“My name is Normando Hernández González. I am 41 years of age. I am an independent Cuban journalist. And a former prisoner of conscience.” Thus began three days of conversations in late March 2011, chronicling the past decade of Normando’s life, the majority of it spent incarcerated in Castro’s prisons for his writing. We talked for hours on end in his cramped apartment in the working-class Vallecas district of Madrid, a functional flat provided by the Spanish government and furnished by charitable donations, giving it a sense of transience. He’d only been out of jail for about six months, and, for all intents and purposes, he was exiled in Spain. It was a very in-between time, filled with contradictions. While he was reunited with his wife and daughter, he was a stranger in a foreign country, separated from his mother in the United States. While he was free to walk the streets as he pleased, he was living in poverty, relying on temporary funds from the Spanish government, a subsidy which always seemed to be in flux. And while his goal simply was to get to the U.S., he was caught in endless circular mazes of bureaucracy, leaving him to feel like a different kind of prisoner. Everything was still very raw. It was too soon for reflection. Even when smiling, and breaking into infectious laughter, his eyes remain steeled. On the second day, Normando looked tired. When he stepped out of the living room, his wife, Yaraí, explained that our previous day’s talk had brought back so much, causing him to toss and turn in night terrors. Coming back in, Normando announced it didn’t matter. The story needs to be told.”
—Adam Braver and Molly Gessford
{ 1. }
I always thought I would die. Always. From the moment one is involved in these things in Cuba, even if it is through passive means, you will always fear for your life.
{ 2. }
During March of 2000, in what is now known internationally as the Black Spring, the Cuban government initiated a witch hunt all over the island. They systematically targeted independent journalists who, through peaceful opposition, fought for the rights and liberties of our people.
In Cuba, independent newspapers do not exist. The government has full control of printing presses. It’s an exclusive monopoly. Article 53 of the Republic of Cuba’s constitution actually states that any activity that is fundamentally aligned with free speech and independent presses is illegal; it only respects the liberty of expression and presses in accordance with the ideologies of the government.
That spring, I’d been working as the director of the Independent Journalists Association of Camagüey (el Colegio de Periodistas Independientes de Camagüey). Our stated objective, through unorthodox means, was to break the silence in the midwest region of Cuba about what was happening in our country, bringing to light existing violence, as well as general information. Such principles led us to create the magazine Luz Cubana, a socio-cultural journal on Cuban life.
The risks were understood. We knew Cuban law did not permit us to do this, but, as our apostle Jose Martí once said, the only thing unfair laws are good for is to be violated. Especially when they are laws against the principles and dignity of human beings.
Within a matter of weeks, there would be a military operation in which the government arrested over one hundred independent journalists. Seventy-five of us would be tried and sentenced and jailed.
{ 3. }
On March 18th, I was traveling back home to Vertientes in Camagüey. I was coming from Havana, where I’d been doing a trial run printing of Luz Cubana. In the waiting area of the omnibus terminal, the television showed members of the Cuban government having a round-table discussion, railing against the Cuban civil society. It wasn’t just what they were saying that caught my attention—it was their tone. Something really bad was happening. You could tell. Still, at that point, I had no clue what was to come.
I’d only wanted to get home to see my wife, Yaraí, and our baby daughter, Daniela, who was just four days shy of her first birthday.
{ 4. }
My bus finally reached Vertientes around five in the morning. Exhausted, I slept into the morning, until 9:30, when the persistently ringing phone finally got me out of bed.
It was the Radio Martí journalist, Efren Martinez Pulgarón, phoning from Florida.
Hearing my voice, Efren said he was surprised that I had not yet been arrested.
Arrested?
He then proceeded to tell me about the wave of violent arrests occurring throughout the island.
Don’t forget: I was a journalist. Immediately after that phone call, I began contacting reporters from the association that I directed. We needed to verify Efren’s information about the arrests that had already happened in Camagüey. They already were on it. It was true. People were being taken from their homes. The reporters had names. Locations. Witnesses.
We passed that information along to Radio Martí.
Then, together, we started contacting all the international journalists that we knew, telling them what was going on, hoping they would tell the world.
{ 5. }
By mid-morning, family and friends began arriving at my house. A strange operation was under way in Vertientes, they warned. The police department was full of people and vehicles from out of town.
They were preparing to arrest me.
Grabbing my little girl, I jumped on my bicycle. And I just started riding. Touring around the city, it all unfolded before my eyes. The United National Revolutionary Police office had swelled with military vehicles and high-ranking officials. And so too had the Department of State Security. Uniformed policemen. Plain-clothed policemen. Soldiers and officers. Everything was so still. In that moment, I can’t say I was conscious of my actions. But unconsciously, I was going to say good-bye to my close friends and family.
{ 6. }
The first vehicles began approaching at three in the afternoon. Rumbling up my street. I was in my backyard feeding my daughter a Popsicle while she sat in her playpen. Their cars braked suddenly and loudly, screeching to a stop in front of my house. My next-door neighbor came out running. “Normandito!” she called. “Normandito! Run! Run! Run! Run, the police are here!”
I was prepared—at least I thought I was prepared—to be arrested, especially knowing everything that was going on in Cuba at the time. But I still panicked. I dropped the Popsicle on the chair. And I ran.
I dashed across my patio, crossing over into my neighbor’s yard, where he was cooking slop in a large pot on the ground, the customary food for pigs in Cuba. Next to him there was a forty-year-old mango tree. I headed straight for it. The mango tree’s trunk was so thick that I could barely climb up to the first branch without his help. But I made it, thanks to him. And that was where I hid.
From the heights of the tree I watched them comb the area. They set up a command post at a school behind my house. Armed police officers with handguns climbed atop my neighbor’s roof. Military officials were taking over my neighborhood.
Tracking dogs made their way across the yard. Miraculously, the animals stopped just before the trunk of the tree, suddenly confused. It turned out that the lighter fluid that my neighbor had used for firewood to cook the pig slop killed the scent. The police looked up, right into the branches.
I can’t say it was just a coincidence that they didn’t see me; it was a coincidence at the hands of God who wanted me to be at my little girl’s side on her first birthday.
{7. }
At 9:30 p.m., when the last vehicle left, I climbed down from the tree and jogged home. Inside my house were my sister, my uncles, my wife, and my brother-in-law. I told them to lock the front door, and we sat in the living room to talk. Before long we heard another police car arrive with more dogs.
I immediately ran upstairs and hid under the bed.
The police asked Yaraí for one of my baseball hats. They let the dogs sniff it, and then set them loose. Of course they smelled me everywhere—it was my house! Realizing this search would be fruitless, the police left after a few minutes.
I ended up hiding under the bed for six days, until March 24th. Those were days filled with desperation.
{ 8. }
On different occasions, in the middle of the night, the police attempted to open our bedroom windows. I could hear the shuffling of the guards as they changed shifts outside my house.
During this time my wife was harassed, pressured, and her life was threatened.
They also threatened to take away our daughter, because, as they saw it, she was a child of the revolution.
They said they would demolish our home; and, because our house is on a large plot of land, they told my wife that they were going to turn our home into a park for children.
There was always, always, an entirely negative force.
{ 9. }
I would go under the bed at six in the morning.
During the day I’d listen to Radio Marti, Radio Francia Internacional, Radio Netherland, La Vos de la Americas. They’d report what was happening in Cuba; the whole world was criticizing the Cuban government. I heard live interviews with my mom in the United States, and interviews with my wife in my house. And my mother would be sobbing by the end. And my wife would be sobbing by the end.
I’d come out at eleven at night.
After taking a shower, I would eat with Yaraí, go upstairs into Daniela’s room, and just watch her sleep in her crib. Then I’d kiss her good night and climb into my marriage bed with Yaraí.
At six in the morning, I’d slip down to the floor, returning to my hiding place under the bed.
I knew this couldn’t last, that eventually I was going to have to turn myself in. But I told myself I wouldn’t do it until after my little girl turned one.
{ 10. }
On the afternoon of my daughter’s birthday, decorations already had been put up. Daniela was playing in back with her grandmother, aunt, uncle, and cousin. No one knew I was hiding under the bed, other than Yaraí’s mother. We’d made excuses for my absence. The Cuban government traditionally responds to those who oppose them either by jailing, shooting, or forcing them into exile. This treatment can extend to the closest family members. We didn’t want trouble for anyone.
But then came a knock on the door.
From the living room, Yaraí called out, “Who is it?”
“Yellow Fever Prevention Company.” Their voices were unnaturally deep. “Just here for an inspection,” they said. It was obvious they were military personnel disguised as exterminators, pretending to represent the government’s mosquito abatement campaign, a program that granted full access into homes.
“Then go around to the back walkway,” she instructed them. “That’s where you’ll find the water containers.”
“Are you hiding something in the house? Is that why you don’t want us to walk through the house?”
From under the bed I heard everything.
“No, no, no,” Yaraí said, thinking quickly, trying to quash their suspicions. “Wait one minute, don’t go.” Opening the door, she put on a calm, welcoming voice: “If what you are interested in is searching my home, then search it.” They came in without hesitation, outfitted in exterminator uniforms but wearing dress shoes. Yaraí took them throughout the bottom floor of our house. They moved quickly. You could hear their breaths almost sighing in disappointment at seeing nothing other than birthday decorations and empty furniture. Occasionally a closet door would open. A cabinet bang shut.
As though it were nothing, she led them upstairs. The soles of their shoes squeaked on each step. “And here,” she said from the landing, loud enough to make sure I heard, “is the bedroom.” She partially blocked the threshold.
In those moments you don’t think about anything.
In those moments your heart feels like it is going to jump out of your throat.
And in those moments you just wait for the worst.
They coughed. Paused. Looked past her into the room. “We really should check all standing water,” one of them finally said, still trying to keep up the charade of being exterminators. “Do you have any religious rituals that require you to place cups of water in the wardrobe or, say, under the bed?”
“As I’ve said, if your objective is to search my house, then, please, search it!” With her back to the bed, Yaraí flung open the wardrobe doors. Calmly and deliberately she turned around, and took two steps in. You could hear the hinges on the wardrobe doors still squeaking. The men moved with her. I was watching them, their polished leather shoes—their feet were right there in front of me. Right there! Inches from me.
Yaraí bent forward, and, like the final step in a magician’s trick, she yanked up our comforter, revealing nothing but sheets and pillows.
I held my breath under the bed, curled like a knot against the wall.
{ 11. }
I can’t stop myself from thinking of this incredible detail: the solidarity of my friends and my family. At the time of the arrests I didn’t have, as the Cuban’s say, a single pido predo; I didn’t have even one peso. I had invested my money in my daughter’s birthday and in the magazine, which was a huge expense for me. When my friends became aware of the situation they gave my wife money. They even brought her food.
{ 12. }
Even after Yaraí convinced the men to leave, I didn’t come out. Even as I heard Daniela’s birthday party going downstairs.
At the safe hour of eleven, I crept into Daniela’s room. She was snuggled in her crib. The house was quiet. The streets silent, the military vehicles shut down for the night. I leaned over to listen to her sleep. Her breath was warm and almost milky smelling. I kissed her cheek; caressed her head. Tomorrow morning she’d wake up as a one-year-old. And I would celebrate that with her. She would know her papa’s birthday kiss. And how much I loved her. And how much a part of her I was. That could never be taken from us. But by tomorrow evening, I would sit with my wife, my sister, and my uncle. I would tell them this cat-and-mouse game couldn’t go on forever. It wasn’t good for anybody. I would give my sister a letter to deliver to the head of the state police, telling him I would surrender peacefully in my home. At least, it would be over.
Sitting beside my little girl, I cried silently, choking on tears of blood, stroking her face and watching her sleep peacefully in her world, still untouched by fear.
{ 13. }
Back in ’94, when I was at university (teaching technology at el Instituto Politécnico Cruce de la Trocha and also studying construction engineering at el Instituto Superior Pedagógico José Martí), I didn’t know anything about politics. I was born straight into propaganda. The only information I had about the world was information completely distorted by the perspective of the only political party that exists in Cuba. And when I saw the dedicated patriotism of my friends, the unquestioning patriotism of all the Cuban people, doubts always surged in me.
Well, I’d wonder, is it me who is wrong, or is it the majority that is wrong?
Around that time, I discovered the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. It was as if it landed right into my hands. Reading it led me to even more questioning—particularly in the area of free expression and the type of struggle it would take to defend our basic rights as human beings. In fact, one of my first jobs as a dissident in Cuba was to distribute the Universal Declaration of Human Rights to my fellow Cubans. Many family and friends would say, “Don’t you see the consequences of asking all these questions?” (I suppose they were right, because the moment I began to question my political world, the universities expelled me for alleged ideological problems, in particular, “dissenting from the policy of the Cuban government.”) “What is it that you want?” they’d ask. “What is it that you are searching for?”
The simple act of having your rights to liberty and expression, I would say. The simple act of not being scared to say what you are thinking.
{ 14. }
In Cuba we have a saying, “If I get out of this one, I’ve got a brujo,” referring to a sacred form of witchcraft adopted from the Africana religions that have influenced our culture.
That first morning, when I’d ridden my bicycle with Daniela to say my good-byes, I found myself talking with that sense of humor that is characteristic of Cubans. “If I get out of this one,” I’d say to each friend, “I’ve got a brujo on my side.”
It was the only thing I could think of to tell them. And then I’d ride off, my daughter with me, pedaling slowly, believing I had at least enough magic—enough of a brujo—behind me to see her through her first year of life.
Cynthia Guardado /Gwarr-Dah-Doe/ (she/her/hers) is the daughter of Salvadoran-born parents, a poet, and a tenured Professor of English at Fullerton College. She is the Editor-in-Chief of LiveWire, an online literary magazine. She is the author of two collections of poetry: Cenizas (University of Arizona Press 2022) and ENDEAVOR (World Stage Press 2017). Guardado also translated and transcribed interviews with journalist and Cuban exile, Normando Hernandez Gonzalez which were published in The Madrid Conversations (New Orleans Press 2013). Her poems have appeared in Poetry Magazine, U.S. Latinx Voices in Poetry, The Wandering Song. She also won the Concurso Binacional De Poesía Pellicer-Frost in 2017 (México) and Cenizas was a finalist for the National Poetry Series in 2019.
Photo by Yasiel Scull