Looking through the Museo de la Revolucion in downtown Havana, tourist and Cubans alike are to be found marvelling at the artefacts, documents and antique weapons of Castro’s 1950s revolution.
The famous yacht Granma, used to bring 81 revolutionaries across the turbulent Caribbean from Mexico, has been repaired and placed in a kind of exhibit-greenhouse across the way from the museum. Visitors struggling with the Caribbean heat can climb onto a plinth and squint through at the old boat under the watchful gaze of deadly earnest young soldiers. Parked around the hulking and encased vessel are tanks, planes and military vehicles of the era. A bright red truck stands out from the rest, with ‘Rapid Delivery’ painted in English on the side. The relic is riddled with bullet holes, leaving the visitor to wonder what in fact the truck delivered with so much haste.
Curios aside, the enduring image of this place is undoubtedly the man photographed at every stage of the revolution. Battling up jungle mountain paths lugging weapons and equipment, perched atop the advancing tanks, through thick and thin, Fidel’s determined countenance never appears anything but imperious. He towers over his warriors in each grainy still: a forceful young man in black and white, commanding, indomitable, bullet-proof and immune to defeat.
Romanticised image and idealised courage have been tools shrewdly employed by the state, of course, in the great tradition of communist propaganda. Fidel, like Stalin and Mao before him, is well-versed in the cult of personality and has elevated his companeros to hero status. Che Guevara, forever the symbol of rebellious resistance - Hasta la Victoria Siempre! - and his loyal comrade Camilo Cienfuegos, are forever enshrined and immortalized in a thousand street names, statues and iconic black and whites.
More recently Cuba added Vilma Espin Galois to the pantheon of patriotic heroes. The recently-deceased President of the Federation of Cuban Women was wife to Raul Castro and active participant in the 1950s revolutionary battles. Her death marked another milestone in the passing of the Cuban old guard and the perpetuation of the national myth.
Every town in Cuba paid tribute to Vilma midway through June 2007. She was eulogised as the creator of the ‘revolution within the revolution’: a campaigner for women’s rights and guiding figure for rights and dignity within Cuba. Having played her own part in the uncertain actions of the 1950s, she later went on to establish the ‘Circulos Infantiles’, a national system of crèches where women could leave their children in care in order to work.
Amidst genuine sadness and international tributes, inside the country the familiar party propaganda machine could be felt moving into high gear. Emotionally charged documentaries were aired and powerful interviews with the common people of Cuba filmed to emphasize sorrowful solidarity. Granma, Cuba’s state-run newspaper, was given over almost in its entirety to obituary and testament, and on camera representatives of the nation mournfully extolled Vilma’s saintly qualities. Behind the shots could always be seen hundreds upon hundreds of grief-stricken people, filing past as one to pay tribute and lay flowers.
Moments like this demonstrate how anachronistic Cuba has survived thus far in a world of consumerism and democracy. The leaders, be they dead or fast aging, have been carefully portrayed as benign and shining role models, impossibly heroic. Duty, sacrifice and solidarity have become the binding concrete of the nation state. But as admirable as these values may be, the overall sense is of a nation stuck socially and politically in another age. As such, it is a model surely doomed to a sad demise.
