Teofilo Ruiz returns to Cuba: La Habana lost and regained
Teofilo Ruiz (born1943) is a Cuban-American medieval historian and professor
I left Cuba close to my nineteenth birthday. I was already an adult, filled with experiences of San Francisco de Paula, my small hometown a mere ten kilometers from the center of La Habana — and of the capital city itself, the magical and enchanting La Habana of my early years. I kept a mental map, an intellectual and emotional topography of remembered places. This mental map lived in my mind, a vivid remembrance of things that were no more. In the fifty years since I left Cuba, I have walked my town and La Habana endless times, reaffirming memories of streets, houses, parks, smells, and people. And although I have lived in many different places in the world and have felt somewhat at home almost everywhere, both my hometown and La Habana remained engraved in nostalgic memories, deeply alive in me, even though part of me realized that they had no objective existence anywhere else. I dreamed of them, longed for them, and waited in vain...
In 1959 (partly the chronological setting of Cabrera Infante’s novel), that intoxicating first year of the Cuban revolution — intoxicating to me who identified then and still do to some extent with some of the social ideals of the revolution — La Habana was a luminous city, a city caressed by the sea, filled with color, energy, and music. It was a city where I had my first sexual experiences and where I learned to read, to think; where I was formed intellectually and emotionally. In San Francisco de Paula, living across the street from Hemingway’s house, I could see La Habana in the distance from his porch...
While I knew every street, every house and tree in my intensely green and sensuous hometown, I also knew intimately all the urban landmarks, old and new, that made La Habana one of the most beautiful cities in the world. My maternal grandmother’s house was located in one of La Habana’s residential neighborhoods. My aunts moved to the city after my paternal grandmother’s death. Their apartment was located in the shadows of the university’s grandiose stairs, steps from the Malecón, the long seawall that is La Habana’s living room.
In La Habana there were movie houses (I saw The 400 Blows at the Rex movie house, named after the Parisian landmark), the baseball stadium, the bookstores on the streets of Obispo and O’Reilly. There were the cafes where my father often took me to hear literary discussions. I sat in silence and awe as the latest Camus novel, just arrived from Paris, was discussed; or as Lezama Lima, who wrote Cuba’s greatest novel, Paradiso, held court at those mid-day literary tertulias. La Habana was also the place of great bars, of brothels, of endless music, of santería and African rituals...
I left Cuba close to my nineteenth birthday. I was already an adult, filled with experiences of San Francisco de Paula, my small hometown a mere ten kilometers from the center of La Habana — and of the capital city itself, the magical and enchanting La Habana of my early years. I kept a mental map, an intellectual and emotional topography of remembered places. This mental map lived in my mind, a vivid remembrance of things that were no more. In the fifty years since I left Cuba, I have walked my town and La Habana endless times, reaffirming memories of streets, houses, parks, smells, and people. And although I have lived in many different places in the world and have felt somewhat at home almost everywhere, both my hometown and La Habana remained engraved in nostalgic memories, deeply alive in me, even though part of me realized that they had no objective existence anywhere else. I dreamed of them, longed for them, and waited in vain...
In 1959 (partly the chronological setting of Cabrera Infante’s novel), that intoxicating first year of the Cuban revolution — intoxicating to me who identified then and still do to some extent with some of the social ideals of the revolution — La Habana was a luminous city, a city caressed by the sea, filled with color, energy, and music. It was a city where I had my first sexual experiences and where I learned to read, to think; where I was formed intellectually and emotionally. In San Francisco de Paula, living across the street from Hemingway’s house, I could see La Habana in the distance from his porch...
While I knew every street, every house and tree in my intensely green and sensuous hometown, I also knew intimately all the urban landmarks, old and new, that made La Habana one of the most beautiful cities in the world. My maternal grandmother’s house was located in one of La Habana’s residential neighborhoods. My aunts moved to the city after my paternal grandmother’s death. Their apartment was located in the shadows of the university’s grandiose stairs, steps from the Malecón, the long seawall that is La Habana’s living room.
In La Habana there were movie houses (I saw The 400 Blows at the Rex movie house, named after the Parisian landmark), the baseball stadium, the bookstores on the streets of Obispo and O’Reilly. There were the cafes where my father often took me to hear literary discussions. I sat in silence and awe as the latest Camus novel, just arrived from Paris, was discussed; or as Lezama Lima, who wrote Cuba’s greatest novel, Paradiso, held court at those mid-day literary tertulias. La Habana was also the place of great bars, of brothels, of endless music, of santería and African rituals...
Some people in our group thought that I was depressed. And sad and depressed I truly was. But I was, and still am, exhilarated and moved by my return to Cuba. I didn’t bring back only disappointment and memories of lost youth. There was also something redemptive and glorious in it all. First and foremost: the people. I was overwhelmed by the vitality of Cubans, by their incredible sense of humor, their warmth, their continuous banter in the streets, the verbal games we engaged in. Wherever we were, once they recognized me as Cuban, as one of them, there was physical proximity, embracing, the play of words. I was their brother, their grandfather. They were my brothers, my sisters, my children, and grandchildren. I was one of them. I belonged.
Despite all the economic problems, the darkness in the city, the scarcity of goods, there were no homeless people in the streets, no children begging. The children were all in school with their color-coded uniforms that signaled their grade level. The posters and flags decorating the streets celebrated dead heroes and their ideas. José Martí and Che Guevara were omnipresent. Of Fidel and Raul there were barely any signs, except in the museums. Cubans complained constantly, but they are essentially a happy people. There was no sign of great unhappiness, of despair. Complaints were many, but often articulated in a jocular fashion...
And there was the music. Wherever we went, there was music, songs from my teens and from a period before that. Music filled with intoxicating rhythm, with Yoruba words, with African cadences. It was Cuba. It was Africa. It was the Africa that lives in Cuba, in its music, in the hybridity of its people, in the sensual bodies of dancers, swaying to the beat. On our last night in La Habana, we went to a very beautiful private restaurant, La Guarida. As we entered, there was a glimpse of a gathering ofsanteros, those who practice Santería, the African ancient beliefs in orixas. This was not done for our purpose; it was entirely unrelated to tourists. But the music was intoxicating, pulsating, and in the distance we could see people dancing, dressed in the garb of santeros, captured by the music and ancient gods. You cannot be in Cuba and not wish to dance...
