“Forgiving is not forgetting. Forgiving is remembering without pain.” – Celia Cruz
On July 16, 2003, Úrsula Hilaria Celia de la Caridad Cruz Alfonso passed away at the age of 77 after a long illness. Her millions of fans worldwide mourned her death. Large Cuban exile communities in Miami, Florida and Hoboken, New Jersey experienced particularly strong waves of grief. She was better known under her stage name, Celia Cruz, the Queen of Salsa.
Celia Cruz on the U.S. Quarter
Next month on August 12, 2024 the U.S. Mint will begin to circulate her image on the U.S. quarter. under the American Women Quarters Program. Twenty one years after her passing she remains a cultural icon, but her legacy is contested by some, and misrepresented by others.
The mourning for Celia in 2003 was nearly universal, except in her homeland Cuba where the official media printed a small note on her passing recognizing Celia as an “important Cuban performer who popularized our country’s music in the United States,” it went on to say that “during the last four decades, she was systematically active in campaigns against the Cuban revolution generated in the United States.”
Unfortunately, the Smithsonian Institution’s March 5, 2020 video titled “Why Is Celia Cruz Called the Queen of Salsa? #BecauseOfHerStory” does not explain the Castro regime’s hostility toward Celia Cruz, her refusal to bow to Fidel Castro, her legacy defending freedom of expression, or the high price she paid. Ariana A. Curtis, curator at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture, is interviewed by a student identified as Mincy, who conflates Celia’s history with the immigration experience in America. Celia was a Cuban exile barred from returning to her homeland by the Castro dictatorship, and her music is still banned in Cuba today. This is the misleading portion of the interview that describes her departure from Cuba:
“Ariana A. Curtis: Because especially during the early 1960s when she left, that was right after the Cuban Revolution, you know. And so Cuba was in the news a lot about politics, and about socialism, and about military things. But she really wanted to be able to show this “other side” of Cuba, right. The arts and culture side. And so she definitely used her style, sort of like satin dresses with the ruffles, and like these long trains.
Mincy: People migrate here and they tend to change their names and change who they are so that they can get jobs or so that they can get opportunities. So they hide that part of themselves in order to like grow in this country, it’s so important that we have an example that Celia Cruz did not hide herself.”
Setting the record straight
This omits much of Celia’s past and could be interpreted as an Orwellian rewriting that the Castro government would embrace because it accomplishes something the Queen of Salsa never did: it conceals who she truly was. And this process had been ongoing for several years prior to this interview. This is concerning since the Smithsonian Institution is funded by American taxpayers and should not be producing such bad content to advance a false narrative.
Celia decided to live and perform in freedom, which meant leaving Cuba during the Castro dictatorship. Fidel Castro attempted to force the salsa singer to pay him homage, but she refused. Salserísimo Perú, a Youtube site founded by three Peruvian journalists to disseminate knowledge on salsa and tropical music, provides a more comprehensive and accurate history than the Smithsonian Institution. The following is an account of Celia Cruz’s first “encounter” with Fidel Castro.
“In the early months of 1959, Celia Cruz was hired to sing with a pianist at the house of the Cuban businessman Miguel Angel Quevedo. Quevedo owned the magazine Bohemia, the most influential in Cuba and who had supported the revolution in the last few years. The guerrilla movement with a certain Fidel Castro in front proclaimed in Santiago the beginning of the revolution. At that moment Celia enjoyed great popularity for “Yebero Moderno”, “Tu voz” and “Burundanga” songs she had recorded with the Sonora Matancera. As a guest artist of Rogelio Martinez’s group the Guarachera (Celia) was free to accept other contracts as a soloist. This allowed her to show her talent on different radio stations in Havana, and perform in Mexico, Venezuela, and Peru. Since the regime of Fidel took power, it had begun to systematically seize businesses, radio and television stations. [Fidel Castro speaking: ‘The revolution was something like a hope and that joy, possibly, prevented us from thinking all that we still had to do.’ For the Guarechera, Fidel was ending free expression and the arts in her country. The night of the show in the home of Quevedo, Celia was singing standing next to the pianist, when suddenly the guests started to run to the front door of the house. Fidel Castro had arrived. Neither she nor the pianist moved and continued singing. Suddenly, Quevedo approached Celia and told her that Fidel wanted to meet her because in his guerrilla days, when he cleaned his rifle he was listening to Burundanga. Celia replied that she had been hired to sing next to the piano, and that was her place. If Fidel wanted to meet her, he would have to come to her. But the commandant did not do that.”
Castro barred Celia Cruz from visiting her dying mother
Since Celia Cruz refused to bow to the new dictator, and wanted to continue to live the life of a free artist, she had to leave Cuba on July 15, 1960. However, when her mom was ill she tried to return to see her in 1962, but was barred from entering the country by Fidel Castro. When her mother died Celia was again blocked by the dictatorship from attending her funeral. Because she was not an active supporter of the regime, her music was banned in Cuba.
Celia Cruz together with the Sonora Matancera.
Music still banned in Cuba today
Regime apologists and their agents of influence have attempted to pretend that things have changed with regards to artistic freedom.
On August 8, 2012 BBC News reported that Cuba’s ban on anti-Castro musicians had been quietly lifted and on August 10 the BBC correspondent in Cuba, Sarah Rainsford, tweeted that she had been given names of forbidden artists by the central committee and the internet was a buzz that the ban on anti-Castro musicians had been quietly lifted. Others soon followed reporting on the news. The stories specifically mentioned Celia Cruz as one of the artists whose music would return to Cuban radio.
There was only one problem. It was not true. Diario de Cuba reported on August 21, 2012 that Tony Pinelli, a well known musician and radio producer, distributed an e-mail in which Rolando Álvarez, the national director of the Cuban Institute of Radio and Television Instituto Cubano de Radio y Televisión (ICRT) confirmed that the music of the late Celia Cruz would continue to be banned. The e-mail clearly stated: “All those who had allied with the enemy, who acted against our families, like Celia Cruz, who went to sing at the Guantanamo Base, the ICRT arrogated to itself the right, quite properly, not to disseminate them on Cuban radio ”
Celia is in good company. Other major Cuban artists who have had their music banned by the Castro regime are Olga Guillot, Rolando Lecuona, Paquito D’Rivera, Arturo Sandoval, Israel Cachao López, Ramón “Mongo” Santamaría, Mario Bauza, Arsenio Rodríguez, Willy Chirino, and Gloria Estefan.
Cuban cultural genocide
According to the 2004 book Shoot the Singer!: Music Censorship Today edited by Marie Korpe, there is growing concern that post-revolution generations in Cuba are growing up without knowing or hearing censored musicians such as Celia Cruz, Olga Guillot, and the long list above. This could lead to a loss of Cuban identity in future generations. This approach has been referred to as a Cuban cultural genocide, denying generations of Cubans their history.
The Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture should provide the complete story of Celia Cruz, rather than the politically correct version currently presented on YouTube. Meanwhile, supporters of freedom and beautiful music may commemorate her entire life and legacy through her music, and speaking up for jailed Cuban artists today, who like Celia spoke out for freedom, such as prisoners of conscience Maykel “Osorbo” Castillo Pérez and Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara.
Cuban Headlines, July 15, 2024
The Day Celia Cruz Was Banned by Fidel Castro and Exiled Forever
Monday, July 15, 2024 by James Rodriguez
On July 15, 1960, the legendary Cuban singer Celia Cruz had breakfast with her mother in Havana for the last time. She promised to return to Cuba by Christmas and boarded a flight to Mexico, but she was never able to fulfill that promise. “They started calling us to board the plane, and without knowing it was the last time, I felt the Cuban sun shining in that sky. I turned back and saw Ollita (her mother) smiling on the terminal terrace, and I blew her a kiss,” the singer recounted in her autobiography.
Celia Cruz left Cuba for an artistic tour with La Sonora Matancera. What was initially meant to be a brief absence turned into a permanent exile. By October 1960, the political situation on the island had become more radicalized, and the regime led by Fidel Castro did not, and still does not, tolerate dissent or criticism.
Celia Cruz’s fame grew over the years, and she became a public figure with a stance against the regime. The refusal to allow her return was a clear message of the Cuban government’s absolute control over any form of opposition. During her exile, the Queen of Salsa emerged as a symbol of resistance and the fight for a free Cuba. Her visit to the U.S. naval base in Guantanamo is remembered with great emotion.
In a highly symbolic act, Celia knelt and picked up a handful of Cuban soil in her hands, taking a piece of her homeland with her. This gesture, more than an act of nostalgia, was a declaration of love for her country and a rejection of the regime that forbade her return.
Throughout her life, Celia Cruz expressed her sorrow for not being able to return to Cuba, not even to bury her mother. The regime not only exiled her physically but also attempted to erase her cultural legacy within the country. However, her music and spirit continue to live on.
In the current context that Cuba is experiencing, it is important to remember Celia Cruz not only as an extraordinary artist but also as a voice that never stopped denouncing injustice and oppression. Her forced exile is a testament to the authoritarian regime that has ruled the island for more than six decades, keeping thousands of Cubans away from their country, their families, and their homeland.
The Impact of Celia Cruz’s Exile
To better understand the significance of Celia Cruz’s exile and her enduring legacy, here are some frequently asked questions and their answers.
Why was Celia Cruz exiled from Cuba?
Celia Cruz was exiled from Cuba because of her dissent against Fidel Castro’s regime. Her growing fame and public stance against the government made her a target, resulting in a permanent ban from returning to her homeland.
How did Celia Cruz become a symbol of resistance?
Through her music and public statements, Celia Cruz became a symbol of resistance against the Cuban regime. Her unwavering love for her country and her outspoken criticism of the government resonated with many Cubans in exile and those still on the island.
EL PAIS English July 14th, 2024
Luis Manuel Otero, Cuba’s most famous political prisoner, speaks from jail: ‘I’ll either be a martyr, or I’ll leave the island’
By Carla Gloria Colomé
July 14, 2024
Three years after the July 11 protests — the largest in Cuba since the early years of the Revolution — the dissident artist speaks with EL PAÍS
The artist — Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara — has been given a few minutes to make his Tuesday call. He grabs a public phone in the Guanajay Maximum Security Prison, located on the outskirts of Havana.
At 1:05 p.m., the performance artist answers some questions from EL PAÍS for as long as the prison authorities allow. Otero Alcántara is the most famous political prisoner in Cuba, and — as he puts it — “the most dangerous” for the government. When Cubans, tired of their leader, thought they could haven’t one of their own, the figure of Luis Manuel — a self-taught artist — emerged from the impoverished and majority-Black neighborhood of El Cerro, in Havana.
His catchphrase — “we are all connected” — his challenging performances, his multiple arrests, his hunger strikes and, finally, the destruction of his house made him a subject of interest among Cubans, both those on the island and in the diaspora. His residence also acted as the headquarters of the well-known San Isidro Movement. Formed in 2018, it’s made up of Cuban artists, journalists and academics, who protest the censorship of artistic expression.
In September 2021, his face appeared among Time magazine’s 100 most influential people, alongside the Russian opposition activist Alexei Navalny, the pop star Britney Spears, the tennis player Naomi Osaka and the Puerto Rican singer Bad Bunny. “His unignorable fight for freedom of expression and his uncompromising stance against autocracy reveal the power of resistance,” wrote Chinese artist Ai Weiwei, in the pages of that publication. “His life, behavior and expression as a whole are so powerful that they can resist the esthetic and ethical degeneration of authoritarianism.”
The last time Otero Alcántara walked through the streets of Havana was on July 11, 2021.
That was the day of the largest anti-government demonstration in Cuba since the early years of the Cuban Revolution. Thousands of Cubans took to the streets, while thousands ended up becoming political prisoners.
Three years after he was jailed — with a sentence of five years for the alleged crimes of contempt, insulting national symbols and fostering public disorder — Otero Alcántara recalls the moment in which the Cuban police arrested him on Paseo del Prado, a major promenade in Havana. He was on his way to join the demonstrations. He says that the day began as one of the happiest in his life.
Question. Do you have any particular memories of July 11, 2021, the last day before your imprisonment?
Answer. Yes. It had been a good week. We were working, putting together a kind of first aid kit to bring medicines to Cuba, due to Covid-19. And, that day — like many others — I was also surprised that there were that many people on the street. [Initially], I believed that what was happening was normal. Around that time, it was relatively common for people to go out to protest, because there was no water. But these were small protests. That day — at the headquarters of the San Isidro Movement — many people told me: ‘Luis Manuel, gather people, gather them.’ And I’ve never really believed that I have the power to summon a crowd, in the way that people believe I can.
I went into the streets, into the daylight, without a phone, disconnected from everything. That was one of the happiest days of my life. In fact, when [the police] detained me and put me in a patrol car with three officers, the patrol car’s radio was announcing: “Hey, thousands of people are coming down San Lázaro Street, thousands of people are coming down Trillo Park.” And, at that moment, I said: “Well, it looks like things have really gone down.” And the patrol driver told me: “But you’re not going to be there.” And I told him: “I don’t need to be there, I’ve already done what I set out to do.” Next to me, there was a young police officer wearing a face mask. He made a sign, as if to tell me that “we’re connected.”
Q. At one point, you became the best-known — and, probably, the most-followed person — in all of Cuba. What do you think led to you occupying such a space?
A. I’ve never seen myself as a handsome guy, [even though] some people see me as being a bit handsome… the same thing happens with this. I first started out with the need to make art: it’s an illness, it’s my vice, something that I believe in. I believe in that, in the love of others. Since I was a child, I always had that worry: being worried about others, worried about the child who didn’t have anything, even though I didn’t have anything. If I had a single peso, I split it with the person next to me.
I have that in me, and it’s not a curse, but sometimes, it’s a kind of non-blessing, because being worried about others means that I’m not in Hawaii, living like another type of artist of my generation. But there’s a responsibility towards the other that never leaves me. I’m one of the happiest guys in the world. My happiness comes when I do something for others. And that comes intrinsically, it’s within me. From that place, I make art that’s committed to reality. And, many times, that same reality has tested me.
I went to Madrid. I could have stayed. I could have chosen the path of easy art, of painting flowers, or making a type of political art that was simply a discourse and that didn’t activate real content within reality, that didn’t shake up reality. Art can alter reality if you, as an artist, want it to do so. Otherwise, [your art] becomes a political caricature. With [that mindset], I continued working. That’s when I realized that many of us were connected, we were on the same level. Also, due to a certain madness that I have, I resist aggression differently. And also because of the leadership vacuum in Cuba, many people put me in that place. It was a mix of things: a certain charisma that I think I have, the artwork that makes an impact, a commitment to people.
Contemporary reality isn’t rigid. And being an artist, having certain freedoms, allows me to encompass a little more than if I had been a politician… something that implies behaving in a way, dressing in a certain way. I love freedom above all.
Q. What does freedom mean to you? How imprisoned are you, how free are you?
A. I’m in prison, of course. Freedom is a construction, in the sense that it’s built on a day-by-day basis. You’re not free, you’re a little more free than yesterday, a little less than tomorrow…
Within that construction, you’re always losing possibilities. For example, I have to go to bed at a certain hour, get up at a certain hour. I live behind bars, I can only speak [on the phone] twice a week. Out on the streets, you can always chat, you can drink cold water, you can have sex. In the spaces that tell you that “you are not free,” all these [possibilities] are taken away from you. Here, [in prison], there’s someone who decides how you dress, how short or long your hair is, how you shave. You lose all of these freedoms when you’re imprisoned, as I am.
Luckily, I can paint in here. I think it’s one of the few spaces where I have my own freedom. [The authorities] didn’t want to [interfere with this], because if they were to do that, they know that it would kill me. I think that, thanks to art, painting, drawing, I’ve been able to survive these three years. I continue to draw, paint, make things. I have many ongoing projects, dealing with things that take me back to my childhood: childhood traumas, sex during childhood, mistreatment by teachers. In three years, I’ve done a lot. I come up with an idea probably every week. Without [my art], in this confinement, I would be like a sparrow: I would have thrown myself against the bars a long time ago.
Q. In the past, you’ve said that you’ll accept exile — leaving Cuba — in exchange for being released. But if you were to serve your entire sentence, would you still leave Cuba?
A. First of all, two years ago, I agreed to leave as an option to continue working. Working as a form of struggle, of course, because I’m a fighting animal. I’m going to continue fighting, not only against [the authorities], but against all evils: against racism, homophobia. Art is the tool that God — or whatever’s out there — provided me as a human being. From that point onwards, I’ll be an eternal fighter — and an eternal resister — in the face of what I believe is wrong.
I never thought of leaving, but the regime has insinuated that there’s no option for me to walk through the streets of Cuba, because of the threat they’ve made me believe I am, or that people believe I am. I realize that the art I make represents a danger for them. The options are between exile, or remaining [in Cuba] and always being in trouble.
Just as they built me these five years out of nothing — out of falsehoods — they could easily build another five or 10 years, it wouldn’t be an issue for them. So, I choose exile. But I don’t want to leave Cuba. That’s the big problem: I’ll either be a martyr, or I’ll be outside of Cuba. I can’t find any other way out.
Q. How do you imagine the day you finally get out of prison? What’s the first thing you plan to do?
A. [In my mind], the day they release me seems like a work of art, a rigid canvas. I imagine that I’m going to go through a complicated process, lasting two or three days, going through different places until I reach exile. Of course, that’s in case they release me soon, because if one more day passes [beyond my sentence], I plan to go on my big hunger strike.
I really don’t want to leave Cuba. I’ve never wanted to leave, but it’s an option to be able to continue working and doing things. In the worst case scenario, I’ve always thought of becoming a martyr: having a school named after me, having the name of the San Alejandro school replaced with Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara.
If things turn out ok, if I make it out alive, that day will be one of the happiest of my life. I’m not going to hate anyone. It’s going to be a reunion with all my friends, with my family, being able to breathe, being able to walk, being free. I’ll let people see the work I’ve done these past three years, because, of course, the only thing I’ll leave here with is all the artwork from this time.
This confinement could end in many ways. My thought is of a happy ending, in which I reunite with all the people I love and continue to work. Then, the great performance will be to isolate myself for three days… to get rid of all the hatred, all the darkness, tear off all my clothes and only keep [the Cuban] flag.
Q. In the three years that you’ve been in prison, Cuba has further deteriorated. Do you know that you’ll probably return to a country that’s even worse-off than before?
A. Of course. I’m a guy who’s concerned with the Cuban reality. I can’t talk to you as I would have talked to you three years ago, because I’m a very down-to-earth guy; I like to walk the streets and feel the pulse of what’s happening on the ground. By looking at people’s faces, I’m able to see what’s happening. I haven’t checked in for three years: I get a visitor once a month. I ask questions, people around you make comments. But that talent that I think I have — to be able to walk through the streets and perceive how the Cuban ecosystems work — I’ve been cut off from that.
I know that the reality is getting worse. And that’s why I know that, every day, I’m more dangerous. That’s why they’re not going to let me walk through the Cuban streets. I no longer have the fear that you’re supposed to have of prison, of a space like this, which I already see as relatively normal. My body has already adapted. They know that I’m dangerous: they’re not going to kill me, because they know that becoming a martyr is part of my reality.
The other thing is that this cycle — as an experience — no longer generates anything for me. [I’ve been arrested many times]. Before this, I would go into prison, I would come out of prison… it no longer impacts me. Now, all I think it does is help me be even more creative.