Abstract
Cuban poets have to toe the official line if they want to get on.
Cuba has both lucky and unlucky poets. The lucky ones can leave the country without having to confront the military bureaucrats of the Home Office [Ministry of Immigration and Overseas] that hands out permits.
Lucky poets have frequently devoted a great many years to being submissive and efficient functionaries within the hierarchies of the Ministry of Culture that, with few exceptions, employ long tried and tested instruments of coercion to maintain control of writers, artists and intellectuals.
The truth is that there are very few among the so-called lucky poets who can convince us of even a partial independence within a sector where rules have clearly defined features. One way or another, the lucky chancers become obliged to compromise and, at some point in time, to renounce every belief, opinion and even motive in order to get their respective works off the blacklist and onto the page.
The manner in which censorship is exercised remains concealed behind a type of reasoning so obscure it is scarcely comprehensible. This is in turn relayed to foreign observers of the Cuban cultural panorama, ever since the advent of the revolutionary period that would later become a dictatorship.
It is extremely hard to avoid submitting to such bureaucratic manoeuvres, whether one is seeking authorisation for a trip abroad, the official consent essential to have a book published, or the award of a national prize for literature. All literary prizes, in whatever form (whether as cash, a computer, a stipend, or even a car), come within the aegis of a structure headed up by high-ranking politicians and generals inside the Ministry of the Interior.
If a writer creates a difficult situation for the powers that be, they are relegated to publications with miniscule print-runs and a total dearth of advertising or any other form of publicity to promote the writer within national literature.
The ‘luck’ of the lucky poets who get to participate in international poetry events comes at a very high price. Speaking personally, I never received any such privilege when I was awarded a scholarship by Harvard University’s Department of Literature, inviting me for the academic year 2010–2011 [Harvard University is currently looking to renew the invitation of an Honorary Chair to Jorge Olivera for the academic year 2012–2013].
The letter of invitation from the Centre of Studies never reached my hands. It has remained stalled – for nearly two years now – in either the Cuban Consulate in Washington, the International Legal Consultancy in Havana, or one of the offices of the Interior Ministry. Without the original signed version of the letter, it has proved impossible to obtain the necessary documents to leave the country.
The ‘luck’ of the poet-functionary is scarcely recognised evidence of his ambiguous loyalties. When forthcoming histories come to be written, these poets will appear like black holes in an intellectual sector that, with very few exceptions, opted for silence, double standards, or a pact with the rulers of this freak show that still bears the name of the Cuban Revolution. ❒
Edited and translated by Amanda Hopkinson