Cuba: Jose Daniel Ferrer Challenges Jailers Upon Release
“You Will Be Prosecuted in the Future”
Leaving prison is an overwhelming experience. The sounds cease to be just the squeaks of the bars and begin to be familiar voices.
HAVANA TIMES – The phone has not stopped ringing all afternoon. Yesterday, José Daniel Ferrer was released from the Mar Verde prison in Santiago de Cuba, and he has not stopped giving interviews. Finally, I hear his voice on the other end of the line. He has the same firm and kind tone that I remember. Dungeons and mistreatment do not seem to have taken away either his energy or his sanity. We started talking as if just yesterday we had to pause this conversation that I now share with you.
“Right now I feel a bit sad because I have not been able to attend to everybody who has wanted to talk to me,” he acknowledges, overcome by the many phone calls. Leaving prison is an overwhelming experience. The sounds cease to be just the squeaks of the bars and begin to be familiar voices. The light changes and thee are no longer shadows but blinding flashes of light, and one’s body still does not know how to move, although the space is as small your own house. The veteran opponent has experienced those sensations many times, but they still affect him.
Ferrer has been welcomed not only by his relatives and neighbors but also by the blackout. “Now I have a rechargeable lamp because shortly after I arrived the electric power went out.” The Cuba that he has found on this side of the prison walls is a much more economically deteriorated country with fewer hours of electricity. “Even so, despite everything, I have already been able to hug some brothers in the struggle, physically and virtually, through the internet,” says the untiring leader of Unpacu.
Although the days in captivity were full of bad moments, Ferrer also tells how humor served him to deal with his jailers. “I once heard on the Round Table [State TV program] that the Minister of Agriculture wanted to improve egg production with more political and ideological work for the workers in the sector.” When the guards approached him that day, he could not miss the opportunity: ’By now you’ve heard that the chickens have to understand that they must work harder to lay eggs.’ They didn’t even crack a smile.
Every moment of this conversation, the voice of a small child is heard on the other side of the phone. Ferrer’s son, Daniel José, demands the attention of a father with whom he has spent very little time due to the rigors of prison and the isolation to which the political prisoner was subjected. “I’m coming now,” the father tells him, continuing to intersperse sentences about his time behind bars while attending to the little one’s demands. You can imagine him with the cell phone in one hand and a toy in the other, trying to distract his son.
His daughter Fátima, 20 years old, has also arrived from the community of Palmarito to see her father. He has been able to speak with part of his family exiled in the United States and talked to his sister Ana Belkis Ferrer, who during this time kept an updated report on what Ferrer was going through in prison, the denied family visits and the deterioration of his health. “I still need to talk to my brother, my mother and my other children, but I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” he says.
“When I got home I had such a rush of adrenaline that I felt I was 18 years old,” he admits, although he also remembers that he must avoid those bursts of enthusiasm because he has problems with blood pressure and needs to medicate himself with Enalapril to keep it from rising. “The adrenaline has already returned to its place and I’m 54 years old again,” he says. His body, suffering from the confinement, poor diet and lack of sunlight, now sets the tone, marks the pace.
In the book that Commander Huber Matos wrote after leaving prison, where he spent 20 years denouncing the communist drift of the Fidel Castro regime, he describes a scene in which he got up to go to the bathroom and came across, for the first time in two decades, a mirror that showed him his full body. In the pages of Cómo llegó la noche [How the Night Came], the former political prisoner described the surprise of seeing a graying and aged man who looked into his eyes. Ferrer also is now rediscovering his image, specifying the contours that the dungeon blurred, visually recomposing his anatomy.
Despite the mistreatment, for his jailers he had words loaded with future projections on his last day in prison. “The democratization of Cuba is also good for you,” he told them before leaving, with a knowing and ironic wink that the guards did not expect: “Vote for me for the presidency because I know that your salary is not enough and you are going through hard times.”
“I know that you have to deal ’on the left’ in order to survive,” the opponent continued to explain to them, while making with his hand the gesture that in the Cuban streets is used for the act of stealing and diverting resources from the State. In a prison, the boss, the jailers and even the workers lower on the scale take home food and other resources intended for the prisoners in order to support themselves day to day. That truth, as big and solid as the walls of a prison, cannot be denied, so there was a prolonged silence after Ferrer’s words.
“Just go home,” the officers almost begged him before the dissident’s diatribe. An annoying prisoner must be worse than a stone in the shoe for some guards who are not used to being warned that the regime they defend with their weapons and uniforms can fall like a fragile house of cards at any time. The henchmen must believe that their impunity is eternal, because imagining a future in which they are accountable puts them in front of another mirror, that of responsibility.
“The days they were going to beat me up, they took the highest-ranking officer of Mar Verde out of the environment, so that later I could not say that he was aware of that mistreatment,” he recalls. “Yesterday he told me to just go home to my wife and son and stop protesting.” But Ferrer took it calmly and wanted to make it clear that he did not accept any blackmail linked to the release of political prisoners after the talks between the Cuban regime and the Vatican, in parallel with the announcement made by the Biden Administration to remove Cuba from the list of countries sponsoring terrorism.
“I want my things, my books, my writings, my verses,” the prisoner claimed. “I was writing quatrains. A few days ago I finished the first part of one that was about braggarts, those people who claim to have a courage that they don’t have: ’Juan, in a bar in Havana / under the effect of rum / without a weapon, kills a lion / on the African savannah’.” The night before the release Ferrer had finished the last verse: “Juan, without the drunkenness / just by seeing a mouse / his heart stirs / and the whole of Havana runs.”
“When I got up this Thursday, one of my sources inside the prison warned me that Mar Verde was full of officials from all over Santiago de Cuba. ’There are also some from State Security, and it is being said that you are going free, that they are making preparations’.” Shortly after they informed him that it was a “conditional freedom,” which Ferrer refused: “I do not accept conditions; they can give me all the warnings they want but I’m not complying with them.”
The prisoner sent them a defiant message: “You will be prosecuted in the future and you will be convicted of all this, but I can assure you that you will not have to face the hunger, bedbugs or tuberculosis that we political prisoners have to suffer in Cuba.” Finally “they threw me out of there. They didn’t let me pick up my toothbrush, family photos or my books, nothing.”
Outside, his wife Nelva Ortega Tamayo and their little son were waiting for him. For her he has only words of gratitude. “She has gone through very difficult times while I was in prison: she lost her mother and recently her grandmother also died,” Ferrer adds. “It’s one of the hardest things about being in prison, that helplessness of not being able to be there for loved ones in the most complicated moments to encourage and support them.”
Now, Ferrer plans a visit to Havana, where he has a daughter he hasn’t seen since before the pandemic. The last part of the conversation is to remember our time of meeting as friends. A pizza eaten in company, a hug given in a hurry, a few laughs between personal testimonies. “See you, my brother,” he says in closing, as if we had paused our conversation a few hours before and only resumed it to catch up with the latest details: the news to which anecdotes, future projects and even verses are always added.
Translated by Regina Anavy for Translating Cuba.