Three First Impressions in Havana

It’s the end of the third day in Cuba, and I’m sitting outside of our residence with most of my dialogue group. It’s loud, like most of the country; everyone discussing story ideas, the people they’ve met, and when the Spanish-speaking students are available to translate for the rest of us.

The past two nights have not been much different. Since we arrived, our eyes have been wide open, looking for the untold stories that seem to be as common here as rice and beans. We’re journalists — it’s what we do. But the brand of journalism we’re practicing here is absolutely foreign. Let me explain what I mean.

1. Capitalism and Socialism Both Exist

Four hours ago, I was trudging through Old Havana, a historic neighborhood with crumbling, stone buildings from the time of Spanish colonization. Shining hotels stand tall next to tiny homes with laundry hanging out the windows. It’s an area full of contradictions and full of life.

We were there looking for microbusinesses, a phenomenon that has been exploding in Cuba since the 1990s when the government first gave the Cuban people the ability to open private stores. Each individual receives a state monthly salary, but some have opened these microbusinesses in their homes, too. They can be anything: Watch repair, haircuts, nail care, supermarkets, mechanics, and more.

Later, we met a woman who introduced us to her mother and daughters, some of whom living in a small loft above the bookstore they operate. Despite our rudimentary Spanish knowledge, she was patient with us and we learned that she had opened the business because money quickly disappeared after food, school, and medicine. She needed it to make a life, rather than just survive.

It’s strange to see shops and restaurants here in a strictly socialist state, but I understand why they exist. Without the extra income, most Cubans would be more impoverished than they already are.

2. Journalism Will Be Different

Through the rules given to us by our host educational institution, Academic Programs International, everyone we speak to must sign a consent form with specific checkboxes for photo, audio, and video. The woman in the bookstore agreed to be photographed but was hesitant about audio and video. We let it go. It was already enough to be in her home, with her children and her life. And although I was there that day, it all happened by luck and a little charisma. I can’t take credit for the wonderful story it became, but I am proud of my friend who put it together.

I can’t quite see myself writing two or three articles while I’m here, but I know I’ll figure it out. It’s been difficult to get the ball rolling when there’s so much uncertainty. And, I know the way the Cuban people understand journalism and the press is completely different than how I see it. That’s okay — it’s just going to take some thinking and some empathy. I can’t wait to begin.

This is one story of Havana. There are millions more. This is a complicated place that almost resembles those old childhood games, “Which one of these is not like the other?” It’s hard to quantify what that looks like until you’re here, but I’m going to try.

3. Contradictions Are Everywhere

There is trash everywhere. The buildings are always painted in pastel greens, pinks, blues. The streets are torn up and filled with holes, but also laughing children playing with marbles, jump ropes and makeshift baseball bats. Everyone says hola, como estas, buenas. Everyone asks where we are from. Everyone invites us to see their paintings, their books, or their food. But everyone also goes quiet when government cars drive by. The street animals are beloved but also hungry. And these microbusinesses, although prosperous, expanded so much in the last year that the Cuban government closed the licensing process. Existing business may remain, but no one new may register.

When you walk down the street, these contradictions sit next to each other, leaning and overlapping until you can’t tell the difference. You walk by the seemingly empty skeleton of a stone house, only to see the flickering light of a television through the open archway. Someone does live there, and they are watching an American movie on their large flat-screen. Or you take a ride in one of the fancy, 1950s Chevrolet convertible taxis and when you chat with the driver, you learn he used to be an elementary school teacher who began driving because he did not make enough money. The engine, he says, is the original.

It is all Havana. It is all Cuba.

Nowhere is it clearer than in Vedado, a quiet suburb where our residence is located. The neighborhood is filled with middle-class families, rooms for rent, and even a vegetarian restaurant with homemade colorful pasta. But even there, the limitations of the Cuban people are an unavoidable brick wall. They are warm, hospitable, and kind. But they also ask for soap, medicine, and the other supplies they can’t get because of the embargo pushed by the United States.

Billboards in Havana refer to the “blockade” as the “longest genocide in history.” Cubans seem to separate Americans from the political tension, but what is the truth? All I know is that it’s more complicated than I ever expected.

Looking Forward

In the next few days, we have a visit to a sustainable eco-community outside of the city, lectures on relations between the U.S. and Cuba, and time with local artists and musicians. In between all that, we will keep plugging away at our individual journalism projects. At the end of the week, we depart for Playa Girón — the Bay of Pigs.

We’ll see what comes next.