As the famous quote goes, "history does not repeat itself, but it rhymes," Cubans remain in a state of anticipation regarding what may happen in their country following the events in Venezuela on January 3 with the capture of Nicolás Maduro by the US and, especially, after the announcement by Donald Trump: "I think I will have the honor of taking the island."
Cuba is not Venezuela, but they rhyme. There is not as strong a leadership as that of María Corina Machado, nor is society as organized, but the links between chavismo and castrismo have marked the fate of their populations.
The opposition places all its hopes in Marco Rubio, the Secretary of State with Cuban roots. However, the people 'awakened' to decades of Revolution years ago. It happened on November 27, 2020, with a group of artists entering the Ministry of Culture to demand the freedom of Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara, leader of the San Isidro Movement; to demand the revocation of Decree 349, which censors artistic activities; and to show discontent over the nation's serious situation. This response was the seed of the famous July 11, 2021, a day when citizens spontaneously protested nationwide.
Protagonists of those days, forced into exile in Spain - where 252,290 Cubans reside, according to the National Institute of Statistics - speak with EL MUNDO about the turning point marked by those dates.
This 42-year-old Havana native comes from a "unified family," as his parents were Communist Party members, and had a normal childhood. Born in the 80s and raised in the 90s, he began to discover icons of capitalism, such as Coca-Cola, for the first time in Cuba. During adolescence, he began to "become aware of the situation" while training to be a teacher at what they call "pre-university" (high school). "I was boarding all week, and the way these places operate is very similar to how the country does in general, with a doctrinal person in charge," explains Llopiz-Casal, who says that this experience led him to become interested in his nation's history. At 16, he began reading about the period before the Revolution, learning about what "they didn't tell for convenience."
Llopiz-Casal studied Art History at university. This led him to delve into the art world and, simultaneously, form an opinion about Cuba. "The vast majority of my colleagues agreed with me that it was a disaster and the feeling was that people were trying to leave and never come back," he says.
The year 2018 was crucial for him as Raúl Castro designated Miguel Díaz-Canel as his successor and internet access with mobile data began. "That implied something interesting, which is that people in general and civil society, activists, and independent journalists, were able to articulate much better," recalls this graphic designer. Then came Decree 349, which directly targeted artists. "It stated that the State had the right to confiscate work materials, revoke artistic credentials, IDs, which you need in Cuba to be a recognized artist. They considered that what you did as art went against the revolutionary process, also drafted in an ambiguous and lax manner. This generated a very interesting mobilization in the artistic community," explains this Cuban.
It was from opposition to this text that the San Isidro Movement emerged, as detailed by Llopiz-Casal, which is artistic, social, and against the Communist Party. At the center of this group is Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara, who is currently in prison and who, for him, "is the fundamental artist of my generation in terms of art that confronts political reality." Thus, the artistic community mobilized like never before, connecting more with activists and journalists. Additionally, upon meeting journalist Luz Escobar, who worked for the digital newspaper '14ymedio' and eventually became his partner, he became more involved in political activism.
In November 2020, Otero and rapper Maykel Osorbo began a hunger strike at the headquarters of their movement, and the political police intervened. This led to a group of about 30 artists, including Llopiz-Casal, going to the Ministry of Culture on November 27 to speak with its top official. Since they were told at the door that the minister was not there, they decided to stay until they could speak with him. "We took a 'selfie,' posted it on social media, and within hours, there were already hundreds of people. It was intense and wonderful," he recalls, noting that all kinds of people joined them in a complicated context due to the coronavirus pandemic. Finally, they were able to speak with Deputy Minister Fernando Rojas, to whom they explained that "the country was a disaster and that everything had to start with respect for freedom, that it couldn't be that a person had to fear going to jail or being repressed by the police simply for expressing their thoughts on social media or anywhere else."
The lack of change following the actions taken between November 27 and July 11, and the fact that they were already under scrutiny, precipitated their decision to leave the island. In October 2022, he arrived in Spain with Escobar and now works for 'Diario de Cuba' from here, continuing to create provocative art. He remains connected to his homeland, where he still has family who tell him that "the blackouts are brutal," that people on the streets "seem like zombies," "there has been an increase in those searching through garbage, mainly the elderly," new diseases are emerging, buildings are collapsing, there is "total scarcity"...
For all these reasons, he hopes that US pressure "has an effect and that the fundamental thing happens, which is that the Communist Party no longer has hegemony." "First, there must be a decriminalization of political dissent. Second, there must be freedom of association. And, of course, also a real economic opening," Llopiz-Casal lists. "No one expected, for example, what happened with Maduro, but it happened," he says hopefully, despite being filled with skepticism from a lifetime of waiting. He predicts, however, "a reconstruction that will be very slow because the country is in ruins," and despite being "very emotionally damaged," he would return to Cuba "if there are very clear signs that the country has truly changed."
Regarding leadership, "I don't see anyone with the strength of María Corina Machado," although he believes that it can naturally emerge when "people no longer have to fear what they think and how they want to organize."
Gretell Kairús: "María Corina brings Cuba's discourse to public and political stages. That also creates pressure"
Kairús, 43, belongs to the same generation as Llopiz-Casal, but their origins differ greatly. She experienced both sides of the coin. Born in Holguín, she was raised in Havana, coming from a paternal family that "never supported the regime." Her father owned several businesses from a young age, but "Fidel took everything from him." "I do not have a process of disillusionment regarding the system, I have always known that it is not functional, that it comes and takes away your belongings without any recourse." However, her mother was a communist.
A personal story that led her to say on November 27th in front of the Ministry of Culture: "My father was a 'worm' [as opponents are known on the island] and my mother a communist, and we all sat at the same table to eat." A proclamation calling for reconciliation between the two Cubas. "Five years ago, when we entered the Ministry, there were still people who believed in Fidel Castro's project," emphasizes Kairús.
Involved in the art world because she worked for the visual artist Tania Bruguera - she studied Accounting and Finance and Social Sciences - she protested against Decree 349 because "it took away the artists' possibility of being creatively free if they engaged in political debates." For Kairús, this was not something new, as she recalls that such censorship had already occurred in the past in Cuba. "What was new? The generation, which had desires to express themselves, and that's how a movement around Decree 349 was born," she clarifies.
This Cuban points out that the members of the San Isidro Movement, Otero and Denis Solís, "are not academically trained artists, but they had stories to tell because their lives were a real testimony of the truth of Cuba." "We are not talking about intellectuals; they are people from a humble background," Kairús points out.
The discourse on November 27th resonated across all levels of society, becoming a voice for the ordinary citizen. "After that, there is already a spark, a flame that is lit. People began to lose their fear. To see what kind of things could be said and done. They looked up to us. It injected the possibility of opposing, of raising their voices," details Kairús, regarding the germ of the July 11th uprising.
And despite all this enthusiasm, exile came. This Cuban had always been targeted by the government because of her father's past and because her brother played in a dissenting band. So when everything became unsustainable, as she had participated in several protests and State security had shut down a business she had started, she understood: "I was not going to be able to work in anything anymore. I knew that Cuba's freedom would take much longer."
Thus began a complicated path to escape in 2022. Kairús left Cuba via Serbia. She walked dressed in black across borders until reaching Greece, and from there, Spain. Here she is "healing," working to live and send money to her mother because "if you did not have a child who left, you would starve."
For Kairús, the pressure from the US gives Cubans "hope," not only because of the role Marco Rubio may play but also because "other significant factors have started to move, such as María Corina, who brings the discourse of Cuba with her and is taking it to the same public and political stages." "That is also exerting a lot of pressure, regardless of the fact that the exile has always exerted pressure and that in Cuba, we are already in an irreversible situation, at a point of no return," she argues, pointing out that Venezuela is an example to learn from.
"The current international pressure has made things possible, such as the creation of parties that had not been seen for a long time, like Rosa María Payá's [Cuba Decide], which has significant support in the Cuban community and also in the United States," she explains about the difference between what is happening now and other events that could have triggered changes in the past, such as the death of Fidel Castro.
"Civil society is organizing itself; it is not like November 27th, when we were intellectuals without knowing what we were going to do," she adds. "Fear and distrust have become a cultural issue over the last 60 years. This has prevented the articulation of Cuban society and has led to the loss of memory on how to organize and associate. I believe that this is one of the things that is now coming to the surface, and the fabric is being restored because there is hope." She herself would like to be part of the reconstruction of Cuba.
Solveig Font: "What is happening in Cuba is a slow genocide"
At 49 years old and born in Havana, Font was also on the front line of November 27th. As an art curator, she knows the ins and outs of this sector and has faced the onslaught of the State. Additionally, her mother was a journalist linked to the Party, and her father was a writer, who was not as connected because his father went into exile in 1962 for "trying to bomb Fidel," Font recalls, noting that she was also censored for a long time for studying English. Once again, the two Cuban realities within one family.
She grew up on the Isle of Youth, where she did not experience as many shortages during the Special Period - in the 1990s - and it was a relief that her grandfather sent them money from the US.
She worked at the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba (UNEAC), which is state-run, and where she assures that she discovered that "there is really no interest in helping the artist." They were facilitated travel, which was difficult for the islanders. "The State always gave them certain privileges to keep them under control," she clarifies.
Her long career led her to witness a transformation in the art world. It went from "most artists leaving, being censored, or remaining silent" to "the generation of the 90s, which comes with a different drive and other ways of expressing art while hiding more from the institution."
From UNEAC, she moved to the Cuban Art Factory (FAC) - "half independent and half institutional" - to end up working on her own by setting up a gallery in her own home (A Vecez Art Space). "I was interested in giving voice to young artists who did not have it in institutional spaces," recalls the art curator from Librería Arenales, in Madrid, now a meeting point for the artists of November 27th. Following Decree 349, Font had to justify all her work to the State, something she was against.
For Font, November 27th was "unprecedented." She was one of the 30 artists who entered the Ministry while people joined the mobilization outside. They left the headquarters with a promise of an agenda to discuss points of disagreement. And the problems began. "I was cut off from the internet, the landline. I was left without communication for 10 days after this, it has happened to me several times," she recounts. However, the artists were already organized and carried out several more actions. Until they reached July 11th.
"July 11th was something unique. We never expected there to be an uprising, for example, in a town like San Antonio de los Baños," explains this Cuban activist. That day, she decided along with a small group to go to the Institute of Film, Radio, and Television and protest so that the version of those protesting would be broadcast. While the rest of Cuba was catching on. Font was taken to prison that day with another companion. "There we were for more than 24 hours, 20 people in a four by four cell in the middle of Covid." From there, she saw Díaz-Canel's announcement on television to control the streets and witnessed more and more prisoners arriving, narrating what was happening outside. "I cried all night, and that's when I decided I had to leave there, that my son could not experience this."
On November 11, 2021, she left Cuba. Taking advantage of having an exhibition in Vienna, State security facilitated her documentation. She arrived in Spain in January 2022, where she obtained political asylum and now works in cultural management.
"Emigrating is a process that the State knows greatly diminishes activism," she points out, recalling that most members of November 27th had to leave. Currently, the situation on the island is critical.