Our Woman in Havana

by Vicki Huddleston

  When we reached Santiago de Cuba, dissidents were waiting for us in a wooden three-story house, likely built in the early twentieth century. We were escorted up a few flights of rickety stairs and ushered into room that seemed to have been set up solely to receive us. There were a few chairs, but no tables, rugs, or pictures. Before we could exchange pleasantries, one of the dissidents took the carton of radios from Victor, thanked him, and disappeared. The dissidents explained that they knew that state security was watching us and, fearing that the radios would be confiscated, planned to immediately give them to their members. I was troubled because it seemed as if we had inadvertently become involved in subversive activities. I suggested that I might stop the distribution to prevent them from being harassed or jailed. “Oh, no,” they exclaimed, “the radios are well worth the risk. They connect us, so we aren’t alone.”

  It wasn’t simply the loss of a job or Communist Party position that made life difficult for those Cubans who defied authority; rather, it was unkind neighbors who would ostracize their entire family. It was not unusual for those with independent views, whether or not they were labeled dissidents, to be expelled from their jobs and the party. We visited a former party official who had lost her job as a schoolteacher and been expelled from the party for a perceived failure to conform strictly to party orthodoxy. To make her life even more miserable, local officials moved another family into her home. The male head of the new family harassed her and her daughters, calling them putas (whores). She had no way to stop the abusive new occupant of her home. To maintain a modicum of peace, she drew a chalk line down the middle of the living room, over which no member of either family could pass. We dropped off books for her library and left a few radios. We also visited a small library established by a physical education teacher who had lost his job and now instructed neighborhood children in basketball and other sports.

  One safe harbor was Father Conrado’s church, located a few blocks from the Moncada Barracks, where Castro’s failed attack on July 26, 1953, ignited the revolution. The wooden church had a high ceiling, windows with wooden shutters, and hand-hewn pews. It was peaceful, clean, and simple, a place where those who were shunned found sanctuary. Behind the nave, Father Conrado had built a kitchen and a library so that he could offer substance for body and soul. Our books supplied the library and our radios helped connect those who had been cut off from friends, jobs, and social lives.

  I was relieved to leave Santiago de Cuba; we had met too many wretched people who had little hope of creating better lives. We were scheduled to make one last stop, just off the principal highway. I parked the car on a steep incline, a few feet from the door of a house that looked as if it would tumble off its perch in a strong wind. Our host had been the leader of an independent farmers’ union that had called a nationwide strike. He and the other strike leaders were jailed and the strike squelched. After serving their prison terms, the farmers were released, but still harassed, and often denied the right to purchase seeds or fertilizer for their small plots of land. Although his wife had divorced him and his neighbors avoided him, the farmer did not regret his opposition to the government.

  As we wound down the hill, a small white Lada waited to bid us farewell. Undoubtedly its occupants were relieved that no more radios would be given out in their region. An hour or so later, we arrived at Guantanamo City, which is relatively prosperous because of the pensions paid to those Cubans who once worked at the US naval base. We didn’t find our contact at home, so we continued into the Sierra Maestra just as a tropical storm struck. Torrents of rain pushed dirt and rocks down the steep and winding highway known as La Farola (The Lamppost or The Streetlamp) because the new road, built through the mountains by Castro’s revolutionary government, lighted the way to Baracoa on the east coast. We pressed ahead into the rain and mist, at times waiting for passing truckers to clear the debris with shovels and rakes. Christopher Columbus wrote in his log that Baracoa was the “most beautiful place in the world,” but it didn’t seem so to me. As we descended toward the coast, the evening was still gray and drizzling rain, making the countryside appear dreary, decaying, and uncomfortably cold.

  We went directly to the Catedral Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, a massive structure with a rich interior of stained-glass windows and carved saints. Parishioners were praying, cleaning, and admiring a replica of a cross that Columbus planted when he sailed into the sheltered Bahía del Miel (Bay of Honey). The next day we chatted with the Spanish priest responsible for the region, who told us that he often traveled because there were too few priests to minister to the faithful in the countryside. He lamented that the government strictly limited the number of foreign priests, and there were few local seminaries to train Cubans. We left behind several boxes of books with radios hidden beneath them. Before we left town, I gave a woman and her child several comic-book style children’s books. She was delighted. Unlike in other Caribbean countries, there weren’t many children in the towns we visited, or in Cuba generally. The widespread access to birth control combined with a housing shortage and a well-educated population contribute to a very low birth rate. Although there is little political liberty, the Cuban government since the 1990s has seldom interfered in personal issues such as religious belief and social norms. Just across the Windward Passage, Haitians have considerably more individual liberty but are much poorer, and have less access to education and health care. Consequently, Haiti’s ten to eleven million people barely survive on one-third of an island, whereas Cubans with the same population numbers as Haiti live on the largest island in the Caribbean. Overpopulated Haiti had been denuded of trees, soil, and potential for a better future. Cuba’s low birth rate had contributed to preserving its lush environment, but the absence of personal liberty dims the promise of a better life for most Cubans.

  We departed Baracoa on a gravel road that snaked along the coast into one of the most isolated regions in the entire Caribbean, the Alejandro de Humboldt National Park, named for a German scientist, Alexander von Humboldt, who in the 1800s documented its profuse biodiversity and endemic species. Less than an hour later we reached a paved road where brownish liquid spurted from the large gray pipes that carried polluted water from the huge nickel mines nearby. Every few miles, signs sitting in stale, red puddles and ponds warned us not to trespass and not to take photos. As we entered the mining town of Moa—which was formerly property of the US government—heavy dark clouds billowed over rows of dung-colored dormitories, housing for mine workers. On the other side of Moa we headed up an incline passed the headquarters of Sherritt International, the Canadian company that runs the mines. The checkpoint gate was open, so I went sailing through onto a packed-dirt road that led straight into an enormous red-earth, open-pit mine. Winding our way upward, we could see the sluggish mud-colored river far below the scarred landscape, denuded of all vegetation. Although it was midday the sky was dark and the air heavy, as huge yellow dump trucks loaded with nickel ore lumbered toward the processing plant. It was otherworldly, something akin to Dante’s inferno, as each level became yet a wider expanse of barren, red earth.

  As we reached the top of the open-pit mine, a white pickup truck with two security guards frantically waved us down. As they closed in on us, I shoved Victor’s camera under the seat. The guard yelled in Spanish, “What are you doing here? You are trespassing. Do you have a camera?”

  “No,” I lied. Attempting to pretend that we were naïve tourists who’d lost their way, I asked “Where are we?” Ordering us to follow him, the guard stomped away. We proceeded down the hill, with the pickup in front and a very large yellow dump truck—the tire of which could have easily obliterated our car—tailing us. Approaching the Sherritt offices, the guard waved us to a stop. I didn’t hesitate; I just kept driving. I had no doubt that even I, the head of the American mission, would suffer a good deal of abuse for entering the mine without permission. I wasn’t going to risk being detained in Moa. These guards weren’t like the local Havana pol
ice who had orders to never to confront diplomats.

  Back on the main highway, I stepped on the gas but could see the white pickup behind us. I sped up, then slowed down, to confirm that they were tailing us. They were. Several miles up the road, the pickup pulled up next to us as the guard shouted that we must pull over. I shook my head, not a chance. Then, the driver swerved, attempting to force us off the road. I stepped on the gas pedal, narrowly escaping our pursuers. After another ten minutes, as we outdistanced them, they finally gave up the chase.

  Back home in Havana, I was relieved that I didn’t receive an official complaint for entering private property without permission. Perhaps Sherritt was too embarrassed to protest our intrusion, having negligently left the gates to the mine open and then having failed to prevent our escape. I complained to the Canadian ambassador about the environmental disaster in Moa and showed him the photos that Victor had taken of the open-pit mine. We also sent them to the US State Department, but nothing could be done because Sherritt executives were already under US sanctions for operating in Cuba on expropriated property. I have visited mines in Ethiopia, Madagascar, Peru, and Sierra Leone, but never have I seen anything approaching the dreadful conditions in Moa. No care was taken to repair pipes, to prevent erosion into the river, or to control the spewing fumes that completely blocked the sun. Castro’s government had forfeited its sovereignty over this wrecked place without protest. Sherritt had created an environmental disaster that no Cuban could protest and no international environmental organization could visit. Yet, less than one hundred miles to the south, the US military operated the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base with scrupulous regard for the environment and the health of its workers.

  It was becoming evident to the Cuban government that neither my staff nor I were cowed by Castro’s threats. Distributing the radios was like an addiction that once started was hard to stop, and it was contagious. I gave Lynda Hare, the spouse of the British ambassador, cartons of radios to give to children in Havana’s principal cancer facility, where she arranged regular outings for the patients. Ryan Dooley, who replaced Victor while he was on vacation, was as brazen as Peter and me. One Saturday, Ryan and I set out to locate the former residence of our ambassadors and the counsels before them. Ryan assured me he had found the house, which had been used prior to the completion in 1942 of the American residence where I lived. We pulled up in front of a desolate shell, open to the weather, and completely uninhabitable. We were greeted at the entrance by a nine-foot-tall statue of Venus out of whose breasts water once flowed. “Ryan,” I exclaimed, “There is no way this could have been an American envoy’s house.”

  Laughing, we took a last look around and headed back to the road, where a few youngsters were admiring our sedan. I opened the trunk and, as Ryan was getting out the radios, a white Lada came around the block. I yelled at him to forget the radios and get in the car. As we drove away I looked back, only to discover that state security officers had gotten out to inspect a cardboard box sitting in the middle of the road. Ryan had tossed the box of radios onto the road, hoping the kids would take them. A few years later, after a speech I made in California, a young Cuban woman told me that her father who worked for Cuba’s Ministry of the Interior had obtained one of my radios, which she said he loved. I suspect that box of radios Ryan had left for the kids instead went to the men in the white Lada.

  My confrontational attitude toward the Cuban government earned me many critics, including several congresspeople and former State Department colleagues like Wayne Smith, a chief of the Interests Section from 1979 to 1982, whose memoir, The Closest of Enemies: A Personal and Diplomatic Account of U.S. – Cuban Relations Since 1957, revealed his disillusionment with our policy. I agreed with Wayne that our policy was too often ineffective and even harmful, but I thought that the embargo should not be used to excuse Castro’s oppressive rule. It seemed to me that if we were going to appease Castro, we would have to stop defending the dissidents, which was something I was unwilling to do. I also felt strongly that too often those who advocate on either side of our Cuba policy become polarized, perceiving every issue and incident in black and white rather than shades of gray.

  Being an outspoken diplomat who tested the limits of Castro’s patience meant there was no middle ground. To those who opposed US policy toward Cuba I was a troublemaker and antagonist, and to those who hated Castro I was a conquering heroine. This binary distinction bothered me because I was not a fervent anti-Castro crusader. I rejected and lamented Fidel’s absolute control over Cuba, but I very much wanted to foster better relations between our countries. In February 2002, I briefed a delegation of Democratic congressional representatives from California. This was well before Castro condemned my radio distribution in April, but after he had bitterly criticized my press conference about Guantanamo Bay. We met the delegation at the grand old Hotel Nacional, which overlooks Havana’s seafront as well as the Interests Section. My husband Bob and I entered a small room that had been reserved for the meeting. Three men and a woman sat around a large, polished wooden table in the center of the room. Having been appointed by President Bill Clinton, I was unconsciously expecting a warm welcome, but the congresspersons did not seem friendly; they merely nodded, not bothering to stand or shake hands. I smiled, welcomed them to Cuba, and began to deliver my standard briefing. Only a few minutes passed before a large red-faced congressman interrupted. “Who do you think you are representing here in Cuba?” he snarled. I replied that I had been sent by President Clinton but now represented the Bush administration. Then another member of the delegation, a large woman with very red lipstick averred, “You are not fit to represent our country,” adding haughtily, “I am a former ambassador, and I am ashamed of you.” One of the men chimed in, “I’ll get you fired.” I told them that I was doing my best and then left. I had been summoned not to give a briefing but to receive a scolding.

  Just like the anti-Castro Cuban Americans, the California delegation saw Cuba only in terms of black and white. Castro had publicly complained about me, so I was a poor representative. To Cuban Americans, for the same reason, I was terrific. It didn’t matter to either side whether I was right or wrong on any given issue or generally doing an objectively good job in representing our country. All that mattered was what Castro thought about me. Some of the criticism stung, but I had long ago become accustomed to doing what I believed was right. In truth, both sides had good reason to dislike me. The Cuban Americans opposed my efforts to keep in place the Clinton administration’s liberal travel measures but appreciated my confrontations with Castro. The California delegation, which was ironically taking advantage of the travel measures for which I had advocated, was disgusted with me because I refused to appease Fidel.

  I wished that those who were supportive of and opposed to the revolution could see Cuba as it was, not as they wished it to be. The embargo was an unfair and ineffective punishment, but opposing the embargo didn’t make Fidel Castro any less of a dictator. Both US policy and the Cuban government deserved criticism. Perhaps I did as well. I was walking a tightrope, persuading Bush to continue the Clinton policies while simultaneously frustrating the regime through various acts of confrontation.

  I couldn’t help but think that if the pro-Castro California congressional representatives had been as dedicated as their Cuban American counterparts, they might have served as an effective counterweight against them. But the Californians were much more interested in dinner and a photo op with Fidel than in doing the actual work required to modify US policy toward Cuba. Thus the policy remained under the influence of the conservative Cuban Americans who were absolutely dedicated to undermining Castro and his revolution.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE PRESIDENT AND THE DISSIDENT

  THE INTERNATIONAL PRESS HAD SWARMED INTO HAVANA IN ANTICIPATION of former president Jimmy Carter’s visit, the first presidential trip to Cuba since Calvin Coolidge visited the island in 1928. With a few days to spare before Carter’s arrival, the
media was looking for stories. Gonzalo Gallegos, the US Interests Sections’ public affairs officer, pointed them toward the dissidents. The Washington Post wrote, “Victor Rolando Arroyo has a brand-new shortwave radio, a powerful little thing that allows him to pick up programs from all over the world, including his favorite: Radio Martí.” Prior to Carter’s arrival I had met with Arroyo and other dissidents in the western town of Pinar del Rio, leaving behind the little radios that Fidel so detested.

  The presence of hundreds of reporters in Havana for the former president’s visit created a feeling of excitement and anticipation. ABC’s George Stephanopoulos, who had once been a senior adviser to Bill Clinton, was broadcasting live from the Havana Hilton, which was christened the Habana Libre when it was completed in 1958, only a year before Castro set up his temporary headquarters there after defeating Fulgencio Batista. Before our on-air interview I took the opportunity to tell Stephanopoulos that Oswaldo Payá’s Project Varela was close to having gathered the ten thousand signatures needed to request a vote on the Cuban Constitution. Demonstrating his political acumen, Stephanopoulos predicted that Payá would present the petition to the National Assembly a few days before Carter arrived, thereby giving the project maximum exposure. Proving that he was an equally impressive political strategist, Payá did exactly that. The media immediately broadcast the news that dissidents were challenging Castro’s government, demanding freedom of speech, private enterprise, and the release of political prisoners.