Cuba in the Shadow of Change: Daily Life in the Twilight of the Revolution

7. Un-migration

7 Un-migration Late-socialist bureaucracy, and the current ideology behind it, have made it difficult—some claim nearly impossible in recent years—for an ordinary citizen to obtain an exit permit (permiso de salir) to travel—far less emigrate— outside of the island. Moreover, if a permit is denied, there is no opportunity for appeal.1 There are no publicly available official statistics on the number of exit permits actually issued per year, but neighbors sometimes discussed their own experiences or spoke of not personally knowing anyone who had been able to procure a permiso in years. If someone were lucky enough to get a permit to travel to the United States, the cost would be a hefty $900 per head.2 “No los dan” (They’re not giving them), people concluded, such definitive talk heightening the feeling of a tightening regime. That was in contrast Figure 7.1. Havana at twilight, looking toward the Florida Straits, a tangible escape route that haunts restless urban residents. 118 / Part III. Free with the past situation, people claimed, when Cuba’s internationalist missions and scholarly exchange programs with socialist bloc countries had meant that many ordinary Cubans had spent years out of the country, experiencing life elsewhere and considering themselves citizens of the world. Now, travel was under strict state restrictions (what I call “trapped traveling”), and the only people who seemed to be able to leave Cuba at will were those with special status—in particular artists, musicians, and actors. These restrictions have consequences. First, they make the sea even more symbolically and practically alluring, since for common citizens it is the only immediate route of escape (figure 7.1). Moreover, because many people know someone who has escaped by sea, the option seems tangible, if not viable. Second , when physical escape is not possible, which it often is not, Cubans cope in other ways, such as reaching out to foreigners and foreign things, separating themselves from “other” Cubans, and using dramatic metaphors to describe the gravity of their situation. Shackles, Separations, and the Sea Felina, seventeen and dreaming of escape and elsewhere, told me of her determined cousin, Silvio, who had invented an odd raft, partially buoyed by discarded Styrofoam. He had left Cuba entirely on his own, promising to contact family upon his arrival in the United States. After a week and a half, when family had heard no word, they presumed he had perished at sea, as many people do trying to cross the ninety miles of water separating Cuba and the United States.3 But then a phone call came through on her neighbor’s line from someone wishing to speak her, she related. It was Silvio: “Guess where I’m calling from?” he asked Felina, his cousin and childhood playmate. “A really nice hospital in Miami.” Felina began laughing as she finished telling the story, though moisture had formed in the corners of her eyes. Her tone conveyed a sense of triumph over adversity as she spoke. “He suffered from severe dehydration and sunburn, the yoma [handmade boat] was shit and fell apart, but he swam the rest of the way. Somebody found him onshore and delivered him, semiconscious, to the hospital. He did not even remember reaching dry land.” “Reaching dry land” is not just an expression; it has become a tangible political status. In 1995, pursuant to an agreement between the Clinton administration and the Cuban government, it was determined that the United States would stop admitting Cubans found at sea (those with “wet feet”), but would return them to Cuba or to a third country. Those who make it to shore with “dry feet,” however, are permitted to remain in the United States and qualify for expedited legal permanent resident status and U.S. citizenship, as they have Un-migration / 119 done since the 1966 Cuban Adjustment Act. This policy has become known as the “wet-foot/dry-foot” policy, and is closely associated with Cuban migration (though in reality, the same policy is applied to Haitian and Dominican migrants by sea). This policy also gives seaborne escape from Cuba a gamelike quality, in which speed is of the essence. Footage of the rough sea slapping against and spraying over the Malecón, Havana’s famous seawall promenade, has become stock footage in locally produced films concerning the troubles of contemporary life in Cuba. The recurrent image is usually unnarrated...