[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.''

                          ____________________