viernes, 10 de diciembre de 2010
Remembering Celia Hart Santamaria
Left to right: Dmitri Prieto, Pável Alemán, Celia Hart, Tato Quiñones, Hiram Hernández, Carlos Simón. Backs: León Ferrera and Andrés Mir. (UNEAC, March 12, 2005, at the symposium “The Other Legacies of October.”
The first year since the death of Celia Hart Santamaría is now being commemorated. She died in one of those absurd automobile accidents that astonish us.
Celia was the daughter two legendary figures of the Cuban revolutionary struggle: Haydée Santamaría and Armando Hart.
Moreover, she was given her first name in homage to another revolutionary woman: Celia Sánchez. The family Hart-Santamaría was itself a product of the revolution. Haydée’s first boyfriend (anarcho-syndicalist Boris Luis Santa Coloma) was murdered after the attack on the Barracks Moncada, as was her brother Abel Santamaría, the second in command of the action (after Fidel Castro).
The Santamaría family has been marked forever by the deeds of July 26, 1953. This was something you felt when you spoke with Celia, whose mother committed suicide on that same date in 1980.
She spoke to me as someone who shared the same principals by virtue of a blood duty with a tradition of fighting. She liked to emphasize the libertarian-socialist militancy of her mother’s earlier boyfriend, as well as the similarity of the colors of the July 26th Movement’s flag with those of the anarchists.
Celia said she was a “Trotskera,” coming from “rockera”, meaning a female who is a rock-music fan, not a Trotskyist. In fact, I met her at the Havana Book Fair in one of those stalls of Trotskyist publishers that I wrote about in a previous Havana Times article. It was then that first began our bond of affection and friendship, reinforced by my role as coordinator of a cultural initiative that takes the name of Celia’s mother: The Haydée Santamaría Autonomous Collective.
Celia was never a member of the group, but we invited her to participate in an event that we organized at the conference room of the National Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba (UNEAC). It was the first event organized in Cuba dedicated specifically to an analysis of the crisis and fall of “real socialism.” It was titled “The Other Legacies of [the Russian Revolution of] October.” At this symposium, Celia presented the Trotskyist perspective on this subject.
Celia considered herself “Trotskera,” and not a Trotskyist, because Trotskyism as a unique movement no longer exists. To be politically active in it one has to join one of the countless international organizations that are usually at odds with each other, and Celia was organically opposed to that.
Also, along with Trotsky, it was inevitable that Celia would refer to José Martí, Ernesto “Che” Guevara and other revolutionaries. But Celia used to always speak about how her father had made her read the biography of Trotsky by Isaac Deutscher after her return from studying in the German Democratic Republic, where Celia had lost confidence in Euro-Soviet model of socialism.
Thanks to Deutscher and Trotsky, Celia discovered the possibility that alternative models of socialism exist. The biography that she had – according to Celia – was kept locked away, because in those times in Cuba you could not mention the name of Trotsky in public. Today it is indeed possible – in certain venues in Cuba – to speak of various paths of socialism.
Celia had a contentious personality, but – incredibly – we did not get into heated arguments about issues, even when it was clear I didn’t share many of her ideas, opinions and assessments.
For me, the problems of Cuba have deeper roots than those Celia pointed out. But it was pleasant to note that even beyond our ideological discrepancies we were able to maintain a healthy dialogue. Likewise, we both perceived the black holes of the threadbare hypocritical and opportunist discourse that is clearly doing so much damage to Cuba. In that Celia and I agreed.
She used to say, jokingly, that she was the “Princess of the Cuban Revolution,” and I sometimes referred to her as “Your highness, comrade Celia Hart y Santa-María.” There was something of truth in that; the meetings at Celia’s house, the French wine and her readings out loud of e-mail messages from Cuban Five prisoner Antonio Guerrero are occasions things that will never again be repeated.
One of her writings that she shared with me in one of our last encounters was titled, “The Last Flight of the Santamarias.” I asked her why such an apocalyptic tone concerning her family. She responded with something related to the July 26th Movement and her mother’s suicide. I didn’t quite get the point. Those points are probably not for understanding.
When I returned from London, with no more delay I devoted myself to completing my Master’s thesis about how a revolution can become a new dominant system (the case study was on Haiti). It was then – that fateful September of last year – that one night I received a call from my friend and Havana Times writer Armando Chaguaceda, who told me that Celia Hart Santamaría was no longer with us.
Celia believed herself to belong to the World Revolution. She lived in a difficult period for Cuba and for revolutionaries. Her last names protected her; but she was able to work beyond her last names, or better said, to make them authentic for a new generation. Now she is free.
Dmitri Prieto-Samsonov: I define myself as being either Cuban-Russian or Russian-Cuban, indiscriminately. I was born in Moscow in 1972 of a Russian mother and a Cuban father. I lived in the USSR until I was 13, although I was already familiar with Cuba-- where we would take our vacation almost every year. I currently live on the fifth floor of an apartment building in Santa Cruz del Norte, near the sea. I’ve studied biochemistry and law in Havana and anthropology in London. I’ve written about molecular biology, philosophy and anarchism, although I enjoy reading more than writing. I am currently teaching in the Agrarian University of Havana. I believe in God and in the possibility of a free society. Together with other people, that’s what we’re into: breaking down walls and routines.