Feb 23, 2008, 02:18 PM
Subjected to random stops by police and hindered by a lack of opportunities, Cuba's restless young blacks fear that whatever change may come will not be enough.
By MIAMI HERALD STAFF REPORT
cuba@MiamiHerald.com
HAVANA --
Two Cuban men walk down a busy street in Old Havana, joking as they wind their way through the thick scrum of tourists and the cascade of salsa music spilling out of bars.
Their laughter quickly stops as a portly police officer stops them and asks for their identification. The men flip out their wallets and say nothing as the cop studies their ID cards.
''That's Cuba,'' says Liván, 25, who has deep chocolate skin and short dreads. ``That's what it means to be a black man here. They don't need a reason to stop you.''
These are perhaps the most restless of Cuba's restless youth: young black men who live under a system that tells them they are equal but in a daily reality that often says otherwise.
''There's one word to sum this up,'' said Liván, referring to the random stops. ``It's bull----.''
As they walk away, their friend Franco breaks into a song that is part rumba, part rap, with Liván beat-boxing behind, about the constant stops, the endless rules, and the lack of opportunities.
Neither believes Fidel Castro's official departure that was announced Tuesday will bring change soon. Both have come to the same conclusion: They will probably leave when they get a chance.
''I love my country, don't get me wrong -- I really love it, because it has both good and bad things,'' Liván said. ``But I just don't think anything is going to change.''
About 2.5 million of Cuba's 11 million people turned adult after the start of a grueling economic crisis in 1990, according to Foreign Minister Felipe Pérez Roque. An estimated 60 percent of the total are Afro-Cubans. And youths have taken part in a recent series of demonstrations with varying degrees of anti-government overtones.
For Liván and Franco, whatever change comes after Castro may not be enough. These artist-musicians want more than today's Cuba can give them.
Last year, Castro's brother and designated successor, Raúl, called on the youth to debate issues ''fearlessly,'' and signs of a more open discussion have emerged, as seen by the contentious exchange between a university student and National Assembly President Ricardo Alarcón in a recent videotaped meeting.
The young student has become an instant icon for the island's restless youth.
''I believe that kid should pass into history,'' said Franco, 22. ``He's a peasant, someone with no family in the United States, part of the revolutionary youth -- he was the only one who could have done that without being thrown in jail.''
Though Franco doesn't believe the dramatic exchange means transformation is on the horizon -- at least not enough for him -- he says it's important ``that he did it and I'm glad someone had the courage to stand up and say the things that all the Cuban people are thinking.''
Liván and Franco both work government jobs, but have their small side businesses, selling art to tourists or to Cubans able to pay. They dream of a life playing music, a fusion of the sounds that define their lives: the salsa and rumba they grew up with, and the U.S. rap and funk they have come to love.
And they want to play in a place where they can say whatever they choose without worrying about the consequences.
Liván is the louder, more kinetic of the two. Music constantly plays out the small earphones running up from a mp3 player tucked under his T-shirt, and he often talks over it, breaking into a little shimmy as he speaks.
Franco is more subtle, with small braids pulled back in a ponytail. He is a painter who creates commercial paintings that sell but make him feel that he's sold out. ''That's not me, and it would shame me for you to see them,'' he said.
He also doesn't like to talk too long about the problems in Cuba. ''It makes me feel like I'm sinking,'' he said.
They live in one of Havana's outlying neighborhoods, a leafy area full of modest houses and low-rise apartment buildings.
The gap between older Cubans and the change-hungry youth plays out at meals at Liván's wood dining table, as he and his 63-year-old mother debate the revolution's more than 50 years of history.
''I think things have gotten better here because I know what it was like before,'' said his mother. ``I know how people suffered under capitalism.''
She describes a pre-revolutionary time when poor Cubans died because they couldn't buy medicine, and gently dismisses her son's impatience with the present as the luxury of a generation that doesn't know better.
''I don't like it when you tell me I can't understand because I wasn't there then, Mamá,'' he said. ``That was your time, and this is mine.''
His mother said that some evolution should occur, starting with the travel restrictions. If Cubans, she argued, only knew more about what it was like to struggle in places off the island, more would want to stay.
Fidel Castro did good things for Cuba, Liván replied, ''but he should have resigned a while ago.'' He concedes that now some change could come, but waiting for it seems unfathomable. ''Life is passing me by,'' he said.
He and Franco move through the world of Cuba's underground rap, listening to groups such as Los Aldeanos -- musica contestaria, or anti-establishment -- that can't make it onto the government controlled radio stations.
''Why do you stop me to ask me what I'm doing and who I am?'' one Aldeanos song demands. 'My name isn't `Psst, hey show me your ID' ''
''They say there aren't class differences, but there is classism, and they say there is no racism but there is racism,'' said Liván. ``This music talks about that.''
Many of their favorite rappers play at a smoky, dark club in the Vedado neighborhood where on a recent night women rappers in metallic heels and skinny jeans mingled with hip-hop artists visiting from Spain and Chile.
The rapper Anderson, the night's main act, often performs songs by Los Aldeanos. Taking the stage in front of the mostly black audience, he unleashed a relentless rant on Cuban life in a high-pitched voice.
Three large, stiff men walked into the club, looked around and then arranged themselves in the far back corner, the one place with a view of every part of the room. Anderson abruptly ended the show. ''Well,'' he said. ``That's all.''
Instead, a DJ played Tupac and the Fugees, and the audience danced on while the suspected security agents looked on.
''Things like that,'' Liván said of Anderson's blunted performance, ``They crush my heart.''
The name of The Miami Herald correspondent who wrote this dispatch, as well as the surnames of the Cubans interviewed, were withheld because the reporter lacked Cuban government permission to work on the island.
__________________
By MIAMI HERALD STAFF REPORT
cuba@MiamiHerald.com
HAVANA --
Two Cuban men walk down a busy street in Old Havana, joking as they wind their way through the thick scrum of tourists and the cascade of salsa music spilling out of bars.
Their laughter quickly stops as a portly police officer stops them and asks for their identification. The men flip out their wallets and say nothing as the cop studies their ID cards.
''That's Cuba,'' says Liván, 25, who has deep chocolate skin and short dreads. ``That's what it means to be a black man here. They don't need a reason to stop you.''
These are perhaps the most restless of Cuba's restless youth: young black men who live under a system that tells them they are equal but in a daily reality that often says otherwise.
''There's one word to sum this up,'' said Liván, referring to the random stops. ``It's bull----.''
As they walk away, their friend Franco breaks into a song that is part rumba, part rap, with Liván beat-boxing behind, about the constant stops, the endless rules, and the lack of opportunities.
Neither believes Fidel Castro's official departure that was announced Tuesday will bring change soon. Both have come to the same conclusion: They will probably leave when they get a chance.
''I love my country, don't get me wrong -- I really love it, because it has both good and bad things,'' Liván said. ``But I just don't think anything is going to change.''
About 2.5 million of Cuba's 11 million people turned adult after the start of a grueling economic crisis in 1990, according to Foreign Minister Felipe Pérez Roque. An estimated 60 percent of the total are Afro-Cubans. And youths have taken part in a recent series of demonstrations with varying degrees of anti-government overtones.
For Liván and Franco, whatever change comes after Castro may not be enough. These artist-musicians want more than today's Cuba can give them.
Last year, Castro's brother and designated successor, Raúl, called on the youth to debate issues ''fearlessly,'' and signs of a more open discussion have emerged, as seen by the contentious exchange between a university student and National Assembly President Ricardo Alarcón in a recent videotaped meeting.
The young student has become an instant icon for the island's restless youth.
''I believe that kid should pass into history,'' said Franco, 22. ``He's a peasant, someone with no family in the United States, part of the revolutionary youth -- he was the only one who could have done that without being thrown in jail.''
Though Franco doesn't believe the dramatic exchange means transformation is on the horizon -- at least not enough for him -- he says it's important ``that he did it and I'm glad someone had the courage to stand up and say the things that all the Cuban people are thinking.''
Liván and Franco both work government jobs, but have their small side businesses, selling art to tourists or to Cubans able to pay. They dream of a life playing music, a fusion of the sounds that define their lives: the salsa and rumba they grew up with, and the U.S. rap and funk they have come to love.
And they want to play in a place where they can say whatever they choose without worrying about the consequences.
Liván is the louder, more kinetic of the two. Music constantly plays out the small earphones running up from a mp3 player tucked under his T-shirt, and he often talks over it, breaking into a little shimmy as he speaks.
Franco is more subtle, with small braids pulled back in a ponytail. He is a painter who creates commercial paintings that sell but make him feel that he's sold out. ''That's not me, and it would shame me for you to see them,'' he said.
He also doesn't like to talk too long about the problems in Cuba. ''It makes me feel like I'm sinking,'' he said.
They live in one of Havana's outlying neighborhoods, a leafy area full of modest houses and low-rise apartment buildings.
The gap between older Cubans and the change-hungry youth plays out at meals at Liván's wood dining table, as he and his 63-year-old mother debate the revolution's more than 50 years of history.
''I think things have gotten better here because I know what it was like before,'' said his mother. ``I know how people suffered under capitalism.''
She describes a pre-revolutionary time when poor Cubans died because they couldn't buy medicine, and gently dismisses her son's impatience with the present as the luxury of a generation that doesn't know better.
''I don't like it when you tell me I can't understand because I wasn't there then, Mamá,'' he said. ``That was your time, and this is mine.''
His mother said that some evolution should occur, starting with the travel restrictions. If Cubans, she argued, only knew more about what it was like to struggle in places off the island, more would want to stay.
Fidel Castro did good things for Cuba, Liván replied, ''but he should have resigned a while ago.'' He concedes that now some change could come, but waiting for it seems unfathomable. ''Life is passing me by,'' he said.
He and Franco move through the world of Cuba's underground rap, listening to groups such as Los Aldeanos -- musica contestaria, or anti-establishment -- that can't make it onto the government controlled radio stations.
''Why do you stop me to ask me what I'm doing and who I am?'' one Aldeanos song demands. 'My name isn't `Psst, hey show me your ID' ''
''They say there aren't class differences, but there is classism, and they say there is no racism but there is racism,'' said Liván. ``This music talks about that.''
Many of their favorite rappers play at a smoky, dark club in the Vedado neighborhood where on a recent night women rappers in metallic heels and skinny jeans mingled with hip-hop artists visiting from Spain and Chile.
The rapper Anderson, the night's main act, often performs songs by Los Aldeanos. Taking the stage in front of the mostly black audience, he unleashed a relentless rant on Cuban life in a high-pitched voice.
Three large, stiff men walked into the club, looked around and then arranged themselves in the far back corner, the one place with a view of every part of the room. Anderson abruptly ended the show. ''Well,'' he said. ``That's all.''
Instead, a DJ played Tupac and the Fugees, and the audience danced on while the suspected security agents looked on.
''Things like that,'' Liván said of Anderson's blunted performance, ``They crush my heart.''
The name of The Miami Herald correspondent who wrote this dispatch, as well as the surnames of the Cubans interviewed, were withheld because the reporter lacked Cuban government permission to work on the island.
__________________