[Congressional Record Volume 143, Number 68 (Wednesday, May 21, 1997)]
[House]
[Pages H3146-H3148]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]
CUBA'S REPRESSIVE REGIME
The SPEAKER pro tempore. Under a previous order of the House, the
gentlewoman from Florida [Ms. Ros-Lehtinen] is recognized for 5
minutes.
Ms. ROS-LEHTINEN. Mr. Speaker, this past week we were once again
reminded of the lengths that the Cuban people will resort to to sink
freedom from the repressive regime. Eleven Cuban refugees were rescued
by the excellent men and women of our United States Coast Guard after
being spotted by an aircraft of the humanitarian group, Brothers to the
Rescue.
The refugees had spent 17 days in an isolated area of the Bahamas
known as Dog Key. Dog Key, Mr. Speaker, is nothing but a rock, a big
rock in the middle of the ocean.
For 2 weeks the refugees had little to drink or to eat. They ate
snails and birds to survive in the middle of the ocean.
One of the refugees, Rolando Martinez Montoya, would break snail
shells with his teeth so that his children who accompanied him on this
horrible journey would be able to at least eat the inside of the
snails.
Unfortunately, Mr. Martinez' daughter, Camilla Martinez, only 4 years
old, and his step daughter, only 13 years old, died at Dog Key last
week.
Twenty-six-year-old Leonin Ojeda Rivas also died after complaining of
chest pains soon after trying to swim toward a passing ship in a
desperate attempt to be rescued.
Mr. Speaker, the tragic search of these Cuban refugees for freedom
portrays the picture of desperation that the Cuban people feel under
the Castro dictatorship. Unfortunately, the American people never
learned of this story in the so-called mainstream media. It was not in
the major newspapers, nor in the television networks. Why? Because the
press prefers to promote Castro's propaganda of Cuba as a tourist
paradise rather than exert some effort in reporting the repression
subjected on the people of the island every day.
Just this past Sunday, the Washington Post travel section had a
lengthy piece on how to travel to Cuba. The story's author, Elinor
Lander Horwitz, could barely control her excitement about being in the
forbidden island as she walked past children engulfed in poverty, the
deteriorated beauty of Havana, and the lack of the most basic needs
such as soap that the Cuban people endure daily.
The author soothes her guilt of, as she calls it, of having a good
time while being surrounded in this poverty by handing out two pesos to
a poor Cuban child. Oh, wow. Now she can return once again to her
paradise vacation.
Throughout the article, not one word, not one single word, is
mentioned about the destruction caused on Cuba by the Castro tyranny
and the misery that has resulted from it. However, she makes sure to
provide tips on how to circumvent the United States embargo in order to
travel to Cuba.
I wonder, Mr. Speaker, what led these refugees I have described
earlier tonight to leave the paradise that this author so aptly
describes? Is it the lack of human rights under Castro, the lack of
civil rights under the last totalitarian dictatorship of the
hemisphere? The complete mismanagement of the Cuban economy by the
Communist elite, the complete control of the population by Castro's
police state? I venture to say that it was a combination of all of
these put together.
Cuba remains, whether the Washington Post or other publications admit
it, a repressive totalitarian state. Just ask Ana Maria Agramonte, a
prominent Cuban dissident who was recently sentenced to 18 months in
prison for contempt against the regime. It is clear that the paradise
as portrayed by the Washington Post must feel like hell for Ms.
Agramonte and the rest of her compatriots who have to endure Castro's
brutality.
Let us hope that the press will one day wake up to the horrors of the
Castro's tyranny, to the repressive police state, to the complete lack
of, and the violation of the most basic of civil rights.
Mr. Speaker, I insert for the Record the article from the Washington
Post by Elinor Lander Horwitz which I earlier referred to.
[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 `52s and
[[Page H3147]]
`53s 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 1959 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 Heath. 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 decorating
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
Batista, 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.
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 Revolucion. 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, cartoonish 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 knickknacks.
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 tiled 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 a periodo especial, a special period that
date 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 expensive
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
[[Page H3148]]
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 Roberto, 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, my eye 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.''
ways & means
Tourist travel to Cuba is severely restricted by the U.S.
government. To travel to Cuba legally, Americans must have a
passport and visa and obtain a license from the Treasury
Department's Office of Foreign Assets Control (1500
Pennsylvania Ave., NW., Washington, D.C. 20020, 202-622-
2480). OFAC has a fax-back system (202-622-0077) offering a
dozen documents detailing the guidelines associated with
travel to Cuba.
Those who may visit Cuba under an official Treasury
Department license include: journalists who are regularly
employed by a news organization; official government
travelers; members of international organizations of which
the United States is also a member, traveling on official
business; persons making a once-a-year visit to relatives in
Cuba in circumstances of extreme humanitarian need; and
travelers who have received specific licenses from OFAC
before they go. These legitimate travelers can bring home
$100 worth of Cuban goods.
A number of air and travel providers are authorized by the
Treasury Department to arrange trips to Cuba for qualified
travelers. One of the best known, Marazul Tours (4100 Park
Ave., Weekauken, N.J. 07087, 1-800-223-5334), will advise you
about eligibility and the procedure for obtaining a Treasury
license. Once you obtain the license, the agency will provide
a visa, plane tickets and hotel reservations. For groups, it
can set up a program in Cuba if needed.
Visa information also is available from the Cuban Interest
Section, 2369 16th St. NW, Washington, D.C. 20009, 202-797-
8518.
Despite the restrictions, there are indeed American
tourists in Cuba. Plane tickets to Cuba and a visa--a
separate tourist card--can be obtained in Canada, Mexico or
the Bahamas. But beware. Attempts to catch U.S. tourists
returning from Cuba have been stepped up, and U.S. Customs
officials may now greet you in Nassau or Cancun as you step
off your flight.
____________________