and Forgiveness
Today's guest post is by a young Cuban journalist, and new blogger,
Ernesto Morales Licea. Ernesto graduated from the Universidad de
Oriente, in Santiago de Cuba, in 2008, and began his professional career
at the government radio station in Bayamo, where he lives. This post,
from his blog The Little Brother, describes how and why he was fired
from his job.
The Happiness of the Long Distance Runner
by Ernesto Morales Licea
The calendar displays May 20, 2010. It's half past ten in the morning.
In my hometown of Bayamo it's another hot muggy day that makes foreheads
sweat and engenders moods very close to irritation. But that's outside,
in the unsheltered streets. In this office with its inlaid walls where I
am now, an air conditioner set into the wall transforms the surrounding
reality into something serene and peaceful.
In front of me an official waits, sitting behind his desk. Telephone in
hand. Since my entry into the premises he has only interrupted his
dialog to say to me, "Good morning Ernesto, take a seat," as natural as
if he had been expecting me to appear. A little later he finishes his
conversation, and pressing two numbers with intentional precision, he
asks after the presence of some of the institution's employees. He asks
them to come to the office immediately. No one tells me, but I guess: it
is the Board members.
The official has a serene expression on his face, no sign of severity.
His name: Ernesto Douglas Bosch. His job: Director of Provincial Radio
Bayamo Broadcasting, in the eastern province of Granma.
The seconds crawl by, we are alone in his office waiting for the others,
the weight of silence forces him to speak.
"Let me tell you something," he finally says, acknowledging my
existence. "You have no idea of the esteem I have for you. First, for
your talent, and second, for your attitude as an employee of this
Broadcaster, since the time you started more than a year ago now. But
there are things that are difficult for me to accept, that I have a hard
time believing," he says, and he leaves the sentence unfinished, as if
it's not worth the trouble to continue.
I listen to him, and although he doesn't know it, I study the
circumstances with an obsessive interest. I have the feeling (just in
the last ten minutes since he warned me) that something definitive is
going to happen in my life, and I get ready to capture the essence of
whatever is said, whatever is breathed this morning.
My arrival at the institution where I have worked as a Cultural
Journalist since I finished my university studies in 2008, was marked
today by a coercive act I'd never before had occasion to experience.
The receptionist had been prepared; I'd barely stepped foot in the door
when she informed me, with great seriousness: the Director was waiting
for me in his office. I thanked her for the information. But as I could
meet with the director after saying good morning to my colleagues, I
chose to go first to my office, understanding in passing that this time
it was about something serious. I smelled it in the curt gestures and
distance of some of my colleagues, and seconds later, more explicitly, I
knew it by the Safety and Security Officer, who was charged with
personally taking me to the Board. So there would be no more detours
along the way.
So now, when three employees from different areas came through the door
almost in unison, and sat down next to me, I had no doubt that I was
present at a scene (and in a starring role) for which, to be honest, I'd
been prepared, though I hadn't imagined it would come so soon.
The silence was absolute. Ernesto Douglas limited himself to reaching
for a document that (only now did I notice) was conveniently located at
his right hand, on the desk. He handed it to me saying,
"Read this. When you're done we'll talk."
My reading lasted much longer than the general patience desired. A
comprehensive understanding of this Resolution 12 of 2010, plagued by
wherefores, acronyms and legal references, and edited in parts to be
nearly incomprehensible, was a real academic exercise.
The essence, however, of what I had in my hands admitted no doubt: By
Resolution 12 of this year the Director of the Institution expelled me
from the same. Permanently.
Was I taken by surprise? Again, no. My only surprise came from the haste
with which this had occurred. And, also, by the reason put forward for
doing so.
Let's see.
Behind this meeting (which although it pains me to do so, I can only
classify with one term: repression), figure four names in particular.
They are the base of the iceberg. The first three are proper names:
Yoani Sanchez, Reinaldo Escobar, Orlando Zapata Tamayo. The third is the
name of an artistic group: Los Aldeanos (The Villagers).
Just recently I had published two articles on the internet that centered
on these people. First, an article (Revolution in the Village) based on
Mayckell Pedrero's documentary about this rap duo, analyzing musical,
social and ideological aspects of this controversial and talented group.
Then, under the title, The Death That Never Should Have Been, I
published an assessment of the tragedy of Orlando Zapata Tamayo, a case
increasingly hidden from the Cuban population. And finally, there was an
extensive interview, A Limit to All The Hatred, with the blogger of
Generation Y and her husband, also a journalist, Reinaldo Escobar.
Knowing the dismal situation of the media in my country, I didn't have
the naivete to try to publish these articles in some official space, say
a magazine, web, newspaper, or website on the national network. And
knowing (also) the disregard for freedom of expression in my country, I
did not suppose that, after exercising the right of my own voice to
critically question the attitudes and decisions taken at the highest
level, I would pass unscathed by any reprisals. Cause and effect.
But the reason Resolution 12 2010 cited as serious misconduct on my part
appeared to be the fruit of a creative mind capable of emulating the
best of George Orwell, and here my adaptation to the absurd, my
resistance to astonishment, could only give way entirely.
What was I accused of? That, in my capacity as a journalist with a
personal Internet account (only available at my workplace), I had
disproportionately, in my navigation, accessed sites I did not have
authorization to access, specifically those of a subversive and
counterrevolutionary character attacking our country. Make no mistake:
the miserable wretch who wrote this letter should sweat ice for not
mentioning, expressly, the true cause of my expulsion. But not talking
about this apparently was more difficult than it seemed, as the writer
yielded to the impulse. He said, "The publication of articles on the
before mentioned sites is also verified." Only that.
Let us, then, clarify the argument: I was not sanctioned for publishing.
No way. Doing so would have confirmed certain accusations about the
violation of individual rights, freedom of expression and other demons,
that it was better not to awaken in these turbulent times. Then, on
further analysis, all the masks fall away and institutional anger
against a journalist who dared to be true to himself came bursting to
the surface, but in the two pages of horrifying evidence, my articles
figure only as an argument of fifth-rate importance and are only
mentioned in passing.
So then, I was punished for reading.
For reading what other voices, both inside and outside my country, say
about a hundred political, cultural and social aspect so connected to
the journalism I practice, as to human reason. but in essence and
without make-up, I was expelled for reading what I should not. For doing
exactly what the overseers in the cane fields forbid the slaves to do,
under threat of violent punishment. And also, what the leader of the
Cuban Revolution Fidel Castro once promulgated as a maxim of the
process. "We do not tell the people to believe," he said back then, "we
tell them: read."
Returning to the Board Room of Radio Bayamo Broadcasting, I finished my
risky reading, and faced the same silence, the same dense atmosphere
that doesn't allow anyone present to say a word, or even feel comfortable.
I returned to the document to the Director, and with his, obeying his
mental plan, he asked,
"Do you have anything to say?"
I didn't know if my face betrayed my thoughts, but internally I had to
smile. With perplexity.
Racing through my mind at the speed of light are the memories of so many
expelled, so many censored in the most recent history of Cuba, which is
not studied in any school on the Island. And not the memory of a
Virgilio Pinera or a Maria Elena Cruz Varela in particular. I think of
all the ones who say no, the unknowns who stories of abuse against their
rights, or reprisals like this one, are never seen, never known.
"Of course I have something to say," although really, I don't want to.
The size of the injustice, the arbitrariness, I'm at a loss for words.
But, finally, I speak. For the space of twenty minutes. I speak of
violations, and of the amnesia my country seems to suffer from.
Forgetting the results methods such as these have led to for decades,
that we still haven't come to terms with the shameful and seemingly
immortal Five Grey Years, dedicating conferences to it or publishing
volumes about it. I speak of my rights to information and free
expression. I speak of the legal loopholes that, even without a lawyer,
can be detected in a simple glance at this libelous accusation. I speak
knowing that my restrained catharsis is nothing more than the right to
kick the hangman. And when I finish, after a two second pause, my
Director turns to the others present,
"Does anyone else want to say something?"
Heads shake, no. And to my surprise, with no more to-do, the meeting
ends, though not without informing me that I have seven days under the
law to submit a demand for my reinstatement.
His voice is toneless. His gestures are as indifferent as those he
received me with while talking on the phone. And I think, the terrible
thing is not that they are directors who give in to the temptation to
use their powers in the most arbitrary and brutal way. The terrible
thing is, I am sure that later today, Director Ernesto Douglas Bosch
will sleep peacefully through the nights, with his wife and family
relatively happy.
"You have nothing to say to me," I ask him before getting up. "You have
nothing to say after all the time I spent arguing against this punishment?"
His answer, rigid, now ruthless, comes without thinking,
"I have nothing to say. I heard you but everything that needs to be said
is in that document you have in your hands. We're done. Good day."
At that very moment, in the second when I look into his passive eyes
behind his magnifying glasses, I understand that during the entire
meeting his ears remained closed to my voice. His ears, and everyone's.
No one listened to me in this spectral encounter.
Why? How evil of this Director made speaker, whose joviality at times
borders on a lack of character and authority? No, I tell myself. The
reason is something else. The true reason is that this man with his
power to separate me from the entity he directs, is just following orders.
Explicit orders ("Take drastic measures in this case") or implicit ("If
I were you, I would handle this matter intelligently"). Or even worse,
interior orders, incorporated into thought, that warns of the risks of
not being assertive with a mistaken employee and in consequence being
judged as an irresponsible and lazy worker. Orders of a thousand
different kinds. But in the end, orders.
So even in this moment as I walk through the hallway to the exit, with
the notable perception that those who look at me do with a, (yes, it's
so), humiliating pity, with eyes showing a solidarity that, if there
were no danger, could sympathize with me; not even now, when I know that
the link has been permanently cut, can I find any animosity against the
one whose stroke of the pen it was.
Ernesto Douglas Bosch did not expel me, I think. Whether he recognizes
it or not, his sad function is to be the puppet of other minds, minds
that at any moment would hesitate to throw him into the fire, just as he
did to me today. He is the executor of a firmly drawn direction, but at
bottom, I will never know whether or not he agrees. Since none of the
thousands of Cubans expelled from their jobs, removed, condemned to work
in steel factories or cane fields, will ever know if the one who told
him of his exile internally agreed with the measure, or if he had no
choice but to carry it out for his own good.
It's almost noon in Bayamo of my island Cuba. Under the same desert sun
I once again wander the city where hundreds of years earlier a fervent
and lacerated people sang the first verses of our national anthem. We,
and them, we are no longer the same, I think, before losing myself in
the busiest shopping street of the city.
And I think, also, that none of the people now passing me, nor those
behind me, have been commenting on my case, nor could Director Ernesto
Douglas Bosch back in his office with its inlaid walls, understand the
state of mind with which I turn my steps toward personal and
professional independence. This kind of inner harmony is similar to that
of a long distance runner who, apart from the crowd (it doesn't matter
if he is ahead, behind or next to them) runs on air, without others
understanding his lightness, and his smile of happiness.
2010-07-17-eml.jpeg
Ernesto Morales Leal
His new blog is, The Little Brother.
Yoani's blog, Generation Y, can be read here in English translation.
Follow Yoani Sanchez on Twitter: www.twitter.com/yoanisanchez
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/yoani-sanchez/the-little-brother-report_b_650097.html
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