My Freedom Is On the Razor’s Edge
HAVANA TIMES – When you find yourself unjustly locked in a cell without knowing when you’ll be able to leave… that’s the moment you grasp the full worth of freedom. There’s no doubt that after life itself, that’s the most precious thing we have. As a result, discovering that your freedom is very fragile, that you could lose it without ever having done anything wrong, or even for doing what’s right, is a terrible, gut-wrenching moment.
An extreme situation causes you to reflect a great deal, and it puts your character, convictions, and the nerves you suffer to the test. That’s been my experience several times in my 50 years of life, the last 13 years of them engaged in civic activism. And it’s been that way more specifically in the past few days.
I found myself forced by ethics and justice, despite all good judgement and my instinct for self-preservation, to denounce on the internet, specifically on the Facebook social network, a municipal functionary who was abusing her power for the umpteenth time. This challenged my patience and my capacity to endure the abuses and humiliations, and, in truth, I had no choice but to do what I did, since the situation was by now unbearable.
She’s an inspector – one of those they call “comprehensive,” also known as the “bullwhip of Cuba’s private sector.” That army of State collection agents, who bombard the private businesses and the self-employed with elevated fines for any and all insignificant details, or for not complying with the hundreds of mostly unnecessary regulations that only serve to make a lapse, and thus a fine, unavoidable.
In my town right now, as in all the country’s municipalities, the private sector works under constant dread of the successive, surprise inspections that screen the businesses in search of high-level fines to levy – fines that will then fatten the State’s collections and help heal their thinning finances. These are disguised as “campaigns against illegalities,” using populist slogans like: “protecting the people from abusive prices.”
Every month brings a “scheduled” inspection to each business, but at several other times they come back for extra examinations: reinspecting and re-reinspecting, as part of so-called “exercises” of a municipal, provincial and national character. It’s all a macabre plan to skim off the profits of the private businesses with plans for preestablished fines, levied by municipal officials who receive salary bonuses according to the amount of money they collect. A master plan, no doubt. The plundering industry has always been a very profitable one.
However, just as there are all kinds of people, there are also all kinds of inspectors – the moderate ones and the extremists. For those who harbor ill intentions, it’s really an excellent opportunity to abuse and do a lot of harm. With a pen and a receipt book for fines, insignia pinned on the chest and totally legal, an abusive inspector can destroy a business in ten minutes flat.
And there’s no way to rebel, since we’re helpless, with no legal protection, while they have everything in their favor to remain unpunished. In the face of any protest, they simply call the police and you find yourself in the middle of a problem; and if you’re feeling heated, or let out some strong word amid the confusion, they accuse you of “an assault,” and you will always lose any trial, with a year of house arrest at a minimum. That’s what happens.
My case, however, was still worse. Even my equanimity was of no use, my vows of non-violence, my patience and my pedagogical spirit, tested against extremists. Among all the Mayari inspectors, one in particular stands out. It’s always like that. She searches for fines like a prospector looking at a gold mine and always applies the upper limit, the highest possible fine, without caring how ridiculous or insignificant the infraction may be: a price-tag that the wind blew out of place; a receipt stained by the rain during transportation; a tax payment delayed due to the lack of electricity in the bank. It’s all the same to her.
You can’t come back empty-handed, so you pretend to be a police officer with a search warrant, and check bags and boxes that are not within your jurisdiction. Your actions go unhindered due to the terror you instill in those you inspect. If anyone objects, they’re threatened with three or four potentially exorbitant fines that could also be imposed, and the person ends up accepting any huge and unfair fine, which – in the face of that destructive alternative – now seem minor and insignificant, even though they strip you of your weekly earnings.
Tired of situations like this with the abusive, or excessively abusive, inspector, without offending or insulting her, I left my business after letting her do what she wanted (what choice did I have?). I took a picture of her, then went home, opened my Facebook page, and posted the photo, along with my complaint, taking care with my words. The post immediately went viral locally, and hundreds of entrepreneurs and workers in state-owned businesses and restaurants dared to denounce her through this medium for her many abuses.
That happened at 11 a.m. That same afternoon, I was informally summoned to the police station. I was prepared to defend the exceptions allowed for social media privacy under the strict Cuban legislation. However, to my great surprise, I discovered that the inspector was not only abusive in issuing fines, but also petty to the point of inventing an alleged crime that I did not commit. She lied, saying that I had uttered words aimed at intimidating her while she was inspecting, and accused me of an attack.
It was hard to wrap my head around this – I never expected such low blows. Meanwhile, I listened to the police preparing my imminent arrest and the order to wait for the trial in prison. Under the Cuban pre-trial measures, that meant they’d hold me for the two or three months preceding the trial. I asked to speak to the chief of police. Luckily, he understood my arguments and – almost like a miracle – let me go home, with a summons to appear two days later.
During this interval, I made a direct, live Facebook broadcast that also went viral locally. In it. I was able to explain the details of the case, trying to throw a little light on the ones who would adjudicate my freedom, in order to avoid a mechanical legal process in an evidently fabricated case.
I returned on the 25th and was detained. The cell was dark and the conditions subhuman, but I was already familiar with this fact from two previous detentions for exercising independent journalism. By now, though, the case was already more viral and, as I learned, the Ministry of Interior had decided to investigate the inspector as well, in the face of so many complaints in the comments of my posts and several witnesses who corroborated my innocence.
Still, all seemed lost. We all fear being taken to court and as always happens, being found guilty and sentenced. It’s nearly axiomatic that if a woman or a functionary accuses you of an assault, the process goes to court and you’re sent before the judge, or at least sit in prison while awaiting trial, no matter how dubious the accusation. In my case, the two things converged: I was accused by a woman and a functionary.
I had made a new sacrifice in the name of freedom of expression; because, in the end, that’s what it was, a reprisal for having dared to create that post. But suddenly, nine hours later, they let me go home, to wait for the investigation in freedom. It was a highly unusual step, because the social phenomenon that had formed around the denunciation was also highly unusual, as were the repercussions from putting me on trial despite being innocent.
I’ve always enjoyed a high degree of social prestige and have maintained close ties with my community, despite the fear that publicly expressing opposition causes in most people, who are generally tied to the state in one way or another. Having the courage to denounce the abuse of an inspector so despised by the people of Mayari has multiplied my prestige much more, sometimes to a degree I find exaggerated.
It’s almost uncomfortable to walk down the street and note the stares of people, the murmurs of approval when they recognize me from the post of the live broadcast, because the latter has been even more popular. It’s the same feeling when I appear as a customer at any business, and right away note the gratitude and approval of the entrepreneurs and their workers, who right away raise the subject.
Still, that’s the only thing that compensates for the uncertainty of a case that is still under investigation – luckily, from both sides – and with the danger still latent. I lost my freedom for nine hours of undeserved prison and afterwards, even though I have it back again, I’m still on the razor’s edge. The outcome depends on whether the sense of justice, as well as political “prudence,” will prevail, both inseparable components of the Cuban judicial procedures. We’ll see.