[Congressional Record Volume 143, Number 67 (Tuesday, May 20, 1997)]
[House]
[Pages H2930-H2931]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]
AMERICANS WILL STAND WITH THE CUBAN PEOPLE FOR FREEDOM
The SPEAKER pro tempore. Under the Speaker's announced policy of
January 21, 1997, the gentleman from Florida [Mr. Diaz-Balart] is
recognized during morning hour debates for 5 minutes.
Mr. DIAZ-BALART. Madam Speaker, this Independence Day for the
Republic of Cuba, May 20, finds the Cuban people still bound and
gagged, more than by a Marxist-Leninist, and some have called him a
fascist; more than by totalitarianism of those natures, by an Al
Caponist, in his essence a gangster, an extortionist who is seeking the
almighty dollar at all costs and in all ways.
My community was deeply moved, Madam Speaker, last week when the
news, and actually the video taken by the Brothers to the Rescue when
they passed over a rock in the Caribbean that belongs to the Bahamas,
appropriately named Dog Rock, and we saw a family there, actually it
was a group of 14 Cuban refugees, one of them, Rolando Martinez
Montoya, a pro-democracy activist, opposition leader and independent
journalist. He had been given a visa by the United States to leave with
his family in 1995. However, despite the agreement between the Castro
dictatorship and our Government, when the Castro dictatorship, every
time it wants it, it simply ignores that agreement, and even though his
family had been given a visa by the United States to come to our
country, the Castro regime simply ignored the visas and did not let
them out.
So he in desperation took his wife and four daughters to sea, and
they landed on Dog Rock; and we saw last week how Adianet, the 11-year-
old daughter of Rolando, died of exposure and lack of water and food on
Dog Rock and how his youngest daughter, Camila, 4 years old, also died
on Dog Rock.
So that is where the Cuban people find themselves on this
Independence Day, having to flee in that type of desperation from a 38-
year-old tyranny led by an Al Caponist madman.
We would expect, would we not, Madam Speaker, that the press and the
international media might have had the sensitivity to cover the story
of the 14 Cuban refugees last week, some of whom died on Dog Rock. No,
I did not see a single story on our networks, national or
international.
What I do see is this week, interestingly, there seems a be a little
campaign about visit the exotic islands. If we look at this week's U.S.
News and World Report whose owner, of course, Mr. Zuckerman, is looking
for a deal at a ferocious pace from the tyrant, you will see News You
Can Use: Hemingway's Cuba. Go to the mojito at the Hemingway Marina.
Smoke a Cuban cigar. The Washington Post, on May 18: Return to a
forbidden island. Also, about how Americans can go and visit the exotic
nature of the forbidden islands.
The story of Cuba, the story of the discrimination, of the
degradation, of the apartheid system imposed by the tyrant on the Cuban
people, anyone who does not have access to dollars or is not a member
of the hierarchy of the regime, is not a tourist, does not have access
to the luxurious restaurants and hotels and the health care centers
that are hard cash generators for the dictatorship, but we do not read
about that. No. We read about return to the forbidden islands and
Hemingway's Cuba.
Madam Speaker, I would insert into the Record these infamous stories
at the time, at the time that the real story of Cuba is the suffering
of its people, the agony of its people, the fact that its people have
to seek refuge, even by going to sea, risking the lives of little
children, and many of them actually die. That is the real story of Cuba
that because of some unwritten conspiracy of silence is simply not
reported by the media. That is what we are facing.
But the reality of the matter is that despite the little campaign of
visit the exotic islands and another little campaign that is going on,
interestingly enough, supposedly, we are supposed to have, according to
another little campaign, a prohibition on the sales of medicines to
Cuba when our law says, the Cuban Democracy Act that this Congress
passed, said that we can sell, American pharmaceutical companies can
sell medicines to Cuba as long as the medicines are not used for
torture and are not used for reexport.
So, Madam Speaker, we will continue talking about this. It is a
dreadful situation, the situation the Cuban people are faced with, but
we are going to stand firm, we are going to stand with the Cuban
people, and we are not going to lose sight of our objectives. The
American people will continue to stand with the Cuban people until the
Cuban people are free.
Madam Speaker, I include the following newspaper articles for the
Record:
[From the Washington Post, May 18, 1997]
Return to a Forbidden Island: In Impoverished Cuba, Nothing--and
Everything--Has Changed
(By Elinor Lander Horwitz)
Maritza smiles wistfully and passes her tongue slowly over
her lips. ``The '52's and '53's are best,'' she says.
``Fifty-four was not so good a year, but '55--it was really
excellent.'' She's not talking wine: She's talking
Chevrolets.
Parked randomly along a street near the Plaza de Armas in
Havana's old city, where she has taken me sightseeing, is a
particularly dense grouping of 40- to 50-year-old American
cars, predominantly Chevrolets plus one Dodge, an Oldsmobile,
a Buick and a Plymouth. These are not rich people's
collectibles. They are poor people's means of transportation.
Maritza, a Cuban woman whom a friend had urged me to contact,
casts a connoisseur's eye on a red-and-white, wide-finned
1953 relic parked next to her midget 1972 Polish-made Fiat.
How in the world do the owners get replacement parts? She
laughs at my simple-minded question. ``We make them, we
improvise,'' she says. ``Cubans are very good mechanics.''
I feel caught in a time warp. The decaying Chevys--the very
ones I might have seen hot off the assembly line more than
four decades ago--suddenly take on the status of metaphor for
the once elegant, now deteriorating city. This is the second
visit my husband, Norman, and I have made to Havana. The
first, a few years before the 1950 revolution, was on our
honeymoon. I was a college student-bride who longed to go
abroad, and Havana was the only patch of abroad we could
afford. And it was so easy to get there!
This time we arrived via three tedious flights: Washington
to Miami, Miami to Nassau, and Nassau to Havana. With long
waits in between. We carried impeccable visas and letters
from the U.S. Treasury Department and our sponsoring
organization verifying our permission to visit (there are
severe restrictions for U.S. citizens trying to travel to
Cuba). Norman, a neurosurgeon, was coming as a volunteer with
an international relief agency in a program it runs
jointly with the Cuban Ministry of Health. He would spend
a week conferring with colleagues, examining patients,
teaching interns and residents, and presenting research
material. I was licensed to tag along. Earlier
participants in the program had given us the names of
people they'd met here, which is how I came to know
Maritza and a number of other engaging Habaneros.
We had always hoped to return to Havana and, according to
the laminated Cubana Airlines boarding pass I handed over as
I boarded the flimsy-looking old Russian plane in Nassau, the
feeling was mutual. ``Cuba te espera,'' it said in decorative
script. ``Cuba is waiting for you.'' The bright yellow card
was decorated with three red hearts.
The 1950s Cuba, under the repressive rule of Fulgencio
Batisa, had plenty to offer American tourists. It was
romantic, and it was glossy! Most people stayed in the pricey
and glamorous Hotel Nacional, with its luxurious
accommodations, highly regarded dining room and nightclub,
and private talcum powder beach. We stayed at the Ambos
Mundos on Obispo Street, in the heart of Old Havana.
Hemingway, still very much alive when we first visited the
island, had lived in the Ambos Mundos while writing--
depending on your informant--either ``A Farewell to Arms'' or
``For Whom the Bell Tolls.'' We ogled the room he had
occupied, dined at the rooftop restaurant where he had often
dined, and drank daiquiris at the Floridita, which we were
assured was his favorite bar. When we had dinner at a
sidewalk cafe, ragged children came up to the table and
begged for the bread on our table. We gave them that and
pesos and smiles, and we told each other it was wrong to be
having such a good time in a country where so many lived in
unconscionable splendor while others didn't have enough to
eat. And then a man with a guitar strolled over to our table
and began to sing while we held hands across the table and
blissfully dug into dinner.
[[Page H2931]]
Maritza is amused by my honeymoon tales. First stop on our
1996 tour is the Ambos Mundos. The hotel was closed for many
years and has been in the process of renovation for many
more. The place is entirely gutted and a man on the ground is
sending a small bucket of plaster up to the fifth floor on a
pulley-and-rope contraption. A pamphlet I've picked up says
that you can learn about the life of Ernest Hemingway by
staying there. ``Ambos Mundos Hotel will open up in summer
1996 with 53 rooms of which 4 suites,'' it promises, but it
is now fall, and it still looks like it's going to be a
while.
Nearby, in the palace occupied by Batista way back then, is
the Museo de la Revolution. There are photographs of the
rebels in the mountains, bloody shirts and pants, canteens,
rifles, the engine of an American plane shot down over the
Bay of Pigs, and other mementos of turbulent times. One
display titled in English ``The Hall of Cretins,'' features
huge, cartoonist figures of Batista in military garb, Ronald
Reagan dressed as a cowboy and George Bush dressed as a Roman
senator. Above the figure of Reagan, the caption says,
``Thank you cretin for strengthening the Revolution.'' Bush's
caption is, ``Thank you cretin for consolidating the
Revolution.''
In the nearby Plaza de la Catedral, craftspeople hawk
costume jewelry, maracas, woodcarvings and other knickknack.
Che Guevara's face appears on key rings, ashtrays and T-
shirts. Why doesn't Castro's face appear on T-shirts and key
rings? I ask Maritza. ``It wouldn't be respectful,'' she says
and it's impossible to determine whether her inflection is
dead serious or mocking.
I am trying hard to recapture the city I remember. One
afternoon Norman and I journey uptown to peek furtively into
the splendidly titled lobby of the Hotel Nacional, fearful of
being accosted and asked whether we are paying guests.
(Reopened and refurbished after years of being shut down, the
hotel is as handsome and crowded as ever.) We gape at the
splendid Spanish colonial mansions on the tree-lined avenues
of the Vedado and Miramar districts. And then we retreat to
the colorful narrow streets and shady squares of Old
Havana, where we remember Cubans strolling, singing aloud.
Our memories of this are so vivid, it must have been true,
although there is no evidence of such today.
West of Old Havana is the Vedado neighborhood and our
hotel, the Victoria, which is across the street from a row of
picturesquely decaying Spanish colonial mansions, now
occupied by many poor families. Up close, things aren't quite
so picturesque. Laundry hangs from the windows, balusters are
missing from the galleried rooftops, stairs are broken,
garden statues are headless, yards are littered with trash.
Nothing has been painted or repaired in decades. And
venturing out at night onto the darkened, crumbling sidewalks
and streets--where hordes of bikes without lights scoot by--
is dangerous whether or not you encounter the street crime
everyone warns about (we didn't).
Tourism has been revived in Havana, and crowds of
Europeans, Asians, South Americans, Canadians and a much
smaller number of Americans can be seen in the more
celebrated restaurants. There is the luxurious new Melia
Cohiba hotel, a joint venture between Cuba and Spain; much
talk of further foreign investment in tourism; and work is
going on around the clock on a new airport. Baseball games
and performances by the excellent national ballet company
provide stimulating entertainment, yet information about
schedules is difficult to glean.
Restaurant food ranges from so-so to bad. The Cubans we
invited to dine with us all chose paladares--the small,
often-excellent restaurants families are now permitted to run
in their own apartments. Families licensed to establish a
paladar may set up no more than 12 chairs, arranged in
whatever grouping of tables they prefer. Some paladares have
signs, but most are known only through word of mouth. You
ring a doorbell and enter a lobby, push the button for the
proper floor and walk into someone's living room, where
tables are prettily set and family members graciously rush to
serve you.
At one paladar, we are seated on a breezy balcony,
overlooking the water. At another, a particularly pleasant
three-course dinner with assorted tasty appetizers set up on
a small buffet table, a roast lamb entree and dessert of a
rich fig pudding costs $12 a person, including beer and
coffee.
These paladares, named for a family-run restaurant dubbed
Paladar in a popular Brazilian TV sitcom, are one of the few
forms of self-employment now permitted in Cuba. Since they
accept payment only in U.S. dollars, paladar owners have the
means to buy a wide range of foods at the hard currency
stores.
The Hemingway shtick is still going strong here. Several
restaurants and bars in the old city claim to have been his
favorite. One of these, the tiny, crowded La Bodeguita del
Medio, a block from the cathedral, still has ambiance
aplenty. Since the 1920s, customers have carved their names
on wood paneling, and there's no more space. Above the bar is
a blow-up of a scrawled message by the great man himself.
``The best mojitos are at the Bodeguita,'' it reads. ``The
best daiquiris at the Floridita, Ernest Hemingway.''
Squeezed into a corner, in full view of this snippet of
immortal prose, we order a mojito. It arrives in a tall
glass, jammed with what appears to be seaweed but is, in
fact, very soggy mint, and filled with a watery rum, lemon
and sugar mixture. An undistinguished meal is tossed at us
irritably. It is almost heartening to find that there still
are tourist traps in Havana.
Just about everything is in short supply in this
underdeveloped island country. Everyone is short of soap, and
I lift a few tiny bars from the hotel maid's cart and pass
them along to my new friends. All food is rationed. Staples--
rice and beans--are cheap and abundant, although milk is
available only for children under 7. At the Hotel Victoria,
the milk is made from powder and manages to be foamy and
lumpy at the same time. Meat, chicken and fish are not
generally available, and at the time of our visit, the egg
ration was seven a month. Each person is permitted one piece
of bread a day.
Cubans call this is a periodo especial, a special period
that dates from the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991
and the sudden cessation of what had been lavish subsidies.
Gas, electricity, public transportation--all are in very
short supply. When the periodic blackouts occur, not only the
lights go out, but also the water, which is pumped by
electricity.
The glittering and bustling tropical city I remember is a
drab and quiet place today. For decades, there has been no
money to maintain buildings and streets. Automotive traffic
is light at all times. Gas, at $4 a gallon, is too experience
for most Cubans, who earn on average $12 to $15 a month.
I ask a highly placed government official what he hopes,
expects, fears the future will bring if Castro, now a fit-
looking 70-year-old, retires? He laughs at the notion of
retirement. ``When Fidel dies,'' he says, ``people won't be
ready for raw capitalism. That's certain. They think they
want more free enterprise, but they are too accustomed to
free education and health care to ever give that up. It will
be some sort of socialism.
``Don't misunderstand,'' he adds, when I ask about the one
piece of bread a day. ``Things here are difficult now, but
there is absolutely no question that life under Batista was
far worse for most Cubans. What you have to recognize is
this: Cuba has always had one corrupt form of government or
another.''
While we are in Havana, everyone is talking about the
International Trade Fair, an annual event that showcases
products from countries worldwide (72 of them at this fair).
Finally, I decide to go to the new exposition grounds outside
the city with Robrto, a translator for the medical program
that brought us to Cuba. The fair is jammed with people. Cuba
is displaying pharmaceuticals, rum and cigars, and there are
sparkling new cars from Japan and France, shoes from Italy,
tablecloths from Mexico, furniture from Canada and children's
clothing from Panama. As Roberto seats himself longingly
behind the wheel of a shiny little yellow Fiat mounted on a
revolving stand, may eyes falls on an Argentinean food
exporter's display of Oreo cookies, Ritz crackers, Libby's
Vienna Sausages, Wrigley gum, M&M candies, Kellogg's Frosted
Flakes and Froot Loops.
Will Cuban children get to eat Froot Loops despite the U.S.
embargo? Roberto rolls his eyes, but declines further
comment.
I buy lunch at a sunbaked outdoor cafe, and we dine
greedily on a cholesterol nightmare of fried chicken, french
fries, beer and ice cream. Four musicians--two guitar
players, a man on a bongo drum and another on maracas--
suddenly appear at my elbow, grinning with mock
flirtatiousness and breaking into the songs their fathers
sang to diners in the cafes of Obispo Street in the 1950s:
``Besame Mucho'' and ``Perfidia.'' I am overcome with
nostalgia and tip generously, and they repeat the two songs
over and over. And then, with almost manic zest, they break
into a long song about Che Guevara.
The next day, at the airport gate, waiting hours for our
return flight, we Americans--doctors, missionaries,
journalists--exchange stories about the charm of the people
we've met and the hardships we've witnessed. No one has
answers.
The airport's air conditioning has been turned off to save
electricity. Everyone is hot and avid to leave. But everyone
wants to return ``someday.''
``Bring soap,'' we remind each other. ``next time don't
forget to bring everyone a few bars of soap.''
____________________