Last night we watched a film about the Mexican revolution starring Pedro Infante and my wife explained a little about what was going on to our teenage children:
"Unfortunately, during the Mexican revolution, our family was on the wrong side. They had land and haciendas and property and the poor people, especially the peasants, were terribly exploited. The poor decided to fight for their rights to the land and to a decent life.
"The revolutionaries were not saints; they were rough and ready, uncultured people. They regarded refinement and books as the mark of the bourgeoisie. My great grandfather was a headmaster, but lived on the hacienda my great-grandmother inherited. When the revolutionaries came they didn't kill him. They left him weeping, surrounded by his burned books.
"Of course your family were Mexicans, like everyone else, but they thought they were apart - that they were special. They should have identified with the majority, but didn't."
* * *
In Mexico around 1998 I was the side-kick to the vice-rector of a new university which had been set up in one of the roughest parts of Guadalajara. At that time the road the bus travelled on wasn't even tarred.
The vice-rector went to Cuba and when she came back she was full of praise for Cuban postgraduate education:
"In Cuba, she said, you can't do a PhD in any old subject that interests you. There aren't enough resources for that sort of indulgence. What they do is match a problem to a student. This extreme pragmatism, forced on them by necessity, is partly why their health system has progressed so much.
"Take agriculture, for example," said Sagrario: "Let's say there is a beetle causing damage to the sugar cane crop. The postgraduate student will be told. This is the subject of your doctorate. Tell us how we need to deal with this beetle. That's what we should do in Mexico."
A month or two later in December 1997, my wife and I visited Cuba with Tony and Eve Hall, my parents. This was on the Eve of the first visit of the Pope to Cuba since the revolution:
"He's [Fidel] a well brought up Catholic boy. Now that he's getting old he's a little worried about the fate of his soul. What's he going to say to the Pope?" said Teresa, laughing.
Of course the struggle for democracy in Poland was manipulated. But it was against a regime that had been imposed on the Poles. There were parallels with Mexico; perhaps even with Cuba.
Naturally, Mom and Dad had very little time for Karol Woytila, the Pope with double standards who publicly berated the Nicaraguan liberation theologians and, in particular, Father Ernesto Cardenal. Woytila was the patron saint of anti-communism; Reagan and Thatcher's darling. Later on he mellowed. He became a critic of laissez fair capitalism.
Eve and Tony, feeling a deep affection for Cuba and its revolution, were finally coming to see it.
There was the connection with Africa. Dad had sent a reporter to interview Che at the Nation. Che Guevara had tried to "export revolution" to Africa in the 60s and, as Dominic Tweedie has said, the Cuban victories over the South African forces in Angola were instrumental in bringing down Apartheid.
On the one hand, I would be keeping Mom and Dad company, and sharing in their abiding respect for Cuban development achieved in the teeth of imperialism. On the other hand, I would be going with a progressive Catholic Latin American, with her deep conviction that the democratic process was sacrosanct. Moreover, Tere better understood the texture, psychology and reality of Fidel.
It was a holiday and not a fact finding trip. The conclusions we drew were reached in museums, from behind Daiquiris in tourist bars, while walking along the streets, and in hotel dining rooms.
In the museum of the city there was a large and impressive display of furniture and other domestic objects: broad plates made from Mexican silver, chandeliers, chairs and tables made from mesquite wood and cedar, red and green fluted wine glasses, cutlery, salvers and goblets from the 15th century and household items from the 19th century:
"These are the sort of things my family probably used in the times of the Virreinato." Teresa said. "They are familiar. In Mexico the presidents and functionaries of the Partido Revolucionario Institucional treated these objects as their own property. They stole what they wanted, but here they have managed to preserve them from the looters in public museums." She was envious.
Mom and Dad were underwhelmed. Yes, these were beautiful and interesting objects, perhaps, but had not coming to Cuba to admire its Spanish colonial heritage, or make connections with the background story to of the newly forming Mexican family of their son and his wife.
At the entrance to the Museum there was a seminarian who chatted about the forthcoming visit of the Pope and the difficult situation for Catholics on the island. It was improving, but that there was still low level of constant persecution. As he was talking I wondered what his views were on the persecution of homosexuals by the Cuban state. He was probably quite OK with that. Dad and Mom were polite, but dismissive.
When we went to the museum of the Cuban revolution, the situation was reversed. Teresa was interested, but sceptical. My parents were completely absorbed. Here was the evidence for a successful revolution. The museum, carefully curated, brought it all to life: the terrible conditions the Cuban people had lived in; the long years of organised resistance to oppression; the intelligent and brave actions of the revolutionaries; the response of the Batista regime and their imperialist backers and, finally, the victory of the Cuban revolution.
There were displays of peasants' clothing, agricultural instruments, old bolt action Mausers, uniforms and the iconic caps and badges of the revolutionary brigades. You could read the diaries of revolutionaries, and the earthy scent of revolutionary martyrdom was penetrating.
Mom and Dad were entranced. Now it was Tere's turn to be dismissive. "Yes, but look at the situation now." She commented to me indignantly in an undertone. "Look at the conditions people live in. Look at how run down everything is. They don't have democracy and freedom, do they."
Being in the middle was like seeing things in Cuba in five dimensions. I saw things from everyone's point of view. I had my own point of view. However, I could also see that there was this ambiguous zone between them all which I needed to inhabit. It made more sense that way.
"Unfortunately, during the Mexican revolution, our family was on the wrong side. They had land and haciendas and property and the poor people, especially the peasants, were terribly exploited. The poor decided to fight for their rights to the land and to a decent life.
"The revolutionaries were not saints; they were rough and ready, uncultured people. They regarded refinement and books as the mark of the bourgeoisie. My great grandfather was a headmaster, but lived on the hacienda my great-grandmother inherited. When the revolutionaries came they didn't kill him. They left him weeping, surrounded by his burned books.
"Of course your family were Mexicans, like everyone else, but they thought they were apart - that they were special. They should have identified with the majority, but didn't."
* * *
In Mexico around 1998 I was the side-kick to the vice-rector of a new university which had been set up in one of the roughest parts of Guadalajara. At that time the road the bus travelled on wasn't even tarred.
The vice-rector went to Cuba and when she came back she was full of praise for Cuban postgraduate education:
"In Cuba, she said, you can't do a PhD in any old subject that interests you. There aren't enough resources for that sort of indulgence. What they do is match a problem to a student. This extreme pragmatism, forced on them by necessity, is partly why their health system has progressed so much.
"Take agriculture, for example," said Sagrario: "Let's say there is a beetle causing damage to the sugar cane crop. The postgraduate student will be told. This is the subject of your doctorate. Tell us how we need to deal with this beetle. That's what we should do in Mexico."
A month or two later in December 1997, my wife and I visited Cuba with Tony and Eve Hall, my parents. This was on the Eve of the first visit of the Pope to Cuba since the revolution:
"He's [Fidel] a well brought up Catholic boy. Now that he's getting old he's a little worried about the fate of his soul. What's he going to say to the Pope?" said Teresa, laughing.
Of course the struggle for democracy in Poland was manipulated. But it was against a regime that had been imposed on the Poles. There were parallels with Mexico; perhaps even with Cuba.
Naturally, Mom and Dad had very little time for Karol Woytila, the Pope with double standards who publicly berated the Nicaraguan liberation theologians and, in particular, Father Ernesto Cardenal. Woytila was the patron saint of anti-communism; Reagan and Thatcher's darling. Later on he mellowed. He became a critic of laissez fair capitalism.
Eve and Tony, feeling a deep affection for Cuba and its revolution, were finally coming to see it.
There was the connection with Africa. Dad had sent a reporter to interview Che at the Nation. Che Guevara had tried to "export revolution" to Africa in the 60s and, as Dominic Tweedie has said, the Cuban victories over the South African forces in Angola were instrumental in bringing down Apartheid.
On the one hand, I would be keeping Mom and Dad company, and sharing in their abiding respect for Cuban development achieved in the teeth of imperialism. On the other hand, I would be going with a progressive Catholic Latin American, with her deep conviction that the democratic process was sacrosanct. Moreover, Tere better understood the texture, psychology and reality of Fidel.
It was a holiday and not a fact finding trip. The conclusions we drew were reached in museums, from behind Daiquiris in tourist bars, while walking along the streets, and in hotel dining rooms.
In the museum of the city there was a large and impressive display of furniture and other domestic objects: broad plates made from Mexican silver, chandeliers, chairs and tables made from mesquite wood and cedar, red and green fluted wine glasses, cutlery, salvers and goblets from the 15th century and household items from the 19th century:
"These are the sort of things my family probably used in the times of the Virreinato." Teresa said. "They are familiar. In Mexico the presidents and functionaries of the Partido Revolucionario Institucional treated these objects as their own property. They stole what they wanted, but here they have managed to preserve them from the looters in public museums." She was envious.
Mom and Dad were underwhelmed. Yes, these were beautiful and interesting objects, perhaps, but had not coming to Cuba to admire its Spanish colonial heritage, or make connections with the background story to of the newly forming Mexican family of their son and his wife.
At the entrance to the Museum there was a seminarian who chatted about the forthcoming visit of the Pope and the difficult situation for Catholics on the island. It was improving, but that there was still low level of constant persecution. As he was talking I wondered what his views were on the persecution of homosexuals by the Cuban state. He was probably quite OK with that. Dad and Mom were polite, but dismissive.
When we went to the museum of the Cuban revolution, the situation was reversed. Teresa was interested, but sceptical. My parents were completely absorbed. Here was the evidence for a successful revolution. The museum, carefully curated, brought it all to life: the terrible conditions the Cuban people had lived in; the long years of organised resistance to oppression; the intelligent and brave actions of the revolutionaries; the response of the Batista regime and their imperialist backers and, finally, the victory of the Cuban revolution.
There were displays of peasants' clothing, agricultural instruments, old bolt action Mausers, uniforms and the iconic caps and badges of the revolutionary brigades. You could read the diaries of revolutionaries, and the earthy scent of revolutionary martyrdom was penetrating.
Mom and Dad were entranced. Now it was Tere's turn to be dismissive. "Yes, but look at the situation now." She commented to me indignantly in an undertone. "Look at the conditions people live in. Look at how run down everything is. They don't have democracy and freedom, do they."
Being in the middle was like seeing things in Cuba in five dimensions. I saw things from everyone's point of view. I had my own point of view. However, I could also see that there was this ambiguous zone between them all which I needed to inhabit. It made more sense that way.
Comments
Post a Comment