizations than they do presently

(something he attributes, in large part, to the increase in home televisions). Just as

Almond and Verba assert that people feeling connected to one another and being able to organize themselves is important to a democratic culture, so too, did Putnam

3 Putnam, Robert Putnam, Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1993). 4 Robert Putnam, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2001).

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conclude that this is an incredibly important feature in a healthy democratic culture. In being in such organizations and clubs, which, Putnam explains, do not have to be politically-based or themed organizations, citizens learn to work with one another, make compromises, tolerate difference and plurality of opinion, and to learn processes of cooperation in decision making. Further, in such organizations, cross-cutting ties are formed amongst people who may not share all of the same demographic features—they may live in different neighborhoods, have different socio-economic standings, have different political opinions, and hold different types of jobs. These cross-cutting ties thus create trust across society making the fear of otherness begin to disappear, as the other becomes more known and trust is fostered. As we shall see in the coming sections, the cinematic industry has helped to foster spaces and situations for discourse and trust to be created, thus helping to develop a democratic culture and social capital in Cuba.

Discourse and Contestation of Filmmakers

Even before the Revolution and ICAIC, discourse and debate were hallmark features of the cinematic community. One of the most interesting examples of a space for such discourse was the cineclub. Cineclubs were started by a variety of groups with given affiliations. Cineclubs headed by Catholic groups, for example, like many other cineclubs, screened films and held debates.5 Such clubs then, allowed for the organization of individuals who connected through films and participated in the active discussion of them. Director, and one of the founding members of ICAIC, Manolo

Pérez, having been a member of a non-Catholic cine club prior to the Revolution and during his time in ICAIC states that, “en el cineclub se incentivaron mis inquietudes

5 Michael Chanan, Cuban Cinema (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004).

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culturales, y con la apreciación y debate de las películas, comenzó también para mi una vision política de la realidad. O sea, que mi conciencia política se inicia a través del cine.”6 What Pérez’s statement makes clear is that not only did these debates foster discourse between individuals, but that they were not just focused on film theory—but rather content of films and politics as well. They served as places to inform individuals and to express varying political beliefs—helping to foster traits of the very civic culture that Almond and Verba deemed so important. Indeed the club of which Pérez was a member housed many other members who were integral participants in the founding of

ICAIC. Their political training and organization they developed there helped to connect the individuals and give them a basis for ICAIC.

After the Revolution came to power, the discursive nature of cineclubs continued to exist in ICAIC. Director Fernando Pérez, in an interview with Díaz Torres, muses,

“Recuerdas que habitualmente se hacían cine-debates, allá en el quinto piso, entre nosotros los realizadores?”7 Ambrosio Fornet similarly recalls such discussions occurring stating,

yo recuerdo los debates en el ICAIC, que era un hervidero. Allí hubo siempre una intense lucha ideológica interna. Creo que una de las grandes virtudes de esta institución es que se mantuvo siempre muy viva internamente. Y aquel debate lo recuerdo con distintas maneras de reaccionar frente a lo ocurrido y frente a lo que significaba el hecho de haber tenido armas atómicas en Cuba.8

6 Ambrosio Fornet, “Contextos Históricos y Polémicas Culturales en El Cine de La Revolución: Primera Parte,” Cine Cubano 176 (2010): 66-82. 7 Daniel Díaz Torres, “El Cine Es La Diversidad: Entrevista a Fernando Pérez (Segunda y Ultima Parte),” Cine Cubano 180 (2011): 10-19. 8 Fornet, “Contextos Históricos y Polémicas Culturales en El Cine de La Revolución (Primera Parte),” 73.

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Again, it is important to note here that Fornet is suggesting that the nature of the debates often focused on ideological and political issues as they related to film.

Members of ICAIC, through discourse and debate with one another, were learning pluralistic tolerance and trust as they discussed political and cinematic issues. Chanan similarly notes the tolerance of diverging ideas during the debates happening within

ICAIC in its early years writing,

the same practice of debate brought directors and creative personnel together for internal screenings of films not only by ICAIC itself but also by Latin American comrades. Visiting filmmakers who participated in the screenings spoke of an intense and critical dialogue among equals. According to García Espinosa, recalling the period 30 years later—when these debates no longer happened –the form they took was the sign and guarantee of ICAIC’s health: the two main strands among the Institute’s members, the Marxists and the libertarian, confronted each other, argued their piece, and learned to respect the other's positions. What emerged was a collective wisdom that avoided the extremes of both, and thrived on stylistic diversity.9

Again, it seems through ICAIC sponsored debates that political discussions were occurring, and that through these discussions, compromises were reached and tolerance practiced. Further of notice here, is also something that supports the arguments made in the previous chapter: equality was a huge component of the debates. All individuals were able to participate on equal footing and work together to reach decisions. Especially in the early years of ICAIC then, debate, discourse, and a democratic culture existed.

In addition to the tolerance and trust they cultivated and cross-cutting connections they helped to forge, such debates and discourse within the cinematic community also served as arenas for contestation. Such contestation served firstly to

9 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 360-361.

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make films stronger as they benefited from the analysis and input of multiple members of the ICAIC community. Again, it is important to remember from Chapter 8 that films were largely made collectively within ICAIC, so multiple members influenced the direction of any given film. Chanan explains this phenomenon within the filmmaking process writing, “The changes are a positive result of the production system at ICAIC, where scripts are able to revolve through criticism, which unsympathetic commentators describe as regimentation and censorship.”10 It is through discussion and contestation that scripts were perfected. Explaining how such discourse aids the filmmaking process and how multiple ICAIC participants influence the direction of a film, Chanan goes on to write that,

ideas are progressed by discussion “because when you just cut away the final results” you risk becoming a censor, “but if you work in the process from the start you are more constructive, you're part of it, trying to stimulate and seek solutions.” If this is a difference that the unsympathetic observer quickly dismisses with the objection that if it isn't censorship, then it's self-censorship, it must be said that in the Cuban context, self- censorship was a volatile affair with its own special character, a game more than a regime. According to Fornet, referring to Fidel's formula of 1961, “the fact is that, in the context of the state of siege, aesthetic discourse, perhaps because of its own polysemic nature, delights in license of this ‘inside’ where everything—or almost everything –is permitted.” Nor are the limits ever fixed, because “the ‘everything’ permitted is not a permanent right but an arena of conflict that must be renegotiated every day, with no quarter granted to the bureaucracy and the temptation of irresponsible whimsy firmly resisted.”…What these cases suggest is not a regime of flexible orthodoxy but the space where the limits were not infrequently put to the test. For the filmmakers did the testing, the problem was less a matter of Stalinist tendencies, real or imagined, than of the contradictions revealed in the Revolution’s unfolding project of modernization, especially in the social domain, where great advances have been made but many traditional prejudices remain resistant to change.11

10 Ibid., 276. 11 Ibid., 362-363.

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Chanan is explicitly pointing out that such discourse and altering of films based off of the discourse should not be seen as censorship (be it censorship by the self or by another). Rather, it is the community working on the film, making compromises and working together to make the film as strong as possible. This listening to other individuals’ objections or concerns in their contesting decisions made in the film is an indication then of the behavior of a democratic individual.

The above excerpt from Chanan also leads into the second function that discourse and contestation serve in the Cuban cinema: contesting not just the decisions made by directors and other members of the filmmaking process about the decisions made in the films, but contesting through films the political and social structures and realities in Cuba. That is, through their films, directors were able to critique social and political realities and policies. Films served as a space for criticizing or exposing policies that were failing or problems that were either the result of government action or inaction—a point that will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 10. What we shall focus on in this present discussion is that directors, as Chanan’s analysis makes clear, challenge the limits of the space for contestation. Yet those limits, while tested, are always present within the filmmakers’ minds. As Fornet discusses in an interview he conducted for Cine Cubano,

para nosotros, las “Palabras a los intelectuales” no fueron, ni remotamente, una limitación, sino todo lo contrario, porque incluso al que no era revolucionario (aunque no contra) se le daba un espacio. Y para nosotros al famoso “dentro de la Revolución todo, contra la Revolución nada” era una definición perfecta del máximo de libertad posible, porque nosotros estábamos dentro del proyecto de la Revolución. La gente decía que la palabra “contra” expresaba censura y limitación, sin embargo, para nosotros no.12

12 Fornet, “Contextos Históricos y Polémicas Culturales en El Cine de La Revolución (Primera Parte),” 72.

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Directors then, while committed to the Revolution, used film as means of critiquing its accomplishments and failures as a means of strengthening it. Making the Revolution stronger thus relies on filmmakers contesting and challenging it. Cinema, in serving as an area for discourse, as such, is both a part of the democratic process and a builder of a democratic culture.

Of course, the existence of any limits on contestation can be seen as problematic for understandings of a democratic culture based on pluralism and tolerance. As such, possible threats to democratic freedoms and behavior exist with the admitted censorship—whether its aims be noble and legitimate or not—that occurrs when members refrain from delivering certain messages or images in films. Chanan discusses the complexity of this issue writing,

the ruling maxim became “to talk of our contradictions is to offer arms to the enemy.” There were certain topics, then, that by general consensus it was better not to touch on directly, for fear of provoking conflict. According to the director Juan Carlos Tabío, the artist in Cuba became subject to a debate that was both internal and external, and provided to meet for both censorship and self-censorship; or, as Sergio Giral put it, “You exercise a form of self-censorship in not wanting to destroy the cake by sticking your fingers in it too much,” especially if he felt a sense of political and social responsibility and wanted what you did to serve the revolutionary process. The more orthodox Fraga explains the problem bluntly: “there are certain aims that in order to achieve them, the best thing to do is not make a public debate about it. There are other means.” The danger in this kind of political climate, whether inside ICAIC or beyond, is that a wedge is driven between two types of language, the public and the private, political rhetoric and colloquial speech. In the latter, the former is impugned, especially through humor and irony, and dabbed with the slang term teque. If this linguistic split is manifest throughout civil society, it also has special consequences for artistic discourse, with its polysemic location, and perhaps for cinema in particular, medium in which colloquial forms of speech are part of the fabric of the narrative, and teque becomes particularly alienating. But there were also filmmakers in Cuba who believed that cinema is precisely a medium where these publicly hidden topics can be brought into view. It is no accident that these directors were

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not much associated with the genre option, where representation becomes stylized, stereotyped, and loses its edge, but with the ideas of imperfect cinema.13

There seems to be a balancing act in finding out what is within the Revolution “enough.”

That is, one must determine if such challenges and contestation will do more good for achieving the democratic goals of the Revolution than undermining its efforts. As

Chanan points out, film, while not always able to penetrate into the public sphere with all forms of contestation, is in a better position than many to challenge the limits of contestation and bring to the public’s attention social and political concerns (a point we shall be discussing in the next section). What we find overall then, is that while censorship of self and by the group undoubtedly has occurred in Cuban cinema since the Revolution, there is also evidence of contestation and the pushing of limits through the discourse of making and distributing films as well as in the content of the films themselves.

In addition to having plurality of thought about the artistic and political decisions made within films and the cinematic industry, ICAIC also focused on creating diversity and plurality through cinema by supporting and distributing different genres and formats of films.

ICAIC took over the production and distribution of films in Cuba in a series of steps that turned Cuban cinema into a state monopoly, but in the process opened this space up to critical expression, albeit with certain limits. Alfredo Guevara’s political genius lay in persuading his personal friend and political chief to let him place art rather than propaganda at the center of the Institute’s vision–in other words, to allow him the rule of artistic freedom.14

13 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 366. 14 Ibid., 18-19.

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Chanan goes on to further support this point that ICAIC fostered plurality writing that,

“ICAIC believed passionately in aesthetic pluralism, in the conviction that the only way for audiences to become more discerning was to have the opportunity and encouragement to see as many different kinds of film as possible.”15 Fernando Pérez points out that while such diversity for certain types of films did not always exist (for example, genre films like monster or thriller films did not always inhabit a place in

Cuban cinema), he does argue that diversity of genres is essential to a strong national cinema. As he explains,

en algún momento se creó mucho prejuicio con el cine de género en Cuba. Y una industria o un cine nacional se basan en la diversidad de géneros, no en una sola, uniformada, manera de expresarse. Para mí, en la creación la palabra “diversidad” es fundamental. Es algo que hay que tener en cuenta siempre, porque la diversidad forma parte de la realidad y no puede haber un solo enfoque, una sola mirada que nos unifique a todos. No. Nuestra cinematografia parte de elementos que nos unen como creadores, pero dentro de esa armonía, la diversdidad de las miradas y la expresión individual resultan esenciales. En primer lugar, porque nuestra realidad es muy diversa.16

Fernando Pérez’s statement is a testament of a celebration of diversity and a commitment to plurality in Cuban films. Within the ICAIC filmmaking community, it is thus evident that there is a strong democratic culture based on artistic and political plurality, there is trust and tolerance of opinions expressed in debates and discussions, and there is a clear connection that filmmakers have made with one another through the ICAIC community.

15 Ibid., 177-178 16 Díaz Torres, “El Cine Es La Diversidad (Primera Parte), 9

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Discourse of Film Viewers

As the previous section illustrates, within the filmmaking community a democratic culture has existed. What we shall see in this section is that a democratic culture also exists amongst filmviewers. Chanan emphasizes the importance of Cuba’s cinematic industry in helping create a democratic culture by writing that, “cinema in Cuba has remained one of the most powerful instruments of both social cohesion and social debate.”17 According to Chanan, film serves both as a space for political discussion and contestation as well as a means for uniting Cubans. Chanan points out that such dialogue both occurs between the viewer and the screen and between audience members throughout society.

In looking first at how cinema instigated discourse between viewers and across the whole of society, we find that films were often used to introduce controversial topics to Cubans. Like is the case in many systems, while the government may have changed policies to promote equality, the changes were in many ways only to formal institutions and not informal relations. So while laws may now protect individuals and ensure their equality, social norms and behaviors informed by the previous political structures and social mores may fail to change. This was the case, for example, with increases in women’s rights that came with Revolutionary policies. One film that forced Cubans to confront the issue head-on was Retrato de Teresa.18 The film, bringing feminist issues to the screen, brought feminism to the forefront of public discussion throughout Cuban society. Chanan writes of Retrato de Teresa:

17 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 2. 18 Dir. Pastor Vega. Retrato de Teresa. 1979. Film.

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a film about the breakdown of marriage, it triggered huge public response, which was taken up across the mass media throughout the country. According to Julianne Burton, there were “weeks of heated debate in newspapers and magazines, on radio, television and street corners.” Half the adult population of Havana, where the film was set, had seen the movie within the first six weeks of its release, “and, apparently, few viewers declined to take sides in the confrontation between ‘sacred’ family tradition and women's need for self-realization.”19

The content of this film served as a tangible starting point for debate about the conflict that existed between previous social norms and the revolutionary norms that were challenging them. This debate occurred not only between citizens, but also between citizens and public officials. Chanan explains how this happened with Retrato de

Teresa writing,

the Havana Film Festival exemplified from the start the wider significance of cinema in sustaining the Cuban public sphere. As Retrato de Teresa fully confirmed, film in Cuba was a powerful medium capable of stimulating public debate around important issues, through which people were drawn into dialogue and spoke to the political leaders. This was a reflection not only of the film's immense popularity but also of ICAIC’s role in focusing public attention. The film Institute served as a model of a Gramscian kind for the organic integration of the intellectual into public creative endeavor, both socially useful and aesthetically legitimate, and attracted practically the whole artistic and intellectual community like moths to the light (while television repelled them). The film festival… represented a public opening up toward the outside world that served as an example beyond the sphere of cinema itself.20

Cuban cinema thus gave citizens the chance to contest political decisions and to inform political leadership in efforts to influence the politics of the state. Discourse of this nature is a clear indication of several of the components necessary for a democratic citizen and culture.

19 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 373. 20 Ibid., 378.

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Cuban cinema, Chanan argues, in addition to sparking debate and discourse between citizens themselves and citizens and politicians, also creates a dialogue between the viewers and the films they are watching. That is, even before discourse occurs with others, the individual is first interacting with the film itself. Chanan explains how this influenced how filmmakers structured and envisioned their films:

Julio Garcia Espinosa…In his manifesto of 1968, Por un cine imperfecto,…argued that imperfections of the low-budget cinema of urgency, which sought to create a dialogue with its audience, were preferable to the sheen of high production values that merely reflect the audience back to itself.21

The concern that a film be interactive was thus at the heart of influencing the format that

Cuban films took. Viewers were to have a dialogue with the film---to be challenged by it and to challenge it back. The film was incomplete without the audience’s participation.

That is, the process only worked with the audience’s voice and its members’ willingness to be involved in the discourse. A film was only successful if the viewers were speaking as much as the filmmakers with the film.

Chanan goes on to write that such interaction was necessary not only so that individuals are able to engage with the film to learn about, and work through, an issue, but also to give people a chance to express views they might not otherwise be able to in public.

Alea told a Spanish journalist when the film opened in the trade that he was taken by surprise, “but realized that people reacted like that because they had the need to hear these things out loud, not just whispered in corridors and cafés. It's a film that says aloud what many people think but don't dare utter. I think that seeing it becomes a huge liberation for the spectator, whom it allows to openly share these ideas.” There can be no better description of the role that Cuban cinema plays as a surrogate

21 Ibid., 6.

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public sphere. A film cannot replace the need for public speech, but it can feed it.22

This is a key point Chanan makes in arguing that Cuban cinema actually serves as a public sphere in Cuba—giving people a chance to be political outside of their private spheres where contestation that goes beyond the defined limits is often relegated.

Films give Cubans a space to express their own doubts, ideas, and contestation concerning the political and social realities of their state and society. As such, filmmaking in Cuba almost necessarily comes with some gravitas. As Chanan writes,

Cuban filmmakers strongly feel the weight of responsibility that comes with this power to address the large public, a power in many ways second only to that of the maximum leader…If the filmmakers are thus engaged in a balancing act that occasionally leads them to stumble, it is not a question of simply bowing to the dictates of authority, because they sense that their privilege as filmmakers is not so much granted from above as loaned to them by the public that crowds the cinemas. In short, if Cuban cinema constitutes an aesthetic imbricated with a political spirit it is because it answers to a vicarious role in the public sphere, a calling to speak not at people, but with them, and often in their own voices.23

Making films is not just about expressing the point of views of filmmakers, but of giving voice to the Cuban people—both in the issues and perspectives included in the films, as well as in space for discussion they give people when they are shown. Film thus becomes a means of discourse in serving as a public sphere. Chanan reinforces this point explaining,

in Cuban cinema… Politics and art engage in dialogue. This dialogue allows the cinema screen to become more than either propaganda or a type of diversionary space, but a crucial preserve of public speech, a space that engages large sectors of the population in debate about the meaning and quality of their lives; a vicarious role that is negatively reinforced by the much tighter control exercised by the party over broadcasting and the press. But as a neighbor says to me on a visit to

22 Ibid.,472. 23 Ibid., 21.

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Havana in 1998…, “Here people go to the cinema in order to enjoy finding out what the film has to say about something relevant.24

The films thus introduce subjects that are created to incite debate and space within which to hold that debate. Further, as Chanan’s neighbor’s quote evidences, they serve to educate. Cinema, in serving as a public sphere, thus helps to create a democratic culture, an environment of plurality, and a practice of tolerance.

That cinema in Cuba serves as a public sphere is a unique and important reality for two main reasons. To begin with, as Chanan argues “the conventional view is that in the communist state the political public sphere ceases to exist, and the cultural public sphere is reduced and denuded by direct censorship, the direct arm of state patronage, and sanction,”25 yet “the case of Cuban cinema suggests a different interpretation, in which the public sphere does not simply dissolve, but finds an active and vicarious surrogate on the film screen.”26 The Cuban case seemingly diverges from traditional interpretations of communism that suggest a public sphere will not exist, by having such a space through Cuban cinema.

Cuban cinema is also unique within Cuba itself. Whereas more direct censorship and constraints on the public sphere happened in “radio, television, and the press,”27

Cuban cinema was able to exercise, incite, and give space for discourse and contestation. Cuban cinema was thus unique in artistic and educating mediums in

Cuba in its ability to be critical and allow citizens to be as well. Chanan writes of the implications of this unique feature in Cuban cinema explaining,

24 Ibid., 18. 25 Ibid., 17-18. 26 Ibid., 16. 27 Ibid., 17-18.

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this size audience gave the filmmaker a degree of popular reach and cultural influence that had never previously been enjoyed by a Cuban artist in any field (except perhaps music). If this phenomenon is hardly unique to Cuba, the special conditions of the revolution gave it particular force. ICAIC represented a public space that, under communism, had expanded, not contracted, and, as a popular communicator, the Cuban filmmaker enjoyed a social reach that was not only unprecedented, but probably only exceeded by Fidel Castro himself—a situation that made ICAIC the object of constant scrutiny by political watchdogs, but also lent the filmmaker unusual influence, with the result that Cuban cinema was politicized through and through. When the Soviet influence began to prevail, with effect of somewhat constraining traditional forms of public debate, ICAIC retained its own voice, and became a vicarious surrogate for a public sphere diminished by ideological orthodoxy and technocratic dirigisme, balancing its output between affirmative films and those that reserve the right to critically question stereotypes and aporias.28

Cuban cinema is thus a critical component to creating democratic culture and democratic citizens within Cuba. It is in cinematic spaces that discourse is exercised, differences of belief aired, and tolerance learned. Films direct which issues are discussed and offer citizens a format within which to discuss them. They essentially both define and push the limits of discourse in Cuba.

Discourse Outside of Film-Production and Film-Viewing

While perhaps the most significant discourse and building of democratic culture happen in the filmmaking and traditional film-viewing processes, there are a host of other cinematic-themed and sponsored venues in which it is also cultivated. Most notably, discourse occurs and democratic culture is strengthened in film festivals and in culture and film-based publications. In Chapter 7, we discussed how film-festivals such as the New Latin American Film Festival, held annually in Havana, help to promote

Cuban nationalism and cultural sovereignty. These film festivals, in addition to giving space for non-Hollywood cinema, also serve as spaces for the building of democratic

28 Ibid., 357-358.

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culture. Many film festivals, like La Muestra Joven, which shows films from new directors under the age of thirty-five, will host work-shops and discussions. Directors will offer insight into their films as well as insight into the technical and artistic skills they utilized to make their films, and audience members can ask them questions about their films. Panel discussions are also held, and frequently, as was the case with La

Muestra, daily festival newspapers will contain op-ed pieces on debates within the cinematic community and about the festival. Such discussions foster the sharing of knowledge as well as of opinions and promote plurality among participants.

Additionally, such occasions offer opportunities for cross-cutting bonds to be forged by attendees.

Festivals draw in not only the filmmakers participating in them, but also the

Cuban public. And, while many of the festivals do occur in Havana, they are held elsewhere on the island as well. One of the most notable festivals not to be held in

Havana is the Festival of Cine Pobre which is held in the province of Holguín. It, like the mobile cinema efforts of ICAIC, offers an opportunity for more people to become part of the Cuban cinematic process and experience. Together, those attending the festival are able to share Cuban cinema, learn from films, and participate in the discourse the event sparks. Cinematic festivals thus help to foster many of the qualities necessary for a democratic culture.

In addition to the festivals, there are many cinematic publications that share and incite public discourse. Film magazine, Cine Cubano, the online publication, OnCuba, the cultural magazine, Revolucion y Cultura, and even daily newspapers contain discussions about Cuban films and debates about and within the cinematic industry.

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Such publications contain interviews with directors and ICAIC leaders, examinations and discussions of Cuban cinematic history, and multi-person interviews between panel members interviewed about controversial subjects. They offer a range of perspectives on issues and help both to educate as well as catalyze discussion amongst the readers.

They make clear, once again, that film in Cuba offers a space for the development and discussion of political thought. Through them, like the film festivals, a democratic culture exists.

Conclusion: Threat to Discourse

Although, as evidenced in the preceding sections, a strong democratic culture is fostered within Cuban cinema, it does face some challenges. Many of these changes came with the re-structuring of the film-making process—in which fewer people work through ICAIC and productions have thus become decentralized along with the change in viewership brought about by the changes in technology. As was mentioned in

Chapter 8 when discussing the filmmaking within ICAIC, particularly prior to the 90s, making films—already even at the script-reviewing stage—was a communal process and endeavor. Yet as more films are made independently from ICAIC, these structures and processes that were a hallmark of revolutionary filmmaking in Cuba become abandoned to a degree. Manolo Pérez, in an interview I had with him, lamented this loss of community in the filmmaking industry. As Alejandro Ramírez said of documentary films, in becoming made independently and without the contextualization of other films on the same subject, issues are not examined from multiple perspectives and the films are not speaking with one another. Similarly, here, as filmmakers create works on their own, they start speaking to one another less, and this poses a threat to the democratic culture that is so central to the Cuban cinematic industry.

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In addition to democratic culture being somewhat threatened from the change in the way films are made, it is also threatened to a degree by the way films are viewed.

Audiences are going to theaters less, both because some have closed, and because, perhaps more significantly, films can be watched on their computers and televisions at home. Just as Putnam feared that social capital in the US decreased because of television in the home, so too, does it, and other the technological developments

(especially computers), seem to have the possibility of diminishing some social capital in Cuba. Watching a film in a theater with others is an inherently different experience from watching it on one’s own in one’s own dwelling space. Part of the public nature of the film experience is lost. While discussion about issues introduced in films are still brought up outside of the theater, the communal experience of the film shared and viewed together cannot be replicated, and, one may hypothesize about what this may mean for democratic culture. While it of course is not completely lost by the change, it is likely altered.

Having examined how democratic structures, processes, and culture exist within and through Cuban cinema in this chapter, along with Chapter 7 and Chapter 8, we will now move on in Chapter 10 to see how the same democratic goals that motivated these institutions also are present within films themselves. Themes focused on issues of nationalism, cultural sovereignty and equality are found in some of Cuba’s most celebrated films since the Revolution. Additionally, as was hinted at in this chapter, the films contain social and political critiques, thus exhibiting a form of contestation.

Chapter 10 thus will illustrate that both the cinematic industry as well as the work it

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produces evidence commitments to building democracy throughout the whole of Cuban society.

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CHAPTER 10 CONTENTSTATION IN CUBAN FILM

Having explained in Chapter 9 the ways in which the Cuban film industry employs democratic processes, this chapter sets out to provide evidence that it also produces democratic films. One way to discover whether or not the film industry’s productions are democratic is to look at the content of the films to discover if they feature any democratic qualities. As with looking at regimes, one must be careful in allowing a pluralistic understanding of what qualifies as being “democratic” when examining the content of the films. As such, when I first began my analysis of Cuban films, I was initially paying attention to whether or not there was a presence of themes dealing with political and socio-economic equality as well as nationalism and sovereignty within them. As I found out quickly, both democratic themes, equality and nationalism, were present in a large body of Cuban films.

The issues of inequality surfaced in many films. Feminist critiques of the long- standing patriarchal structures and machismo attitudes that, despite the efforts of the

Revolution, continued to persist in Cuban society are present in a host of monumental

Cuban films including, though not limited to, Lucía,1 Retrato de Teresa,2 and Hasta

Cierto Punto.3 Just as Cuban films since the Revolution have brought up issues of inequality faced by Cuban women, so too, have they introduced themes such as socio- economic inequality. A recent popular film in Cuba, Habanastation, for example, tackles this issue by telling the story of two boys: one whose family has the means for a

1 Dir. Humberto Solas. Lucia. 1968. Film. 2 Dir. Pastor Vega. Retrato de Teresa. 1979. Film. 3 Dir. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea. Hasta Cierto Punto. 1983. Film.

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PlayStation, and the other whose family is too poor to afford such an item.4 The film illustrates how, despite efforts at creating socio-economic equality, massive differences in wealth throughout society continue to exist. In the past two decades, equality for homosexuals has also surfaced as a discussion in Cuban films, and, as this theme was first introduced in the film, Fresa y Chocolate,5 a film I will be analyzing in this section, I will save its discussion for later. There is thus a noticeable presence of discussions of equality in Cuban cinema. This industry overall reflects the government’s interest in this democratic element.

Similarly, Cuban films often contain discussions of the second main element of democracy as envisioned and implemented by the revolutionary regime: nationalism attached to sovereignty. While films in the aftermath of the Revolution dealt with the revolutionaries fight for power, more recent films in Cuban cinematic history have also taken up the topic. The animated film, Elpidio Valdés, for example, focuses heavily on the need for Cuban sovereignty and depicts the beginning formation of a Cuban identity.6 It is the story of Mambi revolutionaries fighting for independence from both

Spanish troops and US economic interests. Another film dealing with this theme is a biographic work on José Martí entitled, José Martí: El Ojo de canario.7 This film, focusing on Martí’s youth, illustrates the repression facing Cubans prior to the island’s independence from Spain and the struggle for genuine equality that could only be

4 Dir. Ian Padrón. Habanastation. 2011. Film. 5 Dir. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea and Dir. Juan Carlos Tabío. Fresa y Choclate. 1993. Film 6 Dir. Juan Padrón. Elpidio Valdés. 1981. Film. 7 Dir. Fernando Pérez. José Martí: El Ojo de Canario. 2010. Film.

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achieved with sovereignty. Just as was the case with the theme of equality then, one can find a host of Cuban films containing discussions of nationalism and sovereignty.

While, given the government’s focus on fostering these democratic values and qualities in Cuba, finding the themes of equality and nationalism/sovereignty to be present in a number of Cuban films may not be particularly surprising, I also found something within them I was not expecting to discover: direct contestation in the form of political and social critiques of Cuba. Contestation is one of the qualities generally accepted as necessary for a functioning, healthy democracy—particularly from a negative rights standpoint. As mentioned in Chapter 1, in the book, Polyarchy, Robert

Dahl explains how contestation is one of two indicators used to determine the level of democracy developed within a state, the other being participation.8

At the onset of my project, I was thinking that there would be contestation in

Cuban films, but thought, given my initial non-democratic categorization of the Cuban regime, that it would not be in the form of a direct critique. Rather, I expected, as has been evidenced by other directors creating films in non-democratic states, such as

Carlos Saura in Spain during Francisco Franco’s rule, that I would find films that used allegory and metaphors throughout to make political criticisms. What I soon found in a host of Cuban films, however, is that many of the critiques were not embedded in a subtext. What was further surprising is that not only were these films able to be produced and shown in Cuba, many of them were embraced by the Cuban government.

Rather than censoring the films or preventing them from being shown, they received publicity from the government. That the films were able to be made and shown in Cuba

8 Robert Dahl, Polyarchy: Participation and Opposition (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1971).

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evidences plurality and contestation, and the fact that such contestation had the potential to generate discussion amongst audience members, and in some cases, even changes in informal and formal institutions, suggest that the films spurred further democratic behaviors and structures in Cuba.

To support these findings, this section will contain a discussion of three films made in the past two decades or so in Cuba that have not only elements of democracy as focused on by the Cuban government such as nationalism and equality, but also this democratic feature of contestation that is often heralded as being necessary in US and

Western European political literature. As mentioned above, since the Revolution, there have been a host of films that contained critiques of the political and social realities of

Cuba. The choice made here is to pick from the last two decades with more recent films that illustrate the current issues being contested, as the literature in the field contains discussions of many of the earlier films.

These analyses, given the number of cases, are in no way to be interpreted as evidence for an argument that the majority of Cuban films include contestation, discussions of nationalism, or discussions of equality. While there would be merit in completing a study where all films produced in Cuba were categorized and tabulated based off of whether or not they had such components, given the difficulties I encountered in attaining a comprehensive collection and access to all of the films, it was not possible to complete that said study in this present project. As such, instead of claiming in this section that contestation is the norm in Cuban films, this section merely illustrates that contestation within Cuban film exists, and that the other democratic qualities emphasized in Cuba—nationalism and equality, are also present. It is worth

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further caveating that just because these films were made does not preclude the reality that other films with contestation or controversial subject matter may not have reached completion unadultered–that is, that other films were not censored.

Examining Cuban cinematic history one finds cases of the revolutionary governments restricting films in the past, and ICAIC, being the main production company, does have the ability not only to choose which films to produce (thereby having the ability to censor what films are made in the first place) as well as the ability to censor film scripts for the films they choose to produce. In addition to ICAIC being able to influence the selection and scripts of the films produced within Cuba, the revolutionary authorities have at times exerted their influence in the reception of certain films, and have pressured ICAIC to restrict certain films. While any form of censorship is potentially problematic from both a democratic and artistic standpoint, the censorship in film and script selection is not unique to ICAIC nor Cuba. Indeed, this is the reality directors and screenwriters face in capitalist societies as well. What content is desired and what content is censored, merely varies based on the context.

There is, however, something seemingly unique about the influence that the government has after films have been produced. While undoubtedly there are a host of films that were denied production support from ICAIC, and likely some for their political content, there are three cases that stand out in Cuban history for films that, once produced, were restricted or scrutinized by the government because of at least some authorities’ dissatisfaction with them—particularly because of how they portrayed or influenced the legitimacy and/or success of the revolutionary regime. These films

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include, P.M.,9 Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas10, and Guantanamera.11 Such cases are worth noting and detailing briefly here, as they illustrate cases in which the revolutionary governments were less tolerant of what they saw as being anti-

Revolutionary messages in films.

Although from a negative rights understanding of democracy censorship at any time is regrettable and damaging, as I shall discuss shortly, in these three cases of censorship and/or scrutiny the political context of their release largely influenced their censored fates. Had these films been released in other political circumstances and contexts, they may have not received the notorious labels or bans that were bestowed upon them. As such, while the censorship was in fact an infringement on the negative right to contest, it may have been motivated not by fear of contestation alone, but because of the political stability surrounding the state. Contextual details evidence that in censoring or reprimanding these films, authorities were likely deciding to sacrifice some liberties to gain security. In short, the behavior of the authorities in relation to these three Cuban films may not be so drastically different from the decisions of many democratic states in moments of threatened security. One need look no further than the

Red Scare in the US that led to an assault on Hollywood for perhaps an even more extreme reaction to concerns about state security in the Cold War context. The context of these films, which I move to discuss now, thus ought to be considered when evaluating the presence of democratic content in Cuban films over the course of the revolutionary regime's rule.

9 Dir. Alberto Cabrera Infante and Dir. Orlando Jiménez Leal. P.M. 1961. Film 10 Dir. Daniel Díaz Torres. Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas. 1991. Film. 11 Dir. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea and Dir. Juan Carlos Tabío. Guantanamera. 1997. Film.

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One of the first films to be scrutinized by authorities after the revolutionary regime was established was P.M. (Pasado Meridiano). The film, “banned from public exhibition” in May of 1961, was a film that the director, Saba Cabrera Infante, made without the aid or knowledge of ICAIC.12 It is a short documentary that shows night club life in Havana where less than Revolutionary behavior is being exhibited, though the revolution has already come to power. Chanan, explaining why the film’s content was not well-received by the authorities quotes Alfredo Guevara (the former head of ICAIC) who stated that P.M. “showed the Havana of the lower depths, the drunks, the small cabarets where prostitution was still going on, where there was still drug trafficking.”13

Chanan goes on to say that the film’s content was thus problematic because it “showed a world inhabited by the mainly black and the mulatto lumpenproletariat…it presented black people and roles associated with the state of oppression from which they were in the process of liberation.”14

Watching the film, without the context in which it was released, a viewer, particularly a non-Cuban one, may not see how this film would be so controversial or concerning to the revolutionary government. Several Cuban film experts have written about P.M. and sought to explain the reason for the controversy and the authorities’ decision to stop the film’s exhibition. Manuel Pérez, one of the original members of

ICAIC and present in the event, Sandra Del Valle, a researcher from the Cuban Institute of Cultural Research, and Michael Chanan, a British film scholar with extensive

12 Michael Chanan, Cuban Cinema (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004). 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid.

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research in Cuban cinema, all suggest that the context in which the film was released is largely responsible for its notoriety.

To begin with, each of these experts point out the political reality at the time— particularly the Cold War context combined with the revolution being in its early stages of institutionalizing. The proximity of the film’s release to the Bay of Pigs invasion which happened just a few weeks earlier, and the revolutionary government’s heightened concern for the security of the state and its new regime, saw P.M. as a threat to the legitimacy and initiatives of the Revolution. Chanan, explaining why this political context matters, writes that

perhaps PM was only a mildly offensive film, but in the euphoria that followed the defeat of the mercenaries the mood of the country was bound to make it seem more. Alfredo Guevara admits, “I reacted to the film as an offended revolutionary. Today I would manage a thing like that better.”15

From both Chanan’s analysis as well as Guevara’s later statement, it is clear that the political climate at the time influenced the perhaps overzealous reaction to the film.

Such conclusions were confirmed both in Manuel Pérez’s work, “El ICAIC y su context entre 1959 y 1963”16 as well as in a conversation I had with him in 2011. While the film would likely not be received today in the same manner it was in the early 1960s, as he points out, at the time the political uncertainties and concerns took precedence.

In addition to the political climate surrounding Cuba, there were also politics within the film and culture spheres of Cuba that added to the negative reception of the film. Both Manuel Pérez and Sandra Del Valle, as well as Cuban film historian, Juan

15 Ibid., 133-134. 16 Manuel Pérez El ICAIC y Su Contexto entre 1959 y 1963: Nacimiento, Primero Pasos, Primeros Contratiempos…,” in Conquistando La Utopía: El ICAIC y La Revolución 50 Años Después (La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC: 2010), 43-64.

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Antonio Garcia Borrero discuss power plays between ICAIC and Lunes de Revolución, a cultural supplement to the newspaper, Revolución, which was headed by Saba’s brother, Guillermo Cabrera Infante.17 As they explain, the two institutions held and utilized different ideological approaches and aesthetics (one of the points P.M. was criticized for). Because the revolutionary regime was just beginning to become institutionalized, competition between ideas, groups, and organizations to become those formally and permanently a part of that new regime with their own defined space and responsibilities was likely high at the time.18 As mentioned, P.M. was put together without the aid of ICAIC, who was not contacted until a license was required for this film to be shown at a theater in Havana.19 Members of the film institute were thus shocked when the license request was first made.20 Adding to the surprise, no doubt, was the reality that it was Saba Cabrera Infante’s brother, Guillermo, who helped to make the film a possibility by funding it.21

While the complicated details of the relationship between members of ICAIC and

Lunes de Revolución are beyond the scope of the intended discussion here, an admittedly simplified analysis suggests that the rivalry between the institutions and their members likely led to ICAIC’s decision not to grant an exhibition license though, thanks to Guillermo Cabrera Infante, it had aired on television. It should be noted, however, that before the license was denied, there was a formal discussion about what to do with

17 Juan Antonio García Borrero, Cine Cubano de Los Sesenta: Mito y Realidiad (Madrid: Ocho y Medio, Libros de Cine, 2007). 18 Manuel Pérez El ICAIC y Su Contexto entre 1959 y 1963: Nacimiento, Primero Pasos, Primeros Contratiempos…,” 53. 19 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 135. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid., 134.

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P.M. by both proponents of it being exhibited as well as members of ICAIC. While

ICAIC ultimately chose not to allow the documentary to be exhibited, and while Lunes de Revolución ceased to exist by the end of that year (ICAIC managed to assert its dominance), it is worth noting that there was discourse before that decision was made.

It was after listening to a discussion and debates surrounding P.M., in fact, that Fidel

Castro was motivated to deliver one of his most famous speeches concerning cultural politics, “Speechto Intellectuals.”22

In addition to the difference of opinion existing between ICAIC and Lunes de

Revolución, there was some disagreement between leading members of ICAIC about how the situation was handled and resolved—particularly between Alea and Guevara— the former being displeased with the ultimate decision made by the latter.23 We see then that while there is a clear rift between ICAIC and Lunes de Revolución, it is also evident that ICAIC lacked uniformity and as such had its own competing ideas within it as well. Again, while I have greatly simplified the details of both the political climate surrounding Cuba as well as the political climate between ICAIC and Lunes de

Revolución, the examination of both, along with recent testaments of those who first witnessed and were part of these events, certainly suggest that P.M.’s censored fate likely had more to do with the context it was born in than anything else. That is to say, the film released at another time in revolutionary Cuba could have had a much different fate.

The second controversial film to be censored in Cuba was Alicia en El Pueblo de

Maravillas. Once again, the context of this film’s release matters enormously for

22 Ibid., 135-139. 23 García Borrero, Cine Cubano de Los Sesenta: Mito y Realidad, 75.

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understanding why it was censored. Chanan explains that over the three years of creating the film, the political context, both in Cuba and abroad changed significantly.

He points out that though the film's script, written in 1988, was originally okayed by

ICAIC, by the time Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas was filmed and edited by the end of

1990, the context changed dramatically enough for the film to be now seen as threatening to the regime, rather than the satirical black comedy it seemed intended to be. He writes,

the country had changed considerably over this period. The Berlin wall had fallen. Throughout Eastern Europe, communism had collapsed. In Moscow, Gorbachev was hanging on by the skin of his teeth. Cuba was isolated as never before. What had doubtless always been a risky project now emerged as a gloating satire on the cavernicola, or cavemen attitudes of the party orthodoxy, at the very moment when everything seemed to be collapsing around them.24

The film then, because it was poking fun of the bureaucratic failures that were the reality under the revolutionary regime, at the moment when the fates of socialist states across the world were being called into jeopardy, was not met with welcome arms by the

Cuban authorities.

Although in the case of P.M., ICAIC failed to support the rebuked film, Alicia en

El Pueblo de Maravillas actually received the defense of the film community. Again, context for this reaction is necessary for explaining why Alicia en El Pueblo de

Maravillas was treated differently by ICAIC than P.M. At the same time that controversy surrounded Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas, ICAIC’s autonomy was being threatened by a government proposal to merge the institution with “Cuban television and the film

24 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 459.

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section of the Armed Forces.”25 Directors and members of ICAIC, mortified by the prospects of the institution losing its relative independence, began protesting the government's proposal.26 As the film censorship and the merger proposal coincided with one another, the fight for the preserved autonomy and liberties of both became conflated. While the film community was successful in retaining the autonomy of ICAIC by preventing the merger, it was unsuccessful in changing the authorities’ minds about the ban of the exhibition of Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas and ICAIC’s director, Julio

García Espinosa, was replaced by Alfredo Guevara.27 The concerns that the criticism within the film might be a catalyst to question and overturn socialism in Cuba as was the trend in Eastern Europe, thus appear to have outweighed the artistic liberty and comedic value of the satirical film. As films such as La Muerte de Un Burócrata28 and

Amor Vertical29 similarly made fun of the bureaucratic nightmares existing in socialist

Cuba, the censorship of Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas may suggest that humorous criticism of the issue may only be welcome when the regime feels relatively secure.

The rapidly collapsing socialist structures in other states was likely enough to make the authorities in Cuba uncertain and wary of their own regime’s survival, and thus helps to explain why the authorities were motivated to censor the screening of Alicia en El

Pueblo de Maravillas.

Perhaps the most alarming case of authorities’ scrutiny came with Alea’s last film, Guantamanera, which while not censored, received negative words from Fidel

25 Ibid., 459. 26 Ibid., 460. 27 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 461. 28 Dir. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea. La Muerte de Un Burócrata. 1966. Film. 29 Dir. Arturo Sotto Díaz. Amor Vertical. 1997. Film.

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Castro. The film, like Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas, is a black comedy making light of the complications caused by the level of bureaucracy in the state through its plot which follows a son’s attempt to get his mother buried in Havana, though she died in

Guantanamo. As Alea had terminal cancer at the time and was dying, he 1) once again had Tabio codirect this final work and 2) likely was using the film as a parallel to his own end.30 Although the film was never banned, Fidel Castro criticized it in his televised speech in front of the National Assembly in 1998, two years after Alea’s death, arguing, as Chanan summarizes Castro’s sentiment, that such films, “instead of celebrating the positive achievements of the Revolution, proffered negative criticisms—or worse, were counterrevolutionary.”31 Fidel cited the film Guantanamera as an example of such a film, never having viewed it himself nor aware that it was the work of Alea.32

Upon being informed that Guantanamera was the last film directed by arguably the country’s most renowned and recently deceased director, Alea, Fidel made an apology to the director's wife and shortly thereafter made an appearance at a UNEAC

(National Committee of the Union Writers and Artists) meeting.33 At the UNEAC meeting, several members of the organization expressed their discontent and disagreement with Fidel over his previous comments about Guantanamera. Just as was the case with the directors protesting the government's decisions surrounding Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas, the cultural community banded together to question and protest the government's analysis of Guantanamera.34 Fidel, while acknowledging his

30 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 1-2. 31 Ibid., 1. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid., 2. 34 Ibid.

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mistake and affirming his respect for Alea, continued to hold to his stance that he was concerned about the tone of many recent Cuban films.35 Guevara responded to Fidel's concern by standing behind ICAIC and the artistic decisions made by its directors. He ultimately successfully contested Fidel's suggestion.36 Fidel's concern was likely one that had been motivated once again by concern for the regime’s security and survival given the crippling economic hardships endured that decade.

While the authorities scrutinized P.M., Alicia en El Pueblo de Maravillas, and

Guantanamera, there are other films, such as the three I am about to discuss, created in Cuba with the government’s knowledge, that contain political and social critiques— illustrating that contestation does exist and has been tolerated, at least on occasion.

Although, as I have explained, other films dealing with issues of equality and nationalism tied to socialism exist along with films which critique the Revolutionary regime, the three I have chosen to include here each manage to prominently include all three democratic elements, and thus support my contention most effectively and efficiently. Further, in each of these films, while the directors may create allegories, the films make direct criticisms of the political and socioeconomic realities in Cuba as well.

That is, the films contain lines and images that make direct criticisms, and there is little need/room for interpretations or esoteric readings of those lines or images on the part of the audience. This is important as those films whose political criticisms require interpretation are better able to avoid censorship by the government because their criticism is indirect. In these cases, however, the criticism is obvious and thus the contestation easily recognized. The fact that these films made direct criticisms of the

35 Ibid. 36 Ibid., 3.

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reality created by the revolutionary regime is thus significant to their selection. The films which will be analyzed for their democratic content in the following order are: Juan de

Los Muertos,37 by director, Alejandro Brugués, the Spanish-Cuban co-production,

Habana Blues,38 by Spanish director, Benito Zambrano, and Fresa y Chocolate39 which was co-directed by the renowned, Tomas Gutiérrez Alea and Juan Carlos Tabío. In each of the analyses, I will detail the criticisms made by the films and explain the significance of those criticisms for the Cuban government.

Juan de los Muertos (John of the Dead)

Juan de Los Muertos is a zombie apocalypse film set in present day Havana.

Paying tribute to both the title and stylistic format of the British film, Shawn of the

Dead,40 Juan de Los Muertos is a comic-tragedy following the life of the anti-hero, Juan, and his rag-tag team of zombie killers that look to make a profit by eliminating the zombie dissidents plaguing the Cuban capitol. Staying true to the zombie genre, social and political critiques lace the film. What is unique about this particular zombie film, however, is that those critiques are of a communist, rather than a capitalist state and society. Whereas classic zombie films like Romero’s Dawn of the Dead41 are clear critiques of materialism and the consumer culture, Juan de Los Muertos is examing the problems found within a socialist society. And rather than materialism, which there is still admittedly a small critique of, this film criticizes the complacency latent in Cuban society. At the same time, it illustrates that in spite of that complacency, Cubans have

37 Dir. Alejandro Brugués. Juan de Los Muertos. 2011. Film. 38 Dir. Benito Zambrano. Habana Blues. 2005. Film. 39 Dir. Tomas Gutiérrez Alea and Dir. Juan Carlos Tabío. Fresa y Chocolate. 1993. Film. 40 Dir. Edgar Wright. Shawn of The Dead. 2004. Film. 41 Dir. George Romero. Dawn of The Dead. 1978. Film.

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repeatedly shown their ability to overcome and perceiver through the obstacles placed before them—and zombie apocalypses are no different. This combination makes for a unique critique and insight into Cuban social and political norms demonstrating first, that direct contestation can be exercised in Cuban film and second, that in addition to this negative right being championed, so too, is another feature central to Cuban democracy: a national identity that supports sovereignty.

Before discussing both the political and social critiques along with the issue of nationalism present in Juan de Los Muertos, it is prudent to give a brief summary of the film so that references to characters and plot events in my later analyses will be contextualized. The film centers on the life of Juan, a law-skirting, rum-drinking, women-seducing, selfish protagonist, who, while wedded deeply to his homeland of

Cuba, exhibits very little loyalty to working for the benefit of its society. His life is about doing whatever is necessary to get by, and nothing more. We find out early on that this behavior was off-putting to Juan’s ex-wife, who left the island for Spain, along with their daughter, Camila. Near the beginning of the film, we discover that Camila is back in

Havana visiting her maternal grandmother, and, as she has no respect for her father because of his self-centered ways, she has no interest in seeing him either. While Juan is unable to secure the attention and respect of his daughter, he does have the admiration and companionship of his best friend, Lazaro. Lazaro, obsessed with women, but not nearly as successful in gaining their affections as Juan, follows along and participates in the unsavory activities headed by Juan. Unlike Juan, however,

Lazaro is not as committed to Cuba—even before the first zombie sighting he is musing about his desire, at times, to paddle their fishing raft to Miami. This desire to leave is

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one shared by Lazaro’s son, Vladi, who is more often referenced in the film by his nickname, California. California’s chief occupation is stealing luxury items from the tourists he seduces and distracts with his handsome looks and charm. While Juan takes part in illegal activities of his own, he looks down on Vladi’s occupation and encourages Lazaro to spend time with his son and discourage him from the path he is currently travelling.

Early in the film, Juan, Lazaro, and Vladi are attending the weekly CDR meeting where they meet up with two other characters, La China, a homosexual cross-dresser, and his side-kick, El Primo, who is a muscle giant who faints at the sight of blood. The men use the CDR meetings as a guise to discuss their illicit plans to make money for the week and to recap their previous week’s exploits. While at this particular meeting, the group witnesses one of the CDR members, Mario, having been converted into a zombie, attacking CDR leaders and attendees. Rather than staying and trying to help, the men flee, and, aside from rescuing Juan’s daughter, attempt mostly to avoid the problem by drinking rum on their apartment rooftop. As the zombie attack continue to rise, however, Juan realizes that something needs to be done—and not because the zombies have to be stopped, but rather because this is a fantastic opportunity to make money. So he and the group begin a company, Juan de Los Muertos, which charges people a fee to have their loved ones, who have been turned into zombies, killed. The group, highly successful in their business venture, traverses the city, responding to calls to exterminate zombies at given locations. Eventually, having lost both La China and El

Primo, to the zombie outbreak, the remaining members of Juan de Los Muertos, decide it is time to flee the island. The group converts a 1950s car into an amphibian vehicle,

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with the plans of escaping the island in it and finding safety in another country. While

Vladi, Camila, and Lazaro all cruise away in the vehicle, Juan refuses to go and stays behind on the island where, with a new found activism and altruism, he will fight for his country.

One of the most obvious political critiques in the film is of the state-sponsored media in Cuba. From the beginning of the outbreak, even before the situation has been investigated, the news is reporting that the zombie epidemic is an imperial attack being carried out by dissident groups sponsored by US. In one such scene, Brugués cuts between the dialogue of a news anchor reporting on the zombie attack, and the reactions of Lazaro and Juan to that report. While Lazaro initially seems apt to accept the reporter’s story at face-value, having seen that an acquaintance, Mario, who was loyal to the Cuban government, is a zombie, Juan remains skeptical of the news’ explanation of the event unfolding in Havana.

News Anchor: There have been some problems with social discipline in different areas of the capital. The police investigate isolated riots apparently caused by some dissident groups paid by the US government. Lazaro: Dissidents. Juan: Don't fuck with me. Mario isn't a dissident. I've never seen a bigger fat pussy squealer in my life.42

What is interesting about this dialogue is first that it is meant to be a comedic scene.

Juan’s skepticism of the news is one that is shared by the Cuban audience who is mistrustful of the news that is handed to them on a daily basis. Further, what is particularly amusing about this scene is the government’s instantly attributing the problem to an attack by the US. The suspicion that a problem is caused by the US resounds in government discourse to such a degree that the suggestion that zombies

42Brugues, Juan de Los Muertos.

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are the result of anti-government behavior sponsored by the US is comical because of the likelihood of the Cuban state media attributing the problem to the US. When, in an interview for Q, Burgués was probed about the criticism of the media in the film, he responded by explaining that

it is a criticism about the way the tv stations show problems…most of the problems they just blame on the US…I won’t lie, some of them are, but some are false...they blame everything on the United States and capitalism.43

Juan then, embodies Brugués’ and other Cubans’ distrust of a media that, rather than searching for the truth, frequently and automatically names the US as the source of most problems. With this critique then, Brugués is openly contesting the state sponsored media, the accuracy of its message, and the inadequacies in its journalism.

The critique is strung throughout the film, with the audience continuing to watch the news updates as the characters view and respond to them. By the second scene in which we are exposed to the media’s message and methods, the zombie attacks in

Havana have increased dramatically. Having begun to see the problem’s prevalence, the government begins its efforts at enlisting the public’s help in curbing it.

News Anchor: The revolutionary police force warns all citizens about some incidents produced by anti-social people in collusion with the Empire. The population has come out on the streets… Lazaro: What does collusion mean? Juan: It means we're gonna get fucked. News Anchor:…to hold a protest in favor of our country. It is through this media that were encouraging you to participate in a demonstration tomorrow at 5:00pm in front of the anti-imperialist tribune to protest recent aggressions by the United States government.44

43Jian Ghomeshi, “Interview with Alejandro Brugués,” Q on CBC Radio, December 1, 2013. 44 Ibid.

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Here, Brugués adds to the critique by illustrating the government’s efforts to try and counter the dissidents’ actions: namely by having a protest. The protest, given that the epidemic is not, in fact, an attack orchestrated by dissidents and the United States, is an utterly pointless exercise. As such, rather than being a meaningful and authentic expression aimed at the actual source of the problem, it is an orchestrated and propagandized message which only detracts away from the ability of the Cuban people to actually address the matter at hand. So protesting may not only give a false sense of efficacy to those in state or CDR sponsored protests, but also, given this scene in the film, may lack the enticing effect the state is looking for it to have on the masses, if they are beginning to question their legitimacy.

The film escalates the humor of the media’s reports with the anchor’s final message (before being attacked by the zombies as well), in which he announces, in spite of the fact that the zombie apocalypse is still raging on throughout the city of

Havana, “Once again, our people have proven that they're invincible. We have rejected another aggression from the United States. To all citizens: you may continue with your daily routine. Everything is back to normal.”45 The critique is clear: the media fails to deliver the truth to the populace. It reports a staple message that, at times, is in direct contradiction to the reality surrounding it. If, in fact, Cubans are to get through challenges and to address the problems confronting them, Juan de Los Muertos would suggest that the media needs to begin accurately and responsibly investigating and reporting those problems. How, after all, can the problems eliminated if people do not first know by what they are being caused? The inaction of Cubans in crisis situations

45 Ibid.

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may have less to do with a lack of communist identities motivating them to help others and their state, and more to do with their inability to identify the source of those crises because of the state’s failure to produce responsible and accurate journalism.

In addition to the critique of the government sponsored media, there are several images and lines strung throughout the film that make small, isolated critiques of the government and political reality in Cuba. Because they are brief and isolated (in that they are often issues brought up in just one scene) these particular lines and images are more jabs than fully explicated critiques. Yet the fact remains, that these moments in the film exhibit a form of contestation, and therefore, merit discussion. One example of a line that illustrates contestation actually deals with the content of media reports and comes in the scene of the film in which the characters are training to kill zombies. Juan, leading the group in zombie-killing-strategy, explains, “Well, most of you have already been in this kind of classes. It's like Preparation for Defense, only this time, the bad guys are not the Yankees, but a real enemy, and they're here, among us.”46 Just as

Brugués makes fun of the fact that the US is immediately to blame in problems with the scenes in which the news anchor attributes the zombie attack to them, so too, does he make fun of the government’s focus on US aggression with the defense training the

Cubans received. Brugués seems to be suggesting with this line in the film that an actual violent attack on Cuba by the US is unlikely and, as such, a rather absurd motivator for military training. A friend I met in Cuba, when speaking of his own military training, admitted to me that while he was happy he had received the mandatory training and was prepared to defend his homeland, he thought that the chances of the

46 Ibid.

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US attacking now were incredibly low. My friend’s comment would suggest then, that

Brugués is not alone in his analysis on the matter.

Another critical line in the film comes in the scene in which the band of characters is picked up by a few of the members of the military that survived the initial zombie attacks. The military men apprehend them and put them in a truck to escort them to a portion of the city they plan to have them build a wall around to block out the zombies. La China, not a fan of the plan, expresses dissatisfaction. One of the military members immediately responds, “If you’re not with us, you’re against us,” insinuating that the military represents the official stance of the state, and any decline to take part in supporting it is active dissidence.47 Here Brugués is suggesting that the authorities, acting in such manners, are overzealous and closed-minded in their assumption that those who approach issues differently from the official state response are automatically against the state. The characters here, while they may have ambitions that run counter to revolutionary values, still were acting in a way that benefited the state. One might interpret such a scene as suggesting that more plurality in handling and discussing issues within Cuban politics may be needed.

Another line in the film that is worth noting for its political critiquing quality is when Camila is watching Lorenzo try to kill zombies from the rooftop. In aiming to hit one of the zombies, Lorenzo ends up shooting an innocent man instead. From a distance he had appeared to be a zombie, but after being shot, his actions made it clear he was a living person still. Upon observing the incident, Camila accusingly asks

Lorenzo, “Can't you distinguish the good ones from the bad ones?” to which Lorenzo

47 Ibid.

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responds, “Girl, it's always been difficult to do that in this country.”48 While after the

Revolution, as the new state was building there was a great deal of concern in distinguishing who was devoted to the new system and who remained committed to the previous one, since those initial years, the government has attempted to make a clear distinction between those who are true and those who are false revolutionaries. Yet as time has passed and initial efforts at socialization have had time to settle in and evolve, the clear “new man” Che and other revolutionary leaders were hoping to cultivate is not necessarily the dominant or evident citizen in Cuba. Further, what it means to be a true

Cuban or a citizen committed to the state has been called into question and filled with ambiguities as disillusion, economic hardship, and a new economic system which includes some private businesses have set in. The government’s desire to have a singular understanding of a true Cuban citizen committed to the Revolution betrays and contradicts the pluralist reality. How the Cubans would like to see the state evolve and what they think it means to be loyal to it varies—particularly from the government’s official stance. Lazaro’s line then, illustrates the difficulty in determining citizen loyalties and desirable citizen qualities in Cuba, and can thus be seen as a criticism of the government’s attempts to make simplistic reductions.

A final line that illustrates a form of political critique in Juan de Los Muertos comes early in the zombie outbreak, before everyone is even aware that it is occurring.

Juan and Lazaro are helping an elderly neighbor woman, Yiya, who believes that her husband is dead. After having examined the man for themselves, Juan and Lazaro at first confirm the woman’s fear that her husband has in fact deceased. As the man starts

48 Ibid.

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coming back to life and attempting to attack them, however, the quickly change their prognosis and realize that there is something very wrong with him. Lorenzo and Juan make alternative guesses at to what might explain the man’s behavior, including guesses that he might be a vampire or possessed. Yiya also makes her own assessment on what is wrong with him, asserting that her husband’s ailment, “is because of the expired drugs they giveaway at the polyclinic!”49 In attributing the problem to the products provided by the state clinic, Yiya’s line is a criticism of the effectiveness of the state’s initiatives to provide health treatment. Such a line indicates a mistrust of the government in some of the services and products it provides. Given that the healthcare industry is one of the biggest claims to success the Revolutionary government has made, Yiya’s comment in the film is a particularly troubling one for the government. Further, the comment in the film can be seen as a form of contestation in that it directly challenges the authenticity of claims made by the government about what it produces and provides the people.

In addition to some of the lines in the film, there are also several images used in scenes that convey messages of contestation. At one point in the zombie outbreak, the

Juan de Los Muertos employees are witnessing a packed bus driving past them. They make comments about how surprising it is that this should be the service that continued in spite of the outbreak (a small jab at the fact that public transportation can be unreliable on the island). After the bus goes by, packed presumably full of zombies, it veers out of control and crashes into a billboard that reads the state’s famously repeated line, “Patria o Muerte.” The image of the bus crashing and exploding into the

49 Ibid.

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sign articulating the state’s motto which encourages Cuban citizens to live only for the fatherland or to choose death if they cannot, is thus quite an interesting and humorous one. The zombies crashing into the sign seems to suggest that the fatherland has fallen, and death is their only option left. Such billboards and signs with political messages supported by the state are found throughout the island and also are littered in the backdrops of scenes throughout the film. The messages, such as the one in the bus-scene, are subtle, but nonetheless present and nonetheless illustrating an unspoken political critique.

Attached to the political critiques lining the film are a series of social critiques that

Brugués is offering. The biggest social critique in Juan de Los Muertos is of the complacency in Cuban society. Not only is this clear from lines and scenes from the film, but also from Brugués discussion of it. In the interview with Q, Brugués asserted that Cubans need to be less complacent, and while not sure what the source of that complacency is, speculates that it may be because Cubans “have been with the same social regime for more than 50 years, so there are generations where this is all they know.”50 The stagnancy created by the regime then, Brugués speculates, is at least partially responsible for the complacency. This comment about the possible source of the complacency in Cuba alone is a form of contestation. Yet, Brugués’ critique of complacency in the film is far more extensive.

The issue of complacency and the lack of true engagement that Brugués saw in

Cuba, in many ways was the inspiration for this film. Explaining in an interview with

50 Ghomeshi, “Interview with Alejandro Brugués.”

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SciFiNow’s Sarah Dobbs how the decision to make Juan de Los Muertos came about,

Brugués said,

one day I was talking with my producer about someone that I saw on the street and I said, “He looks like a zombie, that person.” And I thought we could make a zombie film with people like this, and we wouldn’t even need makeup! I thought I could do a film about zombies, and do a lot of social commentary, and show people how we are, how Cubans react to problems.51

Brugués was not alone in this observation. In the Q interview he mentioned that someone came up, and, speaking to how the zombies looked in the Juan de Los

Muertos, ““After the film I saw someone who could have been in that film.””52 The complacency can be found everywhere in Cuba, and indeed, more than one friend there, without having seen the film, made similar complaints to me about the levels of complacency in their society. Brugués argues that one place that this pervasive complacency can be seen is in how Cubans react to problems. He explains in the Q interview that they react to them, “Pretty much like they do in the film! First, they act as if it hasn’t happened, and then they try to set up a business to make some money out of it, and then if things keep getting worse then they try to escape.”53 Brugués presents each of these different reactions to problems and their underlying complacency in Juan de Los Muertos. The first complacent reaction, ambivalent indifference, or, as Brugués puts it, acting as if nothing happened, is the result of multiple motivators. It can be out of apathy—a genuine lack of interest in what is happening to others, or out of resignation—a feeling that there is nothing that one’s own involvement in the situation

51 Sarah Dobbs, “Juan of the Dead Director Alejandro Brugués on Cuba’s First Horror Movie,” SciFiNow, February 5, 2012. 52 Ghomeshi, “Interview with Alejandro Brugués.” 53 Ibid.

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can change, and as such there is no reason to become involved in it. The response, whatever the motivator, is the same. An individual concludes that the best thing to do is to look out for one’s self, and continue down the normal path, finding one’s ways in spite of the surrounding reality. Essentially, the first way one is complacent is by simply ignoring the problem and trying to continue as normally as possible. Early on in the film, before the zombie outbreak has been fully realized, this is the exact reaction we get from the main characters. We see this during the scene at the CDR meeting, when the

CDR leader-turned zombie, Mario, begins attacking the crowd, and Lazaro and Juan make the executive decision to quickly leave and remove themselves from the situation.

Lazaro: Let’s move it. This is getting ugly. Vladi: We won’t help these people? Juan: No, no, no. Fuck them. They must have forgotten all the robbery stuff.54

Here, rather than concerning themselves with what is happening, something young

Vladi seems to think they should be considering doing, Lazaro and Vladi are concerned primarily with themselves and their own well-being. Instead of trying to fully consider the problem in front of them, the two concentrate on their own immediate interests, including focusing on the fact that this distraction may help get them out of trouble as no one will be thinking anymore about the thefts for which La China was responsible. By focusing on themselves, they were able to shut out the gravity of the problem in front of them and ignore its consequences.

While the first way one can deal with resignation is to become complacent by ignoring the situation, the second way, one can fail to truly engage in finding solutions to problems in Cuba when confronted with a problem, is to exploit it for personal gains

54 Brugués, Juan de Los Muertos.

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rather than to look to actually solve the root problem or to help others through it. There are several scenes in the film where we see the protagonist Juan, doing just that. The first time is when he is using the zombie outbreak as a means to make money by starting his zombie-killing business. His financial motivations come through in the following conversation with Lazaro:

Juan: We're facing a crisis and there's only one thing we can do. Lazaro: Help them? Juan: No, charge them.55

When Juan’s daughter, Camila, learns of Juan’s plan to make money off of the misfortune being caused people by the outbreak, she calls Juan out on his plan.

Camila: You're going to charge people? Juan: Cami, we’re Cuban! It's what we do when things get tough. Camila: If that's what you want to do, do it to help, not for money! Juan: Girl, you're the one living abroad with your mother56

Both characters’ chief dissatisfaction with the other is that economic concerns have motivated their actions. So while Juan’s decision to make a profit off of the zombies given the severity of the present crisis is shown as being especially problematic,

Brugués seems to be indicating that any attempt at trying to escape problems by making profits within them is something to be criticized. Given the pervasiveness of the black market in Cuba, Brugués’ assessment that “when confronted with a crisis we

(Cubans) go into business” seems like a fairly accurate one.57 While surely from the government’s standpoint and possibly from Brugués’ as well, this behavior is seen as negatively affecting the state and society, at the same time, the number of crises and

55 Ibid. 56 Ibid. 57 Rory Carroll, “Zombie Horror-Comedy Hopes to Bring Cuban Film Industry Back to Life,” The Guardian, April 20, 2011.

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the government’s inability to address the citizens’ needs during those times would suggest that individuals’ need to be resourceful. Another film, Boleto al Paraíso, illustrating this need for characters to do just that, comes to mind.58 In it, in a desperate attempt to find food and shelter during the special period, one of the characters purposefully infects himself with AIDS in the hope of being taken care of in the hospital the government has developed for those with the disease. While an extreme action, it was one that did occur in Cuba during the special period amongst a small group of individuals. The fact that the situation was so extreme and the government so unable to provide for the citizens would suggest that some self-resilience and resourcefulness are needed to get through problems with large magnitudes in Cuba. This would seem to be something even Brugués would acknowledge as in Juan de Los Muertos he repeatedly has Juan refer to the number of crises he has survived—and this, given Juan’s character, is likely because of how he adapted to the situations. Yet Brugués does make it clear that whatever his previous coping mechanisms, Juan’s approach does need to change, and does in fact manage to do so, by the end of the film. As such, we are left overall with the impression that looking to make capital gains during such problems will not result in the problems being overcome.

When ignoring and confronting the problem do not work, the third way to handle it is to leave it, and this is an option that we see employed repeatedly throughout the film. In this case of complacency, when individuals realize that a problem exists and know that the problem is affecting them adversely, they flee from the situation. By leaving the problem, the individuals absent their ability to address and solve it. So while

58 Dir. Gerardo Chijona. Boletos al Paraíso. 2010. Film.

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they are able to escape the situation, they leave it as a problem for which others must continue to struggle. In the beginning of the film, before the zombie break has even started, Lazaro is already entertaining the thought of leaving Cuba and the challenges it presents him in life. He muses to Juan, “Don’t you just want to paddle to Miami sometimes?”59 Later in the film, when the zombie outbreak is escalating, Lazaro tried to flee in a raft, until Juan approaches him and pleads with him to stay. In the conversation that ensues, we see the complexity and ramifications that exist in the decision to stay or leave.

Juan: You can't just fucking leave. Lazaro:…It's impossible to live in this country, man. Juan: Over there, you'll have to work for a living. This situation will pass. Lazaro: Yeah? But what if it goes on like this another 50 years?60

While Juan is committed to waiting out the problem, he still has not yet decided to fully engage with it and try to find a solution to it, he is not willing to leave the situation like

Lazaro, and the huge number of other Cubans we see in the film taking to the rafts in an attempt to escape the zombie outbreak. The debate over staying or leaving is one that has engaged Cubans since the Revolution. Films like Memorillas de Subdesarrollo61 illustrate the complexities of making the decision to go in the time immediately following the Revolutionary government coming to power. While initially those who chose to leave were criticized for their anti-Revolutionary, and therefore, anti-Cuban decision, after the Revolutionary regime institutionalized and several exasperating economic crises struck, the view of those who chose to leave in such times, because to alter.

After so many crises, there seems to be little judgment remaining against those who

59 Brugués, Juan de Los Muertos. 60 Ibid. 61 Dir. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea. Memorias del Subdesarrollo. 1968. Film.

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decide to go. Most individuals who leave vow to send or bring back remittances for loved ones, hoping to alleviate some of their problems. Yet, as the film would have us believe, the only way to solve the problems is to actually stay and address their sources. In Cuba, I met both Juans and Lazaros. That is, I met many willing to leave out of a desire for different economic opportunities and those who could not imagine a life outside of Cuba—those that were committed to staying in their country, no matter the circumstances. Brugués’ analysis would suggest that more Juans are needed—and not Juans who see problems who either remain complacent or try to profit from them, but rather Juan’s who actively work towards engaging with and solving the problem at hand.

Having critiqued who Cuban society currently deals with problems, Brugués ends the film by offering an example, through Juan, of how Cubans should go about handling them. Juan evolves throughout the zombie outbreak, and by the end of the film is ready to confront the problem, not to profit from the crisis himself, but to help his country and those around him. Juan essentially realizes that complacency is no longer an option.

At the end of the film, when the others are about to leave the island, Juan, explaining why he intends to stay and try to fight the zombies states, “Actually, I should have done it from the beginning. Maybe things would not have turned out so bad…Maybe people will see me and join me to help.”62

Within Juan’s decision to leave behind complacency and to engage in finding and being part of a solution to the problems is a profound sentiment and call to nationalism.

His heroism stems from his commitment to Cuba. Brugués, describing the character

62 Brugués, Juan de Los Muertos.

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Juan evolves into by the end of the film states that “He’s a common man. From the street. He’s not your usual hero. He doesn’t have a trait that makes him the chosen one…He’s just a guy that loves his country. He’s Juan!”63 It is, essentially, the fact that he acts on the love for his country that makes Juan the heroic figure in the film. His ability then to face the problem, help others, and survive for the sake of the country, are the chief features that define Cuban nationalism in the film.

Within the Cuban nationalism depicted in the film, we first find that to be Cuban has meant to survive. While Brugués does want the Cubans to move past their complacent form of survival, he does not wish to diminish the enduring nature of the

Cuban spirit. In the film, Brugués manages to meld the fine line between showing the difference between a negative complacent culture in Cuba and a positive enduring, active perseverance. He does this by showing the two differences in the survivor attitude that exist between Juan at the beginning of the film versus the end. In the opening scene of the film, before the first zombie arrives on screen, Juan is already exhibiting an inactive survivor behavior. In the conversation in which Lazaro asks Juan if he has ever felt like just paddling to Miami, Juan, replying in the negative, goes on to support his point, explaining,

here I’m a harvester like the Taínos. It’s just a matter of sitting and waiting. Something will come up. Besides, I’m a survivor. I survived Mariel, I survived Angola, I survived the Special Period, and that thing that came later... This is paradise, and nothing will change that.64

63 Sophie, “The Student Guide talks to Alejandro Brugués, writer and director of Juan of the Dead!” The Student Guide, http://www.thestudentguide.com/news_and_reviews/article/the_student_guide_speaks_to_alejandro_bru gues_writer_and_director_of_juan_o 64 Brugués, Juan de Los Muertos.

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Juan’s answer is saturated with nationalist sentiment. To begin with, there is the reference to the Taíno. As was discussed in Chapter 3, the Taíno population in many ways represents the first authentic identity on the island. So referencing the Taínos in such a way is referencing the ancestral source of Cuban identity. Juan is asserting his

Cubanness by comparing himself to the Taínos. The reference to the Taíno population is further interesting in that it reveals a focus within the Cuban national identity on waiting. There is a reward that comes with patience, essentially. Here we see Brugués delicately introducing the idea of the fine demarcation between waiting out of complacency and waiting for an appropriate time to act. By suggesting that “something will come up,” a thought Juan espouses throughout the film when he says on more than one occasion that he just has to have the chance and then he will succeed, Brugués shows us that inaction is not always complacency. Inaction is only complacency when one is waiting for something to change without one’s involvement, which is what Juan is doing at this moment. So when, in this opening monologue, Juan is spouting about his ability to survive, it is a survival through complacency. The Juan at the start of the film, thus lacks the true embodiment of the Cuban ability to survive in a meaningful way— through confrontation of the problems one confronts.

By the end of the film, we learn that inaction is only permissible when one is waiting for the right opportunity to take action. And, while waiting for the right opportunity may be okay, one must be vigilant for that opportunity and actually act within it when it arises. It is not until the last scene of the film that Juan learns to not only be vigilant in truly waiting for the right opportunity, but finally acts upon the opportunity placed in front of him. In a sense, one has to turn a troubled moment into

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an opportunity for action. In his final speech to his friends and family before they left,

Juan states, “Actually, I should have done it from the beginning. Maybe things would not have turned out so bad.”65 He then goes on to repeat the same line he spouted at the beginning of the film, “I’m a survivor. I survived Mariel, I survived Angola, I survived the Special Period, and this thing that came afterwards. And I will survive this.”66 This time, however, it was proceeded with his recognition that he needs to take action and is followed by his hopeful desire which he articulates saying, “Maybe people will see me and join me to help.”67 After saying goodbye, he goes back to land to face the zombies.

Upon reaffirming that he will survive, he states, “I just need a chance” as he lifts up his zombie-attacking ore to begin his battle.68 While the same line is used at both the start and end of the film then, the rest of Juan’s text surrounding the line, along with his attitude, are fundamentally different. Juan has changed what it means to survive in

Cuba. Cuban identity is not in fact, using one’s resourcefulness to endure and wait for problems to end, it is using one’s resourcefulness and strength to be a part of an active solution to them.

Attached to this strong Cuban nationalism in the film is an affirmation of sovereignty. Near the end of the film, the group is saved by a missionary from the

United States, Father Jones, who, believing God called him to wipe out the demon- spawned zombies, has developed tactics and plans to exterminate the zombies. After having saved Juan, Lazaro, Camila, and Vladi by decapitating a mass zombies that had

65 Ibid. 66 Ibid. 67 Ibid. 68 Ibid.

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surrounded them in Revolutionary Square (an image, which as Brugués explained was laden with unspoken commentary), Father Jones takes them into one of the parking garages of a huge tourist hotel. There, he explains, in English that no one in the group can understand, who he is and what his plan is for eliminating the zombies. Right as he is about to explain the plan to the group, however, Lazaro accidently triggers his harpoon, and it shoots through and kills Father Jones. The group is initially angry and frustrated—believing any chance at victory has been taken away from them by Lazaro’s klutzy move. Lazaro, however, then comes up with a plan for escaping the island. The message is clear: this is a victory that will come from within Cuba, and not be hijacked by a foreigner. The Cubans are capable of saving themselves and overcoming the challenges to their livelihood, they just must use the resourcefulness they normally devote to their individual pursuits to addressing the problem that faces the whole of society.

The content of the film (its inclusion of nationalism, its affirmation of Cuban sovereignty, and its contestation through political and social critiques, in particular) is especially significant given the demand there was to view it. The film was first being screened in Havana at the Latin American Film Festival in December of 2011. There was such a demand to see the film that people were waiting outside of the theater, the line wrapped around several times and forming several hours before the screening.

Despite having friends who had saved spots for me in line for hours, we did not make it into the film that night. At its debut in the Havana film festival, more than 14,000 arrived to view the film, while only 5,000 were able to enter the theater to watch it that night.

When I returned in the summer of 2012, the film was being screened at one of the

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theaters in Havana, and I had a chance to watch it then. At this screening, I had the chance to observe the reactions of the Cuban public to the film. The film was well- received by the audience; there was a lot of laughter and positive buzz throughout the theater during the screening.

There are many things that make this film unique and, as such, incredibly desirable to watch from the perspective of the Cuban public. To begin with, no horror films, including of the zombie genre, were made in Cuba before this film. While younger generations, unlike their older comrades, have, because of piracy, had more access to horror films made outside of Cuba, it was not until such younger generations grew old enough to make films themselves, as Alejandro Brugués did with Juan de Los Muertos, that the creation of a zombie film within Cuba could materialize. What is further enticing about this film is that it combines another film genre that has largely been dormant in

Cuba since the past couple of decades: dark comedy.

While early after the success of the Revolution this genre was incredibly popular, integral to such films as Death of a Bureaucrat or Las Doce Chairs,69 in recent years, the genre has largely failed to exist in Cuban cinema. Instead, heavy dramas dominate the scene. Even before Juan de Los Muertos hit the screens, Cuban individuals that I met intimidated their desire to see films with a lighter tone and that better illustrated the

Cuban tradition of dealing with problems: to laugh at them, rather than to be overwhelmed by them. So even though in his interview with Q Brugués correctly asserted that “in Cuban film there’s a tradition to laugh at our problems,” it was a tradition that was largely not being practiced to the same degree it was prior to recent

69 Dir. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea. Las Doce Sillas. 1962. Film.

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decades in Cuba.70 Its return to the screen in Juan de Los Muertos, was thus a welcomed one. Following in the dark comedic style of Shawn of the Dead, Juan de Los

Muertos manages to show the Cubans’ resilience in withstanding whatever problems come their way by showing the humor and the absurdity of the obstacles they face on a daily basis. Brugués’ format for the film was thus incredibly effective in its ability to capture the interest of the Cuban public and speak to their experiences. Brugués’ messages of contestation in the film then, are all the more significant given their reach in Cuban society.

While it is clear that contestation is taking place in the film, Brugués contended in his Q interview that Juan de Los Muertos is not subversive and that he “didn’t set out to do something subversive”71 in the film. He argued, “I don’t think it is subversive. How can it be subversive if I am telling the truth?”72 Brugués went on to explain that the film is not in fact subversive because “is telling the truth—using scenes from real life everyone knows.”73 Citing the scene of masses fleeing Havana in rafts, Brugués explains that “everyone knows when there is trouble, this is what happens.”74 Brugués is asserting then, that by just portraying reality, he is not being subversive—he is merely reporting facts. Yet in spite of his claim that he is just telling the truth, he simultaneously makes the argument in the Q interview that “it’s probably because I am using zombies I am able to say a lot more.”75 In a BBC article, Brugués was quoted making a similar

70 Ghomeshi, “Interview with Alejandro Brugués.” 71 Ibid. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid.

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assessment of how critiques in Cuba can be done stating, “Cuban cinema has always been interesting and what is fun now is how they make political films because they always disguise it."76 He is thus suggesting that political critiques in Cuban films need to be, or at the very least are, veiled when they are not merely just portrayals of reality.

While, as noted at the start of this film analysis, the zombie genre is tried and true format for social and political critiques, and while because of that, there is undeniable symbolism and the use of metaphors throughout the film, much of Brugués critique is direct. One example of direct criticism in Juan de Los Muertos is when Vladi, discussing a hypothetical conversation he might have with someone if he were traveling abroad muses, “If they ask me what socialism is, I’ll say it's a system established by

Fidel Castro 50 years ago. If they ask me who Fidel Castro is, I'll stay there forever!”77

Brugués critique is not in the least disguised in this scene. The desire away to be away from a place where Fidel Castro has any type of influence is a clear criticism on the part of the character of the political leader. As such, we can see that the success and tolerance of Juan de Los Muertos is evidence that direct political criticism has been tolerated. In short, within the content and context of films, contestation exists.

Despite the widespread popularity and demand to see the film, the extent of the impact Juan de Los Muertos will have on Cuban society remains unknown, and like the impact of any singular creation or event is difficult to ever truly measure. In the Q interview, the interviewer questions if the film’s success illustrates new and expanding freedoms within Cuba. Brugués responds, “If we are being open, I don’t know. I don’t’ see real changes, I don’t think we are moving fast enough. If we are doing something,

76 “Cuba Shoots Its First Zombie Movie Juan of the dead,” BBC News, January 17, 2011. 77 Brugués, Juan de Los Muertos.

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which I don’t know what it is, it is happening too slow, and maybe too late.” Brugués thus makes clear that change, particularly of abandoning complacency, is needed in

Cuba. He goes on to stress the need for people to make a move and change the direction of the country stating, “I don’t care which direction, but just move.”78 Brugués’ feeling that the country is remaining stagnant is encapsulated in the film in a line Camila delivers to Juan. She tells him, “You are like this country. Many things happen to you, but you never change.”79 While Cuba and Cubans have endured much, Juan de Los

Muertos is a call to Cubans to stop just enduring and just surviving. They need to change their reality, not merely live through it. Ending this complacency means looking for the source of problems oneself—not relying on anyone else—including a government—to tell you the source and how to fix it. Cubans must investigate and tackle problems head-on, only in doing so will their country move forward and out of the stagnancy that has been plaguing it for decades. Not only does criticism of both the political and social realities exist within the film, but so, too does a call to the Cuban people to directly change those realities. The fact that such criticisms and calls to action for the good of the state and society exist within the film serve to illustrate both that contestation as well as a strong sense of nationalism exist within Cuban cinematic productions.

Habana Blues

The next film being analyzed, Habana Blues, is one that necessitates an explanation for its inclusion in this discussion as the director, Benito Zambrano, is

Spanish. The decision to include this film and consider it at least partially Cuban is

78 Ibid. 79 Ibid.

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motivated by a number of factors. To begin with, while Zambrano is Spanish, he attended film school at Los Baños in Cuba and filmed Habana Blues in Havana and

Cienfuegos. Further, while the film had producers from outside of Cuba, it was also produced by ICAIC. Part of its production, then, is the state-created film institute. The fact that it is a co-production between Spain and Cuba is of particular relevance to this present study, as democracy in Cuba stresses the importance of independence and autonomy with its focus on sovereignty. The challenges and limitations to that autonomy that are brought to the film-making process in co-productions in Cuba, which will be discussed in this section, are worth exploring when we are looking at whether or not democratic elements exist within the film-making process. Finally, the fact that the film focuses on the issue of trying to remain authentic in the creation and distribution of art makes its inclusion imperative to this discussion.

The main issue at the heart of Habana Blues, in fact, is the struggle to maintain both national and personal authenticity in the creation of art. We find in the exploration of this issue throughout Habana Blues that the autonomy of Cuban artists is greatly restricted both by conditions in and outside of Cuba. We also find that, just as in Juan de Los Muertos, there are political and social critiques throughout Habana Blues. As will be detailed in this section, Zambrano looks at the grim challenges Cubans face on a daily basis. He focuses especially on the economic hardships that limit Cuban musicians and force them to choose between remaining true to their work and staying poor and sacrificing their values for an international audience. Zambrano also generalizes the economic hardships to illustrate the dilemma many Cubans find themselves in between choosing to remain in Cuba or emigrating to find more economic

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security. In this section, I will first briefly summarize the film, next discuss the political and social critiques in the film, ending with the biggest critique in the film: the struggle to maintain artistic sovereignty in Cuba and the challenges it presents Cuban democracy.

And as the film contains many songs with lyrics relevant to the discussion, they will be included in the analysis as well.

The plot line of Habana Blues is fairly straight-forward. Best friends, Ruy and

Tito, are musicians trying to attain both an international audience and financial success.

The pair struggles to survive off of their craft. They play their music at the beach for tourists, sell souvenirs on the streets of Havana, and pedal what are presumably black market food products in the hopes of making enough to support their musical endeavors. Through these occupations, they are able to raise enough money to record and are attempting to next raise enough to rent a hall, equipment, and staff for a concert. While trying to plan the concert, the two discover that a Spanish music producer is visiting their island and will be in contact with a radio announcer friend of theirs, Roger. Having convinced (by means of bribery) Roger to introduce them to the producer, Marta and her team member, Lorenzo, Ruy and Tito set about trying to woo them. One way the two do this is by taking the pair to various sites in Havana where different Cuban bands are playing. In doing so, they show the Spanish producers and the audience viewing the film the vast range of genres that exist on the island. The producers, impressed by the different groups, as well as by the performances of Ruy and Tito, select several of them to be a part of their project which will involve them recording albums and touring in Spain.

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Marta, having made her initial selection, leaves for Miami, where she will be working with companies to work out the details of the contracts for the Cuban musicians. As she relies on their financing and marketing for the project, she must seek their approval and meet their stipulations. While she returns being able to make an offer to the musicians, it contains several conditions that leave some of the musicians, including Ruy, disgusted by the offer and unwilling to be a part of the project.

Particularly offensive is the amount of control given to the company in the deal, as well as the fact that, because it is a Miami-based market the company is planning to sell to, there is a demand for the musicians to take an anti-Cuban government stance. Ruy is especially upset about this because the sentiments he would be forced to espouse are not his own, and in making such claims against his state, re-entry into it would not be a possibility in the future. In accepting the deal, he would be committing to leaving his homeland forever. Despite Ruy’s rejection of the deal, Tito remains willing to accept it, as he makes clear that the most important thing for him is finding a way off the island.

He is convinced that, no matter how bad of a deal he may be signing with this company, life in Spain will be better and he will find a way to succeed and live more comfortably there. Tito, while able to persuade Marta (through threatening to report the Spanish producer’s plans to the government) to allow him to sign the deal in the absence of

Ruy’s agreement, is nonetheless upset with his friend for not joining him in the deal. As a result, the two have a temporary falling out, until Tito, advised by his grandmother, reunites with Ruy to play their final concert together before Tito’s departure for Spain.

In addition to the storyline between Ruy and Tito, Habana Blues also develops a subplot between Ruy and his wife, Caridad. Already at the start of the film, the two are

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struggling in their relationship. While they are technically separated, they are still living and raising their two children together. Caridad is frustrated from having to quit her work at the university to support Ruy’s musical efforts and the family. She has been the main supporter of the family for the duration of their relationship and has consistently made sacrifices of her own interests and passions for Ruy’s. Caridad is also stressed by news that her mother, who is living in the US and sending money and presents to

Caridad and her family to help them stay afloat, is struggling to make money and live on her own in the US. Caridad’s cousin informs her that her mother wants her and the kids to move to the US to be with her. Caridad is initially off-put by the idea, but upon discovering that Ruy may be having the opportunity to go to Spain, that he is having an affair (with Marta), and that her mother is willing to pay for the trip to the US, decides to make plans to go with the kids there. As waiting for permission will take years, she decides that she will be taking a boat to Miami illegally. Ruy, unable to convince her to stay or to come with him to Spain, regretfully accepts her decision and helps her prepare. The two decide to divorce, and Caridad and the kids go to the US, leaving Ruy behind, just as Tito did.

One of the main critiques in the film is merely an illustration of the grim economic reality in Cuba and, at times, the role the government plays in prolonging economic suffering. One scene in which we see this is after Caridad finds out that her license for selling the home-made bracelets she makes has been revoked.

Caridad: They revoked my license to sell at the fair. I can get another for 500 dollars. Ruy: What will you do?

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Caridad: What can I do? Keep paying someone to sell at their table. Goddammit! Where will I get that money? We’re broke…It’s hopeless. They’re keeping us down.80

Caridad, already exasperated with trying to get by, is frustrated with the government’s actions which only make getting by more difficult. If she wants to make money legally off of her work, she would have to pay a large up-front cost to be able to do so. As she does not have access to that sum of money, she now must rely on paying a smaller fee to others to have them sell her jewelry for her. The result is that she ends up making less money and is forced to do so illegally. This problem is one largely brought about with the increase in private businesses in Cuba, despite the state’s continued ideological stance. In its need to address the economic hardships on the island, it has permitted a few types of private businesses to be created. The government taxes those individuals who choose to open these businesses, 1) to help support the state and 2) to help prevent vast degrees of inequality from forming amongst the population. This second goal is also achieved by the government setting prices, such on how much individuals can charge to rent out their apartment spaces. Despite such rules, however, a huge black market exists in Cuba, as does ignorance of price-setting rules.

Individuals, like Caridad, find a way to sell items, either contributing to the cost of a license, or by giving a commission to those aiding them in providing their services.

Individuals driven by economic necessity to find a way to make money, often see the government’s involvement as only further impeding their ability to improve their situation. The contradiction that exists then not only between capitalist institutions and communist ideology, but also between a government permitting private endeavors yet

80 Benito Zambrano, Habana Blues.

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making such endeavors difficult to be realized, leaves the population frustrated and motivated to act outside of the confines of the law.

In addition to illustrating the frustrations surrounding the economic policies of the government, Habana Blues also makes evident the general economic hardship of the

Cuban people. While this is illustrated in a number of scenes and with a number of lines, one of places it is most evident is in some of the song lyrics that are played as images of people living and being in the city of Havana are shown. One such song where the daily struggle of life on the island is made clear is in the song below,

Cansado, which is performed in the film by Ruy and Tito’s band.

“Cansado” Here I am again, on this same street corner. The smell of sweat, Sex and cigar smuggling. Between the street and the rum, life is rough. I’m pedaling through time, Riding forward right back into the past, back to the same place. Trying to get by. Fighting, baby, fighting. You know it, momma. Trying to get by. Dreaming, baby, dreaming. Momma, it ain’t easy to laugh in the city of the brave. Life is rough here, That’s no surprise. I do what I got to, using my own bare hands. I’m low on cash. I can’t afford rock n’ roll. Trying to get by. Fighting, baby, fighting. You know it, momma.81

81 Ibid.

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Here, the characters are expressing how difficult it is to get by in their current situation.

One might question my decision to label this critique as a form of contestation. While

Brugués argued he could not be considered subversive because he was just showing reality, however, depicting an unflattering image of reality is not always welcomed within the Revolution. In other media forms, such as photo journalism, the government has censored for just showing those unpleasant realities that may undermine the objectives of the regime. I learned of one such example from a friend who is a photographer in

Cuba who explained to me that some of the pictures he took and submitted to be included in articles were rejected and not included because they were “too sad.” In the lyrics of “Cansado” and in the images that play behind it and other songs in the film, the audience is exposed to the grim reality that many Cubans face as a result of the economic conditions in the country. Bringing to light these realities, in light of the regime’s classification of what is in the interests of the Revolution, can be seen as a critique and a form of contestation within the Cuban system.

Another song in Habana Blues also depicts a similar economic reality and problems that arise because of those realities. This song is sung by all the guests at the dinner party Caridad and Ruy host, who, upon learning that Caridad and her children will be leaving for the US, decide to sign a blues song together. One of them, a musician, chooses to begin playing the following blues song, and the other guests join him in singing it.

During the blackout Grandma’s gonna start Getting all fussy and grouchy And knocking the government And Grandpa will bitch about how it’s because of imperialism by OPEC and free trade.

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Baby, pass me that candle. I’m gonna miss my soap opera again. Close the Westinghouse, it’ll defrost again. What will I do with my electric guitar? I wanna dance with a lighter. Light me up with tales of love. Sing me the blues before the lights come back on.82

This song, taking the Cuban cultural approach to joking about the problems faced by the people, evidences two critiques of relevance to this present discussion. First, the subject of the film itself concentrates on the black outs that plague the island as a result of the government’s inability to adequately resolve the problem. The line about the grandma’s reaction is telling of this critique. Clearly there is a faction of the population that sees at least this problem as being rooted in the failures of the government. Just as there is a jab with the grandma blaming it on the government, there is a jab at the overly zealous revolutionary grandpa who blames the problem on capitalism. These are small and subtle commentary, but present criticisms, nonetheless.

Throughout the film, there are a number of other isolated and minor political critiques made. One such critique comes in the scene in which Tito and Ruy are discussing the logistics of their concert with the managers at the theater at which they plan hold it.

Ruy: You said over the phone that the government handles the sound system. Theater Manager: I was about to mention that. They denied our request. They say the event isn’t in the public interest. Tito: What the hell do they know! Sorry, comrade. Theater worker: Don’t worry, I agree with you. Ruy: What did you tell them? Theater Manager: That the concert was on. I’ll take care of it.83

82 Ibid. 83 Ibid.

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Here Tito clearly exhibits frustration with the government, even going so far as to insinuate that it lacks educated judgment. The idea that art be in the public interest is central to the Revolution. Indeed, if we look at the reason for many of the films that the government and hardliners had aversion to, it was often that they created division in society—that such films were essentially doing more harm than good for the public. So

Tito’s knock on the government using this as a reason for not supporting the concert, as well as the theater worker’s agreement with him on the matter, indicates a discontent with the government’s monopoly over determining what is “in the public interest.”

Another isolated political critique comes from the bands to which Ruy and Tito introduce the Spanish producers early in the film. One of the first bands that they go to meet plays punk-rock music. In the first scene with this band, we see the lead singer of the group who dawns an anarchy symbol tattoo on his arm, opening up the door which has a sticker with a picture on Fidel on it. This contradiction alone, is noteworthy, but the lead singer goes on to make a remark, which though out of jest, does hint at what appears to be genuine critique. The remark comes after Lorenzo asks him where they have played before. The singer responds, “Small joints. More than three people is a conspiracy here. Just kidding. A couple places here in Havana. The last time was…I forget.” While this first comment, given his “just kidding remark” may be seen as nothing more than a joke, what he goes on to say next, does have a critical truth within it. He explains the political climate for musicians in Cuba to Lorenzo, “Keep in mind the

Beatles were banned her for “ideological subversion” and then he proceeds to lift a glass of rum and toasts aloud, “To Cuba.”84 In fact, the sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll

84 Ibid.

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theme was one rejected by the Revolutionary government, and as such, The Beatles’ music was originally banned on the island. While now the music is permitted, and there is even a statue and park in Havana in honor of John Lennon, the government does continue to monitor the content of music and sees some as being anti-Revolutionary.

One example happened in the summer of 2013 when the government spoke out against the machismo messages found in the reggaeton genre (both its songs and music videos). The lyrics of the punk rock band’s song in the film, while perhaps not seemingly political on the surface given that they are relatively crude and about sex, are politically charged in that the Revolutionary government given its historical stance.

Further the genre of punk, as illustrated by the lead singer’s tattoo, is one that is anti- institutional order—and that, surely, is something that the current government is against.

The anarchic attitude follows over into another group that the producers see perform. This time it is an attitude embraced by a death metal group performing the song, “Rebellion,” at a concert. From the lyrics to the song, which are included below, it is quite obvious the subversive stance that the band takes.

No more pain! No more fear! Change is inevitable! Open your eyes to the suffering of the innocent! Don't think! About defeat! Protest! Don't hold back! Don't think about defeat! Protest! Don't hold back!...Cuba rebellion!85

The song quite literally is calling for rebellion and protest. There can be no greater form of contestation than the call for the overthrow of the government. And here, in this band’s songs in Habana Blues, the group is trying to incite the Cuban to do nothing less.

85 Ibid.

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In yet the lyrics of another group’s song, we see further critiques of Cuban society. This time, it is a band singing about the topic of race. The lyrics, included below, depict the group’s desire for racial stereotypes and confines to be rejected.

We black people got together And decided No more rumba! (repeat twice) Manga rode that horse (repeat) Yahoo, déjà vu, it’s you. Don’t stop, keep going You’ll love it. Feel the glamor. We black people got together And decided No more rumba!86

While, given the Revolutionary regime’s efforts to rid the state and society of racial structures of inequality, one may initially think there is nothing subversive to these lines, they are critical in the eyes of the government and point out the failings in the current society it has helped to structure. True though it is that the Revolution looked to eradicate racism from Cuban political and social structures, invariably racial inequality continues in the state. While much of the inequality is a hold-over, the Revolutionary regime has historically not liked discussing that a separation between the races exist— as factions are seen as anti-revolutionary. This was the case with the film, P.M., which was met with controversy because its documentary style filming of a space predominantly inhabited by black people who were still disadvantaged, even after the

Revolution. While the government now allows for the championing of some aspects of black Cuban culture, specifically Santeria, which has largely become a national cultural religion, the government still rejects the idea of a separate “black Cuba.” As such, this

86 Ibid.

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song, which discusses a clear group identity based on race and calling out the reality that racism is still present, is thus a political and social critique.

In addition to the economic critique and the aforementioned isolated critiques of elements of the government, another larger critique in Habana Blues is of the tourist industry in Cuba—particularly the reality that Cubans are forced to cater to a population more concerned with enjoying the pleasures of the Caribbean island and less with discovering and experiencing the true Cuba. Caridad shares her discontent with this situation when she explains, for example, that she does not have an interest in going to the party because she already has to spend enough time with the tourists when she is selling her necklaces at the market. In addition to the several scenes throughout the film where we see the protagonists attempting to satisfy the Cuban façade for the ignorance off tourists, we also find them dealing with, if not an arrogance, a lack of sensitivity on the part of the Spanish producers, who, wanting a beach house instead of rooms at a hotel, proclaim that “money is no object.”87 Similar arrogance is demonstrated when Marta is getting into Ruy’s car and describes it as a relic that is very quaint.

In my own time in Cuba, I became aware of this unfortunate reality or tourist arrogance. A friend who owns a casa particular (an apartment that one is able to rent as a private business) mentioned to me that at one point, a tourist came up to their door one day and announced that he was interested in buying her house, which, mind you, was not for sale. Despite her family indicating that they had no interest in selling it, he continued to return making offers on it. He was completely ignorant 1) of the housing

87 Ibid.

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shortage crisis in Cuba, and 2) of the fact that just because it was a poor state, did not mean that people would be persuaded to sell valuable and meaningful possessions just because the price that was being offered was a lot of money. Like the Spanish producers in the film, he possessed a “money is no object” stance which he thought would entitle him to whatever he found on the island. There is thus often a disconnect between those visiting the island with money and those Cubans living there without much of it that can surface when there are interactions between the two groups. In the song, “Doing the Havana,” which Tito and Ruy’s band perform, the lyrics speak of the inauthentic Cuba experienced by tourists and how it differs from the reality lived by most

Cubans.

Doing the Havana Playing the guitar. Dancing the Rumba Doing the Havana Doing business. Spreading the word. Riding the bicycle down the hill through Bethlehem. The hidden Havana, The one you never see. Full of good people, With humble roots. Nostalgic and with purpose, searching for every door to the solution. Doing the Havana. Playing the guitar Dancing the rumba Through Bethlehem. Doing the Havana Doing business. Spreading the word. The system squeezes tight and won’t let up. On the black market you may find just enough… …Behind Cuba’s tourist-poster façade Hides a worker giving his all This island isn’t just rum, cigars and hookers, beaches and sun. It’s more.

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People work all day long for a better future. So let’s do it. Doing the Havana Playing the guitar Dancing the rumba Doing the Havana Doing business. Spreading the word.88

In these lyrics the band is pleading with the tourists to recognize the reality of Cuba, and is clearly frustrated by the gap that exists between the real Cuba that exists and the false Cuba that tourists inhabit.

This critique of tourism in Cuba is of vital importance to the Cuban government because it shows that different classes with different privileges occupy Cuba. Those with money, particularly tourists, have access to whatever they want on the island— including the things that most Cubans themselves cannot access. This unequal relationship of power between tourists and Cubans was, in fact, something that the

Revolution was looking to expel from the island with the overthrow of Batista. Prior to the Revolution, the island served as a type of playground for the wealthy tourists.

Particularly troubling was the prostitution on the island and the exploitation of the Cuban people by the tourists. This is, in fact, much of the critique present in the film, Soy

Cuba,89 which, done in a documentary style within a few years of the Revolution came to power, tries to illustrate how Cuba belonged to foreigners, not Cubans, prior to the

Revolution. In seeing these same relationships of inequality and exploitation of Cubans by foreigners in Cuba as illustrated in Habana Blues, we are seeing a failure of the present government.

88 Ibid. 89 Dir. Mikhail Kalatozov. Soy Cuba. 1964. Film.

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The separate Cubas of tourists and Cubans are glaringly obvious, and at least some of the lines of distinction are a direct result of government decisions. One such decision that is particularly troubling given the Revolution’s goals was the policy previously in place that forbade Cubans from staying at hotels in Cuba. Until recent years, only foreigners were allowed to stay at the resort hotels on the island. Tourists were given privileges of enjoying the island that Cubans were not. Other realities of catering to tourists are largely the result of efforts to strengthen the economy— particularly after the Special Period. Decisions to make the country a place appealing to a class of tourists were deliberate, not to create inequality, but to keep the island financially afloat. Yet despite such intentions, the consequences it rendered are detrimental to the aims of the Revolution. First, focusing on the interests of the tourists has created, and returned to, an undesirable dynamic of power between Cubans and tourists. Secondly, in creating a façade that masked the authentic Cuba, the state is betraying the nationalism that it heralds as being vital to its democracy. Habana Blues, then, illustrating the confrontation between the Cuba of tourists and the Cuba of

Cubans, is critiquing a structure that defies the democracy the regime has looked to create.

This final and largest critique in Habana Blues is of the seemingly impossible challenge for Cuban artists to remain authentic in the current economic context of the state and its society. In Cuba, artists (be they painters, musicians, or filmmakers) are caught between choosing to remain true to their craft and identity and remain poor, or to cater to a global capitalist market which may force them to abandon authenticity in their work. Creating a living wage through making music in Cuba for Cubans does not seem

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to be an option. This is the case to begin with, because resources are not available for

Cuban artists to produce their work (be it recording their music, which, as we see in

Habana Blues, is difficult as not only is startup money difficult to come by, but the equipment available is often dated and not functioning. The seemingly impossible expense of making a record in Cuba surfaces in the conversation below, in which

Lorenzo, Ruy, and Tito discuss the prospects of making a record together.

Lorenzo: Any previous records or contracts? Ruy: No, producing is so expensive here… Tito: Cuba’s blocked. It’s a tough situation.90

Throughout the film we see how hard it is for Ruy and Tito to make and save a sufficient amount of money to make a record and to hold a concert. While at the start of the film they have managed to save enough money to buy a short amount of time and rent equipment to make a disc on their own, it is largely just a demo that they hope will gain the m attention by producers who could help them with a full length professional album.

Further, in the scenes in which they were recording this demo, they had frequent problems with the dated, over-heating equipment. Being a career musician in Cuba, thus does not appear to be a feasible option for most given both the out-of-pocket and up-front costs it demands from the musicians and their already struggling economic realities without the added cost of funding their craft.

The result of this economic reality on the island is that Cuban artists—in the case of Habana Blues, musicians—lose individual autonomy and authenticity in their works.

The phenomenon of Cuban artists changing their works to make them more marketable

90 Zambrano, Habana Blues.

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is something about which Caridad and Ruy’s friends debate at a dinner party the two are throwing.

Friend 1: You guys, I got a letter from Orlandito with the last catalogue. Friend 2: I heard he bought an apartment in downtown Madrid. Friend 3: And we can't even afford new shoes. Friend 4: Is he doing that well? Friend 1: Yes he's selling a ton. Friend 4: He got so lucky. Friend 2: It's not luck. He went after it. Friend 1: I really love Orlandito, but what he's doing now doesn't compare to what he used to do. Ruy: So what? He's painting what people buy. Caridad: Such extremes…I think people should live as they please. Friend 5: That's impossible in this country. Friend 6: An artist needs a public. Friend 3: How would you know? Friend 6: Business is business. Pure art is dead. Friend 5: No, it should be killed. Friend 3: Let’s drink to that. Friend 4: No way. I won’t drink to that. I’ve been putting up with his poetry nonsense for 14 years. He never asks his aunt in New York for medicine or shoes or money. He asks for books and magazines. And now that he’s finally writing something good, we can’t throw it all away. No way, guys. You’ll keep being my cursed poet and pay no attention to these capitalist scumbags...I don’t care if I have only one pair of shoes or if I have to wait in line for hours to buy a couple eggs and bread. I’ll be a hooker if I have to…An erudite hooker, of course. But you promise to be a pure artist, the purest in the world…The pure artist lives on.91

The discussion of the purity of art, such as the one above, is likely a universal debate, yet in a country which relies heavily on tourism to aid its struggling economy and in which artists are pushed to cater to non-Cuban audiences, the purity of art is especially threatened. The concern about the toll economic hardships have taken on artistic production in Cuba is not limited to the above scene in Habana Blues. In a class discussion one day, one of my Spanish professors at the la Universidad de Habana made mention of the nature of art being sold to the tourists. While there are many

91 Ibid.

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talented Cuban artists in the plastic arts who have had international success, the art beings sold in the shops and streets of Old Havana are largely pictures of old cars, tropical fruit, and the archaic colorful buildings in the city. This is the art that sells to the tourists, and as such, it is the art that is produced in mass. That said, it should also be noted that the government and many businesses do carry the works of Cuban artists whose work does not cater to the stereotypes championed by the tourist industry. The government has created special studio spaces in Habana Vieja for some of Cuba’s most respected artists. Many stores carry products with paintings from these famous artists which are purchased both by Cubans and tourists. In fact it was while dining at a restaurant in Old Havana, that I came across a painting by Carlos Guzman, one of the artists who the government has furnished with a studio, on the bottom of my dinner plate. Household items, like the plate, with prominent Cuban artists’ seminal works on them, are found at a host of stores and provide alternatives to the “cars, cigars, and fruit” tourist works. Yet despite these efforts to promote “authentic” or pure Cuban art, the problem still remains that the artists of Cuba are in need of receiving the support and approval of international audiences to succeed and make a living off of their work.

As such, the average artist looking to live off of his/her work, often must cater and compromise content to non-Cuban purchasers.

Even if one concludes that losing individual autonomy is something that could arguably occur anywhere a musician is looking to be produced, the inability to produce something for one’s own society is a localized problem, and it is one that plagues Cuba.

Cuban national sentiment becomes interpreted or thrown out by foreign producers. The toll that this reality takes on authentic Cuban art is seen in the film when, after accepted

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by the Spanish producers, one musician fights to maintain control over his lyrics. Upon finishing a performance of his song, Marta approaches him and the conversation about the national identity within the music begins.

Marta: Didn’t we agree yesterday to change the last verse? Musician: Yeah, but I don’t want to. Marta: It’s too local. This is getting too local. People only understand it here in Cuba. This record is for the Spanish market. It’s a Latin market. Musician: Yeah, but with Cuban musicians. Tito:…Look, it’s simple. We need to sell it, people need to understand it, so it needs to be changed. Musician: What people need to understand is our music isn’t like that crap they make in Spain. Marta: Watch it. Let’s get this straight. We’re making a quality record. It’s in our own self-interest, but we also have to consider our market. This is a business gentlemen. (English) Business is business.92

In spite of the fact that it is a Cuban band, because they are recording with a non-Cuban production company, it is expected that their music reflect the tastes of that foreign producer and audience identity. The result of this identity adaptation within the productions is that along with the Cuban artists losing control and the ability to fuse their art with the Cuban national spirit when they are forced to seek production assistance and audiences outside of Cuba, the society as a whole also tends to lose a degree of artistic sovereignty. Cuba loses the ability to produce art for Cubans to identify and connect with. Cuban art is appropriated by the foreign producers and audiences, and the Cuban artist and Cuban audience are left with an art that is not their own.

Throughout Habana Blues, we are exposed to a host of scenes in which the foreign producers, because of their ability to determine the direction of the work of the

Cuban musicians, are seen as exploiters. In a scene in following the Spanish producers selecting Cuban bands to be a part of their project, one musician joking toasts two of

92 Ibid.

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the musicians chosen, raising his glass of rum and saying “To the Spanish slaves.”93

The musicians are thus well aware that the producers end up having near complete control in the situation, and the Cuban musicians are largely left at the mercy of their will. Such inequality lends itself to the abuse of power in the relationship, which we see explicitly in the interactions between the Spanish producers and the Cuban musicians in the film. The raw reality of the exploitative relationship is most evident in the conversation between all of the musicians and the Spanish producers concerning the details of the contract the producers are offering.

Marta: I’ll be frank with you guys. This contract, relatively speaking, is crap. If you were established musicians you'd throw it back in my face. But you're getting started and it's reasonable. It lasts for three years. During that time the company owns your work. Musician 1: All of it? Marta: All of it. Nothing is done without the company's consent. That has to be totally clear. You follow me? Gorki: Get me out of here and I’ll follow you anywhere. Marta: let's continue. No royalties will be paid until recording and marketing expenses are covered. Musician 2: So we pay for the recording? Marta: Of course. We front you the money. It's our investment, we are taking the risk. Gorki: Who decides when expenses are covered? Marta: The company, obviously. But you can solicit information. And finally, during these three years of contract, 50% of the editorial rights go to the company. Gorki: What’s left for us? You expect us to spend three years living for your company? Tito: we've always been poor, man. It's no big deal. Gorki: Nobody gets rich off my work. Tito: whoever doesn't want to be exploited can just not sign. Marta: okay, let's stay calm. My company wants to invest in you. They’ll guarantee of record a year for each group and a single based on each group's performance. Musician 3: We can't even negotiate editorial rights? 50% is pretty high. Gorki: You’d complain if you got screwed with Vaseline. You want it to hurt.

93 Ibid.

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Lorenzo: guys, listen up. My advice is don’t dwell on the contract details. Consider the possibilities it opens up to you. All musicians have to start somewhere. They’re out there waiting, dreaming of being discovered by someone who’ll produce them. That’s what this company is offering you. Musician 4: So we should be grateful on top of it. Tito: Why not? To a certain extent, yes. Frankly, we depend on them and they don’t depend on us. Musician 5: Not quite. They take advantage of our situation. Tito: You don’t know what you’re saying. Gorki: And you do? Maybe you guys have a juicier contract than we do. Tito: Man, don’t go there. Marta: Easy fellas. You can say whatever you want, but don’t get nervous. Any more comments? Musician 6: Gentlemen, we all know the contract is nothing special but it’s an opportunity I can’t ignore. Gorki: Aren’t there any others? Musician: Gorki, I need to get off this island. I can’t take it anymore. I’d do it all for free. Gorki: That’s bullshit. We deserve to be treated like this. Marta: Ruy? You’re awfully quiet. Tito: What the hell can he say? Could Ruy please give us his opinion of this generous contract? Ruy: It’s better than nothing Gorki: Not very enthusiastic. He needs more practice. Marta: No, you don’t seem very convinced. Ruy: Because I’m not. Gorki: Would Ruy please explain his lack of enthusiasm? Tito: Personal matters. Gorki: Shit, let him answer! Lorenzo: Goddammit, Gorki. You’re overdoing it. Ruy: You’re the ones overdoing it. You want us to be political toys, to work for squat, and we have to smile about it. We’re not starving here, bro. We’re hungry, but I’ll eat a brick before I make some company rich. Marta: Does that mean you won’t sign? Ruy: You can say it louder, Marta, but not any clearer.94

Ruy walks out of the room at the end of this scene and Marta approaches him to try to get him to reconsider accepting the offer and signing the contract. Ruy responds, “The

94 Ibid.

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contract is abusive and your plans for us are bullshit,” and then proceeds to rip up the contract in front of them.95

While Ruy ultimately refuses to sign, other musicians, including Tito do, and it is clear, given that none of the musicians was actually able to negotiate the terms of the contract (just sign or walk), that the ones with the most power were the producers. As

Tito pointed out one day Cuban musicians are “a dime a dozen”96 and as such, if one band walks, producers are able to find plenty others willing to take their spot. In the conversation between Tito and Ruy that follows the contract meeting, Ruy makes clear the level of power that the foreign producers have in the situation and their decision to exploit that power, and as such, the Cuban musicians.

Ruy: It was a shitty contract….If we’re good we’ll have plenty of chances Tito: You’re so naïve. You think success comes from talent? Bullshit! Success is knowing when to jump at your chance, you hear me? In Cuba that’s how it is, you dumb mulatto. Ruy: That’s not true. I may be a dumb mulatto, but I’m not a whore Tries to drive away, car won’t star Tito: Nothing in this country works! They’d have fed us for six months. Six months away from this fucking stubborn car that’s ruined my life. Six months of real life, dammit. What was fucking wrong with that contract? Are we any better off here? Ruy: Sure we are. We have our concert. Tito: Fuck the concert! Ruy: They were vampires. They would have sucked us dry. Tito: But we would have been in Spain, dumbshit. In Spain. We’d have managed on our own. Ruy: You dumbfuck. They would have sued us for breach of contract. Three years as their slaves. Tito: Whose slaves are we here? Ruy: Nobody’s. Our own. Tito: Fuck you, Ruy. Spare me your speeches. I’m sick of them. Ruy: Man, we’ll find a way.

95 Ibid. 96 Ibid.

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Tito: I want out of here. I’m twenty-eight and I’ve never been off this damn island!97

Although later Tito, in an effort to persuade the producers to accept him in the project without Ruy’s accompaniment, is ultimately able to blackmail the producers by telling them he will report what they are doing to the government if they do not let them go, in general, the power over terms of contracts largely remains in the hands of the producers. Given the Revolutionary regime’s efforts at eliminating the exploitive relationships of power that exist between people, including in work relationships, the reality that their artists are subjected to such conditions within the present system is a deeply troubling one. As such, the criticism of the ability of producers to exploit Cuban artists and threaten their autonomy in the present system can be seen as a form of contestation by the film.

Habana Blues makes further clear, however, that it is not only the producers that threaten the artistic sovereignty of Cuban society. It is also the desires of other societies and markets that control the decisions of the Cuban artists and the content of their creations. This surfaces in the film when Tito, after learning that his band has a preliminary offer to be a part of the Spanish producer’s project, begins talking about some of the prospects with Lorenzo. In the conversation Loreanzo mentions that the deal is waiting on the finalizations made by Marta in Miami.

Tito: What’s she (Marta) got in Miami? Lorenzo: (English) Business, man, business. (Spanish) Miami’s the key to the Latin market. There are people there interested in our project. Tito: Those people aren’t interested in us. Lorenzo: My friend, when there’s money to be made, people only see one color. You dig?98

97 Ibid. 98 Ibid.

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Here, not only do we find that the music is being backed and brought to other societies, but that it is not even the music that is of interest to them, but rather the money that can be made off of it. A society with interests, tastes, and different social, political, and economic norms is framing the content of Cuban art. The fact that the phrase Lorenzo uses, “Business is business,”99 (which, by the way, is repeated by several different characters throughout the film) is always delivered in English evidences just how pervasive other societies and cultures become in the artistic decisions of Cubans. The business of Cuban art, is not Cuban, but rather other societies—in the case, while orchestrated by the Spanish producers, is actually contingent on the backing of backers in the United States. The ability to control the content of the art is put directly in the hands of a market and society outside of the one actually creating it.

In the case of the Cuban musicians in Habana Blues, the fact that other societies control the production has huge political consequences for Cuba and its artists. Ruy and Tito discover that the company looking to pick them up is US based and has its market with its own agendas to appease. In this case, it is a Miami-based market looking to exploit the political climate of its audience, and as such, stipulates in the contract that the band will have to denounce the regime in Cuba. Tito, Ruy, and Marta discuss the ramifications of this stipulation in the following conversation:

Tito: They’re pitching “forbidden music.” You know, political stuff against the regime and a little trash talk. A couple interviews and we’re famous, right? Ruy: That’s suicide, man. If we criticize Cuba, they’ll never let us back in. Marta: We know that. This isn’t easy for us either. Especially for me. I have no choice.100

99 Ibid. 100 Ibid.

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In this case, even the producers lack the ability to control the situation, as they themselves are being backed by a US company. The result is that the Cuban musicians end up being put in the uncomfortable position of remaining authentic and true to their art, nation, and state, or to compromising both individuals liberties and autonomies as well as the legitimacy of their state for the sake of being able to get their work produced.

This critique of the loss of artistic sovereignty in Cuba is absolutely of critical importance. As the Cuban government argues that it is trying to achieve true democracy complete with political and socio-economic equality as well as sovereignty in its design and policies, the situation it has fostered for its artists is evidence of democratic failure. The artists, because they lack resources within Cuba, not only give up their individual autonomy, but the society’s artistic sovereignty when they are pushed to participate in un-equal relationships with producers and markets abroad.

Lorenzo: The Cuban issue isn’t our fault. Ruy: Yeah but you exploit it. Lorenzo: This will benefit all of us. Ruy: And if it doesn’t. Marta: A risk you have to take. Lorenzo: At least you’ll all have gotten out of here. The two of you in Spain will have no problem finding a way to survive.101

Ruy, in this discussion, accurately articulates how the producers outside of Cuba have the advantage in negotiations with Cuban musicians. Because the options are so limited for the Cuban musicians, and because many are merely looking for the opportunity to go abroad (either temporarily or permanently), what a production company has to offer, is relatively very little. The power is in their hands, and the

101 Ibid.

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musicians become exploited as a result. After the above discussion, Ruy and Tito have a conversation alone outside which further illustrates the fact that the Cuban musicians are being used and taken advantage of by companies and producers abroad.

Ruy: I hate being played with. Tito: Don’t think so much about it. Dog eat dog, man. The ship’s sinking. Ruy: If things get rough, they’ll drop us like a bad habit. Tito: A risk we always knew about. Ruy: But we can’t come back. Tito:….Besides, we’re better off in Spain even if this falls through Ruy: I don’t feel right going around talking bullshit. We’re musicians, man. What do we care about the politics? Tito: Then where’s the problem? Ruy: Leaving isn’t the same if it’s for good. Tito: don't get worked up over it. Man, the euro, tours….We're going to make a record with more than 100,000 copies already sold. Be smart, Bro. This is the best we've got Ruy: I know, man. But not like this. I can't do it. Tito: What? Ruy: I don't want to be used, period. It has to be about the music, not just some assholes who could give a shit about this country trying to get rich off us.102

Again, this conversation makes clear that the musicians struggle with creating authentic works and maintaining in the face of an economically exploitive situation, in which political, social, and artistic sovereignty are jeopardized.

While the increase of foreign producers undoubtedly brings financial success to some Cuban artists, the question must be answered by the government of whether or not the money that it too, receives from the deals is worth the sacrifice to the equality and sovereignty it looked to initially create in its democracy. This film, being a coproduction between Spain and Cuba, is evidence that this structured relationship exists in other art forms beyond music in Cuba. As was discussed in Chapter 7, having a national identity within the films as well as autonomy and democratic relations in

102 Ibid.

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creating them is central to the film-making process in Cuba—particularly post-

Revolution. While Habana Blues manages to put the concerns for Cuban nationalism at the forefront of the film’s message, even with a Spanish director, the concern exists, nonetheless, of whether this will be the norm in the future of cinematic co-productions.

There is cause, as evidenced by the experience of the musicians in Habana

Blues, to be weary of the likelihood of non-democratic structures growing within the cinematic industry in Cuba as well if films begin relying more on foreign producers. In this final critique then, is a form of contestation against the economic, political, and social structures that are present in Cuban society. Because this critique is essentially depicting how non-democratic the system is (at least in terms of the relationships of inequality generated within it and that it threatens sovereignty), it is one of the biggest criticisms one could make of the government in Cuba. It is noteworthy then that the government permitted this form of contestation within the film, Habana Blues.

Fresa y Chocolate (Strawberry and Chocolate)

The next film, and the oldest one included in this analysis, is Fresa y Chocolate.

This film is a prolific work in Cuban cinematic history, being so popular with Cuban filmgoers that it had “the largest-ever audience of a Cuban film in the shortest period of time”.103 Fresa y Chocolate was also popular amongst film critics, both within Cuba and internationally. It won the “top prize at…the Havana Film Festival” and received an

Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Film.104 Twenty years later, the film is still celebrated and spoke of widely in Cuba. In fact, in December of 2013, homage was paid to the film

103 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 472. 104 Ibid.

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at the Spanish embassy in Cuba.105 The presence this film had upon its release and continues to have still now in Cuba, cannot be understated. In addition to being an incredibly popular film, it is also one that is full of political criticism. This criticism, which will be discussed shortly, after I have first given a summary of the film, is all the more significant because of the film’s popularity, the government’s embrace of the film, and the lasting impact it has had on both Cuban politics and society.

Fresa y Chocolate is set in 1979, though, as Michael Chanan points out, it is one whose message spans to the Special Period era in which it was filmed.106 The film focuses primarily on two protagonists: Diego, a homosexual art enthusiast, who, while initially excited about the Revolution has been excluded from it because of his sexual orientation, and David, a young university student and zealous Communist Youth

League member who, at the start of the film, is feeling dejected as he has been left by a woman who chose to marry for money. Diego initially introduces himself to David at a park when he sits down at David’s table with a bowl of strawberry ice cream. In Cuba, a stereotype exists that homosexual men choose to eat strawberry ice cream, while straight men will select chocolate. Informed by this stereotype, David immediately pegs

Diego as a homosexual, and tries to move to another table, as homosexuals at the time were seen as counter-Revolutionaries, only to discover no more are available.

Reluctantly, he remains at the table and begrudgingly responds to Diego’s comments.

In the course of the conversation, Diego claims (falsely) to have some pictures of

David that he explains he took during one of David’s performances in the play. Telling him that he has these pictures at home and promising him that his family will be there

105 Marta María Ramírez, “Fresa y Chocolate: Surtido!” OnCuba, December 14, 2013. 106 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 463.

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presently (both points which are untrue), Diego manages to convince David to accompany him there to retrieve the photos. Once inside Diego’s apartment, David, while discovering no one else is there, is still interested in getting his photos and then leaving as soon as possible. Diego, however, continues to distract him with music, books, art, and even a cup of tea—trying to extend the duration of David’s visit. While irritated that Diego is not giving him the photos forthright, David is intrigued by many of the items in Diego’s possession. Part of the intrigue is based off a genuine interest in some of the materials, others based off of suspicion that they are anti-Revolutionary in nature. In the end, David leaves, with no intent to return, frustrated not to have received the pictures and having refused one of the books Diego offered him.

Once back at his dorm room, David relays these events to his roommate, Miguel, who, like David, is a member of the Youth League. Miguel is instantly interested in the affairs and is convinced that David’s suspicions that Diego is a counter-Revolutionary are entirely valid. Feeling that more evidence is needed on the matter, Miguel encourages David to go back to Diego’s apartment and pretend to be his friend. By hanging out with him, he will be able to discover what exactly David is up to and if he is indeed a threat to the Revolution. Miguel is particularly interested in having David look into the matter of an art show that Diego is helping his artist friend enter his works. The works, which David saw at Diego’s apartment, were religious busts, and, given the

Revolution’s uneasy relationship with religious organizations early after its installation, were cause to suspect that those wishing to exhibit these pieces were counter-

Revolutionaries.

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Diego accepts the task, and returns to Diego’s apartment under the guise of wanting to apologize to him for his earlier behavior and strike up a friendship. Diego is thrilled, and the two begin hanging out with one another. While David originally is only pretending to be friends with Diego, the more time they spend together, David actually finds himself respecting, caring about, and becoming a friend to, Diego. During the development of their friendship, Diego introduces David, still recovering from being left by his girlfriend, to his suicidal neighbor, Nancy. Nancy, a former prostitute and now a member of the Vigilance, becomes attracted to David shortly after their initial meeting.

Interestingly, despite the fact that she is a member of the Vigilance, Nancy, in an effort to make money, buys and sells items on the black market—including for Diego. It is

Diego’s hopes that Nancy will have sex with David, who is still a virgin, and foster a loving relationship with him.

In the midst of these developing relations between all three of the characters,

Diego continues to work on getting his friend, German’s, art into an exhibition. While the authorities agree to show some of German’s pieces from his collection, they want him to edit out a few of the busts that they find to be controversial. Diego, enraged that they are censoring the art, protests the decision by writing a letter to those responsible for the exhibition selections. As he is discussing his discontent at the censorship within this letter, Diego himself is now doing something controversial as he is questioning the

Revolution’s authority to make the decision that its leading members did. Once the letter is received, Diego loses his job and discovers that it will be virtually impossible for him to be hired within the cultural sphere anywhere within Cuba because of his action.

With no place to work, Diego talks with a foreign embassy and is able to secure the

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opportunity to leave Cuba and live abroad. David, now friends with Diego, now capable of seeing how devoted to the Revolution Diego was, and now realizing how much Cuba will lose with Diego’s departure, is upset by his, now friend’s, departure. The two say their respective goodbyes as David, no longer homophobic and no longer seeing homosexuality as being anti-Revolutionary, eats a bowl of strawberry ice cream.

Fresa y Chocolate presents a host of political critiques. One of the main political criticisms in the film is of the censorship of art in Cuba. Diego, throughout the film, is working to get his friend’s exhibit accepted. In the scenes in which Diego is discussing the artwork and the challenge of trying to get it shown in Cuba, the audience witnesses his frustration with the government’s lack of tolerance for diversity and independent thinking in art. The frustration, which Diego attributes entirely to the government’s actions, is seen in one of his conversations about the matter with Nancy.

Diego: I’m sick of these stupid bureaucrats. We have no say. Nancy: But what happened. Diego: They banned German’s exhibit and you can’t argue since they control everything!...They only accept naive painters, or official ones, or those pretending to be modern that are purely decorative….I didn’t keep quiet. Nancy: What did you say? Diego: What I felt like saying. There’s no freedom in socialism, bureaucracies. Nancy: Don’t say that without music, Diego. Diego: Oh what a revolution! Even whores are art critics!...Art makes you feel and think. Art does not transmit. The government radio does that!...Next they’ll ban children’s songs. Nancy: Children’s songs. Diego: Yes. Heard this one? Things are frightening. Really horrible.107

The status of art in Cuba is unacceptable, in Diego’s estimation. To begin with, he is upset by the reality that it is the government who decides what art is permissible. And

107 Gutiérrez Alea and Tabio, Fresa y Chocolate.

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what art is deemed acceptable is by the government is largely determined by whether or not it directly serves the interests of the Revolution. Rather than artists creating authentically, there are artists with limited freedoms and limited abilities serving the government as opposed to the human soul. The result is that Cuba fails to produce art, and if it produces art that manages not to be inauthentic, such art is squashed by the authorities.

While eventually the authorities agree to exhibit German’s artwork, they censor out a few of the pieces. Rather than see this as a victory, Diego makes clear, in the below conversation with David, that this is an unacceptable offense.

David: Who’s this to? Diego: A gallery director, with many copies sent. David: What for? Diego: To tell him a few things that he needs to be told. David: They rejected the exhibit again? Diego: Worse than that. They bought him. David: Well, it’s for the best. It would have meant trouble for you. Diego: Thanks. But they’ll be stunned when they receive my letter. When will they understand that art is one thing and propaganda another? If they don’t want to think there’s tv, newspapers, radio and the rest. Somebody had to tell them. David: But why you? Diego: Why not?108

In these conversations, Diego is thus not only criticizing the authorities’ censorship of this particular exhibit, but art in general. He argues that there needs to be a clear distinction between art and the media. For him, there is something inherently unique about art that removes it from the political constraints and uses of other mediums of communication. As discussed earlier, the Revolutionary regime did make some additional allowances for the arts, with the cinematic industry having perhaps the most

108 Ibid.

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freedom. Yet, as Diego makes clear, there is still censorship within the artistic community. By making the comment about the propaganda comment about the media,

Diego is additionally criticizing the government’s decision to control them and use them as means for promoting an official political agenda. So while he sees art as being unique, the censorship of ideas across societal media forms is problematic. Diego is thus challenging the political manipulation of art and ideas in general.

The film makes clear that Diego’s decision to challenge the authorities on the matter of the art exhibit was the correct one. It does so first with the above conversation. While by the societal standards at the time David seems to be the most devout revolutionary, it is Diego’s statement and attitude that are in the line with a true revolutionary. Where David is suggesting it is a good thing that the exhibition issue has been resolved without Diego’s involvement and pleads why he needs to involve himself in it, Diego replies “Why not?” insinuating that because he is aware of the problem, it is his duty to address it.109 Though it is not his own artwork that has been censored, he sees such censorship as detrimental to society and requiring action. Rather than turning away from the problem, Diego puts himself in jeopardy by involving himself in confronting it.

A second time the film makes clear that Diego is in the right comes when Diego is putting the letter to the gallery owner in the mailbox, with some clear apprehension, he sees a sign posted on a bulletin board next to the mailbox which reads, “ The weak submit, while the strong go forward. This is a task for the strong. –José Marti.”110 The decision to include a quote from Marti is incredibly significant, as the Revolution has

109 Ibid. 110 Ibid.

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used Marti as a symbol of their cause. Marti, according to the Revolutionary regime, was dreaming and fighting for the society that the Revolution was working to create.

Yet the directors are making explicitly obvious with this scene that in going against this particular decision of the government’s, Diego is more in line with Marti than the authorities. It is Diego who is not submitting to the injustice but instead challenging it. It is a challenge, that Diego knows will cost him greatly, and we discover how it does later when Diego is banned from most jobs because of his action, and as such, is forced to leave Cuba to work abroad. Diego loses the ability to work for, and be a part of, the society he treasures and is fighting to protect.

Another critique closely that ties into that of the Revolution’s censorship of art is of the Revolution’s relationship with religion. The artwork that is being censored by the government is of religious busts that are being stabbed with sickles. One interpretation of these pieces is that communism in Cuba is killing religion. While now religion is accepted as being compatible with the Revolution, as is evidenced by its championing of the religion of Santeria and allowing the Pope to visit, at the start of the new regime, religion was seen as being at odds with its values, and was the marginalized and restricted by the early governments. Diego’s friend, German, is thus presenting a critique of those restrictions in his artwork—hence the authorities efforts to curb it and

David’s initial suspicion of it being anti-revolutionary when he first saw it and was describing it to his roommate, Miguel.

Yet despite efforts of the government to restrict religion in Cuba, we see throughout Fresa y Chocolate that it is still being practiced. Two of the protagonists,

Nancy and Diego, both are practicing their faith on what appears to be a daily basis.

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Nancy is frequently burning candles to the Santeria saint statues she has up around her apartment. She talks to them about her problems, complains about how much their candles cost to purchase, and even visits a Santeria leader to have a reading. Diego similarly displays his faith with religious statues and artifacts throughout his apartment.

Some appear to be Catholic while others are Santerian. He has frequent conversations/prayers with them and explicitly tells David early on that he is religious.

While both individuals clearly are not the ideal revolutionaries from the point of view of the government (Nancy because of her black market dealings and Diego because he is a homosexual who challenges the decisions he disagrees with), the two are also in many ways committed to its cause even with their religious beliefs. We see that in their practicing of their religions neither Nancy nor Diego are in any way jeopardizing the

Revolution, and that, their religions are personal and cannot be taken away by a government. The government’s efforts at restricting it are thus not only unwise, but futile. It is a point, given the regime’s change in stance since the 1979 contextual setting for the film, that was recognized by the Revolutionary leadership.

Another criticism in the film is of the Revolution’s failure to maintain its buildings.

This issue is presented in a scene when Diego and David are standing on a balcony looking out across the city and seeing many of the structures in a decayed state.

Diego: We live in one of the world’s most beautiful cities. You can still enjoy it before it collapses in shit. David: Don’t be unfair, there are too many things… Diego: They are letting it collapse, you know it. David: We’re small and struggling. Diego: It doesn’t pain them to see the city this way. David: Some care. You and I care.111

111 Ibid.

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Clearly, Diego views the problem as the result of the government’s inability to care enough to adequately address the crumbling structures. The problem of collapsing buildings in Cuba is indeed incredibly grave. It is such a prevalent problem that it is also one of the main themes of another movie, Amor Vertical, in which we see that the decaying structures combined with the housing shortage in Cuba has led to the collapsing of buildings—often time while people are still inhabiting them.112 We see multiple challenges confronting the state with the decaying structures. To begin with, there is a shortage of building materials. A documentary film-maker friend mentioned to me that he was currently working on a documentary in which he follows an engineer whose project was to collect materials and re-build structures. He scavenges materials such as nails from collapsed projects to use in his work because new ones are scarce.

The lack of materials is attributed both to the US embargo as well as the collapse of the

Soviet Union.

In addition to a shortage of materials, there is also, as shown in Amor Vertical, a shortage of livable dwelling spaces. Orlando Matos in his 2006 article, “CUBA:

‘Colourful’ Tenements Reminder of Severe Housing Deficit” reports that “there is still an estimated shortage of over half a million housing units.”113 Most of the friends I made in

Cuba are in their late 20s/early 30s and are still living in their parents’ homes as they are unable to find and afford homes or apartments of their own. While one such friend did manage to temporarily rent an apartment, given that the cost of the apartment was roughly 30 CUCs a month, and his job paid about 20 CUCs a month, he could not afford

112 Sotto, Amor Vertical. 113 Orlando Matos, “Cuba: ‘Colourful’ Tenements Reminder of Severe Housing Deficit,” Inter Press Service, April 3, 2006.

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to stay there long-term and ended up moving back to his mother’s home. So even when some housing is available, it is not always affordable. The result is that many people and generations end up within a single dwelling space. Often time, the number of occupants surpasses the structure’s capacity to support it.

Many housing structures in Cuba have an excess of people packed into a single, often small, space—a dwelling that has been termed a “solar.” Solares, with their high number of occupants are posing real safety concerns to architectural structures that are already aging and decaying. The casa particular I stayed at was the first two floors of a large building and the third floor above the house had multiple solares as well as tenants who were unable or unwilling to renovate their apartments. The result was the building was starting to have structural issues. While my host family went to great lengths to renovate their portion, they had no control over the decisions made by their neighbors above who neglected to restore decaying portions of the building. During one of my stays, a portion of the balcony wall from the dwelling above collapsed and fell to the patio below my apartment door just minutes after I had walked through it. I heard stories from friends about ceilings that collapsed in bedrooms from dwellings being overcrowded and decaying above them.

With many lacking the finances to make changes, building codes seem difficult to enforce, and as a result, accidents and collapses are a part of Cuban news. The BBC, reporting in 2012 cited that there are “three buildings collapsing-partially or completely- every day in Havana.”114 The number of collapses, while seemingly shocking, should come as no surprise given both official and unofficial reports on the island’s buildings.

114 “Cuba’s Crumbling Housing Crisis,” BBC News, May 26, 2012.

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Matos cites in 2006 that “official studies released last year during an international conference on sustainable cities held in Havana revealed that roughly 43 percent of all housing in Cuba is in an average to poor state.”115 In July of 2013, Daniel Benitez, writing for Havana Times offered updated statistics writing that, “according to a report by

Cuba’s National Housing Institute (INV), over 1,170,000 homes in Cuba (39 percent of the country’s residences) are in merely adequate or frankly poor condition” and that

“non-government sources set the number of Cuban homes in poor or adequate condition as high as 57 percent and report a housing deficit of 700 thousand residences.”116 The results of unattended and overcrowded structures have thus led to detrimental results on a large scale throughout the island.

The criticism of the government’s failure to take care of the decaying structures in

Fresa y Chocolate is thus incredibly relevant and a problem that is visible to citizens and tourists alike. Chanan aptly points out that the movie, while supposed to be set in the late 1970s, is being filmed during the Special Period. This is particularly important in the scene with Diego and David discussing the decaying structures, in which the images the audience is seeing are of buildings at “an advanced state of disrepair.”117 The problem the audience is witnessing is thus not one of the past, but of the present as well. Chanan points out that “this deliberate blurring of the historical moment…has the effect of intensifying the films since of contemporaneity.”118 The film is thus suggesting

115 Matos, “Cuba: ‘Colourful’ Tenements Reminder of Severe Housing Deficit.” 116 Daniel Benitez, “Cuba’s Housing Situation: The Coming Collapse,” Havana Times, July 9, 2013. 117 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 463. 118 Ibid.

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that the government, over a decade after the film is supposed to be taking place, has still failed to adequately address the problem of the city’s decaying structures.

The government has tried to address the issue on multiple fronts. The BBC reported in 2012, for example, that Cuban “authorities are trying to boost house building by cutting subsidies for construction materials and providing grants to those households in most need.”119 The government under Raul Castro has also begun permitting individuals to buy and sell, “granting credits and subsidies,” and airing programs teaching people how to repair their homes.120 In Old Havana there have been multiple renovation projects, both for city beautification and for safety. Matos reported in 2006 that “The Cuban state-run media report that since 2004, roughly 1,000 tenement houses in Havana have undergone major repairs. Efforts like these have been underway since the mid-1990s and involve numerous local and foreign entities.”121 While some of these projects have been a success, however, there have been shortcomings within some of them, as well as a reality that not enough have occurred yet.

In his article, Matos notes that part of the problem with renovating is that it requires citizens to relocate while the work is being completed. In one of the projects

Matos explains that residents of the building being renovated were required to live elsewhere for the two years that the reconstruction project was occurring. Some citizens, obviously, saw this temporary relocation as an inconvenience. Yet not all projects allow for temporary relocation. My host father mentioned that some renovation projects by the government offered to citizens require that they permanently leave the

119 BBC News, “Cuba’s Crumpling Housing Crisis.” 120 Benitez, “Cuba’s Housing Situation: The Coming Collapse.” 121 Matos, “Cuba: ‘Colourful’ Tenements Reminder of Severe Housing Deficit.”

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dwelling spaces. Because in many of the cases far too many people are living within a space, even after renovations are complete, the structures are not suited for their previous numbers of inhabitants. In such cases, the government offers to permanently relocate the citizens to the newly built housing. While such living quarters would be safer and newer, some citizens choose to remain in their decaying and overcrowded dwellings, because they do not want to give up their current locations. Such resistance obviously poses a difficult challenge to the government looking to address the housing crisis in some capacity.

Even more grave for the government than this resistance, however, is the reality that while there are a high number of solares and a high number of decaying structures on the island, economic and building materials are in short supply. With the economic restrictions and material shortages that Cuba is facing, particularly, as Matos points out, post-Special Period, it will be difficult for the state and its people to afford construction projects: both new ones and renovations, even if people are willing to accept them. So despite the government’s desire to increase construction projects on the island, Benitez points out that

statistics on new housing construction aren’t very flattering either. In 2012, Cuba saw the construction of a mere 32,103 units, 28 percent of which were erected through the population’s own efforts. Figures, in fact, reveal that the construction of houses has been dropping continuously for six consecutive years, since 2006, when 111,273 units were built…Figures for the first half of 2013 aren’t much different. During his remarks before Cuba’s Parliament, Minister for the Economy and Planning Adel Yzquierdo reported that the construction of housing had dropped by 3 percent this year and the plan was 500 units behind schedule, in a province in such dear need of attention as Havana.122

122 Benitez, “Cuba’s Housing Situation: The Coming Collapse.”

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So despite its efforts to increase construction and provide safe housing for citizens, the

Cuban government has largely failed to adequately achieve its goals. The criticism in

Fresa y Chocolate thus, again, while supposedly about the situation in the late 1970s, and evidentially, as evidenced in the images from the filming during the Special Period is still a problem in the 1990s, continues to be a problem even today, albeit one that has begun to be addressed. Its inclusion in the film thus shows a form of contestation of a problem that persists in being a pervasive one in Cuba, and one many see the government as being responsible for addressing.

Another issue critiqued in the film is the black market and the government’s attempt at curbing it. Just as we saw in Juan de Los Muertos and Habana Blues, there is a prevalence of black market dealings throughout Cuban society in Fresa y

Chocolate. What is particularly interesting in the case of the black market dealings in

Fresa y Chocolate, however, is that one of the main ringleaders in the black market amongst the protagonists is Nancy, the member of the Vigilance. Despite the fact that such an allegiance would suggest that she should be on the lookout and reporting non- revolutionary activity, such as black-market sales, she is the one actually completing them. In fact, it is she who is selling some items for Diego, including one of his watches, buys items for him, including American distilled whisky, and it is she who holds onto some of Diego’s black-market earned money as he fears he will be searched by the police soon. The decision to make Nancy the main black-market participant is incredibly significant as it implicates those members who are supposed to be most devout to the cause of the Revolution and its protection. Further, it implies either 1) that these members are using the Revolution’s institutions to advance themselves, and thus

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are corrupt and anti-Revolutionary, or 2) that the situation is so dire, that even those who do have a love for the Revolution, have been driven to work outside of its official institutions to survive.

This second insinuation is supported by one of Nancy’s monologues. After completing a transaction of black-market items with a woman who came to her house looking for some merchandise, Nancy, speaking to one of the Santeria statues in her apartment pleads,

don’t look at me like that. I’m not abusing anyone. Look, it’s all high quality. I’m the one taking a chance with the police. Besides, it’s my business. I can’t live on candles like you. If they want the good stuff, they’ll have to pay for it! And that’s enough. Leave me alone.123

Nancy is clearly trying to justify her actions of selling the items at a price that, while she finds reasonable give that the items are both expensive and risky for her to acquire, is still causing her to feel some guilt. Certainly it can be debated whether or not we are to interpret this justification as acceptable or not. Yet, despite that, the reality does exist that some items are impossible to purchase from the government—this was especially the case in the context of when the film was made (i.e. in the Special Period when even the most basic of items are in short supply). As such, even if from a Revolutionary standpoint one would argue Nancy is making a mistake, most watching the film when it was released were likely to empathize with the situation within which Nancy and those looking to buy black market items found themselves. So although Nancy and her customers/sellers are acting illegally, the blame may at least partially be placed on the government/and or circumstances that have forced the characters to resort to such measures to acquire often times basic items.

123 Gutiérrez Alea and Tabío, Fresa y Chocolate.

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Even now, roughly two decades after the Special Period, the presence of the black market and the appeal to take part within it are high. With more traffic between the US and Cuba currently, the black market in Cuba continues to thrive. There is in fact, even a webpage devoted to the selling of items without the government functioning as an intermediary. The page is called “revolico and serves to make black-market dealings easier than ever. So even if the economic situation is not as dire as it was when Fresa y chocolate first came out, the demand for items to be acquired through the black market remains high, and as such, the government’s inability to curb it, as well as to provide demanded items legally, remains a shortcoming of the regime.

Another criticism found in Fresa y Chocolate is of the regime’s efforts at spying on citizens. Throughout the film, the protagonists make reference to the fact that eavesdropping on conversations in the private home is something with which they must be concerned. Diego initially presents this issue to us when David comes over to his apartment for the first time. In an effort to avoid being spied on by revolutionary vigilantes Diego tells David, “I’ll put on some music so the neighbors can’t hear us. I learned it from the Vigilance woman who got it from Security.”124 Even more interesting than the fact that Diego is suggesting his concern of his conversation being heard by others is his revealing that he learned the trick to avoid being heard by the authorities responsible for carrying out the spying activities. Nancy, the member of the Vigilance who first advised him to play the music when having conversations that might be potentially problematic for him, interrupts him in one of their conversations reprimanding, “Don’t say that without music, Diego” after he explains that in his letter to

124 Ibid.

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the authorities he had written, “what I felt like saying. There’s no freedom in socialism, bureaucracies.”125 Here it is clear that Nancy is concerned that Diego could find himself in trouble for making such criticisms of the regime, and as such, must be cautious in saying things and take precautions to make sure others do not hear them.

In my time in Cuba, I experienced some instances of individuals being concerned about what and where things were said because of suspicion that someone else could be listening. I had a friend, who while comfortable talking about certain critiques inside of her house, was uncomfortable saying too much outside of it on the porch for fear that authorities may hear her. This same individual was cautious in having too many foreigners over at her house at one time for fear that the authorities may become suspicious of the increased activity. I was further advised not to have conversations about my research in front of certain individuals. For example, I was told that in the neighborhood I was staying in that there was a taxi driver who reported the activity going on to the police, and as such, that when getting a ride from him, should not discuss my research. In my Spanish classes at the University of Havana, while the foreign students were often bold in asking questions about, and discussing their political criticism of, the system in Cuba, the Cuban professors often skirted questions and topics related to politics, clearly not comfortable discussing the subject in that public forum. On one instance, a student from Brazil discussed in class how he was planning on making a documentary in Cuba about what people thought of the government, and knowing I studied political science, wanted me to share my opinion on the matter in his film. Already being paid somewhat more attention to by the Cuban authorities because

125 Ibid.

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I am from the US, I quickly declined the opportunity to appear in his documentary.

When I shared the story with a Cuban friend of mine, she could not believe the student was trying to make the film and asserted that I should not take part in the project. Such instances made clear that there still exist concerns in Cuba over what and where ideas are shared.

While some of my Cuban friends would share their political thoughts with me while walking down the street and seemed considerably less concerned than some others over what opinions they were sharing and where they were sharing them, there did seem, overall, to be at least some censorship of what thoughts were shared and in what contexts. Admittedly, there is likely considerably less vigilance occurring now than in the initial years of the Revolution, and some of the “eavesdropping” occurs not to scout out and punish people for what they say, but to obtain a read on what public opinion is. I was told that officials for the government will be dressed like ordinary citizens and go to public places, such as bus stops, to hear what people are saying about the government, its policies, or political events/news. Although the people who make the comments are not reported, their commentary is relayed to those within the government. While the other instances of spying on individuals, particularly in their own homes, such as we are told about in Fresa y Chocolate, is clearly problematic from a negative rights understanding of democracy, the case of public eavesdropping to obtain a public pulse on political issues may be seen as a positive for democracy if it makes the government more responsive to the concerns of the public. That said, without a doubt, as Almond and Verba made obvious, trust is an important feature of a democratic culture, and if people are afraid to share their beliefs publically or even

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at/within their homes for fear of being heard, this is clearly an issue not only because it suggests a negative right is missing, but because it creates an unhealthy political culture.

Fresa y Chocolate similarly seems to reach the conclusion that spying on citizens

(albeit by government authorities or other citizens) is problematic. While David’s initial reply to Diego about turning on the radio was that he did not mind if he was heard

(insinuating that he had nothing to hide), we are left feeling that such actions are necessary, given the regime’s continued efforts at maintaining official and singular stances and approaches to the building of the Revolutionary state and society that have blocked out other interpretations such as those of Diego. Further, there seems to be a dishonesty that seems counter to revolutionary principles in the false relationship Miguel encourages David to start with Diego. Where Diego is laying all of his cards out on the table with the person he is to David, David pretends to be someone else—someone interested in a friendship, when the reality is, he is only looking to know Diego so that he has time to figure out if he is a counter-Revolutionary or not. If citizens cannot be honest with one another and start from a sincere place of truly trying to understand one another, a true communist society which serves the needs of all cannot be built. This criticism within Fresa y Chocolate of the spy-culture in Cuba promoted by the authorities, is thus one that makes clear that such distrustful behavior has dire political consequences for the country. It impedes efforts at growing democracy as it threatens both the creation of a democratic culture as well as the creation of a true “new man” or communist citizens capable of looking out for needs that extend beyond those of the self.

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Like the other films in this analysis, Fresa y Chocolate also contains an examination and critique of Cuban nationalism. Just as in Juan de Los Muertos, the discussion of nationalism in Cuba is a critical one. While there is clearly evidence of a strong national pride and identity presented within Fresa y Chocolate, there is also criticism of the blind obsession with all things Cuban and the insinuation to love anything non-Cuban is against the interests of the Revolution. This is evident, when, after having been asked multiple times about the origin of artists, writers, and musicians by David, Diego replies, “You’re obsessed with nationalities.”126 David seems to associate anything non-Cuban as being anti-Revolutionary, and is visibly relieved when he finds out some of the artists whose works Diego is sharing with him are Cuban. As such, upon cultivating a friendship with Diego and concern for his well-being, David during one of his visits to Diego’s house, tries to add some “Revolutionary” décor to his walls by placing pictures of Che and Fidel Castro as well as a July 26th flag on the art decking the walls. As he does so, he inquires of Diego, “Aren’t they Cubans?” as if this reason is enough alone for their inclusion in Diego’s artistic display.127 For David, being

Revolutionary, in part, means giving preference to all things Cuban.

Diego ends up chiding David for this false-association between what is revolutionary and what is Cuban at one point in the film. Getting out a bottle of

American whisky and two glasses, he asks David, “Will you toast with the enemy’s drink?” He then pour some of the whisky to the ground and says, “First the orishas” (a

Santeria reference), and then, as David agrees to having some of the whisky ask him,

126 Ibid. 127 Ibid.

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“Couldn’t this affect you ideologically?”128 He also, unlike David, points out things that he feels the society is lacking. Often times, the commentary he makes on the matter is light-hearted. One example of this comes in his first meeting with David, Diego is eating his strawberry ice cream and comments that it is “It’s the only good thing made in Cuba.

Soon they’ll export it, and for us, water and sugar.” He makes a similar chide later that day back at his apartment when he tells David, “Civilized people drink tea, but not us.

We prefer coffee.”129

Such comments, David makes largely in jest of both the Cuban government and the Cuban people. The first suggests, that in the case that Cuba produces something good, which Diego jokes is a rare occurrence, it ends up being produced for others, not

Cubans, and as such is a simultaneous criticism of Cuban pride in their production identity as well as of the government’s actions to sell the sources of pride to other states, leaving Cubans unable to enjoy what they are most proud of producing. The second comment is a simple chide at Cuban identity. David initially declines Diego’s offer to have tea, citing that he does not have a stomachache, and as such, has no need for tea. Upon trying it later, however, he finds it enjoyable and is confronted with the reality that something that is from outside of Cuban culture and that is produced outside of Cuba may be good. Further, this foreign achievement, can be enjoyed and celebrated, and does not have to be seen as a risk to Cuban culture or Cuban identity.

We find in a couple of Diego’s statements in that same conversation he had with

David the first day of their meeting, more concern in his tone and intent to bring awareness to genuine problems with Cuban identity and nationalism. After playing an

128 Ibid. 129 Ibid.

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opera record, Diego asks David, “Why can’t this island produce a voice like that? We need another voice so badly!”130 And when he discovers in their conversation that

David does not know who English poet, John Donne, or Greek poet, Kavafis, Diego entreats, “How can a country move forward if its youth don’t know John Donne or

Kavafis?”131 While the first two comments shared were mostly light-hearted, these last two clearly indicate a genuine concern Diego has for the cultural state of Cuba. With the comment about the singer, Diego implies that Cuba is lacking and needs to produce such a musician of its own. He is essentially saying that there is a cultural poverty within Cuba. In the second comment about the foreign poets, Diego is bereaved and confounded by the reality that the younger generations are ignorant and/or naive to the artistic creations outside of Cuba. The two comments can be easily tied together to show a coherent concern for nationalism that Diego has. For Cuba would be far more likely to produce great works and great artists of its own, if its people are exposed to all great works—including those that come from other states and societies.

Fresa y Chocolate thus draws attention to the need for building a Cuban identity that is open to celebrating and learning from identities that are non-Cuban. Specifically, the state and society need an identity that, while proud of Cuba, is capable of appreciating things and people without concern for their origin. This requires a change that the film illustrates ought to be made to the Cuban nationalism: mainly that it needs to have limits. The first limitation necessitated is that the Cuban national identity must be an identity that can at least partially be made separate from political agendas and political identity. Specifically to be “Cuban” must not be made synonymous with being

130 Ibid. 131 Ibid.

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“revolutionary” (i.e. supportive of the Revolutionary regime) as we see it was in David’s character who conflated the two identities. Only in this way, can Cuban identity flourish and allow a place for other identities to exist within Cuba, for if non-Cuban means non-

Revolutionary, anything foreign—even those things that may be enjoyed by Cubans— are non-revolutionary and thus must be expelled. The second limitation is that not everything, particularly art (in the case of Fresa y Chocolate), needs to be about national identity. We see in Diego the need to appreciate things at a more basic human level. So while nationalism is important for motivating the fight for continued sovereignty, it must not be at the heart of every discussion and experience. For a regime whose governments have worked hard to create and champion a Cuban identity, this critique is thus one of much consequence.

Another critique we see in Fresa y chocolate is attached to the critique of nationalism in Cuba, mainly its singular conceptualization of what it means to be a

Cuban revolutionary. The film depicts a Cuba in which there is no room for multiple interpretations within the Revolution. Diego, while explaining how despite his support for the Revolution he was excluded from it because of his homosexuality and his deviation in how he thought it best to achieve the Revolution’s goals, states, “This is a thinking head, but if you don’t always say yes or you think differently you are ostracized.”132 He makes the point that only the authorities are capable of deciding what is Revolutionary a second time in the film when talking to David stating, “I thought I could speak out, but no. You people decide what is “revolutionary.”133 Plurality in

132 Ibid. 133 Ibid.

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approaches is not permissible in the Revolution, and Diego clearly sees this as encumbering the state and society.

Diego’s claims of being excluded by the Revolution are confirmed by a conversation between Miguel and David that is had after David’s meeting with Diego.

The two discuss the factors that they see as indicators of Diego’s anti-Revolutionary status and activity.

Miguel: The whisky clue is good. It’s supplied by foreigners. That’s clear. And this (Time magazine) is pure poison. David: He’s religious. He doesn’t do voluntary work. I think he’s even had problems with the police. David: This is not a problem of the police. It’s political and moral.134

Miguel and David both illustrate here the intolerance the Revolutionary leadership has for individuals who have qualities that are not in accordance with those set by the authorities. Those who differ or deviate in any manner are automatically assumed and treated to be anti-Revolutionary. The two view the choice to be something different as evidence of working actively against the Revolution. That is, one cannot be different for a reason that has nothing to do with, and no implications for, the new regime. So not only is someone who is different failing to aid the Revolution, he/she is actively making an assault against it. For David, it is Diego’s practicing of religion and for Miguel it is

Diego’s possession of foreign merchandise that serves to automatically indicate that

Diego is anti-revolutionary.

While David, upon getting to know Diego, changes his opinion about Diego’s status as a non-Revolutionary, Miguel remains steadfast in his assertion that being revolutionary can and should be interpreted singularly and by the Revolution’s

134 Ibid.

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authorities. His sentiment is reiterated later in the film when David is trying to defend

Diego. Miguel responds to David’s pleas on Diego’s behalf probing, “Yeah? What’s this? French communism. Prague Spring?”135

The singularity in the Revolution’s official stance makes it so that not only are people who are different labeled non-revolutionary, but those affiliated with them instantly become guilty by association as well. This is obvious at several points in the film. One time we observe it is when Nancy, concerned about David’s status in society because of his visits to Diego’s apartment, argues that, “He shouldn’t come here so often, being a communist and all. One day, he’ll realize that.”136 David, while he does visit Diego, has initial concerns about being in his presence—especially publically. The first time he meets Diego, at the park eating ice cream, David quickly becomes uncomfortable being in Diego’s presence, and tries to get up and move to another table, but is unable to do so, as all the other tables are filled. As if this action is not explicit enough in conveying David’s discomfort being associated with Diego, there is the scene later, after the two have started to form a bond and David explains that while they can be friends inside of Diego’s apartment, he does not want Diego to be acknowledging him in the streets with any greeting that would indicate their acquaintance. He is alright being his friend in private, but publically would have repercussions for him, so the relationship must be kept a secret.

We discover that David’s fears are well-founded as near the end of the film

Miguel begins accusing David of also being gay and anti-revolutionary because of the time spent, and connection made, with Diego. No clearer example of guilt by

135 Ibid. 136 Ibid.

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association could exist. Fresa y Chocolate shows that such intolerance for different embodiments and interpretations of what it is to be revolutionary is harmful thus not only to the individual who is different, but also harmful to those around him/her, and to the society and Revolution at large. Difference is a strength, and the revolutionary leadership, in its singular approach, was actually making its regime and Cuba weaker.

The main criticism in the film is of the reality the regime has created for homosexuals, which is a direct result of the intolerance of plurality within the Revolution.

Fresa y chocolate illustrates how there was no space in the Revolution for homosexuals in the first couple of decades of the regime’s rule. Diego, in one of his early discussions of homosexuality with David, shares both the desire he had and continues to have to be a part of the Revolutionary society along with the ways he has been excluded from that society because of the fact that he is a homosexual.

David: Why are you…? Diego: A fag? Because. And my family knows it. David: It’s their fault. Diego: Who says? David: Why not take you to a doctor? It’s in the glands. Diego: Please. David! What a theory coming from a University student. You like women, and I like men. It’s perfectly normal. Since the beginning of time. I’m still decent and patriotic. David: But not revolutionary. Diego: Who says I’m not? I’ve had illusions too, David. When I was 14 I volunteered for the Literacy campaign. I picked coffee in the mountains. I wanted to become a teacher…and what happened? This is a thinking head, but if you don’t always say yes or you think differently you are ostracized. David: What ideas are you talking about? Setting up exhibits with those horrible pieces? Diego: What do you believe in? David: Cuba. Diego: So do I. So that people know what’s good about it. I don’t want Americans or anybody coming here telling us what to do. David: Alright. But with your posturing nobody can take you seriously. Yes you’ve read all those books, but all you think of is men.

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Diego: I think about men when I need it, like you do about women. And I don’t posture and I’m not a clown. Of course, to you, anyone different is. Because a guy on the street corner saying “Hey, man, what’s up?” is normal to you. But I am not. To accept me, they have to say I’m sick. Fuck it, I’m not. Go ahead…laugh at me…I laugh at you too. I’m part of this country, like it or not. And I have the right to work for its future. I’m not leaving Cuba even if they burn my ass. Without me, you’re missing a piece, you stupid shit. Now please leave.137

Diego illustrates here, how despite his desire to be a part of the new regime, he is barred from being a full member within it. While the Revolution sought to bring equality to Cubans, it excluded homosexuals from that equality. So while women, blacks, peasants, and the poor were given more rights and opportunities, the Revolution failed to extend those rights to homosexuals. Diego tries to impress upon David that the two do not have to be at odds with one another by making referencing a Marxist text.

Picking up a book in his apartment, Diego explains, “A Marxist book on sexuality claims…very interesting…that 60 percent of men have had a homosexual relationship with no change in personality. A. Raskolnikov. If they say so, it must be true, right?”138

Yet, even with the Marxist reference, David, believing that there is something wrong with Diego that makes him a homosexual and believing that homosexuality prevents him from being capable of being a true Revolutionary, cannot except him as he is into the society and state he is looking to build.

In a later conversation with Diego, David begins to see the error of his assumption that homosexuals were inherently at odds with the goals of the Revolution and the mistake the leadership has made in its treatment of homosexuals.

David: Diego, you can’t judge the Revolution through your experience. Look at me. I study in the University and who am I? A peasant’s son.

137 Ibid. 138 Ibid.

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Diego: Like Stalin David: Seriously, all we want is to be independent, to do whatever we want. They can’t stand it, same as you, but as a nation. Diego: Understood. David: It’s a whole campaign. Hungary in 1956, Czechoslovakia in ’68, Stalin. How does it concern us? World War II was in 1945. Stalin died in 1953. I wasn’t even born yet. Americans should be reminded that Truman Capote dropped the “A” bomb. (Diego starts laughing) David: Harry Truman, rather Diego: Truman Capote never; he was gay. Don’t justify Stalin with Truman. David: It’s sad, mistakes happen like sending Pablo Milanes to the UMAP camps. Diego: There were many more. David: That’s over now. Diego: Only the famous were freed. Is that a way to educate us? David: That’s part of revolution, but not the Revolution. You understand? Diego: Yes, but who pays for these mistakes? Who’ll speak for them? David: Someday they’ll be more understanding for everyone. That’s why it’s a revolution. Diego: So Communism will make us fags happy? David: Yes, homosexuals and non-homosexuals. Diego: So someday I’ll be able to show any exhibit I want? And I could say hello to you in public? I once had those hopes, David David: But it won’t come from heaven. We must fight, especially with ourselves. Diego: But until then, at least inside these four walls, give me a hug? David: Why does it always come down to the same thing? You want me to respect you as you are, but you won’t do the same for me. Diego: It’s not a matter of men, homosexuals, or… I just need it so. I’m afraid. David: What’s wrong? Tell me. I’m your friend139

Here Diego makes clear the gravity of the situation for homosexuals—especially in the early years of the revolutionary regime when homosexuals were sent to labor camps because their sexual orientation was seen as anti-Revolutionary. Confronted with the knowledge of these injustices the Revolution has imposed on homosexuals, David acknowledges that the Revolution has made mistakes—that it is not infallible.

139 Ibid.

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Specifically, it has not delivered equality to everyone, and that the answers and the right things may not come from the leadership always. Rather, it must come from those who want the justice—like he and Diego. Such a realization and conclusion by David about the legitimacy of some of the Revolution’s decisions and its top-down agenda-setting are monumental. Finally, he is seeing that it is not the homosexuals who are flawed, but rather, the Revolution. It needs changes, and it needs guidance and help from outside of its leadership.

While David begins seeing the errors in the Revolution’s exclusion of homosexuals and the need for change, his militant roommate, Miguel, is not convinced and illustrates the resistance of the Revolution to including homosexuals in the new society, even after it has chosen to end the labor camps. We see that Miguel remains steadfast in the official Revolutionary doctrine concerning homosexuals in the film’s final conversation he shares with David.

Miguel: Where were you? David: What’s it to you? Miguel: So you didn’t want to deal with the fag? David: The fag’s name is Diego. Miguel: Diego. He’s no longer the fag, now he’s Diego. David: He has more guts and principles than you think. Miguel: You don’t say. So he’s no longer a counterrevolutionary. You set him straight? I can imagine how. David: Miguel, try to understand. We must give him a chance. Miguel: Yeah? What’s this? French communism. Prague spring? Look, David, right there, 90 miles away, is the enemy. And the weak and the critics are on that side. David: But we’re here. So why can’t he be revolutionary? Miguel: Because it wasn’t rammed up his ass.140

Miguel still views homosexuality as at odds with the Revolution, as the only way he thinks Diego could no longer be counter-revolutionary is if he were “set straight” by

140 Ibid.

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David. One cannot be both a good Revolutionary and a homosexual. In Miguel’s mind, there is place within the Revolution for homosexuals, and their presence is an imminent danger to its success. As such, the homosexuals cannot be trusted and cannot be counted as truly committed to Cuba or the Revolutionary regime.

The Revolution’s treatment of homosexuals has evolved over time. Certainly, its relationship with homosexuals was the worst the initial two decades of its rule, particularly during the time of the rehabilitation work camps, UMAP (Military Units for

Aid to Production). Over time, however, policies towards homosexuals changed, and as

Chanan points out, the Revolution’s treatment of homosexuals improved considerably by the time Fresa y Chocolate was released.141 One monumental change in the

Revolution’s treatment of homosexuals occurred in 1988 when it did away with The

Public Ostentation Law which “defined public and even private homosexual acts that might be witnesses involuntarily by others as offenses punishable by fine and detention.”142 Although the law was established in 1938, and thus prior to the

Revolution, it took roughly thirty years for the Revolutionary regime to overturn it once it had come to power.143 With the overturning of the law, also came new instructed conduct for police officers who “were ordered to stop harassing people for their appearance.”144 While officially this is how the new police officers are to behave, there does seem to be some continued fear of discrimination by the police, which Oberg attributes to the reality that “Urban Cuban police forces recruit a high percentage of

141 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 472. 142 Larry Oberg, “The Status of Gays in Cuba: Myth and Reality,” in A Contemporary Reader: Reinventing the Revolution, ed. Philip Brenner, Marguerite Rose Jiménez, John Kirk, and William LeoGrande (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield 2007), 326-329. 143 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 472. 144 Ibid.

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young macho males from the provinces, many with a chip on their shoulder against gays.”145 Yet despite the informal institutional lag behind them, formal institutions have changed as a result of the Revolutionary’s regime changing attitudes towards homosexuals. And, though these changes came late, it is worth noting that they did precede the Fresa y Chocolate which did not come out until a few years later.

While some may see this (the fact that the law was repealed before the film came out) as a reason to think the contestation within Fresa y Chocolate as less significant, there are reasons that it should not be seen as diminishing its significance. To begin with, while this particular law had changed, there was still not much public discourse on the issue. Michael Chanan, discussing the popularity of the film and the director’s response to the film’s success when talking to a Spanish journalist, quotes Alea as stating,

people reacted like that because they had the need to hear these things out loud, not just whispered in corridors and cafes. It’s a film that says aloud what many people think but don’t dare utter. I think that seeing it becomes a huge liberation for the spectator, who it allows to openly share these ideas.146

From this quote, Alea suggests that despite the change in laws, discourse on the topic of homosexuality was still not present. While prior to the release of the film, Fidel

Castro did make a declaration against the unequal treatment of homosexuals, widespread public discourse on the matter had not, and “what Alea did was seize the moment to test the sincerity of this mood of liberalism by fixing it in the eye.”147 So while laws had already started to change, and officials made new stances known, Fresa y

145 Oberg, “The Status of Gays in Cuba: Myth and Reality,” 328. 146 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 472. 147 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 473.

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Chocolate cued the public that it was an issue that was open for discussion—that the government’s previous policies could be contested.

A second reason the film retains importance is that while some policy towards homosexuals had changed, the Revolution had not yet apologized for its previous treatment of homosexuals. It was not until 2010 that an apology was issued by Fidel

Castro for the discrimination that occurred under his leadership and acknowledgement made that the responsibility for that discrimination fell on him. As such, while the

Revolution government started significantly changing the anti-homosexual laws in the

1980s, it did not acknowledge any error on its part for its previous actions against the homosexual demographic. By showing how the Revolution and its leadership directly oppressed homosexual individuals and damaged the potential of the Revolution in excluding potentially valuable members like Diego, Fresa y Chocolate makes clear that the Revolution had made mistakes—including failing to achieve the equality it argued was vital for Cuban democracy. Fresa y Chocolate thus holds the Revolution accountable for its actions. Accountability, often seen as a necessary feature in democracy, and usually achieved to some degree through elections, is thus a function that this film served. It made it so the government could not just change policies without being truly confronted, but was instead made responsible for its previous ones.

Third, while the government repealed old laws, there still necessitated further laws as well as a changed societal attitude towards homosexuality to create true equality and opportunities for homosexuals within Cuba. Since Fresa y Chocolate, there have been a number of changes to both formal and informal structures for homosexuals in Cuba. Within formal structures, Raul Castro’s daughter, Mariela

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Castro, has been particularly instrumental in taking up the cause for equal rights for homosexuals. Mariela Castro serves as the director of Cuba’s National Center for Sex

Education (CENESEX) “which campaigns for AIDS prevention and the acceptance of

LGBT rights”148 and is part of the Public Health Ministry149 one of her successes was making it possible for individuals to receive sex change operations that are covered by

Cuba's socialist healthcare system. The project she is currently working on is making it so homosexuals would have the right to marry. Fresa y Chocolate, although it cannot be distributed as a cause for these formal structure changes, likely helped to begin changing attitudes towards, and making aware of the needs of, homosexuals in Cuba.

This impact was likely especially felt in the informal structures within Cuban society. For while the government changed the laws concerning homosexuals, attitudes within

Cuban culture and society were still infected by the institutionalized discrimination and bigotry that had existed in Cuba for so long. Fresa y Chocolate forced the Cuban society to confront that bigotry and begin seeing homosexuals as equals who deserved to be treated with respect and given full social and political rights. Each of these three points thus illustrates the significance of the contestation presented by the film, Fresa y

Chocolate.

Conclusion: Film as a Space for Political Contestation

The analyses of these films illustrate the presence of direct political criticism of the Revolution and the political, social, and economic realities it has created. While in no way asserting that these films are representative of the body of Cuban cinema, they

148 Jasmine Garsd, “Mariela Castro Wins Gay-Rights Advocacy Award,” NPR, May 6, 2013. 149 Associated Press, “Mariela Castro to Receive Gay Rights Award in US,” The Guardian, April 30, 2013.

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do evidence the existence of political contestation within the industry. So while censorship happens, these films demonstrate that, in spite of it, political criticism has, at least on occasion, been permitted by the authorities within the cinematic world. We see, in the content of film then, the exercising of the negative right of contestation. This means that while the Revolutionary government focuses on creating a democracy largely defined in terms of positive rights, it does, at least to a degree, allow the fostering of some negative rights as well. This is significant for those scholars unwilling to waver on the presence of negative rights as necessary qualifiers for a democracy and those scholars who view the presence of such negative rights as serving as an opening for more democratic behaviors.

In addition to the presence of contestation in Cuban cinema, and, as evidenced in the three films I analyzed here, two of the subjects often examined and critiqued are nationalism/sovereignty and equality. Because the Revolution has focused much of its efforts on cultivating these features for the purpose of creating democracy, their presence in Cuban films is significant. To begin with, it lends a degree of legitimacy to the regime’s efforts to make fostering these features a priority if, in fact, they are important to the Cuban population. Seeing these themes as central to many of the plot- lines and that they were often being shown in a critical light, suggests that they are issues that matter to people.

Further, that the revolutionary governments have permitted and even embraced films that illustrate their failure and sometimes their deliberate blocking of democratic features. In the case of Fresa y Chocolate, for example, we witness how the government has deliberately blocked the rights of homosexuals, thereby actively

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diminishing equal rights in Cuba. In the case of Juan de Los Muertos, the film is asking for Cubans to re-define what it is to be Cuban. It is calling for a change in national identity, particularly one that is demanding that Cubans be less complacent. The impact this changed identity would have on the government would be profound. Such permissions of critiques involving these democratic facets in Cuba suggest that it is willing to admit its own shortcomings and need for improvement in continuing to build a democratic Cuba. Further, it seems to be allowing some pluralism in defining what that democratic Cuba should look like—something we do not necessarily see in many venues outside of the cinematic industry.

The presence of direct political critiques in these films is thus of all the more importance as it serves as one of the limited areas in which contestation is occurring within Cuba. That this contestation is permitted within cinema, while limited in other areas, is promising in the reach that it can have. As movies are made to be affordable to the viewers in Cuba, they are an accessible source of entertainment. The vitality in having contestation within films then, is not only that the contestation exists within the film itself, but is shared with the audiences, who in turn, discuss the issues present within the films. The contestation then, is not limited to the theater, but is disseminated throughout the society. Films give citizens the opportunity to contest the issues that they introduce on the screen. Chanan, after sharing Alea’s quote about the opportunity for public discourse Fresa y Chocolate offered, writes “There can be no better description of the role that Cuban cinema plays as a surrogate to a public sphere. A film cannot replace the need for public speech, but it can feed it.”150 So given the

150 Chanan, Cuban Cinema, 472.

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communal nature of cinema (be it experience as a group in a theater or individually in a home), the societal sharing of that film can serve as a catalyst for public discourse, and, as a result, a public sphere.

In the public sphere then, people begin discussing the issues presented in the films and thus make them topics open to the sharing of varied opinions across society.

The presence of contestation in cinema is thus important because it helps to foster plurality within Cuba. While some scholars may focus on the presence of contestation within cinema as serving as a democratic opening that leads to more democratic

(particularly negative) rights across the whole of Cuban society, I am not willing to make that claim. That is, I am not arguing that contestation in Cuban cinema will be the catalyst of a new, negative-rights based regime. Neither am I arguing that such a fundamental shift is not possible. I am merely arguing here that the contestation within

Cuban cinema is significant in and of itself, as it is allowing negative rights to exist in some form.

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CHAPTER 11 CONCLUSIONS AND NEW BEGINNINGS

Delving into this examination of Cuban politics and film, I have made a series of discoveries not only about the Cuban cinematic and political systems, but also about how we in the Comparative Politics field categorize regimes. Although illuminating for me, these conclusions are ones reached in my initial exploratory research. As such, my work brings about far more questions and the need for further research than it offers answers. Rather than being a conclusion, this final chapter is in many ways an illustration of the preliminary nature of the conclusions I have reached and a call for continued research. I will first discuss the tentative conclusions to which this project has led me and explain their importance and possible implications. Next, having set out these preliminary conclusions, I will go on to offer directions for further research on the subject. Such suggested avenues shall make it clear that this, largely a survey work, is just the beginning of what should be a continued research project. Only with continued research on the matter can the tentative conclusions here be contextualized, tested, and given more meaning.

Compiling Information and Making Tentative Conclusions

This present work set out to discover whether or not the processes and institutions of the political regime in Cuba since the Revolution are mirrored by the cinematic industry’s processes and institutions. I discovered that in many ways the two systems are reflective of one another in that they both tend to prioritize processes, institutions, and products (policies in the case of the regime and films in the case of the cinematic industry) which are democratic in nature. In the case of these two Cuban entities, that understanding of democracy is rooted in the prioritizing of sovereignty,

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positive rights, and a re-imagined understanding of a limited form of contestation. In looking at the institutions, policies, rhetoric, and narratives of the Revolutionary regime, concern for, and championing of, these features are prevalent. Similarly, in the processes, institutions, and films of the cinematic industry, these features are at the forefront. The two entities thus share the same major norms. This conclusion, limited only to the case of Cuba, by itself remains relatively insignificant. It is only with, as I shall discuss within the section about directions for future research, the contextualization of other cases that conclusions can be made about the relationship between regime type and the production of films. At present then, we can only conclude that the dominant norms, goals, structures, and processes of the

Revolutionary regime and the cinematic industry in Cuba largely mirror each other.

While when I began this project I thought I would find a similar culture underlying the two entities to a degree, I was not expecting that a democratic culture was going to be the one that was shared. Rather, I hypothesized that while I may in fact find some democratic qualities within the content of the films in Cuba, the political regime as well as the majority of institutions and processes within the cinematic industry were likely to be non-democratic and have authoritarian structures and norms guiding them. In the historical examination of Cuba’s political systems and experiences, however, as well as within the examination of the cinematic industry, it became clear that both systems possessed democratic features. Initially, within the cinematic industry, a strong democratic culture became apparent. Later, as I began the historical examination of

Cuba’s political, social, and economic development, is when I first began taking note of

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the historical inequality motivating much of the Revolutionary’s regime’s narrative and conceptualization of democracy.

Rather than just seeing its discussions of imperialism, sovereignty, and nationalism as trumped up concerns used to instill fear and justify a limitation of rights, with the historical analysis, I discovered a genuine lack of sovereignty in Cuba’s history and a national desire to attain and protect it. Calls for sovereignty were not just for self- serving regime purposes, but a necessary focus for creating a true democracy in Cuba.

Further, the historical presence of economic, political, and social inequality point to a need to prioritize positive rights in the regime’s early efforts at democratizing the state and the whole of society. Such efforts at creating an equal society and sovereign state did, as was discussed, bring about a new understanding of the place contestation has in

Cuban democratic society, and, as has been the case thus far, a limitation of it and other negative rights. While arguably there is a need for increased negative rights over time, particularly given that the regime has already consolidated in many respects, we must thoughtfully consider the re-conceptualization of contestation that the regime has introduced and its place in a democracy. With this historical examination then, I come to the conclusion there is reason to consider the regime’s claim to being democratic and reason to accept utilizing a non-traditional model of democracy when examining the

Cuban state and the cinematic industry. While, as my discussion of some of the revolutionary regime’s institutions illustrates, there are non-democratic features present,

I discovered an overall effort at creating those features the Revolutionary regime has deemed most important to a democracy in Cuba (such features being sovereignty and positive rights). And, as the historical analysis evidenced, there is reason, other than

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just for the convenience and self-interest of the regime, for these features to be the chosen ones to be championed over others in the early democratization stages in Cuba, and quite possibly, other states as well.

With this knowledge of the Revolutionary regime’s conceptualization and implementation of democracy in Cuba, I re-examined the cinematic industry and began finding many of the same concerns—particularly for sovereignty, nationalism, and equality both in the film-making process and structures of ICAIC as well as in the films being produced. Just as the rhetoric of the revolutionary governments has been focused on these themes, so too, has the rhetoric of members of the film industry—both its president as well as directors—been focused on supporting these causes. Directors and ICAIC work hard to create cultural sovereignty by creating authentic Cuban films and film festivals which champion Cuban and non-Hollywood films. The industry advocates for equality as after the Revolution both the changes to the processes and institutions making films as well as in the films themselves and their distribution evidence concerns for making those involved in making films as well as audiences viewing them, equal. On the production side, the filmmaking workplace relationship- structure was democratized and advances in technology coupled with a strong cultural support for documentaries has made it so more people can become filmmakers. In examining the content of films, we discover that many monumental films have centered on the themes of economic, social, and political equality. Distribution focused on equality as both the government and the industry have worked hard to make sure that the cinematic viewing experience is within the reach of all Cubans—creating a mobile cinema, showing films, particularly documentaries on television, and keeping cinema

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ticket prices low. At the same time, the population has increased its own access to film by creating an informal, but highly extensive black market to distribute films. Some directors, such as Fernando Pérez, recognizing that this informal effort to increase access to film has led to the distribution of poor-quality films, suggest that structured efforts have to be taken by the industry to make access affordable and of high-quality for all—further illustrating the continued concern with the creation of equality within the cinematic industry.

In addition to the creation of, and focus on, sovereignty, nationalism, and equality in the cinematic industry, there is also a strong presence of the democratic feature of contestation. Fidel’s “Speech to the Intellectuals” made clear the limits to, and nature of, contestation within the cinematic industry. While other forms of media and art, particularly radio, print media, and television, suffer from far greater government involvement and censorship, the cinematic industry enjoys relative freedom and autonomy, even directly challenging government decisions concerning specific films and openly critiquing the political, social, and economic realities created by the Revolution in a host of films—many of which are among the most celebrated in Cuba. They thus embody and employ contestation as envisioned by the Revolutionary regime—being vigilant and critical of the political, social, and economic realities in Cuban while remaining committed to the goals of the Revolution.

The contestation within many films is deeply connected to another democratic feature of the cinematic industry—its ability to serve as a space for the creation and exercise of public discourse and a democratic culture based on the exercising of a plurality of opinions. Democratic discourse and culture originate in the actual production

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of films—between those involved in the stage of making them and discussing and debating them upon completion. The existence of cine-clubs and forums within film festivals evidence a strong desire to encourage interaction and discourse amongst the filmmakers. When the films are released to the theaters or shown on television, they create the opportunity and space for the public to discuss their content—which, as mentioned above, often contains social and political critiques. Democratic discourse and the culture associated with it are thus present within the Cuban public sphere largely through Cuban cinema.

Discovering and concluding that democracy exists in Cuba, at least to a degree and with a modified emphasis on what features were most important within newly democratizing states, challenges how we categorize regimes and how we define and conceptualize democracy. Of course, necessarily, we must proceed with caution in the relativizing of democratic definitions. Just because someone calls an apple an orange, does not make that apple an orange. Imperfect as regime categorizations are, there is reason to accept Dahl’s claim that there are qualitative difference between democratic and non-democratic systems, and allowing individuals and governments to define and label for themselves what their systems are does have potential dangers. There are likely states that are concerned with creating the illusion of a democracy to secure both domestic and international legitimacy, with no intent of actually cultivating democracies nor belief that they actually have them. Allowing states to simply define democracy for themselves poses the risk that states will do this in ways that justifies their lack of features that are arguably beneficial or necessary to democracies. Further, within the field of political science, we must have some means of comparing states and their

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political systems. Parsimony demands that we are able to utilize regime labels, and if all governments begin labeling their political systems democracies, the term begins to become rather meaningless.

Yet there remains a danger in our present essentializing of regime identities. We must remember that humans have created not only these systems but the categorization of them as well. Whether the system designs came into existence with intent prior to their categorization or the categories were created and systems judged and labeled accordingly is not entirely clear. Yet, whatever their order of creation, there is an inherent contradiction between the two. Regime categories are perfect in their coherence, and actual systems are horribly incapable of this complete coherence.

Political systems are imperfect, and in our efforts to define and categorize specific cases of them, we run into the inevitable difficulty of deciding which features are absolutely necessary and how much of those features are necessary to make the system democratic enough to be labeled a democracy.

As much as I would like for this work to conclude that there is a specific set of features and there is a definable and discernable quantity of these features necessary for democracy that we can employ as universal measures of cases, I conclude, the categorization and conceptualization, particularly of democracies, must necessarily remain on a case-to-case basis. I am not suggesting that a regime definition be accepted at face value—particularly if it is one that is being offered by the government in power. Rather, I am suggesting we genuinely seek to understand the offered conceptualization of democracy provided by that government. Upon looking at what they claim are the most necessary features, I suggest scholars investigate the historical

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experiences that motivate that state’s interpretations of democracy and its most important features and begin examining whether or not those features are present within the system or being worked on within the regime. That is, efforts should be made to see if the present regime is doing better to create those features than the regime that preceded it. What would further be helpful in our efforts to categorize regimes, and something that was not acknowledged a great deal in this present work, is if popular opinion and data were collected concerning the public’s perception about the type of regime they have and what, if any, changes they see as being necessary to make it more democratic. Because of the self-determination element within understandings of what constitutes a democracy, it seems prudent that populations ought also to be a part of the conceptualizing of the system as well as the judgment of it. Through these measures, we might begin employing a new scheme of categorization through self- definitions that better reflects the ideals of democracy.

Such an exercise in examining self-definitions of democracy does not preclude comparativists from arguing that there is room for the creation and growth of other democratic features. As perfect and complete democratization is impossible to achieve, we can and should, as political scientists, look critically at what features a state needs to improve upon to become more fully democratic. What I am suggesting here is that we consider the possibility and merits of allowing states to simply define what the minimum requirements are for becoming a democracy, taking note that such minimum requirements may not be enough to keep it there, if no continued efforts at more complete democratization are taken. This allows a state some leniency in the transition

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period, as scholars like Huntington1 would suggest that some time for institutionalization to take place is necessary and may require some limitations on democratic rights and institutions. It simultaneously gives scholars some ability to determine whether or not such self-applied labels are authentic and appropriate in the long-term for a given regime and its governments. I am suggesting then, that there can and should be controls placed on self-definitions and means for scholars to still use meaningful categorization. Allowing self-definitions does not mean that our categorizations need to be done away with, only that they need to be approached differently.

Directions for Future Research

This project, as explained in Chapter 2, is largely an exploratory work. Continued research that expands in both breadth and depth is needed to give additional meaning and contextualization to this present project. There are two main avenues that will benefit from continued research in developing more conclusive answers to my research question: researching within Cuba and researching outside of Cuba. Within Cuban cinema and politics, there is much to continue studying to see to what extent the information I collected in this exploratory work is representative of the cinematic and political institutions. Politically, there are more institutions to be analyzed within Cuba.

Again, as this was a survey work, I looked only at a limited number of institutions

(focusing on those that are discussed most frequently in academic discussions of

Cuba’s present regime). A continuation of this project would benefit from more in-depth examination of a broader set of Cuban political institutions. Such examinations should pay attention to both the goals of the institutions as well as their achievements when

1 Samuel Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies, 3rd edn. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1969).

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trying to determine to what extent they are democratic structures. With both the onset of the Special Period and the more recent arrival of Raul Castro as the government’s head, changes to the regime that contradict some of its ideological stances have occurred. How these changes influence the regime’s efforts at maintaining sovereignty and positive rights should be monitored, as should close attention be paid to the increase in liberal and negative rights that may be accompanying these changes.

Moving forward, attention in researching Cuba’s political systems should also be given to examining the evolving US-Cuban relations. With the opening in relations with the

US, the place and conceptualization of negative rights in Cuba are likely to be challenged and altered, at least to some extent. Within the present and evolving Cuban political system, there is much to be studied that will add to the research and findings offered in this present project.

In looking at Cuban cinema, there is likewise much to be studied that could better help to determine to what extent my findings are representative of the Cuban cinematic industry. To begin with, this study would benefit immensely from a comprehensive coding of Cuban films—particularly those created after the Revolution (though looking at the content of films prior to the Revolution would provide for an interesting comparison).

In coding the content of the films in a manner that would help to test my present findings, it would be helpful to first code films based on whether or not they contained social, political, or economic critiques. In the case of films made after the Revolution, a distinction should be made between those critiques that are of the present regime versus those critiques that are of previous regimes and their governments. This is important as one would only be qualifying the prior group of films as cases of

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contestation. Additional coding that looks for themes such as nationalism, sovereignty, and equality would also help to determine if the presence of those themes that I found in films is found in a significant number of Cuban films or if my finding of these themes in a host of films is unrepresentative of the general focus of Cuban cinema.

Because of the difficulties and constraints I faced in my efforts to complete systematic, in-depth interviews, a future study including in-depth interviews would greatly benefit the project’s study of Cuban cinema. While much can be learned from published interviews with Cuban directors, being able to select questions and make uniformed inquiries across interviews would be beneficial. In addition to interviewing seasoned directors with experience working both with ICAIC and foreign coproduction companies, interviews with new Cuban directors would provide valuable insight into cinematic processes. The Muestra Joven film festival is an ideal venue for finding and interviewing emerging Cuban directors, and this is valuable resource for future research projects on Cuban cinema. With more in-depth interviews, we will be able to better understand the objectives of directors, the challenges and constraints they deal with in making films, and the processes within the Cuban cinematic industry.

Another venue within Cuban cinema worth venturing a study is censorship.

While the subject was discussed to some extent in this work, it was largely a survey as opposed to an in-depth and exhaustive investigation of the practice. While some films we know were restricted after being made, there is much to look at in way of preemptive censoring. That is, it would be worthwhile to look at which films were rejected entirely either from receiving production assistance and finance from ICAIC or from being shown in film festivals or theaters. In examining which films were rejected and seeking

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answers as to why, one could better discover the type of films being supported by ICAIC as well as find out if censoring of films because of their content occurs in the Cuban cinematic industry, and if so, to what extent.

Finally, within Cuban cinema, further research concerning the funding process would give insight into the nature of the industry’s institutions. A more detailed examination of how funding is acquired through ICAIC would be of particular relevance to this study. Within this examination, finding out how much money ICAIC grants each year, the percentage of individuals who receive ICAIC funding for projects, along with the reasons given for projects being rejected should be made a priority. Additional research should examine outside sources of funding—whether it be individuals trying to fund their own projects, winning awards to fund their projects, or seeking assistance from foreign production companies. As made clear in this project, foreign coproductions are becoming a staple feature in Cuban cinema, and as such, are likely to influence the Cuban cinematic industry’s landscape greatly as their prevalence continues to increase. To see how this influences both the norms and institutions within the Cuban cinematic industry, we must begin to examine the nature of these coproductions—paying particular attention to the structure of relationships between the production companies and the Cuban directors and the degree to which directors are able to maintain autonomous control over the content and style of their films. Changes to how films are financed in Cuba has the potential to be both liberating and constraining for Cuban directors and Cuban cinema. Because of this, the financing component of the cinematic industry is one that must be made a priority in future studies.

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As this present project was born out of a larger question seeking to see whether political and cinematic systems in states mirror one another, research beyond the case of Cuba is also needed. The extension of cases should include both democratic and non-democratic states to see if regime type influences whether or not the two mirror one another. Ideally, an examination of a case that has transitioned between non- democratic and democratic regimes would be included as having a single state would act as a control in the study of political and cinematic systems. One such case that has the potential for being of incredible value to this project is Spain. One would be able to compare the cinematic industry both during Francisco Franco’s rule as well as in the decades since the installation of a democracy, thus providing continuity in the culture and history of the case to better contrast the difference, if one exists, in the relationship between, and nature of, the political and cinematic industries in a state.

A number of other factors when looking at additional cases could also be taken into consideration. For example, beyond just looking at whether or not a system is democratic, an examination of what influence the economic system attached to the regime may or may not have on the cinematic industry would be additionally beneficial to the study. While all economic and political systems are deeply connected, this especially came to the forefront in the case of Cuba, as the change in regime after the

Revolution was largely based, in its efforts at creating positive rights, on manifesting a socialist system in its ideological narrative and policies. As discussed in this work, these economic ideologies and systems are greatly connected to Cuba’s understanding of democracy. In the case of liberal democracies rooted in the capitalist tradition, negative rights come to the forefront in politics and society. As acquiring funding is

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integral to the film-making process, as discussed above, it is worth investigating and comparing the efforts at acquiring funding in a socialist versus a capitalist based system. Another comparative examination that could be fruitful would be to break-down the type of non-democratic regime present and see if differences arise with different non-democratic structures of power.

All of these comparisons, should enough cases be examined and included in the study, should help determine if any correlation exists between the institutional norms and design of the cinematic industry and the political system in-place in a state. And if such a correlation exists, we may begin to learn what it might mean about both the relationship between the two and about the role art may play in the political culture, processes, and institutions of a state. What these suggested avenues of research illustrate is the tentative nature of the conclusions this work offers. This project, rather than offering definitive and broad-based conclusions based off of multiple cases, puts forth tentative understandings based off of exploratory research in a single-case.

Instead of arriving at a set of certain answers, this project leaves with more questions asked and calling for more in-depth research across cases. Far from having a resolved ending, the curtain is just beginning to rise on this study of regimes and cinematic industries.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Audrey Flemming was born in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. After graduating from

Neenah High School, she moved to Cedar Rapids, IA to attend Coe College, where she majored in political science and spanish and received her Bachelor of Arts, graduating magna cum laude in 2006. Flemming next moved to Gainesville, Florida to begin her graduate studies in political science. She received her Master of Arts in 2010 and received her Doctorate of Philosophy in the spring of 2016. Flemming is currently

Assistant Professor of Political Science at Austin College in Sherman, Texas, where, as a Phi Beta Kappa member, she proudly continues her commitment to the Liberal Arts education.

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