A Prayer for Yoani Sanchez

Sailing to Havana

On the Texas coast, easterlies mean rain,  but southeast winds whisper tropical promises.  Building in like the trades, they rise after noon to blow every hint of land – burning fields, greening trees, fresh-plowed earth – back upon itself until dusk, when they quieten again.  Shaking off the lassitude of winter, sailors tack into the southerlies, working their way forward against their steady call. Along the coastal plain, gusty west winds fill with pelicans and spoonbills, and empty the bays before dying away as quickly as they came. 

But no matter the season, it is the north wind that delights.  With its restless, gypsy-like dance across the waters, it promises an irresistable bit of temperate pleasure in the midst of summer’s oppressive calms. When the wind blows freely from the north without a hint of easting, steady and unwavering as a well-trimmed craft, every sailor who has known the incomparable pleasures of long, offshore reaches begins to stand at windows or walk to doors.  Looking to the south, sniffing the air, letting the mind unwind its coils of responsibility, commitment and routine as casually as lines flipped from a cleat, they begin to dream.  With a well-found vessel and a few provisions, with fuel and water and the proper navigation tools, the course would be clear.  Passing down the Ship Channel, through the jetties and out toward blue water, leaving the tanker anchorage, the safety fairway, Heald Bank and the Flower Gardens behind, there would be only wind, water and a destination.  Set the course at 117 degrees true, make adjustments as you must, and in six days, or seven, you would be in Havana Harbor.  Seven hundred thirty-five nautical miles on the rhumb line, she’s only a long reach away on a steady norther.

In a perfect world, I would be gone: yielding to temptations I hardly can bear.  My open window faces north, scooping up the breezes.  My wind chimes, tenor in range, tuned to an Aeolian scale, ring only on winds from NW to NE. Tonight they are singing due North and my heart echoes their sound: restless, with a slightly minor stirring.  Given time and a boat, I could find my way to Havana. Laid up against the wall at Marina Hemingway, I would walk El Malecon, using my new, rudimentary Spanish to ask, “Can you help me find Yoani Sanchez?”

Finding Yoani Sanchez

 It is, of course, a fantasy.  There is much more than water that separates Galveston from Havana, and a few hundred miles of ocean are more easily overcome than the twin realities of geopolitical obstinance and dictatorial whim.  The thought of sailing away to Havana Harbor, tying up and walking over to visit Cuban blogger Yoani Sanchez clearly falls into the realm of fantasy. Recognized as such, it stands as a powerful reminder that Yoani Sanchez herself is not a metaphor, a symbol, a blank screen upon which we can project our own fantasies about the oppressed Third World writer. 

Yoani Sanchez is real, as her people are real. At this very moment, she is in Havana, living her life as you peacefully sit at your computer and read these words.  Perhaps she is reading.  Perhaps she is wondering where to find a bicycle chain, or pondering the mysterious messages painted on the broken windows of the city.  Perhaps she is taking one of the unusual red and blue buses which sit at the side of the road outside her window or perhaps (one can only hope) she is pouring her son a scarce and luxurious glass of milk.  Soon, she will be writing again, using the power of human language to bring to a world’s notice the abuse of political power.

Despite the fact that I don’t know her culture, can’t speak her language and barely comprehend the nature of the government which constrains her life, I have come to know enough of Yoani Sanchez in past months that any thought of  focusing on other things leaves me with an irrational sense of betrayal, of abandoning a friend.   A friend or two of my own say, “You can’t be responsible for everyone.  Think how many unfortunate and oppressed people exist whom you don’t know: the refugees, the prisoners, the disappeared and violated.”

And that is true.  There are many I don’t know, millions of people whose circumstances nearly defy description and whose lives are lived out in hopelessness and fear.   There was a time when I knew nothing of Yoani Sanchez.   I knew little of her country and even less about her people.  But now, I know.   I’ve taken my bite of this particular apple, and so I find myself accountable for my response.  The difficult question, of course, is the nature of my response.

However distasteful we may find it, the truth is that we are embedded in history, and it takes time for things to work themselves out.  In difficult and complex circumstances, the longings of the human heart can meet the limits of life in a clash of suffocating force. When that happens, allowing time to pass, allowing the next step to reveal itself, is difficult.   It is tempting to become impatient, and even easier to experience helplessness, anxiety and frustration.  The urge to take control, to force a turning of events simply in order to resolve the tension – the urge to DO something – can be irresistible.  It’s a generally unhelpful response, particularly since, when no other obvious solution exists, the temptation to resolve tension simply by turning away can be strong.

Kryie Eleison

Restless in the wind and feeling the call of the water, still haunted by Yoani Sanchez and uncertain which next step to take, I found myself impelled to Galveston’s shore.  Walking the edge of the same water that laps against El Malecon so many worlds away, I remembered other days when there was nothing more to do: times when clear thought dissolved into a blur of confusion, and every action proved ineffectual. Seeing those days in memory, I saw my solution as well.  Turning my gaze from the south, from the expanse of water and the impossible journey it represented, I turned instead to the north, to the little seaside town and St. Mary, Star of the Sea.

I am not a Catholic, and whether Yoani Sanchez’ beliefs are Catholic, I have no way of knowing.  But in the cathedrals of the world it is faith that matters, not definitions, and Yoani Sanchez is a person of deep and abiding faith.  She also is a person of words, and surely understands the silence that is the necessary partner of words: the seedbed that allows them to take root and flourish, the frame that surrounds their images.

In a cathedral, it is the silence that comes first.  Sitting near Mary, Star of the Sea, or Anthony, or Patrick, with their banks of votives and calm, impassive gazes focused beyond the horizon of time, silence begins to permeate the soul.  As the silence grows complete, as mind and heart are stilled by the unutterable presence of eternity, I rise and take a taper, and light a candle for Yoani Sanchez.   There is no need for specific prayer, no need for words to fill the silence.  The silence itself is prayer, and comfort, enough.

As I watch the flame, a mysterious wind sends ripples of grief through my heart like a rising wind will ruffle the waters.  But the wind lays, and the heart calms, and the grief stands revealed for what it is: a profound experience of the truth that to be human is to be limited.  The promise and the pain of faith is understanding that those limits will be overcome, but  only in due time, and by a power other than our own. 

I stand a moment longer, watching the flame, hearing the silence, feeling the grief ebb away.  As I turn toward the sunlight streaming in through the open door at the end of the nave, as I begin my long walk through the flickering shadows toward re-engagement and life, there is no need to look back.

Yoani Sanchez is safe.

 

 

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If Yoani Sanchez Read Your Blog

 

 Wednesday night in Havana, Cuban blogger Yoani Sanchez read her speech accepting this year’s Ortega y Gasset prize for digital journalism to friends gathered in her apartment.  She was prevented from traveling to Spain to accept the prize in person by a regime which appears increasingly distressed by the attention shown the young blogger.  An interview aired on National Public Radio’s Morning Edition provides an update and a bit of context for those not familiar with her work.

I have been following the story of Yoani Sanchez for some time.  When I first wrote the following essay, one of my greatest concerns was the translation of her words.  I do not read or speak Spanish, and the response she posted in March, just after Cuban authorities began slowing access to her blog, appeared on the internet in a variety of forms.

Now, I have a translation which I feel comfortable posting.  Provided by Jose Ma Gonzalez, a native of Spain, and Jane Reinhart-Gonzalez, I am confident it gives a good sense of Ms. Sanchez’ style as well as an accurate reflection of her words.  Many thanks to Jose and Janie, who do translation work professionally in Galveston, Texas.

Some of you who stop by will have read this before.  Nevertheless, considering the latest developments in Ms. Sanchez’ life, it is worth another read, and certainly worth posting for those who do not know the story of this year’s winner of the Ortega y Gasset prize.

Yoani Sanchez haunts my life.  Slender, dark-haired, she walks Havana streets thinking of toasters and lemons, passing into and through the shadows of the Castros, fingers curled around the flash drive hidden in her pocket.  She is walking to a liason, a tryst, an encounter hidden from the eyes of the world.  Her desire is not for a man, but for a computer monitor: her longing and hunger, to send her words out into the world.

Yoani Sanchez is a young Cuban woman who blogs from Havana.  She blogs rather well, with a worldwide readership.  The circumstances of her life, combined with her words and her incisive intelligence, make her someone worth reading.  They also make her someone to fear, particularly if you are a Cuban official whose only longing and intention is to maintain order and preserve the status quo.  Dictatorships will smile benignly on philosophers and thinkers who fuss about grand issues like freedom, censorship and ineffective government using large, rectangular words.  But when pretty young bloggers begin to describe the realities of life in words everyone can understand – toasters and oxen and lemons and milk – dictatorships pay attention.

I first attended to Yoani Sanchez when I saw her name – and nothing more – posted on a website.  Curious, I began to search.  I found an article about her blog in the December 22, 2007 Wall Street Journal, and was moved by the simple description of what she does:

 “On a recent morning, Yoani Sanchez took a deep breath and gathered her nerve for an undercover mission: posting an Internet chronicle about life in Fidel Castro’s Cuba.”

“To get around Cuba’s restrictions on Web access, the waif-like 32-year-old posed as a tourist to slip into an Internet cafe in one of the city’s luxury hotels, which normally bar Cubans.  Dressed in gray surf shorts, T-shirt and lime-green espadrilles, she strode toward a guard at the hotel’s threshold and flashed a wide smile.  The guard, a towering man with a shaved head, stepped aside.  ‘I think I’m able to do this because I look so harmless,’ says Ms. Sanchez, who says she is sometimes mistaken for a teenager.  Once inside the cafe, she attached a flash memory drive to the hotel computer and, in quick, intense movements, uploaded her material.”

Equally skilled at balancing action with reflection, Ms. Sanchez’ own words about her extraordinary routine are modest.  “The sensation of losing fear, of risking, is a sensation that is normally irreversible.  After you cross certain lines, there is no way back.”  After a lifetime of internalizing the constraints of life in a dictatorship, she describes her blog as a way to escape her “internal policeman”, a way “to push the limits, to find the line where the internal limits end and the real limits begin.”  Sometimes, Sanchez suggests, even a child’s game of “let’s pretend” can be useful.  “You have to believe that you are free and try to act like it,” she says.  “Little by little, acting as though you are free can be contagious.”

Reading her words and tracing the contours of her life, I found them remarkable, if somewhat removed from my own.  The single point of intersection between us seemed to be our blogs.  Produced in quite different circumstances, for different audiences and to significantly different purposes, they are identical as expressions of a writer’s passion: to have words read, appreciated, and absorbed as agents of transformation and change.  However, the initial differences in format I found between Ms. Sanchez’ blogs and my own are instructive.

Like most Cuban bloggers, I had chosen to remain anonymous.  Whether grounded in caution, fear, or simple preference, anonymity can provide comfort, a sense of privacy and security.  It also makes issues of honesty and accountability less relevant.  Ms. Sanchez, who signs her name and posts her photo on her Web site, appears to have few problems with honesty and accountability; she is quite willing to express her opinions and defend them publicly from the very heart of a dictatorship.  Such forthrightness earns her a prerogative or two.  Yoani Sanchez, 32 years old and living 90 miles off our shores in a crumbling nation which would prefer not to be portrayed in such detail, has every right to turn to a 61-yuear-old, comfortable and completely un-oppressed woman and inquire, “And you.  Where is your picture?  what is your name?  Tell me your convictions.”

As I removed my avatar and replaced it with a photograph, as I began signing my name to my work and pondered the implications of doing so, it was the challenge of Yoani Sanchez’ words which resonated in my mind: “Once you experience the flavor of saying what you think, of publishing it and signing it with your name, well, there’s no turning back.  One of the first things we have to do, a great way to begin to change, is to be more honest about saying what you think.”

Ms. Sanchez has a history of saying what she thinks.  Admitted to the University of Havana for study of philology – the study of language and literature – she nurtured a love for Latin American writers.  But her thesis topic, Dictatorships in Latin American Literature, brought her academic career to an end.  “The thesis wasn’t overly critical,” Sanchez says, “but the mere act of defining what a dictatorship is in an academic paper made people really nervous, because the definition was a portrait of Cuba.”

Forced to move from academia to the public forums of the Internet, she unnerved the regime even more: not by overtly political criticisms or attacks on the Castro brothers themselvs, but by her vivid descriptions of daily life.  On March 24, 2008 Cuban authorities became nervous enough to take action, blocking or slowing access to Sanchez’ blog.  According to Sanchez, government censors placed filters that delayed viewing of her Web page on a server in Germany.  Her response, offered here in translation, has been described as classic Sanchez:

I recognize that I have been misbehaving.  I rebel against orders; I look for lemons that never appear; I demand excuses that never arrive; and – a great absurdity of mine – I put my opinions in a blog, with photo and name included.

As you can see, bcause of these thirty-two impertinent years, I am not being corrected.  As a result, the anonymous censors of our ravenous cyberspace have wanted to enclose me in the room, turn off the light and not let my friends enter inside.  That, translated to the language of the Internet, means to block my site, to filter my Web page; in short, to puncture the Blog so that my compatriots cannot read it.

Ever since a few days ago, “Generacio Y” is merely an error message on the screen of many Cuban computers – another site blocked for the “monitored” Internet users of the Island.  My words, my text, and that of other bloggers and digital journalists, have caused the presser foot of the inquisitors to do its ridiculous part.  We have received a slap on the face, the “severe wink” and an admonishment from these arrogant and rebellious adolescents.  Nevertheless, the reprimand is so useless and pointless that it is an embarrassment, and so easy to outmaneuver that it turns into an incentive.

“This breath of fresh air has disheveled the hair of bureaucrats and censors,” she said in a later telephone interview, vowing to continue her blog.  “Anyone with a bit of computer skills knows how to get around them.  The aim of government censors is to block readership in Cuba, where people have limited access to Internet.  They are admitting that no alternative way of thinking can exist in Cuba, but people will continue reading us somehow.  There is no censorship that can stop people who are determined to access the internet.”

Another bit of fresh air blew through Cuba and the worldwide blogging community on Friday, April 4.  On that day, Sanchez’ creativity and persistence was rewrded when her Generacion Y  blog received one of Spain’s top journalism awards, the Ortega y Gasset prize for digital journalism.  The Spanish newspaper El Pais, which awards the prize annually, said Sanchez won it for her “shrewdness” in overcoming hurdles to freedom of expression in Cuba, her “vivacious” style and her drive to join the “global space of citizen journalism”.

Speaking with the Reuters News Service by telephone from her home in Havana, Ms. Sanchez said, “This is great encouragement for Cuban bloggers, who are still at an embryonic stage.  It recognizes that Cuban blogs can be a parallel source of information, reflection and opinions independent from Cuba’s official media.”

 It does much more than that.  Winning a significant prize in a first-world country gets you dinner, a check, an NPR interview and a swing around the talk-show circuit.  In third world dictatorships, winning an international prize can help save your life, as the additional attention and scrutiny set up a useful barrier between the writer and those who would silence a voice.

In a recent blog, I touched briefly on the moral and ethical dimensions of art.  Regardless of the medium, decisions are made by artists at every turn.  Am I working for myself alone, or am I willing to consider the world in which I live?  Am I willing to accept responsiblity for my creation, or will I refuse to engage criticism or disagreement?  To the extent that my art touches other lives, what effect do I wish to have?

The same questions of morality and ethics arise in blogging.  It is easy for us to forget that decisions are being made on a daily basis because the process itself is so easy.  You make coffee, you turn on the computer, you begin to type.  It is even easier to abdicate personal responsibility.  Challenged or rebuffed, facing disagreement or simple misunderstanding, we can choose to turn off our computers and walk away, leaving a trail of words, photos, videos, cartoon and .gifs in our wake without consequence.  Alone in front of our monitors, we are free to consider only those who choose to make their presence known to us, or we can imagine with sympathy and attentive curiosity the faceless ones who also read our words.

The simple fact is that we need to stop, and think about what we are doing.  I do not mean to argue here for one kind of blogging over another; this is not a criticism of cartoons, videos or smiley faces.  It is not meant to be dismissive of casual or shallow posting and, above all, it certainly is not a rejection of hanging out and having fun on the Internet.  All those things have their place.  But, when I think of Yoani Sanchez, their place is quite beside the point.

The point is this.  Imagine Yoani Sanchez, leaving her house on a delicious May afternoon with lime-green espadrilles on her feet, a flash drive in her pocket and a map to the nearest internet connection in her head.  Imagine her languid smile as she slips past the guard, her studied casualness as she sits at a rented computer and draws her treasure from her pocket.  Imagine her relief as the latest set of entries uploads properly, fleeing to the safety of German servers.  Imagine, then, Yoani Sanchez with an additional ten minutes of allotted time, deciding to indulge herself in the luxury of a quick surf across the Net.  With a click of the keys, in a sudden, unbelievable instance of serendipity, she arrives at your page, and begins to read.

What would Yoani Sanchez think?

 

 

 © Text copyright Linda Leinen 2008

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