Since Cuba’s television networks cut back on the production of telenovelas (soap operas) a good while back, the past few months they’ve been showing reruns of the popular police series “Día y Noche” (Day and Night), originally broadcast several years ago.
In this series is a character known as “Tavo” (short for Octavio), who is an agent of the Revolutionary National Police (PNR) with the mission of infiltrating the ranks of the murky Cuban underworld of the 1990s.
Previously here in Cuba, people who “snitched,” “blew the whistle,” or betrayed someone (however one wishes to call the act of informing on a fellow human) were known as chivas (literally “goats,” for their loud crying). However, since Tavo appeared on our TV screens, we’ve added his name as a synonym for informer.
There are several details about both this character and the series in general that attract one’s attention.
On one hand, like in the famous novel “El hombre que fue jueves” (The Man Who Was Thursday), a new chiva appears in almost all of the episodes; that’s to say, figures who seem to be criminals but really aren’t. It turns out they’re undercover police informants.
It’s not necessary to belong to the PNR to be a chiva. These are often people who have other occupations and carry out this “work” voluntarily.
After watching episode after episode, you begin to get the feeling there are only two or three real criminals left in Havana – the rest are all chivas.
The result: You can’t move or look from one side to the other without running into someone working for State Security.
As long as I can remember situations like these have occurred in real life. When expressing our opinions here, we first look around, because anyone can be connected to State Security. This is something we’ve learned and internalized as something almost natural.
In the last few episodes of “Día y Noche,” the character of Tavo had a moral dilemma: He discovered that his best friend from childhood was in the new criminal ring he was assigned to infiltrate.
“He’s my friend, he’s a good guy,” Tavo protested.
“But he no longer thinks like you,” replied his police officer contact.
Friendship doesn’t matter. There can be no friendship if the other person doesn’t think the same way. That’s to say, one has to adhere to a solitary view, a sole opinion, a single way of being – a single God.
What’s all this about? …some sort of patriarchal Judaism?
What thoughts race around in the mind of a person who pretends to be someone they’re not, or who they believe themself to be?
How can somebody make someone else believe they’re a friend who can be counted on? How can they go so far as to do or say things that will lead the other person to prison only to fulfill their mission?
Will they be able to teach their children the feeling of friendship, so exalted by our national hero Jose Marti? Will they have the ability to trust another person who they can call a friend? To what degree will they end up being a victim of their own game?
When we are in presence of a chiva, we’re left with no alternative except to feel disdain, irritation, pity. But if they’re young and if they are associated with culture, the effect is disconcerting and often incredible.
But we have such persons in the police series too. They’re young, attractive and quick with a witty comeback. They serve or let themselves be used for who knows what reasons.
From the moment we’re born, the idea is introduced that “anyone can be one.” It’s a given that we’ll all become distrustful; we’ll avoid saying what is not wished to be heard; we’ll try to distance ourselves from those who attract too much attention, because attracting attention can be ludicrous, dangerous, treacherous.
There are many methods of betrayal (through manipulation and others). Tavo demonstrates some of these, while frightening us at the same time. But this doesn’t mean we cannot discover the rest.
As somebody said recently, Tavo’s most effective method —apart from attracting attention— is dividing people.
Draw your own conclusions.