Chronicles of the Northwest III

About the Author

Fr. Alberto Reyes is a Catholic priest assigned to a seminary and group of parishes near Camagüey, Cuba.

I love chemistry, I am fascinated by reactions. And for a long time, every time I think about the situation of my Cuban people, a chemical formula comes to mind that explains why my people are the way they are. And my formula is this:
(Fear + Lie + Division) x Complicit Silence = Oppression

Things That Happen. 
 
Life takes turns from time to time. I had different stories in mind for this my third Chronicle. I had meticulously collected on my cell phone many parochial anecdotes from this month. But life is capricious, unpredictable, even strange we could say. And those anecdotes are now gone because my cell phone died in a downpour and took with it many things to the grave.
 
On Sunday afternoons I usually go minister to two relatively nearby towns: Caonao and Tabor. A couple of weeks ago my mode of transportation was a scooter. The sky threatened rain but when it was time to leave, not a drop had fallen. I went to one town, then the other. Upon returning, a light drizzle began, which a little later turned into steady rain and ended up being a torrential downpour, charged with electricity.
 
With cane fields to the right and left, the only option was to keep going, trying not to end up on the ground. Lightning and its management belong to the Lord of the heavens, so better not worry about what we are not given to control off. For technical reasons related to humidity and that I am not mastering, the scooter, which was electric, began to accelerate by itself. All the while I focused on maintaining my balance, and my tunnel vision prevented me from realizing that I could have cut off the power by simply turning it off. In horror, I saw a bus coming at full speed, then a car, then another bus, bouncing in the puddles. My mind soared. Paralyzed on the scooter, which had taken on a life of its own and was running at full power down a muddy road, I was soaked to the bone with my helmet shifting in all directions ... and my mind had nothing left to say.
 
The scooter suddenly stopped working. Later, it was explained to me that the safety breaker had tripped, but at the moment I didn't know that.  And so, the second stage of this journey began. Dripping with water, scooter in tow, I kept walking as the lightning flashed to the right and left.
 
In such a situation, there are only two things to do: complain and curse the galaxy, or think. And I thought, I thought that beyond my passion for serving the people of my parishes, things don’t have to be like this. I thought of all the people who experience similar situations with each downpour, because they have to walk, or ride a bicycle, or a horse cart to get places. I thought of so many people with precarious houses where it rains more inside than outside. And I thought that I could have had an accident, or have died, and that there were things that I had never said. And I was afraid, not of dying, but of dying without having said things that live in the space between my chest and back.
 
Chemical Hypothesis.
 
I love chemistry, I am fascinated by reactions. And for a long time, every time I think about the situation of my Cuban people, a chemical formula comes to mind that explains why my people are the way they are. And my formula is this:
(Fear + Lie + Division) x Complicit Silence = Oppression
 
Fear.
 
We are afraid.  We are born in fear, we grow up in fear, we live in fear.
Fear is that feeling of insecurity in the face of something that can harm us and that we do not control. Fear is automatic and uncontrollable. But the efficacy of fear does not lie in the feeling of fear itself, but in that fear paralyzes our will. Fear kidnaps our will by telling it horror stories.
 
We don't have much power over the fear we "feel," but overcoming paralysis and acting upon what we want to do is within our power. Our will is not subject to what we feel, and this is our strength. Doing something can perfectly coexist with the fear of doing it.
 
Cuba is a big prison where, if you behave badly, they put you in a smaller prison. And because in the end, a prison is a prison, we feel controlled. We are afraid to say what we think, to say what we want. We are afraid that one way or another if we say what we want they will take away our ability study or work.  That they will make our life more difficult than it already is. We are afraid of being summoned and “scolded,” and given a warning about our “bad behavior”.
 
And meanwhile, we continue singing our National Anthem and repeating that "to live in chains is to live in insults and sunken shame." Let's put it another way, let's see if we understand it: what we are saying is that "living without honor, without respect, without honor, is to live as slaves." And is it not slavery to live in fear of saying what is believed and thought? And is it not slavery not being able to decide on one's own life and on the life of our country? And is it not slavery to live with only the option of merely surviving or otherwise having to leave our country?
 
Let's understand it at once: we will always be afraid of something, and we will never accomplish anything if we do not learn to live despite the fear, if we do not act according to our conscience while fear flows through each of our arteries.
 
Lies.
 
I always wanted to say this: Communism is a big lie. Everything about it is a lie. Goebbels, Hitler's ideologue, said: "A lie repeated a thousand times becomes the truth."
Cuba is like a great theater, where we lie to each other as part of a play that no longer needs to be rehearsed:
That we are a medical powerhouse: a lie.
That the education system is extraordinary: a lie.
That we are internationalists out of sheer generosity: a lie.
That the National Television News shows the reality of the people: a lie.
That the demonstrations on May 1 and July 26 are natural and voluntary: a lie.
That the rapid response brigades are nothing other than the spontaneous reaction of the fiery people who defend their Revolution: a lie.
That we do not have political prisoners: a lie.
That in Cuba human rights are respected: a lie.
That there is no opposition and dissent: a lie.
That as a people we unconditionally support socialism: a lie.
That we believe that the electoral system is the best in the world: a lie.
That life worthy of old age is guaranteed: a lie.
That we are happy here: a lie.
But we are used to lying, and we are afraid of the truth, and we teach our children to act in this gross show, hoping, yes, that one day “something” will happen that allows us to exist and not pretend, without realizing that If we all said what we believe and what we think, if we all spoke the truth, this system would collapse.
 
Division.
 
Divide and conquer. We cannot deny that the ancient Romans were wise.
One of the major successes of the Communist system is to place brother against brother in fight, creating a network of urban espionage and denunciation that plunges you into continuous paranoia. No one trusts anyone and we are all suspicious of each other because no one really knows "who you are talking to."
 
We are suspicious of our neighbors, co-workers, even our own family members. We calculate each word, each reaction, and like snails in their shells we expose ourselves more or less according to the environment. But always with caution, always lowering our voices when speaking about certain issues, always afraid of “selling ourselves on a platter” to anyone who may later report us, not for money and not even for conviction, but because they believe they will have a better chance to survive if they do.
 
Complicit Silence.
 
And in the midst of all this, silence. We see, we hear, we know ... but we do not speak. As passive spectators, we wait for others to speak, and we spy on any consequence of what they say, ready to turn our eyes the other way, so as not to compromise ourselves.
And here I cannot help saying with pain that I suffer the silence of our Catholic bishops. It is not true that the Catholic Church has not spoken, it is not true, because we are all the Church, and many lay people, priests, religious, even some bishops personally and quietly have said what they think and continue to say it.
 
But the bishops are a body, they are a defined illustration to which we all look, waiting.
This country needs a change, it needs a transition, it needs to live and stop dragging its existence, and at this moment, in my opinion, only the Catholic Church is in the position to lead a dialogue and propose a transition.
 
There are many people pushing in the right direction, many committed, tenacious and courageous people. There are many people abroad supporting these people and fighting for this transition, but from afar they do not have the power to bring about internal change.
 
But the internal opposition is divided, without understanding that, like the legendary Voltus V, it can only be strong if individual claims are set aside and we work on this together. When I have traveled abroad and been asked: “How is the opposition in Cuba?”, I shrug my shoulders and can only say: “I don't know”, because it is not clear to me where to look.  The opposition would be much more effective if it were united. United, we could all look at opposition not only with more confidence but with more clarity. After all, in one way or another, we all seek the freedom of this land and if we worked together, we would find much more support from people who need and yearn for a different path.
 
The Protestant churches are divided, some in favor, others against the system, and they do not have a single body that coordinates social projects.
 
For this reason, the people look to the Catholic bishops, waiting for a clear position in favor of justice, freedom, the Gospel in short.
 
Vargas Llosa writes in his book “La fiesta del chivo” about Trujillo’s dictatorship in the Dominican Republic. He describes the moment when the Catholic bishops took up a position against the dictatorship. I don't know if the anecdote in the book is historical or not, but Vargas Llosa places on the lips of the protagonist, a Catholic, this phrase full of pride: "At last my Church speaks!"
 
The Song of Simeon.
 
When the Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph entered the temple to present the baby Jesus, old Simeon took the babe in his arms. God had promised Simeon that he would not die without first seeing the Messiah. And when Simeon held the child in his arms, he said: “Now, Lord, you can let your servant go in peace, because my eyes have seen your Savior, whom you have presented to all the peoples: light to enlighten the nations and glory. of your people, Israel.”
 
I do not know what reactions or consequences there will be to my Chronicles, nor do I have any expectations.  But I have finally said what I had saved in that space between my chest and my back. Now I can continue ministering to my parishes by scooter, even if it rains, or whatever else happens. Now I am at peace.