Our Woman in Havana Read online

  Havana still beckons to Americans who for nearly six decades have been denied the city’s charms. Having spurned Spain and then the United States in the expectation of becoming truly independent, Cuba slipped into the arms of the Soviet Union. During the height of the Cold War, Cuba brought us to the edge of nuclear Armageddon with the Soviets, sent armies to Africa, and attempted to ignite revolution in Bolivia, Columbia, and Nicaragua. But Cuba had chosen poorly, the Soviets withdrew their subsidies, and the United States tightened its embargo. The Cuban people suffered great deprivation, but again were revived in the 1990s through the oil-fueled largess of Venezuela under the late Hugo Chávez.

  When the United States again came courting in the form of an opening by President Obama on December 17, 2014, it seemed that our natural ally and third-closest and smallest neighbor would willingly, if not enthusiastically, accept our proposal of mutual respect and friendship. Most Cubans certainly desired this outcome. But many Cuban Americans who had watched Cuba’s slow decline from across the Florida Straits remained stubbornly unwilling to accept reconciliation. In lingering bitterness, they found in President Trump a willing antagonist who slammed the door closed on Obama’s opening. Rather than becoming a strategic ally through whom we might build closer and stronger bonds in the Caribbean, Central America, and across the Western Hemisphere, Cuba once again seeks a patron who will help it confront the United States and resist the tide of animosity coming from the north. Will the latest patron be China, or Russia? Or will both Americans and Cubans finally be convinced that we are too close and too linked by the bonds of family and friendship to continue this destructive relationship?

  PART I

  1989–1993: CUBAN AFFAIRS,

  US STATE DEPARTMENT;

  PRESIDENTS GEORGE H. W. BUSH

  AND BILL CLINTON

  CHAPTER 1

  I AM THE DIRECTOR OF CUBAN AFFAIRS

  WHEN HE GLARED ACROSS THE ROOM AT ME, IT WAS A WARNING sign of things to come. The year was 1991, the place was the Palacio de la Revolución in Havana, Cuba, and my glowering interlocutor was Fidel Castro, one of the most consequential figures of the twentieth century.

  A member of the US Foreign Service, I had recently taken a job to manage US government relations with Cuba. It was a politically sensitive position reserved for senior officers, but many of my fellow diplomats avoided it because a powerful lobby—the Cuban American National Foundation (CANF)—dictated a punitive US policy toward Cuba. If you got on the wrong side of exiles ousted by the Castro regime, they could ruin your career. During the past two years as the deputy in the US State Department’s Office of Cuban Affairs, I had become adept at getting along with the lobby. Still, it wasn’t going to be easy; there would certainly be critics and naysayers, I didn’t have the rank required, and I would be one of a very few career women in an office director’s job. What probably tipped the scales in my favor, however, was the ongoing legal challenge on behalf of women Foreign Service officers, which claimed that the State Department discriminated against women in awarding high-ranking jobs. Whatever the reason, I was delighted and thus seized the opportunity despite the risks.

  To me it was a tremendously important job. In the early 1960s, US-Cuba relations had shaken the very foundations of world peace. Fidel Castro and his rebels’ triumphal entry into Havana on New Year’s Day 1959 turned Cuba—if not the world—upside down. President Dwight D. Eisenhower imposed a destructive unilateral embargo after the rebels seized American oil companies. In the early days of the administration of President John F. Kennedy, believing that Castro’s revolution could be destroyed in its infancy, the CIA organized an exile invasion at the Bay of Pigs that became a disastrous failure when the administration refused to provide additional air support. A year later, in October 1962, the Cuban Missile Crisis with the Soviet Union brought us to the brink of nuclear Armageddon. In the 1970s and early 1980s, with the backing of the Soviet Union, Castro was at the peak of his power. A major player in Africa, he was admired by leaders of the developing world for standing up to rich, white governments—notably South Africa and the United States. In Ethiopia, Cuban troops helped defeat the invading armies of Somali dictator Siad Barre. In southern Africa, Cubans fought alongside Angolan and Namibian troops against South Africa, losing as many as five thousand troops over thirteen years. Nelson Mandela, one of the most admired men in the world, said, “The Cuban people hold a special place in the hearts of the peoples of Africa. The Cuban internationalists have made a contribution to African independence, freedom, and justice, unparalleled for its principled selfless character.” He was right; it was Cuban generals, troops, and air power—all underwritten by the Soviet Union—that had defeated the South African Army at the Battle of Cuito Cuanavale in Angola.

  Presidents from both parties had tried to improve relations. Jimmy Carter had briefly lifted the travel ban, but Ronald Reagan reinstated it again in response to Castro’s African adventures. Nevertheless, Reagan authorized the State Department’s head of African Affairs, Chester Crocker, to find a way to remove Cuba from Africa. He and his Soviet counterpart played a critical role in brokering the Tripartite Accords among Angola, Cuba, and South Africa. By the summer of 1991 Cuba had completed the withdrawal of fifty thousand troops from Africa.

  President George H. W. Bush authorized a US delegation to attend the ceremonies in Havana that would recognize the completion of the accords. The head of our interagency delegation, Jeff Davidow, was a career diplomat from the Africa Bureau. I joined the delegation to reassure CANF that no insidious goodwill would creep into the two countries’ antagonistic relationship. They were right to be concerned. The Africa Bureau—like most of the State Department—thought that our Cuba policy was a pawn of Miami’s Cuban American community, who ardently believed that isolating the island would force Castro from power and allow them to return.

  I was pleased to be on my way back to Havana. I enjoyed visiting the lovely but languishing city, and I liked to uncover its architectural treasures, ravaged by time and neglect—the beautiful lines of the cathedral darkened by mold, the lovely mansions overtaken by vines climbing up walls and over once-elegant entrances, and the Malecón—the seawall built by the US Corps of Engineers—where Habaneros sought relief from their constricted lives as they imagined life beyond the wall.

  Our delegation’s first and only meeting with Cuban government officials was at the Palacio de Convenciones de la Habana, an impressive conference complex built to promote Cuba’s standing as a leader in the developing world. Our delegation met the Cubans in a small room, away from the principal building, a massive white structure in Havana’s beautiful suburb of Cubanacan, where the country’s former wealthy elite once lived, and where the revolution’s hierarchy now dwelled. We exchanged greetings, and the Cubans seemed pleased that we were there. But nothing of importance was discussed. Perhaps there was little to be said, or the Cubans were under instructions not to raise their concerns about the economic disaster the country was facing with the breakup of the Soviet Union. It was all rather stiff; we smiled and shook hands, and there were no warm abrazos (hugs). The Cubans didn’t know Davidow, the delegation lead, because a new team had replaced those who negotiated the agreement. Reagan had been replaced by President George H. W. Bush, who was in turn wary of the Cubans, in part because his younger son Jeb’s political base in Florida was founded on the support of conservative Cuban Americans who wished to ensure that Castro’s Cuba would not outlive the dying Soviet Union.

  During the thirty months it had taken Soviet transport vessels to return the Cuban troops from Angola and Namibia, the Castro brothers had lost a little of their luster. General Raúl Castro had tearfully sentenced General Arnaldo Ochoa, the popular hero of Cuba’s successful African wars, and three other high-ranking officials, to death by firing squad. Other officers were given long prisons terms for allegedly participating in drug trafficking. Their trials were part of a purge led by Fidel Castro to ensure the loyalty of the Rev
olutionary Armed Forces and the Ministry of the Interior’s police and secret service. His timing was impeccable, as the trials occurred just a year before the Soviets began reducing their military and financial support to the Cuban armed forces and eventually terminated five billion dollars in subsidies to the Cuban economy.

  Ochoa’s crime was most likely that he was a young, handsome, and charismatic general who posed a potential threat to Fidel. Every Cuban leader who—if even briefly—was a possible replacement for Fidel had been demoted, exiled, imprisoned, and/or executed, beginning with Fidel’s fellow revolutionary leaders. His two principal commanders died in the early years after the revolution. Camilo Cienfuegos, age twenty-seven, perished in the suspicious crash of a small plane, and Ernesto “Che” Guevara, age thirty-nine, was killed during an attempt to lead a peasant revolt in Bolivia. More recently, potential successors such as Ricardo Alarcón, Carlos Lage Dávila, and Felipe Pérez Roque had all lost power, though they had avoided imprisonment or execution.

  Castro must have believed that relations with the United States might improve or at least that the administration of President Bush wouldn’t punish him. He had complied with the Tripartite Accords and brought home fifty thousand Cuban troops from Africa. To celebrate the occasion, he invited delegations from Angola, Namibia, South Africa, the Soviet Union, the United States, and the entire diplomatic corps to celebrate the successful completion of the Tripartite Accords at the Palacio de la Revolución. The massive white building sat behind a huge four-sided tower and memorial dedicated to Cuba’s national hero José Martí. Its 1950s style and the iconic visages of Guevara and Cienfuegos on the front of the two principal buildings gave the impression that this imposing complex, where Castro held massive rallies, had been built by the Communists. In fact, the dictator Fulgencio Batista had ordered the construction of the Plaza Civica, as it was initially named. Before it could be completed, Fidel’s revolutionaries stormed into Havana, forcing Batista and his government to flee.

  In Havana, I was staying with Alan Flanigan, the principal officer of our diplomatic mission, which was known as the US Interests Section. This rather cumbersome name was simply an artifice for what was in fact a small embassy. Use of the name began in 1977 when Carter and Castro reestablished diplomatic relations. American diplomats returned to Havana and began operating out of the old embassy building. The Cubans returned to Washington, DC, to install themselves in their old embassy building, which was located on Sixteenth Street. But to mollify the Cuban diaspora, the agreement stipulated that neither mission would fly their national flags and the level of representation would be less than that of an embassy. Thus, Alan’s job was like that of an ambassador, but at a lower level. He represented our government’s views to the Cubans and managed the work of the Interests Section. As the coordinator or director of Cuban affairs, my job was to back him up and provide policy direction from the State Department. This made me the bad cop, the overseer of our policy of isolating Cuba.

  As Alan and I neared the Plaza de Revolución in his official car, we were directed to a narrow road that circled behind the hill on which stood the tower and statue commemorating Martí. There, partially out of view, was the palace from which Castro and his aides ran the country. Once inside, we were directed to take the elevator to the first floor, where Ricardo Alarcón, then the presumed number four in the Communist Party hierarchy, and president of the National Assembly, greeted us in a spacious ballroom.

  Among the two hundred guests there were only three women: Castro’s young, beautiful interpreter, the Soviet ambassador’s spouse, and myself. It seems surprising now, with women in all spheres of diplomacy, but in the early 1990s there were very few senior women diplomats. There were no women ambassadors present, which implied that there were none in Havana. Spouses had not been included, except for the Soviet ambassador’s wife. It seemed as if Africa and Europe weren’t doing any better than the State Department when it came to placing women in high positions.

  This was my first in-person view of Fidel. He fit the legend, with his green fatigues and beard, but this night had no cigar—a cancer scare had persuaded him to give up smoking. I’d read about him, of course, and knew some of his secrets—his affairs and vanities—as well as the bizarre methods the CIA had deployed to attempt to assassinate him, which included the Mafia dousing his scuba suit with poison powder, and even recruiting a former lover to do the deed (though she was found out by Fidel).

  Castro stood behind the ministers from Angola, Cuba, and South Africa as each signed three documents, one for each government. As the signing dragged on, he began to fidget, adjusting his fatigues, and occasionally making a funny face. He didn’t like being a bit player because he was accustomed to a starring role. It was then that we made eye contact. Fidel, recognizing who I was, glared at me, then frowned slightly. I smiled but, not wanting to be caught staring, quickly looked away. I was surprised to note that he was wearing a bulletproof vest. I couldn’t imagine that there was any danger from these diplomats. Could he be worried about his own people, or was it that the vest appealed to his vanity because it made him appear even bigger? He was certainly larger than most Latin men, possibly one reason why Cubans referred to him as El Caballo (The Horse).

  With the signing finally over, the guests relaxed, sipped drinks, and nibbled canapés. I had been warned that Castro would chat with the delegations in a booming voice so that all his guests could admire his clever repartee. Sometimes he embarrassed his guests by pointing out their ignorance of some obscure topic or by denigrating their government. I wasn’t worried. After all, Castro had never even spoken to Alan Flanigan, who led our mission. If he wanted to talk to an American, it would be Jeff Davidow, our delegation head. I should have known better. I was the diplomat primarily responsible for American policy, and Castro preferred female interlocutors, assuming his formidable charisma would always work in his favor.

  Fidel made a beeline for me. I thought I looked good, and younger than my forty-nine years, in my favorite cream-colored chiffon dress with long sleeves and a skirt that fell just above the knees. Even so, I was relieved that Jeff, our delegation head, intercepted him. Fidel simply looked him up and down and moved on toward me. I might claim that he ignored Jeff because he was so anxious to talk with me. More likely he didn’t want his image spoiled by having to look up to the tall, heavyset American who was bigger than him. Castro intended to present himself as the biggest and most powerful man in the room, an image that would be abetted by talking down to a petite woman.

  Fidel made an erudite observation about Mexico’s agrarian reform program. He didn’t address himself to anyone in particular in our delegation, and one of my colleagues provided a reasonable response. I certainly didn’t have a ready reply. Then Fidel turned toward me. In retrospect, I should have been better prepared, because it made sense for him to target me. I was the “enforcer”—the American official who represented the hated Cuba policy. I could take a message back to Washington or advocate for or against him. What I didn’t imagine was that I’d become a foil for amusing his guests.

  Castro smiled, clearly enjoying a moment where he could hover over the representative of the “empire,” as he called the United States. He then asked in English, “Who are you, someone’s spouse?”

  I was furious. Fidel knew exactly who I was. He knew everything about those of us who managed US policy toward Cuba. I had visited Cuba several times before when I had served as deputy in the Cuba office. He might have missed the fact that I had been promoted to director, but he absolutely knew I was not “someone’s spouse.”

  As I drew myself up for an appropriately outraged reply, I realized that the entire room was listening. No matter. I stood as tall as possible—at five feet, five inches—and announced boldly, “No. I am the director of Cuban affairs.”

  Fidel, now purring with pleasure, surveyed the room to ensure that no one would miss his next words. He boomed, “Oh? I thought I was!” My delegation was speec
hless; I was angry and embarrassed. Fidel moved on, having skewered me.

  I took a glass of something, smiling ruefully at my colleagues. As I stood sipping the drink, I was relieved to no longer be the center of attention. Just as I was thinking that perhaps this job wasn’t the right fit, security guards asked me to accompany them. Fidel was waiting at the entrance to the buffet. He offered me his arm. I swallowed my pride and took it. The other diplomats gasped.

  Fortunately, this was 1991—there were no media on hand and no cell phones to record Fidel and I arm in arm. Diplomacy still took place largely behind closed doors, in private. Diplomats still lived in a world where personal relations counted for a lot—where an angry word from John Foster Dulles in Cairo had been strong enough to push an ally into the arms of the Soviet Union, and a smile from Jackie Kennedy could charm the hearts of Parisians. Had the ever-wary Cuban diaspora seen this, I would have been fired instantly. They were always on the lookout for a friendly smile or handshake that might indicate some lessening of hostilities.

  A few minutes earlier, Fidel had mocked me; now we were leading the diplomats into dinner, in the tradition of rulers leading their subjects to a banquet table. In this case, I hoped that I wasn’t being led to something worse. I realized that, without intending to, I’d become Castro’s foil. I desperately wanted to say something clever so that I could redeem myself, but before I could think of anything, Fidel gave a slight bow, indicating that I should lead the guests in filling their plates with Cuban delicacies. I hesitated, then walked along the long table, which was covered by a sparkling white tablecloth. I took a few shrimps from the scrumptious display of lobster, roast beef, ham, and traditional Cuban delicacies that included Moros y Cristianos (Moors and Christians, the name for beans and rice), platanos (fried plantains), and ropa vieja (sautéed beef). I felt a bit uneasy knowing that Cubans, who were already suffering from the diminishing Soviet subsidies, did not have enough to eat. They weren’t allowed to traffic in lobster and shrimp, even if they had harvested the catch themselves; these delicacies were reserved for the government and its guests. Cubans were jailed if caught selling shellfish. There was little fresh produce available in the open-air farmers’ markets, and none in the tiny, dingy, stores with unhappy clerks, where the people used their government-issued ration cards to buy tinned meat and root crops. Their lives were hard. Some were so desperate that they raised pigs in their apartments, cutting the animals’ vocal cords to avoid problems with the neighbors.