Cuba’s Political Police Reach Amelia Calzadilla in Spain
Banished from her country for having spoke out on everyday Cuban problems
HAVANA TIMES – Intending to violate the 7,500 kilometers of distance between Havana and Madrid, a message from State Security arrived last week for Amelia Calzadilla and her husband, Antonio Díaz. Both are regulated — the regime’s term of choice to mean ’forbidden to travel’ — and will not be able to return to Cuba. The communication did not arrive by regular mail or by e-mail, nor on letterhead, with an official seal and firm signature. It was a simple WhatsApp from Major Luis, the political police agent who attended to the couple until they left the Island, she with her three children last month, he in September.
Amelia tells 14ymedio almost at the end of a conversation that takes place between her house and a walk, in the quiet town on the outskirts of Madrid where the family now lives, and, for the first time, her eyes glaze over: “They know that it is a very harsh punishment, because I don’t have anyone in Spain, my whole family is in Cuba.” But she immediately recovers: “It’s hard, but nothing, it’s a punishment for telling the truth.”
For her, the decision of the political police was the direct result of the network broadcast she made on December 10, in which, once again, she expressed solidarity with other mothers on the Island who do not have a way to feed their children and denounced not only the economic management that has plunged the island into disaster but also the lies of the regime “that no one believes anymore.”
“I was talking to the mothers, and to them that empathetic speech that we women manage to have, especially when we are mothers, that sensitivity that exists in the word when you are a mother and another mother understands you and you can put yourself in her place, it terrifies them, and then they take these types of measures,” she explains.
Serene and calm, Amelia Calzadilla differed greatly in that video from that other one, in June 2022, from her home in the municipality of Cerro, a video ignited with indignation and the hope of a new citizen protest in Cuba. Almost a year had passed since the massive demonstrations of 11 July 2021, and unease had settled on the Island after the repression and the open mass exodus via Nicaragua as an escape valve. And there was this mother of three small children, raised in the middle of the Special Period — after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the loss of its subsidies to Cuba — a woman who graduated in the English Language, beside herself, giving the highest government officials a shout-out for not delivering for the people they had so promised to serve.
She immediately became a target of State Security, which tried to discredit her through the official press. “In the space of 72 hours, with all the discredit campaign they created in my name, I was forced to do a second direct to vindicate my image, because what was happening didn’t make any sense.”
After that, she was summoned to the municipal government of Cerro by the authorities. When leaving the meeting, at that time, she said that they simply promised to solve her problems with the gas supply. Now, in this exile that they did not seek but that they are grateful for, both Amelia Calzadilla and Antonio Díaz, sitting in the dining room of their house, tell what really happened that day. “There they talked about everything except gas,” Antonio begins. “It was, by the book, an intelligence interrogation. There was a representative from the Ministry of Energy and Mines and all the others were military dressed as civilians.”
“They were not careful to show me that they were there, because they needed to intimidate me,” continues Amelia, who, as the daughter of a soldier, attended high school at an Army academy and “recognized the pattern.”
Before reaching the municipal government building, where they were surprised by the number of foreign journalists stationed in front, they already noticed something strange. In the populous neighborhood where they live, there was not a soul that morning. “They had a police force, the streets were closed,” says Antonio, who also remembers “a truck of special troops and a chain of police officers on the avenue.”
That “conversation” was, Antonio asserts, “to do a psychological profile.” As Cubans who have been subjected to harassment and repression within the Island know, those first approaches pass calmly, and with those mentioned they play at being good police officers. “What you are is confused,” Amelia repeats about what they told her. “Your problem is an ideological confusion, but obviously you are not against the Revolution.” It was, she repeats, “by the book”: “There is never a recognition of the problems that the country has, because it would be succumbing to the idea that socialism does not solve the social problems of a nation.”
As clear as the outlook was, Amelia, however, confesses that she was not prepared for the role that, unintentionally, she already played. “They automatically considered me as an opponent and I didn’t see myself that way, but as a person dissatisfied with the economic and social reality that the country was experiencing,” she says. “Also because of a maturity problem in terms of politics. Nobody starts out like I started, like that, sitting in front of the phone, screaming.”
That intimidation, whatever it was, achieved its objective, and Amelia did not broadcast again for several months. The following October, she was at it again, claiming that authorities were trying to falsely frame her for stealing some neighbors’ electricity. That reason was just the last straw. In the time that she was “silent,” there were what she calls “unfortunate actions,” which were “nothing in particular” but which “could not be coincidences.”
After the interrogation in Cerro’s government, the entire family fell ill with Covid-19. The couple is convinced that among those who attended the meeting, there were people with the virus there on purpose. As a result, Amelia developed pneumonia. Later, in a neighborhood where there were no cases of dengue, she and two children suffered from it. Amelia, with the hemorrhagic variant, which left her with an inflamed liver for half a year. “Every time there was a government visit, we got sick,” says Antonio. “And the last thing was the contamination of the cistern water,” continues Amelia, who saw how the children came down with gastroenteritis. “While I was recovering from hepatitis, the electric company workers came to the house to accuse me of stealing some neighbors’ electricity and I said: this is enough.”
In that direct message in which she resumed the complaints, she also said that they were trying to hinder her from traveling to the Spanish city of Salamanca, to pursue a master’s degree in translation for which she had obtained a scholarship. “That was one of the unfortunate events that I think they had something to do with,” Amelia narrates. She had been examined for those studies before taking any direct action.
A week after publishing her first video, the results were published: she had been selected. As she presented all the documentation, the problems arose: “First, the Spanish Consulate did not send me credentials to be able to apply for the visa, it took about two months, and when I received the credentials to go to the visa appointment, with all the paperwork, family roots, the letter from the university, everything, they denied my visa. Very strange.”
Likewise, for both Antonio and her, job doors were closing. “I had the possibility of continuing to work with individuals, but neither of us were hired, both of us being professionals – he has a degree in Economics, I as a translator. No one wanted to give us work because they were very afraid of pointing themselves out to the Security of the State.” They said it explicitly, hse specifies: “We prefer to give you money directly than to give you work, because they already came to knock on our door and ask us why you come here so much, why you come here.”
At this point, Amelia becomes indignant again: “If they really did surveillance work, they would know that people are involved in nothing, that they are not associated with anything, that they are simply disenchanted, that they are disappointed, that they can’t take it anymore, that there comes a time when they say this is unsustainable and it must be changed, inevitably.”
At the same time, the young mother began to be strongly attacked by the most strident part of the exile in Miami, especially the influencer Alexander Otaola, she still does not know why. “Criticism is very affecting when it is unfair,” she says sincerely. “There were opponents who attacked me saying I had to take a position, saying either you are with me or you are against me,” which, in her opinion, “is a mistake.” However, it was not her intention to confront the activist. “It was unintentional. It wasn’t my intention to attack him, but well, it’s over. He had messed with me on other occasions. And look, if I wasn’t going to put up with Díaz-Canel’s nonsense, who could put me behind bars, am I going to put up with Otaola?”
She wasn’t willing to shut up. Direct to direct, her position “was already beginning to be a little clearer.” And she was losing her fear, until she published a video in which she expressed solidarity with Nelva Ortega, wife of José Daniel Ferrer, and asked for proof of life of the leader of the Patriotic Union of Cuba, imprisoned since the 11J protests.
“I didn’t even know about the situation of political prisoners the day I made my first statement,” she confesses. “I began to learn about the human rights problems associated with ideology within Cuba later.”
And she explains: “The same social and economic climate prevents you from being able to connect with another type of mentality, from being able to analyze all the legal problems we have, the problems of human rights, freedoms, commercial freedom. You can’t think about it because you are all time thinking ’I have to buy chicken, I have to buy chicken, I have to buy chicken’. This is also a mechanism to entertain yourself. That absolute misery is a mechanism to keep you in control, because you are in the basics. You can’t think beyond it.”
Weren’t there people who approached Calzadilla after her first broadcasts to join some opposition cause? “There were people, yes, but in a personal capacity, not organizations,” she responds. “My private mailbox was jammed for a long time, with messages of all kinds. From people who wanted to help me, send me money. I immediately refused to let anyone give me a peso because I didn’t know where that money came from. Furthermore, I wasn’t asking for money. It was a message that I also tried to convey to the people of Cuba: the problem of our society is not related to the purchasing power.”
Before that video showing solidarity with Nelva Tamayo, she says, she was surprised that they never went looking for her: “I think it was a very intelligent game. On the one hand, to show the opponents that I could be playing at two ends and that it discredited me in front of the opposition. On the other hand, it had the objective of disproving the image that they attack those who oppose them.”
But Ferrer is a huge issue for the regime, which put an end to Amelia Calzadilla. They didn’t stop her at first, but they stopped Antonio on the street for an alleged irregularity with the car he was driving. While Major Luis was holding him in the fourth unit of Cerro, she, who had already warned online that she was going to look for her husband, was detained two blocks from her house. “They throw me into the boat like that, literally, a patrol car, an operation, wow, of Osama bin Laden.” Amelia takes it with humor, but her story does not hide the violence.
“When they detained me, my mother insisted on going with me. There were many stories of people who said that relatives disappeared and that terrified her. In fact, it was that in my case. Everyone knew that I was going to the fourth unit from Cerro, but my family called all the police stations, all of them, and in all of them they told them that they had no arrest report on me. They took me to a unit as far away as they could find. If they could have to take me to Matanzas, they would have taken me there. They spent the world’s fuel and more going around all over Havana.”
After all this, her father showed up at the unit where Antonio was. The old soldier, “an 82-year-old oak,” as Amelia describes him, was told the truth, although only half: “She is detained. We had to move her from here because she thought of posting on social media that she was already coming over here.” Nothing to do with what had happened because she never arrived at the Cerro unit.
Where they were holding her, they locked her in a cell while they entertained her mother. “They didn’t tell me anything, neither the reason for which I was detained, nor if I was arrested. Of course, they couldn’t put me in jail because they didn’t have an arrest warrant against me. They put me in a very unpleasant cell, because it was a corridor that had cells with men. In my cell I was alone, but in front of me I had a man who was masturbating. You always have that thing that it can’t be coincidence.”
When it seemed like enough confinement, they took her to an office, where they began what they do not call a conversation or an interrogation, but rather an “intimidation process.”
She tried to maintain a phlegmatic attitude, but inside she was sick. “I told myself, my God, if I don’t get out of here today, what are they going to say to my children? If I end up in prison, I’m going to scar my children for life, because in Cuba the prisoner’s family is banned. “How to demand that they be good human beings and at the same time explain that because I am a good human being I am imprisoned. Those things go through one’s mind.”
In the office, with all the detours and circumlocutions to which they are prone, they gave her to understand that with her public speech she was “calling on people for a national strike,” which could imply a crime of “inciting to commit a crime.” That is, if she continued with her broadcasts, she would end up in prison. Before leaving, they forced her to sign a document putting in her own handwriting what she agreed to.
“I didn’t want to be sarcastic, but that’s what language is for. I told them that I was committed to maintaining the same social behavior that I had had all my life. They are very frustrated by ambiguity. I know that it kills them, because it is the room that intelligence gives you to make fun of them, and that really upsets them.”
They let her out at six in the afternoon and took her home. “In a military car. I imagine that they also did it with the objective of sowing doubt in others about who I worked for. After that came a sequence of calls that supposedly had the objective of demonstrating that they were fully prepared to help me with any problem I had, but it was something very grotesque, because I knew it was a mechanism of control, of siege. And that’s how it was until I left.”
The arrest was the point of no return. “Somehow, you start to feel a little small and you start to feel a bit alone too. You get disappointed, because you feel like only you are putting yourself at risk.”
Antonio had just obtained Spanish nationality under the new Democratic Memory Law and the whole family began to pressure them to leave, especially for the children. “Before, with the issue that I couldn’t work, we had thought about it, but I didn’t want to leave Cuba. In fact, I have suffered a lot leaving Cuba, a lot. There are days when I get up, look at the ceiling and say “What am I doing here? It gives me back the certainty that I had to emigrate to see my daughters, who love this country, who are happy.”
At the door of the children’s new school, a large enclosure, with several doors and buildings, and music to encourage the children to leave, another Cuban father approaches to greet them. And if they came to this town, small and far from the center of the capital, surrounded by vineyards and olive trees, with a Renaissance church, it was because of a compatriot friend of Antonio’s, who had been living here for more than ten years. As usually happens with migratory movements, there is a large community of citizens of the Island in the place. “When I arrived here, to my surprise, the Cubans at school knew me from the networks,” Amelia says with a smile. “They saw me and immediately told me ’mija, but what are you doing here, we’re going to help you’, and they helped me with everything, to get settled.”
There are things about Spain that she is “perplexed” about, such as the school her children, almost 10, 7 and 4 years old, go to. “It is a public school where there is no blackmail for being public,” she explains, because in her country “there is a process of imposing ideology.” In this regard, she gives a beautiful example, the day that her first-born daughter, studying history, asked her: “But mami, who came to Cuba first, Christopher Columbus or Fidel Castro?”
Safety is another of the fundamental elements why she is glad to have left. She comments on it happily while a local agent walks in front of her: “The Police here are something else. Besides, for me they are selected in a modeling casting call.” And Christmas! “It’s so beautiful how people live it and decorate everything, regardless of whether they believe or not.”
After school, on the days that Antonio is free from work – he is a clerk at a tobacco and cigarette store in the center of Madrid – the five of them go to the park before eating. Amelia sees them frolicking: “I think they still can’t understand that this is for life, that it’s not just a trip, because sometimes they say ’oh, mommy, I’ll take this to my room in Cuba’.”
It is a beautiful day. “The day I arrived there was a sun like that, so beautiful, but at the same time it was cold,” and she repeats what she told her mother on the phone: “Mami, in Spain the sun is a yellow light bulb: it shines but warmth, it warms up, nothing.” When Amelia talks about her mother, her expression saddens. “I miss her a lot and she misses me too. I am an only child and my mother is a very devoted mother. It’s not that I don’t have the possibility of bringing her, it’s that at the moment I can’t, including because of the economic factor.”
Amelia, in all seriousness, speaks of the psychological damage that a dictatorship causes, a damage that “few people talk about, which is even more cruel than any other type of damage that is done to you,” and which is responsible for an almost anthropological insecurity.
“It has affected me. I am a professional, in a non-English speaking country, where I have opportunities, because not many people speak English, and even so, it is difficult for me to believe that I can function in this society as a professional. I think on many occasions that despite any intellectual capacity I may have, I am going to end up cleaning floors and windows. They make you doubt your ability. And then they keep you ignorant in so many ways, that going out into the world is like walking for the first time, alone. That’s how I feel, like I’m learning to walk alone.”
Translated by Translating Cuba