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Como muere jose marti


como muere jose marti

Verses of Jose Marti. Rápida, como un reflejo, Dos veces vi el alma, dos: Cuando murió el pobre viejo, Cuando ella me dijo adiós. JetBlue's first commercial flight to Havana's Jose Marti International Airport, from New York City, arrived hours later. José Julián Martí Pérez was a Cuban poet, philosopher, essayist, journalist, translator, professor, and publisher, who is considered a Cuban national hero because of his role in the liberation of his country. He was also an important figure in.

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Candy, Tammy, Sabrina y Annie. Cuatro hermanas que, a pesar de haberse labrado su futuro en ciudades muy distantes, han conseguido mantenerse unidas a lo largo de los años. Uno de sus rituales es la celebración del Cuatro de Julio, para la que siempre se reúnen en la casa familiar. Hasta que en uno de estos encuentros la tragedia sacude su hogar: su madre muere en un accidente automovilístico y una de las hermanas, Annie, se queda ciega a causa de las heridas. A partir de este momento deberán aunar sus fuerzas para sobrellevar este amargo golpe del destino. Annie es pintora y ha de asimilar la terrible realidad de que jamás volverá a dedicarse a los pinceles. Su padre, quien parece haber perdido el juicio tras la muerte de su esposa, necesitará a sus cuatro hijas más de lo que jamás había imaginado. Y las otras tres hermanas esconden muchas más debilidades de las que han dejado traslucir en estos últimos años...

Hermanas es una reflexión sobre la fragilidad de la vida, pero también sobre el precioso regalo que esta supone para cada uno de nosotros. En ella Danielle Steel presenta a cuatro personajes que saben enfrentarse con voluntad férrea a sus debilidades y a las trampas del destino, para alcanzar su felicidad y la de sus seres queridos.
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Author: Danielle Steel
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Источник: https://sites.google.com/a/pg.books-now.com/en268/9789506441647-54fidoeGEmine64

Cuba: "Patria o muerte" o "Patria y vida"

"La presentación en redes sociales del videoclip del tema Patria y vida", en la que destacados músicos cubanos dan la vuelta al lema de la revolución cubana "patria o muerte", se encuadra entre las "recientes acciones para desestabilizar a esta nación", protestaba uno de los varios artículos dedicados al tema en el diario Granma, órgano oficial del Partido Comunista de Cuba.

"La reacción del gobierno ha sido totalmente inusual, con una furia que yo nunca había visto por una canción", afirma en conversación con DW el cineasta cubano afincado en Berlín Ricardo Bacallao. Pero, ¿a qué se debe esta vehemente reacción? "Si no eres cubano, quizá sea difícil de entender: Cuba, desde los comienzos de la Revolución, usó la música como instrumento para adoctrinar al pueblo y para enviar mensajes al mundo", explica Bacallao, para quien ahora "les han dado de su propia medicina". El propio presidente cubano, Miguel Díaz-Canel, respondió a la canción citando los versos de Silvio Rodríguez.

En realidad, sí hay antecedentes. Mabel Cuesta, profesora de Literatura en la Universidad de Houston, recuerda en conversación con DW el caso de Willy Chirino y cómo su canción 'Ya viene llegando' tuvo una respuesta similar por parte del gobierno cubano hace tres décadas. La diferencia ahora es internet. De hecho, explica, la respuesta de los órganos de comunicación cubanos han servido de caja de resonancia a la canción, haciendo que todos la conozcan en la isla.

"Básicamente, ellos no están equipados para responder a las características, las demandas o las nuevas formas de pensamiento que se generan de manera natural cuando hay mayor conectividad", explica, recordando que, en Cuba, "la internet en los teléfonos es algo que no tiene ni tres años". "Los millenials cubanos han aprendido muy bien cómo utilizar las herramientas digitales, pero ellos no", dice en referencia al aparato estatal de propaganda.

El miedo como instrumento de autocensura

"Cuando uno crece en un régimen como el cubano se acostumbra a vivir con miedo", dijo el viernes en una entrevista con Efe Randy Malcom, del dúo Gente de Zona, unos de los artistas que participan en 'Patria y vida'. "Había veces que dábamos entrevistas y cuando nos preguntaban sobre política bajábamos la voz aunque no dijéramos nada controversial", recordaba. "Ese miedo lo dejamos atrás hace rato", afirma el artista, aunque su compañero Alexander Delgado advierte: "Si algo le pasa a mi familia, yo responsabilizo al gobierno cubano".

"Hay muchos cubanos que no quieren asumir ese riesgo de que, por ejemplo, no le vuelvan a dejar entrar al país; eso es un fenómeno que a un alemán le cuesta entender", explica Bacallao, que actualmente trabaja en un documental sobre Bebo Valdés, "que se fue de Cuba porque no quería vivir bajo ninguna dictadura, ni de izquierda ni de derecha". Incluso en ámbitos artísticos o académicos es palpable ese miedo y esa autocensura, explica, con la esperanza de que canciones como 'Patria y vida' animen a más artistas e intelectuales a ayudar a diluir ese "romanticismo" que envuelve a Cuba.

José Martí y George Washington

El videoclip de la canción comienza con "la imagen de Martí, que se hace pedazos, para entrever, nada más y nada menos que la de George Washington", protestaba un editorial de la televisión cubana. Es un peso cubano, con la imagen de José Martí, padre de la independencia cubana (y la firma del Che Guevara, como gobernador del Banco Central que fue), que deja paso a la imagen de un dólar. "Esa primera imagen no es una apuesta por la dolarización ni por la anexión ni supone ensalzar a los Estados Unidos; muy por el contrario, es una denuncia de lo que ha hecho el gobierno cubano con la economía cubana en un momento de crisis como este", explica Cuesta.

"De manera circular, al final del video, ese mismo Washington viene a convertirse en un Martí: la propuesta es no dolarizarnos, sino promover la economía cubana", concluye Cuesta. "Es obvio que estos músicos están respondiendo a un momento, a una sensibilidad, en que la ciudadanía cubana tanto en la isla como en la diáspora estamos pasando una desesperación tremenda, porque nuestras familias están pasando hambre, porque no pueden acceder a estas tiendas [de alimentación] que el gobierno ha condenado a que sean solo en dólares, cuando en Cuba nadie cobra en dólares".

Además, "en la retórica oficial del gobierno todos estos músicos están pagados por la CIA, por el gobierno, por la derecha de Miami, etcétera, etcétera... no es verdad". "Yo trabajo para una Universidad norteamericana y claro que recibo un salario del estado de Texas, pero a mí la CIA no me paga por decir estas cosas", añade.

Abonando el terreno

"¿Qué va a pasar, va a haber una Primavera Árabe en Cuba con este video?", se pregunta Bacallo. "No, yo no espero algo así", se responde. Coincide en esto con Cuesta, para quien el hecho de que los cambios en política sean lentos no es necesariamente negativo. Puede hacerlos menos traumáticos y sangrientos. De momento, Bacallo se conforma pensando que "seguramente, mucha gente en Cuba, incluso funcionarios, esté tarareando esta canción ahora mismo".

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  • Bildergalerie Che Guevara 85. Geburtstag (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    El hombre que encarnó la revolución

    El rostro de Ernesto "Che" Guevara es, hasta hoy, el símbolo por excelencia del idealismo revolucionario. Más allá de la ideología y de su opción por la lucha armada, el Che se convirtió en un ícono de la cultura pop, que sigue vigente hasta la actualidad, muchas veces despojado de contenido.

  • Der kubanische Rebellenführer Fidel Castro mit seinem Kommandostab (picture-alliance/dpa)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    De médico a lugarteniente

    Ernesto Guevara, nacido en Argentina en 1928, conoció a Fidel Castro en 1955 en México y se sumó a su proyecto revolucionario. Se unió al grupo como médico, llegando a convertirse luego en lugarteniente de Fidel. Esta foto en que aparece con otros revolucionarios fue tomada en 1958, en una base secreta, en Cuba.

  • Ernesto Che Guevara Fidel Raul Castro um 1959 (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Rebeldes victoriosos

    El Che Guevara y Fidel Castro, en 1959, en La Habana: la dictadura de Fulgencio Batista había sido derrotada. Fidel Castro nombró al argentino ministro de Industria y director del Banco Central cubano.

  • Ernesto Che Guevara Fidel Raul Castro um 1959 (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Los primeros tiempos

    Ernesto Guevara es recordado como un incansable trabajador, que desempeñó un papel clave en la creación de las estructuras del nuevo gobierno cubano.

  • Bildergalerie Blockfreie Staaten (picture-alliance/dpa)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Flores para el comandante

    La figura del Che Guevara cobró rápidamente fama, también fuera de Cuba. Durante una visita a la India, fue saludado en Nueva Delhi con una corona de flores, como muestra esta foto de 1959.

  • Bildergalerie Che Guevara 85. Geburtstag (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Conversación con Raúl

    Raúl Castro, actual presidente de Cuba, y el Che Guevara (foto de 1960) fueron piezas angulares en el recién incipiente gobierno de Fidel Castro. Raúl sucedió al argentino como segunda figura política en La Habana cuando el Che partió de la isla para seguir propagando la revolución.

  • Bildergalerie Che Guevara 85. Geburtstag (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    La exportación de la lucha

    El Che propugnaba una lucha generalizada, como única forma de derrotar al "imperialismo", y se empeñó en exportar la revolución y en propagarla por América Latina y África. En 1965 renunció a sus cargos en Cuba y partió al continente africano, donde participó en la rebelión en el Congo, que terminó en fracaso. La foto muestra al Che atravesando el lago Tanganica, en noviembre de 1965.

  • Leiche von Che Guevara (Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Ejecutado en Bolivia

    La aventura revolucionaria del Che lo llevó más adelante a Bolivia, donde planeaba crear un foco guerrillero que pudiera extender la lucha a los países limítrofes. Allí fue herido en un combate con tropas del ejército el 8 de octubre de 1967. Un día después fue ejecutado. En la foto, su cuerpo es mostrado a militares y periodistas en un hospital de la localidad boliviana de Vallegrande.

  • Alberto Korda

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    La foto que lo inmortalizó

    No fueron las fotos de su cuerpo sin vida, sino ésta, con la mirada desafiante al futuro, la que se grabó en la retina de la historia. "Guerrillero heroico" la tituló su autor, el fotógrafo cubano Alberto Korda. La imagen fue captada en 1960, en un acto en honor a las víctimas de la explosión de un barco que llevaba armas a Cuba.

  • Bildergalerie Che Guevara 85. Geburtstag (Adalberto Roque/AFP/GettyImages)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Idolatrado en Cuba

    La figura del Che Guevara ha sido elevada al rango de héroe nacional en Cuba y sigue presente por doquier. En esta foto de 2005, su efigie sirvió de telón de fondo a un disurso de Fidel Castro, en la inauguración de un campeonato deportivo.

  • Bildergalerie Traditionen 1. Mai Tag der Arbeit - Italien (AFP/Getty Images/A. Solaro)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Símbolo internacional

    Pero también en los más diversos rincones del mundo se alza el rostro del Che, como en esta celebración del Día del Trabajo, en Roma, el 1 de mayo de 2014.

  • Che Guevara Konterfei auf Tasche (Flickr/sa-by-ccboca)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Mercadeo de un símbolo

    La imagen, multiplicada en serie, no siempre conlleva un mensaje político. Impresa en múltiples artículos de consumo, dista de revelar mucho sobre la postura de su portador.

  • Desfile de carnaval en Colonia

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Con una sonrisa

    Con el tiempo, también ha ido quedando atrás la solemnidad. En el carnaval de Colonia de 2012, un grupo del movimiento "Occupy", contrario a la globalización y el neoliberalismo, no tuvo reparos para adornar la cara del Che con una nariz carnavalera.

  • Kolumbien Bogota FARC-Delegierte (DW/T. Käufer)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Panteón de la izquierda

    Sumamente solemnes parecen en cambio quienes reverencian al Che y otros símbolos de la izquierda al extremo de representarlos junto a Jesús en esta pintura. Como sea, la imagen de Guevara sigue teniendo fuerza y presencia, 50 años después de su muerte.


Источник: https://www.dw.com/es/cuba-patria-o-muerte-o-patria-y-vida/a-56657124

Love

translated by Esther Allen

     Times of gorge and rush are these:
Voices fly like light: lightning,
like a ship hurled upon dread quicksand,
plunges down the high rod, and in delicate craft
man, as if winged, cleaves the air.
And love, without splendor or mystery,
dies when newly born, of glut.
The city is a cage of dead doves
and avid hunters! If men’s bosoms
were to open and their torn flesh
fall to the earth, inside would be
nothing but a scatter of small, crushed fruit!

     Love happens in the street, standing in the dust
of saloons and public squares: the flower
dies the day it’s born. The trembling
virgin who would rather death
have her than some unknown youth;
the joy of trepidation; that feeling of heart
set free from chest; the ineffable
pleasure of deserving; the sweet alarm
of walking quick and straight
from your love’s home and breaking
into tears like a happy child;—
and that gazing of our love at the fire,
as roses slowly blush a deeper color,—
Bah, it’s all a sham! Who has the time
to be noble? Though like a golden
bowl or sumptuous painting
a genteel lady sits in the magnate’s home!

     But if you’re thirsty, reach out your arm,
and drain some passing cup!
The dirtied cup rolls to the dust, then,
and the expert taster—breast blotted
with invisible blood—goes happily,
crowned with myrtle, on his way!
Bodies are nothing now but trash,
pits and tatters! And souls
are not the tree’s lush fruit
down whose tender skin runs
sweet juice in time of ripeness,—
but fruit of the marketplace, ripened
by the hardened laborer’s brutal blows!

     It is an age of dry lips!
Of undreaming nights! Of life
crushed unripe! What is it that we lack,
without which there is no gladness? Like a startled
hare in the wild thicket of our breast,
fleeing, tremulous, from a gleeful hunter,
the spirit takes cover;
and Desire, on Fever’s arm,
beats the thicket, like the rich hunter.

     The city appals me! Full
of cups to be emptied, and empty cups!
I fear—ah me!—that this wine
may be poison, and sink its teeth,
vengeful imp, in my veins!
I thirst—but for a wine that none on earth
knows how to drink! I have not yet
endured enough to break through the wall
that keeps me, ah grief!, from my vineyard!
Take, oh squalid tasters
of humble human wines, these cups
from which, with no fear or pity,
you swill the lily’s juice!
Take them! I am honorable, and I am afraid!


Amor de Cuidad Grande

     De gorja son y rapidez los tiempos.
Corre cual luz la voz; en alta aguja,
Cual nave despeñada en sirte horrenda,
Húndese el rayo, y en ligera barca
El hombre, como alado, el aire hiende.
¡Así el amor, sin pompa ni misterio
Muere, apenas nacido, de saciado!
Jaula es la villa de palomas muertas
Y ávidos cazadores! Si los pechos
Se rompen de los hombres, y las carnes
Rotas por tierra ruedan, ¡no han de verse
Dentro más que frutillas estrujadas!

     Se ama de pie, en las calles, entre el polvo
De los salones y las plazas; muere
La flor que nace. Aquella virgen
Trémula que antes a la muerte daba
La mano pura que a ignorado mozo;
El goce de temer; aquel salirse
Del pecho el corazón; el inefable
Placer de merecer; el grato susto
De caminar de prisa en derechura
Del hogar de la amada, y a sus puertas
Como un niño feliz romper en llanto;—
Y aquel mirar, de nuestro amor al fuego,
Irse tiñendo de color las rosas,—
Ea, que son patrañas! Pues ¿quién tiene
tiempo de ser hidalgo? Bien que sienta,
Cual áureo vaso o lienzo suntuoso,
Dama gentil en casa de magnate!

     O si se tiene sed, se alarga el brazo
Y a la copa que pasa se la apura!
Luego, la copa turbia al polvo rueda,
Y el hábil catador—manchado el pecho
De una sangre invisible—sigue alegre
Coronado de mirtos, su camino!
No son los cuerpos ya sino desechos,
Y fosas, y jirones! Y las almas
No son como en el árbol fruta rica
En cuya blanda piel la almíbar dulce
En su sazón de madurez rebosa,—
Sino fruta de plaza que a brutales
Golpes el rudo labrador madura!

     ¡La edad es ésta de los labios secos!
De las noches sin sueño! ¡De la vida
Estrujada en agraz! Qué es lo que falta
Que la ventura falta? Como liebre
Azorada, el espíritu se esconde,
Trémulo huyendo al cazador que ríe,
Cual en soto selvoso, en nuestro pecho;
Y el deseo, de brazo de la fiebre,
Cual rico cazador recorre el soto.

     ¡Me espanta la ciudad! ¡Toda está llena
De copas por vaciar, o huecas copas!
¡Tengo miedo ¡ay de mí! de que este vino
Tósigo sea, y en mis venas luego
Cual duende vengador los dientes clave!
¡Tengo sed,—mas de un vino que en la tierra
No se sabe beber! ¡No he padecido
Bastante aún, para romper el muro
Que me aparta ¡oh dolor! de mi viñedo!
¡Tomad vosotros, catadores ruines
De vinillos humanos, esos vasos
Donde el jugo de lirio a grandes sorbos
Sin compasión y sin temor se bebe!
Tomad! Yo soy honrado, y tengo miedo!

Источник: https://poets.org/anthology/love-142
1900

“In the four major points
santa Ifigenia Cemetery, the spirit
storms has launched his invitation.
Anybody want to fire Jose Martí’s duel?”
José Lezama Lima

The National Capitol was inaugurated on May 20, 1929. It represents and guards the majesty of the Usps office open today, the symbolic essence of the island and the historical foundation of the nation. The Cuban who walks through its doors, if he understands the meaning of what he does, knows that he does not enter a museum but in the heart of the Republic.
A sacred building, as is the Capitol, protects the memory of the people who build it. That is the reason that justifies the bronze of the Beloved Fatherland, who presides over the Hall of Lost Steps. On the right, in the Chamber that the government must occupy, the war flags adorn the hall where the 1940 Constitution was signed.
In perfect symmetry, if the Cuban descends further into the work, he will find a white crypt under the diamond of kilometer zero. In it are kept the symbols that continuously feed the Fatherland, arranged there not to forget: a plaque with the notes of La Bayamesa; the coat of arms of the Republic; the words of Céspedes, when he assumed the presidency in Guáimaro and, in the center of the room, the tomb of an unmarked mambí.
It is disturbing that an unknown mambí, a shadow that died in solitude, is the cornerstone of Cuba.
When Martí says that “the dead are the roots of the peoples”, or that “every dead soldier is a root”, perhaps he thought that the Fatherland is not the solitary responsibility of the generals, but the raison d’etion of that un nameless soldier. The death of the unknown mambí synthesizes all the symbolic dead of the Cuban War: a Céspedes, who according to Manuel Sanguily fell into the abyss like a sun shrouded in flames; to Agramonte, who died young and in love; to Maceo, who had the strong blood of the immortals; and Martí, the well-loved dead man of the Fatherland.
Mambí, diamond, statue, dome: each symbol executes on the next, in its same line, a strengthening of the Cuban spirit and returns a kind of pillar, solid column, where to raise the country every day.
But the Fatherland, and that cannot be forgotten, is grounded, “rooted”, in a glorious and symbolic dead man, who has no name or who actually has all the names of war.
Martí’s tour of the “marble cloisters” of his simple verses, where heroes wait unequidly to perform their utopias, sums up their position in front of history. In the mausoleum of the Fatherland – which is so reminiscent of the primitive meaning of the Capitol for Cubans – the poet establishes an ongoing dialogue with those who thought of the nation. As in the text, History “sweeps the earth” with the conscience of the patriot, who cannot passively attend the fate of Cuba, whose roots are fixed on the death and legacy of his great men.
Martí was born in the same year that Father Varela died, exiled, as if in Cuba a father of the homeland could not die without another emerging and continuing his foundation work. This common date is due to coincidence, but what is not coincidental in these men is their essential bond in thought, which they share with other Cuban 19th-century “marble men”.
“Those times,” Martí says, recalling the men of ’68, “were truly wonderful. With tree branches they kept, and cast back, the enemy rifle; applied virgin ingenuity to wild nature; created civilization in the poetry of freedom; they were confused in death, for nothing less than death was necessary for the master and servant to be confused.”1
The invisible chain that unifies the Cuban patriotic tradition is summarized in concrete texts, born of poor and essential men, such as the elective philosophy of Father José Agustín Caballero; the Aphorisms of Light; all the writing of Varela or Heredia; the Lost Journal of Grass and, of course, the papers that are so similar to the last testimony of the Father of the Fatherland: como muere jose marti Diaries of José Martí.

José Martí
The rereading of the Diaries today is, above all, to attend a profession of faith for Cuba. In this sense, Martí is truly an Apostle, that is, prophet and martyr of his vocation to die for Cuba, by giving war, despite the human horror that she entails, her necessary condition. The Diaries are the fragmented and bleeding writing of that vocation.
The path that begins in the renewed reading of the Martyred Diaries leads the Cuban to the discovery of a genealogy: from the men of the Seminary College San Carlos and San Ambrosio to the prosperous of ’68, and from these to Martí and the heroes who accompany him in the dream of the Republic possible. It also means a passage into the last chronicle of the Indies: the count of a traveler astonished at the insula and its nature. And, of course, the reconstruction and dialogue that Martí engages with the history of Cuba, through countless voices and shadows that appear to him on his route and that tell him his truth about the wars past and its protagonists.
As before many Martyred texts, but in this with special intensity, the reader of his Diaries has to dig up nothing less than the origin and fortification of the Cuban idea, which with it reaches its founding fullness. Martí also turns the Diaries into a continuous examination of conscience about their role in war and in the future nation until they understand, during the darkest moments of the story, the imminence and sense of their martyrdom.
The annotations in the Diario de campaña de Máximo Gómez, corresponding to May 19, 1895, allow us to reconstruct the last day of José Martí. Six hundred Spaniards, under Colonel José Ximénes de Sandoval, came from Bayamo in search of the insurgent troops. Gomez, who had already left to attack them “with an advantage” on May 17, had not yet made contact with them.
On the 19th, on the eve of the fighting that is about to break out, Gomez and Martí are sandy the troop. “Martí spoke with true spirit and ardor warrior,” writes El Viejo, “ignoring that the enemy was marching on my trail and that misfortune prepared for us and for Martí, the greatest misfortune.” The troops are filled with euphoria: they call him President again, as they had been doing days ago in the manigua.
To this major misfortune would ride Martí, mounted on the steed that José Maceo had given him and that would be the same one that would later accompany his son José Francisco, the Ismaelillo, in that same contest of ’95.
Contravening the order of Gómez, who had already launched himself against the Spaniards, Martí leaves the assigned position in the company of the young Angel de la Guardia. He receives, in his fatal hour, a heavy shock that knocks him down. His assistant tries to charge him and save the body, but the corpse is heavy and has fixed himself to the ground.
“I have never seen myself in more engaged lance,” Gomez acknowledges, “for in the first onslaught the enemy’s avant-garde swept away, but he immediately loosened, and certainly the enemy became firm with a very nourishing fire; and Martí, who did not stand by me, fell wounded or killed in a place where he could not be picked up and was left in the possession of the enemy.”2
For the Major General of the Liberator Army, who has come with Martí to the island and has progressively discovered his greatness, the death of the “friend, the companion, the patriot” is not possible and has had to withdraw from battle “with the soul saddened”.
This succession of confusing scenes, which history collects from fragments full of smoke, gunpowder and lead, transform the dos Ríos stage into the altar for the martyr. The apostolic impulse that prompted Martí to seek “his hour” was not, as has been claimed, neither a suicide nor a military naivety: Martí was not proven in the royal war, but he had in-depth knowledge of science and war strategy.
However, any interpretation of the events of May 19 is silent in the face of the certainty of a man who knows he is going to die. The difference is como muere jose marti Martí is a man inhabited by a deep historical sense and a consciousness – increasing judging by his Diaries and his last letters – of his encounter with the final mystery.
To his old friend Manuel Mercado he has written, with serenity of spirit, that he is already “every day in danger of giving my life for my country and for my duty”. Because there is no doubt in the soul of Cuba, that “it is one, I know, the will of the country”. “In me,” he insists, “I will only defend what I have by guarantee or service of the revolution. I know how to disappear. But my thought would not disappear, nor would my darkness sour.”3
Where does the martyred polish towards symbolic death come from? Martí was not a weak man, despite tiredness and illness. Since arriving in Cuba – to the surprise of Máximo Gómez and the other expeditioners – Martí shows signs of a superhuman ability to withstand the fatigues of the manigua. On April 14, El Viejo writes: “We admire each other, the old warriors accustomed to these rudenesses, of the resistance of Martí – who accompanies us without slackers of any kind, by these steep mountains.”4
And later, on the 21st, the fortress does not decay: “Martí, to which we assumed weak by the unsused of the fatigues of these marches, remains strong and fearless.”5
As they progress through the Cuban East, Martí collects a series of remedies, observations, recipes to make dishes with the same ingredients offered by Cuban nature. These are the most contemplative and serene moments of tone, in which the Apostle enters into the mystique of the “beautiful night”, which does not let him sleep. In fact, the last sentence of the second diary is neither a political testament nor a part of battle, but the image of a man who feeds, who rests: “roast bananas, and majan cow appraisal, with a stone on the pylon, for the newcomers. […] and brings me Valentin a jar boiled in sweet, with fig leaves.”6
But with the advance comes also the metamorphosis of the poet in Mambí, and of mambí in the “President” that fills the symbolic void that Carlos Manuel left in the imaginary of the simple people. Martí, stripped of this political quality of command, is indeed “the one who presides, the one who convenes”, the voice that animates the war and that impels it, because he embodies himself what his word – como muere jose marti Word – has announced and foreseen for the Cuban.
He speaks, for example, of a “Mambi day” where a jutía is killed and seasoned with sour orange that will feed the troop; where Cuban hills that “sister men” are uploaded; where you have to sleep on the ground, on stacked yaguas and “all day, what light, what air, what fills the bank and trust company, how light the body distressed! I look at the ranch outside, and I see, at the top of the ridge back, a palm and a star.”7
Soon, however, the traveler’s diary becomes a war diary. The echo of the Spaniards is heard in the camp and the troops are launched into the first fights. Restlessness is on the rise and death surrounds the story, since at the same time as the battle we must punish internal rebellion, banditry and indisciplines.
On 4 May, the Delegate and the General arrive at the court-martial of a Mambí, Pilar Masabó, who is accused of being a thief and rapist. The defense attorney begs the newcomers for clemency for the convict. But Gomez, immovable, says, “This man is not our companion: he is a vile worm.” Martí remembers how man advances to the wall without fear, contemplates the face of his executioners, his clothes wave in the wind. Gunshots are ringing. “Masabó is dead brave,” Martí writes.

José Martí

While the process lasts, paying no attention to the prisoner’s drama, a mambí peels a cane.
Deeply impressed by Masabó’s death, Martí attends the shedding of his own blood, to the “vipers” who, as Gomez had already told him, were born in the bowels of the war. Besathed by sickness and suffering, death is no stranger to Martí. But in the warrior manigua, the reality is different: “How can I not be inspired by horror, the bloodstain I saw along the way?
Four days later, another court-martial is held, three mambises who “sowed terror” in the surrounding area. This time, Martí intervenes and achieves forgiveness for two of the prisoners. But he cannot stop the death of the third, on which Gomez acts again with an iron hand. “That criminal has stained our flag,” the General says, as the inso comes crying before the firing squad. It’s Gomez himself who orders a fire to open.
The dead fall, finally, and Martí observes the survivors: one sweats cold and the other, “unscathed from the face”, continues to flee back from panic, even if it is still tied up.
Also, in his own memory or in the voice of others, he remembers the death of the heroes. “Will it be true that Flor is dead?” he asks, on April 21, at rumors announcing The Death of Flor Crombet. It is also recalled the death of Limbano Sánchez, head of sedations in the Great War, who according to what Martí knows could have been poisoned or shot, but always to treason.
At the end of the Diaries, death has already occupied a visible and prophetic extension: soon the delegate will have the time he has waited to execute his sacrifice for the Fatherland. He arrives, as Lezama says, at the center of himself which is, however, his greater remoteness. He comes to Cuba to die, and he knows it.
“What was the foundation of this premonition,” Mañach writes, “that Martí had of his early death.”9 As May 19 approaches, so does the “feeling of the great shadow.” Martí has prepared everything and untied the war in intensity, as besathed by urgency.
And he died urgently, with the entry of his word into history, giving the new war the symbolic impetus it needed.
The iron man, Gomez, doesn’t believe or want to believe Martí’s death. On the 20th he sent Ramón Garriga, the custodian of the Diaries, with a letter addressed to Colonel Ximénes de Sandoval, to find out if “he is killed or lives with serious injury, or whatever.” The colonel “understands” Gomez that, since he is a Freezer like Martí, he is being treated as a brother, not an enemy.
But on the 21st, Garriga contradicts the notice and announces that “Martí is dead and that his head is separated, they reserve it; and the body buried in the cemetery of that village.” On the day of the fight, the final score is not written by the General-in-Chief but by an old, fatigued man: “What a war is it! I thought at night that next to an instant of slight pleasure, another of bitter pain appears. We already lack the best of companions and the soul we can say of the uprising.”10
Martí, man and apostle, general and president, poet and mambí, consumed his life in passion for Cuba as his elders did, in exile and in manigua. This passion must be recognized in its two senses: that of love for Cuba and the other, which involves suffering, sacrifice and death.
The luminous path that has been rebuilt here, from the memory of the Founding Fathers to the monumental pantheon of the Capitol, must be read as the progression of the Cuban idea in history. A path in which the Fatherland is transfiguring and enriching itself, even incarnating itself in the man who makes an image – as poets say – to give the Island its ethical and historical fullness.
The return to founding texts like the Diaries is as urgent as going to that temple of the Cuban that is the Capitol. With an equivalent commitment, both monuments – that of the letter and that of the stone – force the addition of Cuba as an essence hotels near university at buffalo as a daily vocation. It is not a salvation through the ghosts, but a enlightenment, terrible to be so necessary, of the lost and the buried, of a restoration of patriotic memory in the return to our essential symbols. Ω

Notes
1 José Martí: “Speech in commemoration of October 10, in Masonic Temple, New York. October 10, 1888,” in Complete Works, Havana, Ed. Social Sciences, 1992, t. 4, p. 237. [Hereinafter: O.C.].
2 Máximo Gómez: Campaign Journal, Havana, Cuban Book Institute, 1968, p. 284.
3 José Martí: “To General Antonio Maceo”, in O.C., t. 20, p. 161-163.
4 Maximum Gomez: Campaign journal, ed. cit., p. 278.
5 Ibid., p. 279.
6 José Martí: Campaign diaries, edition annotated by Mayra Beatriz Martínez, Havana, Centro de Estudios Martianos, 2014, pp. 107-108.
7 Ibid., pp. 68-69.
8 Ibid., p. 79.
9 Jorge Mañach: Martí in Jorge Mañach, selection, prologue and bibliography of Salvador Arias, Havana, Ed. Cuban Letters, 2014, p. 194.
10 Máximo Gómez: Campaign Journal, Havana, Cuban Book Institute, 1968, p. 286.

Источник: https://www.palabranueva.net/en/jose-marti-muere/
copyright 2021, Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media
Jump Cut
, No. 60, spring 2021

Cuba’s “Apostle” desacralized:
melancholic aesthetics and the specter of assembly in José Martí: Eye of the Canary

by Eric Morales-Franceschini

Fernando Pérez’s José Martí: Eye of the Canary (2010) has been touted as the most noteworthy cinematic event in twenty-first century Cuba. The film’s melancholic aesthetics and portrayal of young Martí desacralize the nation’s “Apostle,” offering Cubans a more intimate and vulnerable Martí with whom to reckon. So, too, does it provocatively render Martí as a “dissident” who nonviolently cries out for rights to free speech and assembly.

Yet Afro-Cubans and Cuban women never truly inflect this cinematic project of a Cuba “with all and for the good of all.” Their bodies and desires never assemble nor speak out politically, and that absence renders Eye of the Canary a paradoxical cinematic text that pleads for but does not performatively enact democracy. This essay explores how the film differs from the myths and visual rhetoric that customarily shroud Martí and also how it is intriguingly in (and out of) touch with the assembly politics and non-violent protests that characterize much of the contemporary world.

Lovingly known as the Patria’s “Apostle,” José Martí is the most revered Cuban. So many things in Cuba testify to his status as national martyr and exemplary patriot:

  • the busts in every schoolyard,
  • his face on the most commonly used currency (1 peso),
  • the larger-than-life statues throughout Havana,
  • the yearly commemorations of his birth and his death,
  • the symposia and seminars of the Center for José Martí Studies, and
  • the numerous manuscripts published annually by or about Martí.

 Yet what Martí symbolizes for Cubans was never easily discerned or without controversy. What is the routing number for first interstate bank Lillian Guerra (2006) has documented, Martí has as many interpretations as there are constituencies and agendas in the Cuban polity—on and beyond the island. Whether portrayed as literary virtuoso, magisterial orator, civic “maestro,” saintly martyr, or revolutionary militant, he seems to embody virtues and ideologies not easily reconciled, if at all. That his writings and speeches are not only prolific (i.e. no less than 25 volumes) but also poetic and aphoristic does not make matters easier. Indeed, it could be said that Martí is less a passion than he is, as José Lezama Lima (Velazco 2011, 126) once put it, a “mystery,” one that tirelessly haunts and hails Cubans.

This essay examines how Cuban cinema has approached that mystery and to what effect. In particular, I am interested in how Fernando Pérez’s José Martí: The Eye of the Canary (2010) takes up that topic. This is a film touted by critics as the most noteworthy cinematic event since the release of the Oscar-nominated Strawberry and Chocolate (1993). For example, critic Emilio Bejel (2012, 67) recalls the standing ovations and teary-eyed embraces that the film elicited in Cuban theaters. With religious language, Cuban poet Fina García Marruz (2011, 16) refers to the film as a “miracle,” as does philosopher Fernando Martínez Heredia, calling it “spiritual nourishment” (2011, 158).

Why has the film spoken so tenaciously to Cubans and how does it differ from the myths that customarily shroud Martí? One answer lies in its rendition of Martí as utterly human—a Martí “neither sanctified nor statue-fied,” as Joel del Río (2011, 128) nicely puts it. Indeed, for the first half of the film, the script presents Martí as a meek and introspective schoolboy warmly known as “Pepe”; only in the last quarter does he, as a seventeen-year-old pupil, bear any resemblance to the fiery orator and patriot Cubans have come to identify as their “Apostle.” Yet these attributes alone do not satisfactorily account for the film’s signifying power. For they do edmonds kingston ferry times address the film’s provocative pleas for democracy. For no idle choice does the film show Martí as a “dissident” and give him a closing scene while in jail. In particular, the rights of free speech and assembly are what are most viscerally staged and most emphatically at stake. In what is the film’s climactic scene, Martí cries out at his trial, “My right to speak has never existed!”

Indeed, Eye of the Canary conspicuously foregoes an epic tale of martyrs who fall in combat and, in its stead, foregrounds a civilly disobedient youth who cries out for rights to free speech and assembly. On the other hand, the script primarily foregrounds the voices and prerogatives of Cuba’s urban and white sons, who assemble politically and whose desires spell out the project of Cuba Libre. Never does the film show that project inflected by the intellects or desires of Afro-Cubans, Cuban women, or Cuba’s exploited workers. Thus, the filmmakers’ narrative choices call for closer scrutiny.

To explain the context of my inquiry into this film, and its importance, first I discuss Martí’s “sublime” death and its resonance within Cuba’s postwar republic and collective Cuban consciousness. I then read and historically contextualize The White Rose (1954) and Pages from Martí’s Diary (1971), the only other feature-length films on Martí. Lastly, I delve into Eye of the Canary, with an eye for what critical possibilities its “melancholic” aesthetics and “desacralized” portrayal of Martí have to offer as well as those possibilities it does not follow.

Martí and the iconography of death

Abdala, a fictional Nubian warrior in José Martí’s 1869 Abdala declaims:

 “Nubia is victorious!
I die happy: death
Little does it matter, for I was able to save her…
Oh, how sweet it is to die when one dies
Struggling audaciously to defend the patria!”
[1] [open endnotes in new window]

A classic account of that most “sublime” of secular loves, namely the love of Nation, Abdala was published in Martí’s periodical, Patria Libre, within the first year of what came to be known as the Ten Years’ War (1868-78). Martí was only sixteen-years-old when he wrote this play in poetic verse as a literary homage to the separatistsat war in Cuba’s far east, and he offered this romanticized call for others, too, to sacrifice their lives for the Patria. Such a desire for a patriotic “happy” death was not of course peculiar to Martí. At least two years before Abdala was written, fifty-year-old “Perucho” Figueredo, an Oriente lawyer and landowner, wrote the words and melody to what became (and remains) Cuba’s national anthem, la Bayamesa; in that anthem, the most routinely cited verse reads: “fear not a glorious death/for como muere jose marti die for one’s country is to live.”[2] And not unlike Perucho, Martí would usps office open today his own “happy” death at the Battle of Dos Ríos in May 1895.

Yet Martí’s death hardly aroused happiness in Cuba’s collective consciousness. Three years later, the United States militarily intervened in Cuba (1898-1902, 1906-09) and left in its wake the Platt Amendment, a naval base in Guantánamo, and a “pseudo-Republic” friendly to U.S. investors and the mafia. That was a far cry  from that republic “with all and for the good of all” that Martí had eloquently intoned. In terms of Cuban culture, Martí’s death came to signify the death of Cuba Libre itself. As one of the more popular songs of the early twentieth century, “Clave a Martí,” lamented:

“Martí no debió a morir
Ay de morir
Si fuera el maestro del día
Otro gallo cantaría
La patria se salvaría
Y Cuba sería feliz”

…….

“Martí should not have died
Oh! Not have died
If he were the maestro of the day
A different story would be heard
The patria rescued
And happy would Cuba be”[3]

As Bejel (2012, 92) has argued in Freudian terms, first national bank severna park Cuban culture Martí is no mere hero inasmuch as a “redeeming saint,” one who would have instituted that “moral republic” so eagerly anticipated by the wars of independence. As history proceeded, the unsavory reality of Cuba’s “republican” era made it such that Cubans did not mourn inasmuch as melancholically fixate on his death. Martí became that lost object from which Cubans could not (or would not!) effectively withdraw their “libidinal” attachments and by which, consciously or otherwise, they expressed their disenchantment with Cuban reality. Martí as such lived on a specter of what-could-have-been—and, thereby, of what-should-be. This may be precisely why his commemoration became obligatory. With the 1921 “Law that Glorifies the Apostle,” Martí’s birthday, January 28, was declared a national holiday. All municipalities were expected to name a street and erect a commemorative object (e.g. statue, plaque, etc.) in his honor, as were schoolchildren and citizens to collectively recite verses and offer tributes. However, as Guerra (2006, 34) has noted, such events and their objects do not commemorate inasmuch as police, however indecisively, what Martí can signify.

Indeed, anyone who wished to legitimize his or her bid for power has had to reckon with and skillfully enlist the aura of the “Maestro” or “Apostle.” This was the case whether one be a ruler or a atm piggy bank machine amazon, whether a Fulgencio Batista or a Fidel Castro. For example, Batista, who came to power by coup in 1952, tried to capitalize on the symbolically rich year 1953, the centennial of Martí’s birth. For that, he sponsored commemorative events and projects, not least the famous Martí memorial in Revolution Plaza (formerly Civic Plaza) and the first feature-length film about Martí’s life: La rosa blanca (The White Rose.

Directed by the renowned Mexican filmmaker Emilio “el Indio” Fernández, La rosa blanca: momentos de la vida de José Martí (The White Rose) first screened in Havana in 1954. It is a two-hour, black-and-white biopic that projects Martí as gifted orator and devout patriot. He is brought to life by a handsome and respectable Roberto Cañedo who delivers one impassioned speech after the next. And while the film’s strictly chronological account is driven towards Martí’s climactic fall in Dos Ríos, it is mostly devoted to his life in exile and the personal agony and sacrifices he suffers for the sake of his beloved Patria. Low-angle close-ups of Martí’s face and scenes set in aristocratic homes, salons, and ballrooms are what stand out visually, just as all that Martí must forgo or disavow (i.e. women, family, career, etc.) are what stand out morally and politically. Martí is portrayed thus as an asexual, morally incorruptible statesmen who dies the death not of a warrior inasmuch as a saintly martyr.

Martí’s death was hardly in vain—at least insofar as the film frames it. The closing scene features the lowering of the Spanish flag at Havana’s El Morro, the military and ceremonial center of Spanish imperial power, and as a mambí bugler solemnly bellows, the Cuban flag comes to wave proudly. The entire scene overlays a faded still of Martí/Cañedo’s dead yet sober face. The viewer is thereby summoned to fine art america shower curtains more than mourn or fixate Martí’s his death, for Cuba Libre has been metonymically (by the raised flag) rendered a consummate fact.

This belies history, of course. For it was the U.S. flag that soared in Havana 1898 and the U.S. Army that took credit for Cuba’s “liberation.” In fact, remarkably no Americans are seen in The White Rose, and only in a subdued tone and ephemeral scene does Martí refer to his many years in the “entrails of the monster.”[4]

Even more ironically, in the same year The White Rose was filmed and edited under Batista’s auspices, Fidel Castro led his historic assault on the Moncada barracks of Santiago de Cuba, an act he would later say was “intellectually authored” by Martí (2007, 88-89). Notably, once in power, Castro would oversee the installation of Martí busts all over the island and cultivate awe for an anti-imperialist and internationalist Martí.

Cubans did not, however, submissively receive such lessons and visual cues. For example, Tomás Gutierrez Alea’s Death of a Bureaucrat (1966) would darkly lampoon Como muere jose marti absurdities of (socialist) bureaucracy, including obliquely critiquing the cult of Martí. The film opens at the grave of a fictional Francisco Pérez, lovingly known as “Paco.” According to the script, Paco was Cuba’s most prized sculptor of Martí busts. He worked tirelessly to meet state quotas and envisioned every Cuban home with its very own patriotic shrine to the Apostle. So obsessed was he that Paco invented a machine that could mass produce Martí busts. But then tragedy struck. The machine malfunctioned and Paco, in an effort to fix it, fell into the mass production and died. The viewer then enjoys the tragi-comical antics that Paco’s nephew must endure so that his aunt receives her benefits as widow to the exemplary worker. The film thus reflects on the Martí busts critically as the trivialized use or abuse of a national icon.

Cinema became a strategically vital institution for the revolution. A national film institute—popularly known as ICAIC—was created within the revolution’s first year. ICAIC was endowed with the mission to create films that consciously countered Hollywood formulas and bourgeois ideology. Over the years, this film institute has yielded exemplary Third Cinema works such as Tomás Gutierrez Alea’s Memories of Underdevelopment (1968), Humberto Solás’ Lucía (1968), and Manuel Octavio Gómez’s The First Machete Charge (1969).[5]

Yet it was not until 1971 that ICAIC released its first feature-length film devoted to Martí, namely José Massip’s Páginas del diario de José Martí (1971). Páginas bears no narratological or aesthetic resemblances to The White Rose. Whereas the latter situates Martí almost exclusively in exile and in terms of his oratory, the former situates him exclusively on Cuban soil and amidst soldiers. Other contrasts abound: the music of Páginas is an avant-garde orchestral score with none of the melodramatic overtures or cues of The White Rose. Also, Páginas is not just situated in the 19th century. That is, many of the events the film historically reenacts are juxtaposed or “interpreted” by a multiracial troop of modern ballet dancers, with a stress on an embodied agony that speaks to Martí’s untimely death and to a nation “born in war.”

Taking its cues from Martí’s impressionistic and poetic war diary, Páginas recounts a series of random events:

  • a campesina whose husband is killed and is herself wounded by pro-Spanish volunteers;
  • the execution of a rogue bandit;
  • the flora and fauna of Oriente Cuba;
  • a Spanish soldier who covets a beautiful mulatta, kills her, and goes mad;
  • a jealous woman poisons an injured mambí officer;
  • at last, the day of the battle at Dos Ríos and Martí’s death from a stray bullet.

All of this is interspersed not only by the modern dancers but also by the text of the diary, which is read by a variety of voices: men and women, young and old. The film is then punctuated by an epilogue that features contemporary Cuban painters and their modernist or vanguard-stylized renderings of Martí.

With its experimental style, Páginas was a decidedly difficult text to decipher. Fernando Pérez (Sánchez 2011, 89) has recalled the film as “polemical” and nearly impossible to comprehend, whereas Michael Chanan (2004, 315 PP) has referred to it as “a truly hallucinatory film.” Indeed, it is no small irony that a film that imaginatively projects a Martí by the people would screen so miserably to them. Maybe Cuban audiences were not ready to embrace a desacralized Martí, or maybe Massip’s “vanguard” aesthetics were just that far off the popular mark. Whichever may be the case, the next film devoted to Martí did not emerge until nearly forty years later, in a Cuba and ICAIC remarkably unlike that of the late 1960s and early 70s.

Melancholic aesthetics and an eye for youth

With the loss of Soviet subsidies and the renewal of U.S. hostility in the 1990s (i.e. the Torricelli and Helms-Burton Acts) socialist Cuba found itself adrift in a world where history had allegedly come to an end. Cubans were plagued by scarcities that not only provoked hunger but also disenchantment and embitterment.[6] The balseros (rafters) crisis of 1994 was only the most dramatic symptom of this larger crisis of legitimacy, as fewer Cubans—especially younger Cubans—were swayed by accounts of all that the revolution had historically sown and reaped. It was no small irony, after all, that 1990s Havana began to bear an uncanny resemblance to the notorious 1950s. Indeed, Cuba’s metamorphosis into a tourist and dollarized economy bred a culture of hustlers, sex workers, jockeying, entrepreneurialism, and conspicuous consumption that led Cuba’s greatest filmmaker, Tomás Gutiérrez Alea (2002), to declare: “We are losing all our values.”

The Cuban Communist Party (PCC) did not, of course, stand idly by in these distraught years. The government pursued a series of structural adjustments in the economy in order to adapt to the new neoliberal reality, yet it was clear that ideological adjustments were called for as well. As Hernandez-Reguant (2009) has noted, the cult of José Martí figured decisively in this process, as the revolutionary regime came to embrace a more nationalist than internationalist profile. So, too, was it clear that Cuba’s youth (i.e. the revolution’s future) were at stake. Pokemon base set 1st edition shadowless booster box this regard ICAIC was all the wiser in its shift towards films in which children and adolescents are protagonists who voice discontent or embody creative alternatives. Exemplifying this tendency are Juan Carlos Cremata’s Viva Cuba (2005), Gerardo Chijona’s Boleta al paraíso (2010), Ian Padrón’s Habanastation (2011), Rudy Mora’s Y sin embargo (2013), and Ernesto Daranas’ Conducta (2014). Finally, amidst and in dialogue with these films and historic alterations has come Eye of the Canary.[7]

Directed by Fernando Pérez, Eye of the Canary is a two-hour fictional biopic that offers the viewer an intimate look at Martí, first as twelve-year-old “Pepe” (Damián Rodríguez) and later as seventeen-year-old José Julian (Daniel Romero). Four relatively equal parts bear the titles, “Abejas” (Bees), “Arias,” “Cumpleaños” (Birthday), and “Rejas” (Bars). In “Abejas,” we are introduced to José Martí as the meek, bullied schoolboy whose friends and family lovingly call “Pepe.” His introspective and voyeuristic gaze drives the film visually and is powerfully conveyed by a face that peers from the edge of doors, windows, or shrubs. That gaze bears witness to a series of humiliations, as when Pepe accompanies his father to the countryside and sees enslaved Africans illegally and brutally brought to shore.

 In “Arias,” Pepe returns to Havana where he continues his studies and works as bookkeeper in Don Salustiano’s café. Here an older university-aged Cuban speaks openly of his hopes for a Cuba Libre, a seditious act that an older Spanish captain reacts against. It is thanks to Don Salustiano that the young man’s life is spared, a courageous act for which Don Salustiano pays dearly when, later in the film, his café is callously destroyed. All this Pepe sees and quietly absorbs, but at this time, at home he is just a dutiful son and brother who hands his earnings over to his father for the family’s keep. Pepe’s sensibilities to the tragic and to the arts are featured as well. As a volunteer at a local theater, and in a particularly sublime scene, Pepe stares mesmerized by opera singer Adelina Patti’s recital of the aria “Nessun dorma” (None shall sleep), from the final act of Giacomo Puccini’s Turandot.

The arts and theater continue to be noteworthy signifiers and spaces in “Cumpleaños,” the point at which the seventeen-year-old Martí is introduced. Martí is now the prized pupil of school rector Rafael María de Mendive and actively partakes in propagandistic campaigns for Cuba Libre. Arguably nowhere else is this campaign as lively as it is in the Villanueva theater, where thinly veiled puns are tantamount to cheers for Cuba Libre, all under the watchful eyes of Cuban “volunteers.” When at last the stock mulatta performer lets her hair down and cries out “¡Viva Cuba Libre!”, the theater is raided by loyalists, a repressive act that comes to engulf all of Havana. When the young Martí is caught and held at gunpoint, he is ordered to como muere jose marti out “¡Viva España!” The young Martí’s audacious silence speaks volumes.

But his audacity leaves Martí’s mother inconsolable and his father bewildered. The youth is imprisoned for a “treasonous” letter in which he calls on a friend to conscientiously object against military service to Spain. In “Rejas,” thus, we see the imprisoned Martí in his patriotic splendor, refusing to recant his letter and stoically carrying out his seven-year sentence to hard labor in a stone quarry. It is no easy sight to bear. Through a cloudy, sepia colored lens, the viewer sees a frail, if not sickly, Martí who shuffles his way around, weighed down by shackles that tear at his flesh. In a deeply moving scene, the father Mariano visits him and gently places small pillows between the shackles and his son’s sore, bloody ankles, while mother Leonor and sisters beg the Governor General for clemency. And although the (Cuban) viewer knows fully well that Martí was to be set free and exiled to Spain, the film ends in a still of the adolescent Martí’s fiery gaze from behind his cell.

On an aesthetic register, the film is marked visually by a melancholic gray that echo’s Pérez’s Madagascar (1994)—an aesthetic that defies any sense of Cuba as a sunny tropical island or Cubans as revolutionaries with “pachanga.” Here, Cuba is portrayed as a musty, dreary space of urban squalor and gray skies that all told convey a sense of oppressiveness. This aesthetic is effectively echoed by the film’s sound, como muere jose marti sets a tragic aura through the operatic aria and, at the film’s close, the national anthem played on the piano in a “broken” key—a far cry from its usual milieu of orchestral brass and nationalist rallies or parades. Overall ambient sounds and dialogues emphasize secrecy, with many spoken in near whispers and set in clandestine locales.

Aesthetically Fernando Pérez (Sánchez 2011, 82) dedicates Eye of the Canary not to José Martí but to playwright Virgilio Piñera—Piñera’s Aire frío (Cold Air) to be exact. Cold Air, too, conveys an aura of oppressiveness and melancholia through the trope of Cuba’s unbearable heat and the Romaguera family’s inability to enjoy any happiness or hope. “Here the heat doesn’t kill you […] but it doesn’t let you live either,” says daughter Luz Marina, the play’s most vocal and memorable character (1959, 52). Luz Marina’s daily gripes and grievances, as well as the play’s drama, happen in the family’s small, overcrowded home and do not change over time. The use of setting strikingly reinforces a sense of claustrophobia and despair. Eye of the Canary echoes Cold Air with its stress on family strife, economic hardships, and domestic space. One need only look to the numerous scenes set in the young Martí’s home—with its cracked walls, aged furniture, and parents who commiserate over their financial precarity. Furthermore, Martí’s family is torn asunder by political affiliations and circumstances beyond their immediate control.

All told, Bank and trust company offers Cubans a Martí with whom they can readily identify. He is not clad in saintly luminosity or statuesque bank of eastman magnolia state bank. Rather, he is shrouded with a melancholic aura and inhabits a vulnerable body. Yet for all that, his integrity and valor are still clear, just as his incarcerated strife is admirable to the viewer. One www chase com creditcards sign in moved by Martí’s passion and by his quietly fierce gaze at film’s end. Pérez rejects the customary, near compulsory, reenactment of Martí’s tragic death. Instead, he depicts a Martí in the flower of his youth—crying out for that most seductive of desires in our times, namely democracy.

Dissident voices, assembled bodies

Let us recall how audacious and unlikely it was that the young Martí would write a play (Abdala) featuring a heroic black protagonist and an African kingdom as the allegorical Como muere jose marti. It was far likelier that Martí, son to a Valencian military officer and Canary Islander mother, would be loyal to Spain and fear the Cuban rebels as “negro hordes” out to incite a “race war.” But this white Havana schoolboy chose to embrace the soldiers fighting for independence (the mambises) and to tell the tale of a war not only for national sovereignty but also for racial equality. Years later Martí would refer to race as a “sin against humanity” and advocate for a “moral republic” in which Cubans were to be judged and rewarded by their talents and virtues, not their color (2002, 318).

Yet when it comes to Martí iconography in Cuba, whiteness visually reigns with all its familiar connotations of purity, holiness, cleanliness, peace, and goodness. One need look no farther than the two key memorials in Martí’s honor, namely the Havana Central Park and Revolution Plaza statues, each of which cast him in immaculate white marble. Nor is it any less telling that the The White Rose’s title poetically endorses a pure and peaceable Martí—a far cry, that is, from the fictional black warrior Abdala or the mambises (independence soldiers) of Cuba’s multiracial liberation army.[8]

Whether Eye of the Canary diminishes Martí’s iconography in terms of black and white is not easy to discern. The young Pepe wears a black armband to mourn the death of Abraham Lincoln, an act that symbolically affiliates him with the abolitionist cause in Cuba. The upright and persecuted Don Salustiano wears a black beret. When Pepe is off to the countryside he befriends Tomás, an elder Afro-Cuban who is simultaneously his servant and mentor. It is Tomás who teaches Pepe about Cuba’s flora and fauna and, in a visually striking scene, how to ride a horse. That the horse is black is no idle detail. For whether it is Esteban Valderrama’s oil painting “The Death of Martí at Dos Ríos” (1917) or José Massip’s Pages from Martí’s Diary (1971), Martí is customarily mounted on a white horse, one that visually cues the (Christian) viewer in on the death of a saintly martyr. One could argue, thus, that Eye of the Canary provocatively affiliates the color black with antiracism, integrity, solidarity, and liberty—rather than with sin, ugliness, war, and death as is customary thank you for your order zyia the Occidental collective consciousness.

As a character, the tender and “wise” Tomás is, however, an anomaly. The film only portrays Afro-Cubans as slaves—never as mambí soldiers or civilian advocates for Cuba Libre. Their naked bodies and agony are called on to visually ennoble the cause of the young Martí, but never to substantively voice or enact a project in their own right. In visual terms, the black body is rarely other than an object of cruel treatment or an eroticized object for the white gaze, as when Pepe stares at an Afrocubana who, at the river’s edge, does laundry with her breast absentmindedly, yet enticingly, exposed.

The same could be said with respect to the film’s gender normativity, which takes its cues from none other than Abdala. When asked by his mother, Espirta, what his love for her awakens in him, Abdala bluntly replies, “Do you really think there is anything more sublime than love for one’s patria?” This patriotic love is readily conflated with a love of war and phallic prowess. Thus, Nubians are portrayed in the literary text as “fierce tigers” and “ferocious panthers” mounted on “noble steeds” with spears at hand. Abdala can in fact hardly temper his (near orgasmic) enthusiasm to see “torrents of blood” flow through the African plains as Nubians repel the foreign invader:

“Oh! What strength and life such joy brings to my soul! How my valor grows! How the blood in my veins burns! How this invincible ardor stirs how the west was fun 123movies How I desire to be off to battle!” (2012, 14-15).

Even Abdala’s sister, Elmira, scolds her mother for her como muere jose marti and grief in masculinist terms:

“Do you not hear the sublime sound of the roar of battle? … With what joy I would swap out this humiliating dress [veste] for the lustrous armor of the warriors, for a noble steed, for a spear!” (2012, 22).

In this novel, Martí thus wrote a war fantasy in which women are ancillary to and identified by their relations to men: sister or mother to the “illustrious warrior.” Their dramaturgical roles are to exemplify the (im)proper conduct of women in times of war: “A Nubian [that is, Cuban] mother is not she who cries if her son soars to the patria’s rescue!,” says Elmira to her grieving mother (2012, 22). Rather, she, as Elmira has done, sees her brother (or son or husband) off to war with a loving kiss and great pride—if not (penis) envy! In so doing, she subordinates her love of family to that of love for one’s Patria and her deeds as woman to that of his as man: he redeems the Patria and she exalts him for it, not least if he dies in the act. “Battle laurels” and the “crown of martyr” are what await Abdala—never Espirta or Elmira.

In the film Eye of the Canary, it is Martí’s mother, Leonor, who (hysterically) pleads for her son not to wager his life for the Patria. This is no idle drama, for it is precisely her grief, marvelously performed by Broselianda Hernández, that conveys the emotional turmoil and sacrifices that the young Martí had to endure in order to be political. The only other women in the film are Pepe’s younger sisters, who are mere bystanders to the drama of Cuba Libre. Women thereby come to symbolize the antipolitical (Leonor), the apolitical (sisters), or the erotic (the Afrocubana). Rarely, if ever, are they called on as protagonists forCuba Libre or as exemplars of the ethical. One need only take into account that the young Martí learns all that he knows about justice from his father—not his mother. It is Mariano who stands up for the rights of an elder guarijo (peasant) in the streets of Havana and the rights of enslaved Africans in Cuba’s hinterland. As father and conscientious officer of the law, Mariano is the young Martí’s source for the ethical, whereas Leonor is little other than suntrust business checking stoic wife or hysteric mother.

That said, Eye of the Canary does break ranks with Abdala and Cuban historical cinema in at least one quite extraordinary way, namely its choice to foreground non-violence and civil disobedience. The young Martí is no “illustrious warrior.” He is openly identified as a “dissident,” never as a mambí and never armed. Neither are any battles nor the Liberation Army ever depicted. Indeed, never once does the (Cuban) viewer see a machete, the most popular of emancipatory symbols in the Cuban imaginary. When Spanish volunteers come knocking aggressively at school rector Mendive’s door, the mambí rebelFrancisco, who is taking refuge in Mendive’s home, stands with a pistol at the ready. Nearby stands Martí, with his mentor’s newborn baby in his arms—a scene that defies nearly all of Cuba’s historiography and historical cinema on the subject of the independence wars. In Eye of the Canary violence is never as such the “revolutionary” violence of the guerrillero; it is, rather, only ever the repressive violence of an imperial and state apparatus that either executes (Francisco) or imprisons (Martí) dissidents. The viewer does not walk away visually roused by erect phallic objects (machetes, rifles) in the hands of virile men who chant “¡Viva Cuba Libre!” Instead, she or he bears witness to an incarcerated dissident who symbolizes civil disobedience and a cry for democracy.

That these are the matters at stake is made evident in the classroom and trial scenes. In class, the young Martí and fellow (male) students debate what the word “democracy” means. Martí’s trusty friend, Fermín, defines it in terms of free speech and a free press. Others disagree in a cacophony of yells that Martí silences as he stands and declares that true democracy lies in Yara and with Céspedes forces. The historic Martí did, after all, categorically endorse armed revolt. The film’s Martí, however, mainly responds to a prophetic call to speak truth to power. To this end, he writes and he speaks regardless of the consequences. He writes his play in poetic verse, Abdala; publishes his clandestine periodical, Patria Libre; and stands by his “treasonous” letter. He speaks bank of eastman magnolia state bank at home, in the classroom, and, most dramatically, at his military tribunal, where he defiantly stands and declares: “My right to speak has never existed!” The fact that he does so in a decidedly contemporary vernacular makes his plea all the more lively and salient to today’s Cuban youth.

Yet Cuba’s youth, especially among women and men of color, are not particularly hailed by the film. Not only Martí but also nearly all whom he learns from or with whom he conspires and collaborates are phenotypically white (propertied) men: school rector Mendive, father Mariano, Don Salustiano, best friend Fermín, Manuel de Céspedes, the Villanueva theater director, etc. Furthermore, the film never equates “democracy” with elections—neither Martí nor any others cry out for their right to vote. Martí and his closest allies agitate for and boldly embody a free press, free speech, and, one safely infers, the right to assembly.

In this way, one could argue thus that Eye of the Canary is not a call for liberal democracy as much as participatory democracy. And in this respect the film (released in 2010) could be read as in touch with a world in which youthful bodies come to overtake plazas (i.e. in Tahir Square, in Spain, in Greece, in Zuccotti Park, etc.) not only to dramatize their grievances against monopolized power but also to enact its alternative, namely democratized power. What has stood out most conspicuously in contemporary activism is the politics of assembly, which Eye of the Canary gestures at in the collective and creative ecstasy of the Villanueva Theater. Intellectuals as renowned as Judith Butler (2015) and Michael Hardt and Anotnio Negri (2017) have begun to theorize assembly as a new horizon of emancipatory politics today. And it is intriguing to me that Butler has pointed out that the right to assembly is always haunted by the specter of prison—precisely where the film’s Martí ends. That the film renders the national icon a political prisoner is, indeed, no idle choice in socialist Cuba, which for years has had to ward off ideologically driven assaults on its “totalitarian” system.

Eye of the Canary’s desacralized Martí, a vulnerable yet venerable Martí with whom everyday Cubans can identity, no doubt opens critical horizons otherwise foreclosed by hagiography and the nationalistic romance with the “Apostle.” Its melancholic aesthetics and youth perspective convey a disillusionment with Cuban reality and a rebellious audacity that is prophetic and non-violent. Importantly, that rebelliousness is not subsumed by calls for sovereignty and patriotic loyalty. Rather, it bespeaks—in contemporary vernacular no less—a call for a free press, free speech, and the right to assembly. Yet the bodies that politically assemble in Eye of the Canary are almost exclusively urban white petite bourgeois men and their desires articulated as political rights. Conspicuously subdued or altogether absent are Afro-Cubans, Cuban women, and peasant or proletarian Cubans who organize for Cuba Libre and who would likely advocate for social and economic rights as well. Perhaps Pérez, as a Cuban, can take social and economic rights for granted and, as an artist, has the responsibility to provoke reflections on that which cannot be taken for granted (i.e. free press and rights to assembly).

This may be a sober reminder that the film is one made by and for Cubans. The irony, however, is that with socialist Cuba’s pragmatic concessions to the neoliberal world system, the social and economic rights of Cubans are no longer as secure or as equitable as they once were. True to Martí’s word, “Cuba Libre” was never merely a cry for due processes or liberties; Cuba Libre embodies expectations of collective welfare. It was to be a Cuba with all and for the good of all. Judged by these criteria, Eye of the Canary welcomingly and imaginatively bids for yet falteringly enacts the desires called “democracy” and “Cuba Libre.” Perhaps, however, one could never satisfactorily translate into words, images, or a story such desires as bountiful as these. Perhaps, as with Eye of the Canary, one can only point to horizons that await our elaborations, however fallible yet necessary.

Notes

1. ¡Nubia venció! Muero feliz: la muetre/poco me importa, pues logré salvarla…/¡Oh,1.que dulce es morir cuando se muere/Luchando audaz por defender la patria!  José Martí, Abdala. (Barcelona: Red Ediciones, S.L., 2012), 24.

2. No temaís una muerte gloriosa, que morir por la patria es vivir. Lyrics, sheet music, and historical information can be found at: https://www.ecured.cu/La_bayamesa. It is said that Perucho cried out that very verse as he faced his death by firing squad.

3. Quoted in Rafael Rojas, “Otro gallo cantaría: Essay on the First Cuban Republicanism,” in The Cuban Reublic and José Martí: Reception and Use of a National Symbol, eds. Mauricio Font & Alfonso Quiroz (Lexington Books, 2006), 9.

4. The exact quote reads: “I lived in the monster, and I know its entrails—and my sling is the sling of David.” José Martí, “Letter to Manuel Mercado,” in José Martí: Selected Writings, ed. Roberto González Echevarría (Penguin Classics, 2002), 347.

5. See: Julio García Espinosa, “For an Imperfect Cinema,” (1969) reprinted in La doble moral del cine (Eiciones Voluntad, 1995) and in English (translation by Julianne Burton) in New Latin Chase freedom credit card customer service Cinema, Volume 1, ed. Michael Martin (Detriot: Wayne State University Press, 1997), 71-82. Also see: Ana Lopez, “Cuba,” In The Cinema of Small Nations, edited by Mette Hjort and Duncan Petri (Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 179-96.

6. For excellent accounts on the cultural effects of the “Special Period,” see: Ariana Hernández-Reguant, ed. Cuba in the Special Period: Culture and Ideology in the 1990s (Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); José Quiroga, Cuban Palimpsests (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005).

7. Eye of the Canary was not, however, initiated by director Pérez, ICAIC, or the Cuban Communist Party. Eye of the Canary is one installment in a series of eight films on Latin American “liberators.” Proposed by Spanish actor Sancho Gracia and producer José María Morales, the films are (financially) backed by Spanish cultural institutions and state bodies, but each is co-produced by a filmmaker (and crew) from the respective country i.e. as in the cases of the Venezuelan Luis Alberto Lamata’s Bolivar, hombre de dificultades (2013) and the Mexican Antonio Serrano’s Hidalgo, la historia jamás contada (2010).

8. The film’s title, The White Rose, is drawn from Martí’s Versos sencillos (1891): Cultivo una rosa blanca,/En julio como en enero,/Para el amigo sincero/Que me da su mano franca. Y para el cruel que me arranca/El corazon con que vivo,/Cardo ni oruga cultivo/Cultivo una rosa blanca. [I tend to a white rose/In July as in January,/For that true friend/Who offers his frank hand to me. And to the cruel one who tears out/The heart by which I live,/Thistle nor thorn do I give:/For him, too, I have a white rose.]

References

Alea, Tomás Guttiérez. 2002. “We Are Losing All Our Values.” boundary 2 29(3) 47-53.

Bejel, Emilio. what is the routing number for first interstate bank. José Martí: Images of Memory and Mourning. Palgrave Macmillan.

Butler, Judith. 2015. Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Castro Ruz, Fidel. 2007. Historia me absolverá. La Habana: Editorial de Ciencias Sociales.

Chanan, Michael. 2004. Cuban Cinema. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Death of a Bureaucrat. 1966. Directed by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea. La Habana: ICAIC.

Ette, Ottmar. 1995. José Martí, apóstal, poeta, revolucionario: una historia de su recepción. Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México.

García-Marruz, Fina. 2011. “A Fernando Pérez.” In José Martí: El ojo del canario, edited by Carlos Velazco, 15-16. La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC.

Guerra, Lilian. 2006. The Myth of José Martí: Conflicting Nationalisms in Early Twentieth-Century Cuba.

Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

Kirk, John M. 2012. José Martí: Mentor of the Cuban Revolution. Fernwood Publishing.

Font, Mauricio and Alfonso Quiroz, eds. 2006. The Cuban Republic and José Martí: Reception and Use of a National Symbol. New York: Lexington Books.

Hardt, Michael and Antonio Negri. 2017. Assembly. Oxford University Press.

Hernández-Reguant, Ariana, ed. 2009. Cuba in the Special Period: Culture and Ideology in the 1990s. Palgrave Macmillan.

José Martí: El ojo del canario. Directed by Fernando Usps office open today. ?????

La rosa blanca: momentos de la vida de José Martí. 1954. Directed by Emilio Fernández. Cuba-Mexico.

López, Ana M. “Cuba.” 2007. In The Cinema of Small Nations, edited by Mette Hjort and Duncan Petri, 179-96. Edinburgh University Press.

Martí, José. Abdala. 2012. Barcelona: Red Ediciones, S.L.

Martí, José. “My Race.” 2002. In José Martí: Selected Writings. Edited and translated by Esther Allen. Penguin Books.

Martínez Heredia, Fernando. “Ante el ojo del canario.” In José Martí: El ojo del canario, edited by Carlos Velazco, 158-163. La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC.

Páginas del diaro de Martí. 1971. Directed by José Massip. La Habana: ICAIC.

Piñera, Virgilio. 1959. Aire frío. La Habana: Escena Cubana.

Virgilio Piñera, Aire frío (La Habana: Escena Cubana, 1959), 52.

Quiroga, José. 2005. Cuban Palimpsests. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Rio, José del. 2011. “Con los ojos fijos en la altura.” In José Martí: El ojo del canario, edited by Carlos Velazco, 126-131. La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC.

Rojas, Rafeal. 2006. “‘Otro gallo cantaría’: Essay on the First Cuban Republicanism.” In The Cuban Republic and José Martí, edited by Mauricio Font and Alfonso Quiroz, 7-17. New York: Service credit union branches near me Books.

Sánchez, Jorge Luis. “Ver a un héroe a través del ojo del canario?” In José Martí: El ojo del canario, edited by Carlos Velazco, 92-102.

Stock, Ann Marie. 2009. On Location in Cuba: Street Filmmaking during Times of Transition. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

Velazco, Carlos, ed. 2011. José Martí: El ojo del canario. La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC.

Weiss, Rachel. 2011. To and from Utopia in the New Cuban Art. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Источник: https://www.ejumpcut.org/currentissue/Morales-JoseMarti/text.html
1600 1900 Contáctanos

PBS es una organización sin fines de lucro 501(c)(3).

Источник: https://www.pbs.org/latino-americans/es/timeline/

Cuba: "Patria o muerte" o "Patria y vida"

"La presentación en redes sociales del videoclip del tema Patria y vida", en la que destacados músicos cubanos dan la vuelta al lema de la revolución cubana "patria o muerte", se encuadra entre las "recientes acciones para desestabilizar a esta nación", protestaba uno de los varios artículos dedicados al tema en el diario Granma, órgano oficial del Partido Comunista de Cuba.

"La reacción del gobierno ha sido totalmente inusual, con una furia que yo nunca había visto por una canción", afirma en conversación con DW el cineasta cubano afincado en Berlín Ricardo Bacallao. Pero, ¿a qué se debe esta vehemente reacción? "Si no eres cubano, quizá sea difícil de entender: Cuba, desde los comienzos de la Revolución, usó la música como instrumento para adoctrinar al pueblo y para enviar mensajes al mundo", explica Bacallao, para quien ahora "les han dado de su propia medicina". El propio presidente cubano, Miguel Díaz-Canel, respondió a la canción citando los versos de Silvio Rodríguez.

En realidad, sí hay antecedentes. Mabel Cuesta, profesora de Literatura en la Universidad de Houston, recuerda en conversación con DW el caso de Willy Chirino y cómo su canción 'Ya viene llegando' tuvo una respuesta similar por parte del gobierno cubano hace tres décadas. La diferencia ahora es internet. De hecho, explica, la respuesta de los órganos de comunicación cubanos han servido de caja de resonancia a la canción, haciendo que todos la conozcan en la isla.

"Básicamente, ellos no están equipados para responder a las características, las demandas o las nuevas formas de pensamiento que se generan de manera natural cuando hay mayor conectividad", explica, recordando que, en Cuba, "la internet en los teléfonos es algo que no tiene ni tres años". "Los millenials cubanos han aprendido muy bien cómo utilizar las herramientas digitales, pero ellos no", dice en referencia al aparato estatal de propaganda.

El miedo como instrumento de autocensura

"Cuando uno crece en un régimen como el cubano se acostumbra a vivir con miedo", dijo el viernes en una entrevista con Efe Randy Malcom, del dúo Gente de Zona, unos de los artistas que participan en 'Patria y vida'. "Había veces que dábamos entrevistas y cuando nos preguntaban sobre política bajábamos la voz aunque no dijéramos nada controversial", como muere jose marti. "Ese miedo lo dejamos atrás hace rato", afirma el artista, aunque su compañero Alexander Delgado advierte: "Si algo le pasa a mi familia, yo responsabilizo al gobierno cubano".

"Hay muchos cubanos que no quieren asumir ese riesgo de que, por ejemplo, no le vuelvan a dejar entrar al país; eso es un fenómeno que a un alemán le cuesta entender", explica Bacallao, que actualmente trabaja en un documental sobre Bebo Valdés, "que se fue de Cuba porque no quería vivir bajo ninguna dictadura, ni de izquierda ni de derecha". Incluso en ámbitos artísticos o académicos es palpable ese miedo y esa autocensura, explica, con la esperanza de que canciones como 'Patria y vida' animen a más artistas e intelectuales a ayudar a diluir ese "romanticismo" que envuelve a Cuba.

José Martí y George Washington

El videoclip de la canción comienza con "la imagen de Martí, que se hace pedazos, para entrever, nada más y nada menos que la de George Washington", protestaba un editorial de la televisión cubana. Es un peso cubano, con la imagen de José Martí, padre de la independencia cubana (y la firma del Che Guevara, como gobernador del Banco Central que fue), que deja paso a la imagen de un dólar. "Esa primera imagen no es una apuesta por la dolarización ni por la anexión ni supone ensalzar a los Estados Unidos; muy por el contrario, es una denuncia de lo que ha hecho el gobierno cubano con la economía cubana en un momento de crisis como este", explica Cuesta.

"De manera circular, al final del video, ese mismo Washington viene a convertirse en un Martí: la propuesta es no dolarizarnos, sino promover la economía cubana", concluye Cuesta. "Es obvio que estos músicos están respondiendo a un momento, a una sensibilidad, en que la ciudadanía cubana tanto en la isla como en la diáspora estamos pasando una desesperación tremenda, porque nuestras familias están pasando hambre, porque no pueden acceder a estas tiendas [de alimentación] que el gobierno ha condenado a que sean solo en dólares, cuando en Cuba nadie cobra en dólares".

Además, "en la retórica oficial del gobierno todos estos músicos están pagados por la CIA, por el gobierno, por la derecha de Miami, etcétera, etcétera. no es verdad". "Yo trabajo para una Universidad norteamericana y claro que recibo un salario del estado de Texas, pero a mí la CIA no me paga por decir estas cosas", añade.

Abonando el terreno

"¿Qué va a pasar, va a haber una Primavera Árabe en Cuba con este video?", se pregunta Bacallo. "No, yo no espero algo así", se responde. Coincide en esto con Cuesta, para quien el hecho de que los cambios en política sean lentos no es necesariamente negativo. Puede hacerlos menos traumáticos y sangrientos. De momento, Bacallo se conforma pensando que "seguramente, mucha gente en Cuba, incluso funcionarios, esté tarareando esta canción ahora mismo".

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  • Bildergalerie Che Guevara 85. Geburtstag (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    El hombre que encarnó la revolución

    El rostro de Ernesto "Che" Guevara es, hasta hoy, el símbolo por excelencia del idealismo revolucionario. Más allá de la ideología y de su opción por la lucha armada, el Che se convirtió en un ícono de la cultura pop, que sigue vigente hasta la actualidad, muchas veces despojado de contenido.

  • Der kubanische Rebellenführer Fidel Castro mit seinem Kommandostab (picture-alliance/dpa)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    De médico a lugarteniente

    Ernesto Guevara, nacido en Argentina en 1928, conoció a Fidel Castro en 1955 en México y se sumó a su proyecto revolucionario. Se unió al grupo como médico, llegando a convertirse luego en lugarteniente de Fidel. Esta foto en que aparece con otros revolucionarios fue tomada en 1958, en una base secreta, en Cuba.

  • Ernesto Che Guevara Fidel Raul Castro um 1959 (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Rebeldes victoriosos

    El Che Guevara y Fidel Castro, en 1959, en La Habana: la dictadura de Fulgencio Batista había sido derrotada. Fidel Castro nombró al argentino ministro de Industria y director del Banco Central cubano.

  • Ernesto Che Guevara Fidel Raul Castro um 1959 (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Los primeros tiempos

    Ernesto Guevara es recordado como un incansable trabajador, que desempeñó un papel clave en la creación de las estructuras del nuevo gobierno cubano.

  • Bildergalerie Blockfreie Staaten (picture-alliance/dpa)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Flores para el comandante

    La figura del Che Guevara cobró rápidamente fama, también fuera de Cuba. Durante una visita a la India, fue saludado en Nueva Delhi con una corona de flores, como muestra esta foto de 1959.

  • Bildergalerie Che Guevara 85. Geburtstag (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Conversación con Raúl

    Raúl Castro, actual presidente de Cuba, y el Che Guevara (foto de 1960) fueron piezas angulares en el recién incipiente gobierno de Fidel Castro. Raúl sucedió al argentino como segunda figura política en La Habana cuando el Che partió de la isla para seguir propagando la revolución.

  • Bildergalerie Che Guevara 85. Geburtstag (AFP/Getty Images)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    La exportación de la lucha

    El Che propugnaba una lucha generalizada, como única forma de derrotar al "imperialismo", y se empeñó en exportar la revolución y en propagarla por América Latina y África. En 1965 renunció a sus cargos en Cuba y partió al continente africano, donde participó en la rebelión en el Congo, que terminó en fracaso. La foto muestra al Che atravesando el lago Tanganica, en noviembre de 1965.

  • Leiche von Che Guevara (Getty Images)

    El Che Como muere jose marti, en la retina de la humanidad

    Ejecutado en Bolivia

    La aventura revolucionaria del Che lo llevó más adelante a Bolivia, donde planeaba crear un foco guerrillero que pudiera extender la lucha a los países limítrofes. Allí fue herido en un combate con tropas del ejército el 8 de octubre de 1967. Un día después fue ejecutado. En la foto, su cuerpo es mostrado a militares y periodistas en un hospital de la localidad boliviana de Vallegrande.

  • Alberto Korda

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    La foto que lo inmortalizó

    No fueron las fotos de su cuerpo sin vida, sino ésta, con la mirada desafiante al futuro, la que se grabó en la retina de la historia. "Guerrillero heroico" la tituló su autor, el fotógrafo cubano Alberto Korda. La imagen fue captada en 1960, en un acto en honor a las víctimas de la explosión de un barco que llevaba armas a Cuba.

  • my att pay my bill alt="Bildergalerie Che Guevara 85. Geburtstag (Adalberto Roque/AFP/GettyImages)">

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Idolatrado en Cuba

    La figura del Che Guevara ha sido elevada al rango de héroe nacional en Cuba y sigue presente por doquier. En esta foto de 2005, su efigie sirvió de telón de fondo a un disurso de Fidel Castro, en la inauguración de un campeonato deportivo.

  • Bildergalerie Traditionen 1. Mai Tag der Arbeit - Italien (AFP/Getty Images/A. Solaro)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Símbolo internacional

    Pero también en los más diversos rincones del mundo se alza el rostro del Che, como en esta celebración del Día del Trabajo, en Roma, el 1 de mayo de 2014.

  • Che Guevara Konterfei auf Tasche (Flickr/sa-by-ccboca)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Mercadeo de un símbolo

    La imagen, multiplicada en serie, no siempre conlleva un mensaje político. Impresa en múltiples artículos de consumo, dista de revelar mucho sobre la postura de su portador.

  • Desfile de carnaval en Colonia

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Con una sonrisa

    Con el tiempo, también ha ido quedando atrás la solemnidad. En el carnaval de Colonia de 2012, un grupo del movimiento "Occupy", contrario a la globalización y el neoliberalismo, no tuvo reparos para adornar la cara del Che con una nariz carnavalera.

  • Kolumbien Bogota FARC-Delegierte (DW/T. Käufer)

    El Che Guevara, en la retina de la humanidad

    Panteón de la izquierda

    Sumamente solemnes parecen en cambio quienes reverencian al Che y otros símbolos de la izquierda al extremo de representarlos junto a Jesús en esta pintura. Como sea, la imagen de Guevara sigue teniendo fuerza y presencia, 50 años después de su muerte.


Источник: https://www.dw.com/es/cuba-patria-o-muerte-o-patria-y-vida/a-56657124

: Como muere jose marti

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Como muere jose marti

Como muere jose marti -

TRIBUTE TO TOMAS GUTIERREZ ALEA
Mon. April 24 6:00 pm
Panel
On the 10thanniversary of his death,Mirta Ibarra, Alea wife and actress, and Sandra Levinson, founder and executive director, Center for Cuban Studies and Alea friend,discuss the life of one of the most influential filmmakers in the world, known for being a master at infusing historical and contemporary stories with politically pointed commentary and a satirical twist. Moderated by Jerry Carlson, professor of film studies at City College of NYand a producer at CUNY TV.Reception follows.

Screenings
HASTA CIERTO PUNTO / UP TO A CERTAIN POINT
Tomás Gutiérrez Alea Cuba, 1983, 35mm, 88 min.
A theater director falls for a female worker from the Havana docks, but his machismo, social and working conflicts, and the Cuban woman’s condition interfere with their relationship. Un director de teatro se enamora de una trabajadora del Puerto, pero su machismo, los conflictos sociales y laborales, y las condiciones de la mujer cubana interfieren con la relación. Best film, actress and director at Havana Film Festival, Cuba; Best Film at Damascus Film Fest
QUAD CINEMA 4/21 @ 1:00pm

LA ÚLTIMA CENA / THE LAST SUPPER
Tomás Gutiérrez Alea Cuba, 1976, 35mm, 120 min.
During Holy Week, at the end of the eighteenth century, a count visits his Havana sugar mill on a day a slave has run away. The count holds a dinner for twelve of his slaves in order to convince them that happiness is possible in captivity. When the slaves later rebel against the count’s cruel overseer, the count must take sides. Durante la Semana santa a finales del siglo XVIII, un conde visita su ingenio azucarero el mismo día que se ha escapado un esclavo. El conde prepara una cena para doce de sus esclavos porque quiere convencerles que la felicidad también es posible en cautiverio. Pero después, cuando los esclavos se rebelan contra el cruel capataz, el conde tendrá que tomar partido. Best Feature Film at Huelva Film Festival, Spain; Audience Award at Sao Paulo Film Festival, Brazil QUAD CINEMA 4/21 @ 3:00pm

MUERTE DE UN BUROCRATA / DEATH OF A BUREAUCRAT
Tomás Gutierrez Alea Cuba, 1966, 35mm 85 min.
In this hilarious tale of the ludicrousness of bureaucracy, a revolutionary is accidentally killed by a machine he invents to honor his hero, Jose Martí. To honor the dead man’s communist loyalties, his family buries him holding his union card. But what happens when the card is needed for the deceased’s widow to collect his pension. En esta historia de humor negro sobre la burocracia, un revolucionario muere accidentalmente al fallar la máquina que inventó para honrar a su héroe, Jose Martí. Su familia decide enterrarlo con su tarjeta de unión, el símbolo de su fidelidad comunista; pero qué sucede cuando la tarjeta es necesaria para que la viuda del difunto reciba su pensión.
Jury Special Prize at Karlovy Film Festival, Prague
QUAD CINEMA 4/21 @ 5:15pm

GUANTANAMERA
Tomás Gutiérrez Alea Cuba/Spain, 1995, 35mm, 101 min.
When Aunt Yoyita dies during a visit to Gina in Guantánamo, Gina, along with Yoyita’s childhood sweetheart, the aging Cándido, must take the body to Havana. Gina’s undertaker husband Adolfo, eager to experiment with a “communist” way of tranporting the body, takes charge of the journey. Cuando tia Yoyita muere durante una visita a Gina en Guantánamo, Gina y el amante de Yoyita, el viejo Cándido, se encargan de llevar el cadaver a La Habana. El esposo de Gina, un agente funerario, está loco por demostrar los métodos de transporte “comunistas” y se hace cargo del viaje. Latin America Cinema Award - Honorable Mention at Sundance Film Festival, Second Coral at Havana Film Festival.
MUSEUM OF THE MOVING IMAGE 4/22 @ 6:30pm
QUAD CINEMA 4/24 @ 3:00pm

MEMORIAS DEL SUBDESARROLLO / MEMORIES OF UNDERDEVELOPMENT
Tomás Gutiérrez Alea Cuba, 1968, 35mm, B&W, 97 min.
Based on the reflections of novelist Edmundo Desnoes, this masterpiece of reason and irony is the story of a well-off writer who decides not to flee with his friends to the U.S. As a result, he is able to reflect upon the early days of post-revolutionary Cuba and the contradictions of bourgeois society. Basada en las reflexiones del novelista Edmundo Desnoes, esta obra maestra de la razón y de la ironía cuenta la historia de un escritor que decide no huir con sus amigos a los E.E.U.U. Por eso, él puede reflejar sobre los días tempranos de la Cuba posrevolucionaria y las contradicciones de la sociedad bourguesa.
Won several awards and was Included as one of the 100 greatest movies
MUSEUM OF THE MOVING IMAGE 4/23 @ 6:30pm

FRESA Y CHOCOLATE / STRAWBERRY & CHOCOLATE
Tomás Gutierrez Alea Cuba, 1993, 35mm, 110 min.
Diego, a cultivated, openly gay man, falls in love with a young heterosexual communist full of prejudice and dogma. What begins with repulsion and rejection, turns into a friendship between two men; a friendship surpassing ignorance and homophobia. Diego, un hombre cultivado y abiertamente gay, se enamora de un joven comunista heterosexual lleno de prejucios y dogmas. Lo que comienza con la repulsión y el rechazo, se convierte en una amistad entre dos hombres, que supera la ignorancia y la homofobia. Oscar Nominated for Best Foreign Language Film, Best Picture at Berlin Film Fest, Gramado Film Fest, Best picture, screenplay, actress at Havana Film Festival; Special Jury Prize at Sundance Film Festival
QUAD CINEMA 4/26 @ 5:00pm
Actress Mirtha Ibarra Present

HOMAGE TO ESCUELA INTERNACIONAL DE CINE Y TELEVISION (EICTV), San Antonio de los Baños, Cuba.
Founded by Gabriel García Márquez, Fernando Birri and Julio García Espinosa, the most influential film school in Latin American celebrates its 20thanniversary.

Sun. April 23 Screening 4:00 pm
A presentation by Fernando Birri of four award-winning short films by recent EICTV students and graduates (90 min)
Al otro lado del mar dir. Patricia Ortega (Venezuela) 2005, 35mm (12 min)
Ernesto, mi amigo dir. Jakov Dakovic (Yugoslavia) 1998 (15 min) documentary
Gente que llora dir. Hatem Khraiche Ruiz-Zorrilla (Spain) 2001, 35mm (16 min)
Kung Fu dir. Onaje Lataillade (U.S.) 2003 (15 min) documentary

Tues. April 25 Panel 5:00 pm
A conversation with award-winning filmmaker Fernando Birri, first director of EICTV; Marketta Kimbrell, professor of film and television at NYU; Walter Bernstein, award-winning screenwriter and former EICTV instructor, Carlos Peralta and Sandra Billich, former EICTV students, and others. Moderated by Sandy Lieberson, Chairman of Film London.

Tues. April 25 Special Screening 6:00 pm ZA 2005, THE OLD AND THE NEW US Premiere
Fernando Birri, Argentina/Cuba, 2005, (70 min)
A tribute to legendary vanguard, Cesare Zavattini, poet and screenwriter of the Italian neorrealist cinema, Za 2005 includes sequences from some of the best EICTV student theses films of the past two decades.

Источник: http://hffny.com/web06/tribute.htm
Política de privacidad de PBS

“In the four major points
santa Ifigenia Cemetery, the spirit
storms has launched his invitation.
Anybody want to fire Jose Martí’s duel?”
José Lezama Lima

The National Capitol was inaugurated on May 20, 1929. It represents and guards the majesty of the Fatherland, the symbolic essence of the island and the historical foundation of the nation. The Cuban who walks through its doors, if he understands the meaning of what he does, knows that he does not enter a museum but in the heart of the Republic.
A sacred building, as is the Capitol, protects the memory of the people who build it. That is the reason that justifies the bronze of the Beloved Fatherland, who presides over the Hall of Lost Steps. On the right, in the Chamber that the government must occupy, the war flags adorn the hall where the 1940 Constitution was signed.
In perfect symmetry, if the Cuban descends further into the work, he will find a white crypt under the diamond of kilometer zero. In it are kept the symbols that continuously feed the Fatherland, arranged there not to forget: a plaque with the notes of La Bayamesa; the coat of arms of the Republic; the words of Céspedes, when he assumed the presidency in Guáimaro and, in the center of the room, the tomb of an unmarked mambí.
It is disturbing that an unknown mambí, a shadow that died in solitude, is the cornerstone of Cuba.
When Martí says that “the dead are the roots of the peoples”, or that “every dead soldier is a root”, perhaps he thought that the Fatherland is not the solitary responsibility of the generals, but the raison d’etion of that un nameless soldier. The death of the unknown mambí synthesizes all the symbolic dead of the Cuban War: a Céspedes, who according to Manuel Sanguily fell into the abyss like a sun shrouded in flames; to Agramonte, who died young and in love; to Maceo, who had the strong blood of the immortals; and Martí, the well-loved dead man of the Fatherland.
Mambí, diamond, statue, dome: each symbol executes on the next, in its same line, a strengthening of the Cuban spirit and returns a kind of pillar, solid column, where to raise the country every day.
But the Fatherland, and that cannot be forgotten, is grounded, “rooted”, in a glorious and symbolic dead man, who has no name or who actually has all the names of war.
Martí’s tour of the “marble cloisters” of his simple verses, where heroes wait unequidly to perform their utopias, sums up their position in front of history. In the mausoleum of the Fatherland – which is so reminiscent of the primitive meaning of the Capitol for Cubans – the poet establishes an ongoing dialogue with those who thought of the nation. As in the text, History “sweeps the earth” with the conscience of the patriot, who cannot passively attend the fate of Cuba, whose roots are fixed on the death and legacy of his great men.
Martí was born in the same year that Father Varela died, exiled, as if in Cuba a father of the homeland could not die without another emerging and continuing his foundation work. This common date is due to coincidence, but what is not coincidental in these men is their essential bond in thought, which they share with other Cuban 19th-century “marble men”.
“Those times,” Martí says, recalling the men of ’68, “were truly wonderful. With tree branches they kept, and cast back, the enemy rifle; applied virgin ingenuity to wild nature; created civilization in the poetry of freedom; they were confused in death, for nothing less than death was necessary for the master and servant to be confused.”1
The invisible chain that unifies the Cuban patriotic tradition is summarized in concrete texts, born of poor and essential men, such as the elective philosophy of Father José Agustín Caballero; the Aphorisms of Light; all the writing of Varela or Heredia; the Lost Journal of Grass and, of course, the papers that are so similar to the last testimony of the Father of the Fatherland: the Diaries of José Martí.

José Martí
The rereading of the Diaries today is, above all, to attend a profession of faith for Cuba. In this sense, Martí is truly an Apostle, that is, prophet and martyr of his vocation to die for Cuba, by giving war, despite the human horror that she entails, her necessary condition. The Diaries are the fragmented and bleeding writing of that vocation.
The path that begins in the renewed reading of the Martyred Diaries leads the Cuban to the discovery of a genealogy: from the men of the Seminary College San Carlos and San Ambrosio to the prosperous of ’68, and from these to Martí and the heroes who accompany him in the dream of the Republic possible. It also means a passage into the last chronicle of the Indies: the count of a traveler astonished at the insula and its nature. And, of course, the reconstruction and dialogue that Martí engages with the history of Cuba, through countless voices and shadows that appear to him on his route and that tell him his truth about the wars past and its protagonists.
As before many Martyred texts, but in this with special intensity, the reader of his Diaries has to dig up nothing less than the origin and fortification of the Cuban idea, which with it reaches its founding fullness. Martí also turns the Diaries into a continuous examination of conscience about their role in war and in the future nation until they understand, during the darkest moments of the story, the imminence and sense of their martyrdom.
The annotations in the Diario de campaña de Máximo Gómez, corresponding to May 19, 1895, allow us to reconstruct the last day of José Martí. Six hundred Spaniards, under Colonel José Ximénes de Sandoval, came from Bayamo in search of the insurgent troops. Gomez, who had already left to attack them “with an advantage” on May 17, had not yet made contact with them.
On the 19th, on the eve of the fighting that is about to break out, Gomez and Martí are sandy the troop. “Martí spoke with true spirit and ardor warrior,” writes El Viejo, “ignoring that the enemy was marching on my trail and that misfortune prepared for us and for Martí, the greatest misfortune.” The troops are filled with euphoria: they call him President again, as they had been doing days ago in the manigua.
To this major misfortune would ride Martí, mounted on the steed that José Maceo had given him and that would be the same one that would later accompany his son José Francisco, the Ismaelillo, in that same contest of ’95.
Contravening the order of Gómez, who had already launched himself against the Spaniards, Martí leaves the assigned position in the company of the young Angel de la Guardia. He receives, in his fatal hour, a heavy shock that knocks him down. His assistant tries to charge him and save the body, but the corpse is heavy and has fixed himself to the ground.
“I have never seen myself in more engaged lance,” Gomez acknowledges, “for in the first onslaught the enemy’s avant-garde swept away, but he immediately loosened, and certainly the enemy became firm with a very nourishing fire; and Martí, who did not stand by me, fell wounded or killed in a place where he could not be picked up and was left in the possession of the enemy.”2
For the Major General of the Liberator Army, who has come with Martí to the island and has progressively discovered his greatness, the death of the “friend, the companion, the patriot” is not possible and has had to withdraw from battle “with the soul saddened”.
This succession of confusing scenes, which history collects from fragments full of smoke, gunpowder and lead, transform the dos Ríos stage into the altar for the martyr. The apostolic impulse that prompted Martí to seek “his hour” was not, as has been claimed, neither a suicide nor a military naivety: Martí was not proven in the royal war, but he had in-depth knowledge of science and war strategy.
However, any interpretation of the events of May 19 is silent in the face of the certainty of a man who knows he is going to die. The difference is that Martí is a man inhabited by a deep historical sense and a consciousness – increasing judging by his Diaries and his last letters – of his encounter with the final mystery.
To his old friend Manuel Mercado he has written, with serenity of spirit, that he is already “every day in danger of giving my life for my country and for my duty”. Because there is no doubt in the soul of Cuba, that “it is one, I know, the will of the country”. “In me,” he insists, “I will only defend what I have by guarantee or service of the revolution. I know how to disappear. But my thought would not disappear, nor would my darkness sour.”3
Where does the martyred polish towards symbolic death come from? Martí was not a weak man, despite tiredness and illness. Since arriving in Cuba – to the surprise of Máximo Gómez and the other expeditioners – Martí shows signs of a superhuman ability to withstand the fatigues of the manigua. On April 14, El Viejo writes: “We admire each other, the old warriors accustomed to these rudenesses, of the resistance of Martí – who accompanies us without slackers of any kind, by these steep mountains.”4
And later, on the 21st, the fortress does not decay: “Martí, to which we assumed weak by the unsused of the fatigues of these marches, remains strong and fearless.”5
As they progress through the Cuban East, Martí collects a series of remedies, observations, recipes to make dishes with the same ingredients offered by Cuban nature. These are the most contemplative and serene moments of tone, in which the Apostle enters into the mystique of the “beautiful night”, which does not let him sleep. In fact, the last sentence of the second diary is neither a political testament nor a part of battle, but the image of a man who feeds, who rests: “roast bananas, and majan cow appraisal, with a stone on the pylon, for the newcomers. […] and brings me Valentin a jar boiled in sweet, with fig leaves.”6
But with the advance comes also the metamorphosis of the poet in Mambí, and of mambí in the “President” that fills the symbolic void that Carlos Manuel left in the imaginary of the simple people. Martí, stripped of this political quality of command, is indeed “the one who presides, the one who convenes”, the voice that animates the war and that impels it, because he embodies himself what his word – his Word – has announced and foreseen for the Cuban.
He speaks, for example, of a “Mambi day” where a jutía is killed and seasoned with sour orange that will feed the troop; where Cuban hills that “sister men” are uploaded; where you have to sleep on the ground, on stacked yaguas and “all day, what light, what air, what fills the chest, how light the body distressed! I look at the ranch outside, and I see, at the top of the ridge back, a palm and a star.”7
Soon, however, the traveler’s diary becomes a war diary. The echo of the Spaniards is heard in the camp and the troops are launched into the first fights. Restlessness is on the rise and death surrounds the story, since at the same time as the battle we must punish internal rebellion, banditry and indisciplines.
On 4 May, the Delegate and the General arrive at the court-martial of a Mambí, Pilar Masabó, who is accused of being a thief and rapist. The defense attorney begs the newcomers for clemency for the convict. But Gomez, immovable, says, “This man is not our companion: he is a vile worm.” Martí remembers how man advances to the wall without fear, contemplates the face of his executioners, his clothes wave in the wind. Gunshots are ringing. “Masabó is dead brave,” Martí writes.

José Martí

While the process lasts, paying no attention to the prisoner’s drama, a mambí peels a cane.
Deeply impressed by Masabó’s death, Martí attends the shedding of his own blood, to the “vipers” who, as Gomez had already told him, were born in the bowels of the war. Besathed by sickness and suffering, death is no stranger to Martí. But in the warrior manigua, the reality is different: “How can I not be inspired by horror, the bloodstain I saw along the way?
Four days later, another court-martial is held, three mambises who “sowed terror” in the surrounding area. This time, Martí intervenes and achieves forgiveness for two of the prisoners. But he cannot stop the death of the third, on which Gomez acts again with an iron hand. “That criminal has stained our flag,” the General says, as the inso comes crying before the firing squad. It’s Gomez himself who orders a fire to open.
The dead fall, finally, and Martí observes the survivors: one sweats cold and the other, “unscathed from the face”, continues to flee back from panic, even if it is still tied up.
Also, in his own memory or in the voice of others, he remembers the death of the heroes. “Will it be true that Flor is dead?” he asks, on April 21, at rumors announcing The Death of Flor Crombet. It is also recalled the death of Limbano Sánchez, head of sedations in the Great War, who according to what Martí knows could have been poisoned or shot, but always to treason.
At the end of the Diaries, death has already occupied a visible and prophetic extension: soon the delegate will have the time he has waited to execute his sacrifice for the Fatherland. He arrives, as Lezama says, at the center of himself which is, however, his greater remoteness. He comes to Cuba to die, and he knows it.
“What was the foundation of this premonition,” Mañach writes, “that Martí had of his early death.”9 As May 19 approaches, so does the “feeling of the great shadow.” Martí has prepared everything and untied the war in intensity, as besathed by urgency.
And he died urgently, with the entry of his word into history, giving the new war the symbolic impetus it needed.
The iron man, Gomez, doesn’t believe or want to believe Martí’s death. On the 20th he sent Ramón Garriga, the custodian of the Diaries, with a letter addressed to Colonel Ximénes de Sandoval, to find out if “he is killed or lives with serious injury, or whatever.” The colonel “understands” Gomez that, since he is a Freezer like Martí, he is being treated as a brother, not an enemy.
But on the 21st, Garriga contradicts the notice and announces that “Martí is dead and that his head is separated, they reserve it; and the body buried in the cemetery of that village.” On the day of the fight, the final score is not written by the General-in-Chief but by an old, fatigued man: “What a war is it! I thought at night that next to an instant of slight pleasure, another of bitter pain appears. We already lack the best of companions and the soul we can say of the uprising.”10
Martí, man and apostle, general and president, poet and mambí, consumed his life in passion for Cuba as his elders did, in exile and in manigua. This passion must be recognized in its two senses: that of love for Cuba and the other, which involves suffering, sacrifice and death.
The luminous path that has been rebuilt here, from the memory of the Founding Fathers to the monumental pantheon of the Capitol, must be read as the progression of the Cuban idea in history. A path in which the Fatherland is transfiguring and enriching itself, even incarnating itself in the man who makes an image – as poets say – to give the Island its ethical and historical fullness.
The return to founding texts like the Diaries is as urgent as going to that temple of the Cuban that is the Capitol. With an equivalent commitment, both monuments – that of the letter and that of the stone – force the addition of Cuba as an essence and as a daily vocation. It is not a salvation through the ghosts, but a enlightenment, terrible to be so necessary, of the lost and the buried, of a restoration of patriotic memory in the return to our essential symbols. Ω

Notes
1 José Martí: “Speech in commemoration of October 10, in Masonic Temple, New York. October 10, 1888,” in Complete Works, Havana, Ed. Social Sciences, 1992, t. 4, p. 237. [Hereinafter: O.C.].
2 Máximo Gómez: Campaign Journal, Havana, Cuban Book Institute, 1968, p. 284.
3 José Martí: “To General Antonio Maceo”, in O.C., t. 20, p. 161-163.
4 Maximum Gomez: Campaign journal, ed. cit., p. 278.
5 Ibid., p. 279.
6 José Martí: Campaign diaries, edition annotated by Mayra Beatriz Martínez, Havana, Centro de Estudios Martianos, 2014, pp. 107-108.
7 Ibid., pp. 68-69.
8 Ibid., p. 79.
9 Jorge Mañach: Martí in Jorge Mañach, selection, prologue and bibliography of Salvador Arias, Havana, Ed. Cuban Letters, 2014, p. 194.
10 Máximo Gómez: Campaign Journal, Havana, Cuban Book Institute, 1968, p. 286.

Источник: https://www.palabranueva.net/en/jose-marti-muere/
copyright 2021, Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media
Jump Cut
, No. 60, spring 2021

Cuba’s “Apostle” desacralized:
melancholic aesthetics and the specter of assembly in José Martí: Eye of the Canary

by Eric Morales-Franceschini

Fernando Pérez’s José Martí: Eye of the Canary (2010) has been touted as the most noteworthy cinematic event in twenty-first century Cuba. The film’s melancholic aesthetics and portrayal of young Martí desacralize the nation’s “Apostle,” offering Cubans a more intimate and vulnerable Martí with whom to reckon. So, too, does it provocatively render Martí as a “dissident” who nonviolently cries out for rights to free speech and assembly.

Yet Afro-Cubans and Cuban women never truly inflect this cinematic project of a Cuba “with all and for the good of all.” Their bodies and desires never assemble nor speak out politically, and that absence renders Eye of the Canary a paradoxical cinematic text that pleads for but does not performatively enact democracy. This essay explores how the film differs from the myths and visual rhetoric that customarily shroud Martí and also how it is intriguingly in (and out of) touch with the assembly politics and non-violent protests that characterize much of the contemporary world.

Lovingly known as the Patria’s “Apostle,” José Martí is the most revered Cuban. So many things in Cuba testify to his status as national martyr and exemplary patriot:

  • the busts in every schoolyard,
  • his face on the most commonly used currency (1 peso),
  • the larger-than-life statues throughout Havana,
  • the yearly commemorations of his birth and his death,
  • the symposia and seminars of the Center for José Martí Studies, and
  • the numerous manuscripts published annually by or about Martí.

 Yet what Martí symbolizes for Cubans was never easily discerned or without controversy. As Lillian Guerra (2006) has documented, Martí has as many interpretations as there are constituencies and agendas in the Cuban polity—on and beyond the island. Whether portrayed as literary virtuoso, magisterial orator, civic “maestro,” saintly martyr, or revolutionary militant, he seems to embody virtues and ideologies not easily reconciled, if at all. That his writings and speeches are not only prolific (i.e. no less than 25 volumes) but also poetic and aphoristic does not make matters easier. Indeed, it could be said that Martí is less a passion than he is, as José Lezama Lima (Velazco 2011, 126) once put it, a “mystery,” one that tirelessly haunts and hails Cubans.

This essay examines how Cuban cinema has approached that mystery and to what effect. In particular, I am interested in how Fernando Pérez’s José Martí: The Eye of the Canary (2010) takes up that topic. This is a film touted by critics as the most noteworthy cinematic event since the release of the Oscar-nominated Strawberry and Chocolate (1993). For example, critic Emilio Bejel (2012, 67) recalls the standing ovations and teary-eyed embraces that the film elicited in Cuban theaters. With religious language, Cuban poet Fina García Marruz (2011, 16) refers to the film as a “miracle,” as does philosopher Fernando Martínez Heredia, calling it “spiritual nourishment” (2011, 158).

Why has the film spoken so tenaciously to Cubans and how does it differ from the myths that customarily shroud Martí? One answer lies in its rendition of Martí as utterly human—a Martí “neither sanctified nor statue-fied,” as Joel del Río (2011, 128) nicely puts it. Indeed, for the first half of the film, the script presents Martí as a meek and introspective schoolboy warmly known as “Pepe”; only in the last quarter does he, as a seventeen-year-old pupil, bear any resemblance to the fiery orator and patriot Cubans have come to identify as their “Apostle.” Yet these attributes alone do not satisfactorily account for the film’s signifying power. For they do not address the film’s provocative pleas for democracy. For no idle choice does the film show Martí as a “dissident” and give him a closing scene while in jail. In particular, the rights of free speech and assembly are what are most viscerally staged and most emphatically at stake. In what is the film’s climactic scene, Martí cries out at his trial, “My right to speak has never existed!”

Indeed, Eye of the Canary conspicuously foregoes an epic tale of martyrs who fall in combat and, in its stead, foregrounds a civilly disobedient youth who cries out for rights to free speech and assembly. On the other hand, the script primarily foregrounds the voices and prerogatives of Cuba’s urban and white sons, who assemble politically and whose desires spell out the project of Cuba Libre. Never does the film show that project inflected by the intellects or desires of Afro-Cubans, Cuban women, or Cuba’s exploited workers. Thus, the filmmakers’ narrative choices call for closer scrutiny.

To explain the context of my inquiry into this film, and its importance, first I discuss Martí’s “sublime” death and its resonance within Cuba’s postwar republic and collective Cuban consciousness. I then read and historically contextualize The White Rose (1954) and Pages from Martí’s Diary (1971), the only other feature-length films on Martí. Lastly, I delve into Eye of the Canary, with an eye for what critical possibilities its “melancholic” aesthetics and “desacralized” portrayal of Martí have to offer as well as those possibilities it does not follow.

Martí and the iconography of death

Abdala, a fictional Nubian warrior in José Martí’s 1869 Abdala declaims:

 “Nubia is victorious!
I die happy: death
Little does it matter, for I was able to save her…
Oh, how sweet it is to die when one dies
Struggling audaciously to defend the patria!”
[1] [open endnotes in new window]

A classic account of that most “sublime” of secular loves, namely the love of Nation, Abdala was published in Martí’s periodical, Patria Libre, within the first year of what came to be known as the Ten Years’ War (1868-78). Martí was only sixteen-years-old when he wrote this play in poetic verse as a literary homage to the separatistsat war in Cuba’s far east, and he offered this romanticized call for others, too, to sacrifice their lives for the Patria. Such a desire for a patriotic “happy” death was not of course peculiar to Martí. At least two years before Abdala was written, fifty-year-old “Perucho” Figueredo, an Oriente lawyer and landowner, wrote the words and melody to what became (and remains) Cuba’s national anthem, la Bayamesa; in that anthem, the most routinely cited verse reads: “fear not a glorious death/for to die for one’s country is to live.”[2] And not unlike Perucho, Martí would die his own “happy” death at the Battle of Dos Ríos in May 1895.

Yet Martí’s death hardly aroused happiness in Cuba’s collective consciousness. Three years later, the United States militarily intervened in Cuba (1898-1902, 1906-09) and left in its wake the Platt Amendment, a naval base in Guantánamo, and a “pseudo-Republic” friendly to U.S. investors and the mafia. That was a far cry  from that republic “with all and for the good of all” that Martí had eloquently intoned. In terms of Cuban culture, Martí’s death came to signify the death of Cuba Libre itself. As one of the more popular songs of the early twentieth century, “Clave a Martí,” lamented:

“Martí no debió a morir
Ay de morir
Si fuera el maestro del día
Otro gallo cantaría
La patria se salvaría
Y Cuba sería feliz”

……..

“Martí should not have died
Oh! Not have died
If he were the maestro of the day
A different story would be heard
The patria rescued
And happy would Cuba be”[3]

As Bejel (2012, 92) has argued in Freudian terms, within Cuban culture Martí is no mere hero inasmuch as a “redeeming saint,” one who would have instituted that “moral republic” so eagerly anticipated by the wars of independence. As history proceeded, the unsavory reality of Cuba’s “republican” era made it such that Cubans did not mourn inasmuch as melancholically fixate on his death. Martí became that lost object from which Cubans could not (or would not!) effectively withdraw their “libidinal” attachments and by which, consciously or otherwise, they expressed their disenchantment with Cuban reality. Martí as such lived on a specter of what-could-have-been—and, thereby, of what-should-be. This may be precisely why his commemoration became obligatory. With the 1921 “Law that Glorifies the Apostle,” Martí’s birthday, January 28, was declared a national holiday. All municipalities were expected to name a street and erect a commemorative object (e.g. statue, plaque, etc.) in his honor, as were schoolchildren and citizens to collectively recite verses and offer tributes. However, as Guerra (2006, 34) has noted, such events and their objects do not commemorate inasmuch as police, however indecisively, what Martí can signify.

Indeed, anyone who wished to legitimize his or her bid for power has had to reckon with and skillfully enlist the aura of the “Maestro” or “Apostle.” This was the case whether one be a ruler or a rebel, whether a Fulgencio Batista or a Fidel Castro. For example, Batista, who came to power by coup in 1952, tried to capitalize on the symbolically rich year 1953, the centennial of Martí’s birth. For that, he sponsored commemorative events and projects, not least the famous Martí memorial in Revolution Plaza (formerly Civic Plaza) and the first feature-length film about Martí’s life: La rosa blanca (The White Rose.

Directed by the renowned Mexican filmmaker Emilio “el Indio” Fernández, La rosa blanca: momentos de la vida de José Martí (The White Rose) first screened in Havana in 1954. It is a two-hour, black-and-white biopic that projects Martí as gifted orator and devout patriot. He is brought to life by a handsome and respectable Roberto Cañedo who delivers one impassioned speech after the next. And while the film’s strictly chronological account is driven towards Martí’s climactic fall in Dos Ríos, it is mostly devoted to his life in exile and the personal agony and sacrifices he suffers for the sake of his beloved Patria. Low-angle close-ups of Martí’s face and scenes set in aristocratic homes, salons, and ballrooms are what stand out visually, just as all that Martí must forgo or disavow (i.e. women, family, career, etc.) are what stand out morally and politically. Martí is portrayed thus as an asexual, morally incorruptible statesmen who dies the death not of a warrior inasmuch as a saintly martyr.

Martí’s death was hardly in vain—at least insofar as the film frames it. The closing scene features the lowering of the Spanish flag at Havana’s El Morro, the military and ceremonial center of Spanish imperial power, and as a mambí bugler solemnly bellows, the Cuban flag comes to wave proudly. The entire scene overlays a faded still of Martí/Cañedo’s dead yet sober face. The viewer is thereby summoned to revere more than mourn or fixate Martí’s his death, for Cuba Libre has been metonymically (by the raised flag) rendered a consummate fact.

This belies history, of course. For it was the U.S. flag that soared in Havana 1898 and the U.S. Army that took credit for Cuba’s “liberation.” In fact, remarkably no Americans are seen in The White Rose, and only in a subdued tone and ephemeral scene does Martí refer to his many years in the “entrails of the monster.”[4]

Even more ironically, in the same year The White Rose was filmed and edited under Batista’s auspices, Fidel Castro led his historic assault on the Moncada barracks of Santiago de Cuba, an act he would later say was “intellectually authored” by Martí (2007, 88-89). Notably, once in power, Castro would oversee the installation of Martí busts all over the island and cultivate awe for an anti-imperialist and internationalist Martí.

Cubans did not, however, submissively receive such lessons and visual cues. For example, Tomás Gutierrez Alea’s Death of a Bureaucrat (1966) would darkly lampoon Kafkesque absurdities of (socialist) bureaucracy, including obliquely critiquing the cult of Martí. The film opens at the grave of a fictional Francisco Pérez, lovingly known as “Paco.” According to the script, Paco was Cuba’s most prized sculptor of Martí busts. He worked tirelessly to meet state quotas and envisioned every Cuban home with its very own patriotic shrine to the Apostle. So obsessed was he that Paco invented a machine that could mass produce Martí busts. But then tragedy struck. The machine malfunctioned and Paco, in an effort to fix it, fell into the mass production and died. The viewer then enjoys the tragi-comical antics that Paco’s nephew must endure so that his aunt receives her benefits as widow to the exemplary worker. The film thus reflects on the Martí busts critically as the trivialized use or abuse of a national icon.

Cinema became a strategically vital institution for the revolution. A national film institute—popularly known as ICAIC—was created within the revolution’s first year. ICAIC was endowed with the mission to create films that consciously countered Hollywood formulas and bourgeois ideology. Over the years, this film institute has yielded exemplary Third Cinema works such as Tomás Gutierrez Alea’s Memories of Underdevelopment (1968), Humberto Solás’ Lucía (1968), and Manuel Octavio Gómez’s The First Machete Charge (1969).[5]

Yet it was not until 1971 that ICAIC released its first feature-length film devoted to Martí, namely José Massip’s Páginas del diario de José Martí (1971). Páginas bears no narratological or aesthetic resemblances to The White Rose. Whereas the latter situates Martí almost exclusively in exile and in terms of his oratory, the former situates him exclusively on Cuban soil and amidst soldiers. Other contrasts abound: the music of Páginas is an avant-garde orchestral score with none of the melodramatic overtures or cues of The White Rose. Also, Páginas is not just situated in the 19th century. That is, many of the events the film historically reenacts are juxtaposed or “interpreted” by a multiracial troop of modern ballet dancers, with a stress on an embodied agony that speaks to Martí’s untimely death and to a nation “born in war.”

Taking its cues from Martí’s impressionistic and poetic war diary, Páginas recounts a series of random events:

  • a campesina whose husband is killed and is herself wounded by pro-Spanish volunteers;
  • the execution of a rogue bandit;
  • the flora and fauna of Oriente Cuba;
  • a Spanish soldier who covets a beautiful mulatta, kills her, and goes mad;
  • a jealous woman poisons an injured mambí officer;
  • at last, the day of the battle at Dos Ríos and Martí’s death from a stray bullet.

All of this is interspersed not only by the modern dancers but also by the text of the diary, which is read by a variety of voices: men and women, young and old. The film is then punctuated by an epilogue that features contemporary Cuban painters and their modernist or vanguard-stylized renderings of Martí.

With its experimental style, Páginas was a decidedly difficult text to decipher. Fernando Pérez (Sánchez 2011, 89) has recalled the film as “polemical” and nearly impossible to comprehend, whereas Michael Chanan (2004, 315 PP) has referred to it as “a truly hallucinatory film.” Indeed, it is no small irony that a film that imaginatively projects a Martí by the people would screen so miserably to them. Maybe Cuban audiences were not ready to embrace a desacralized Martí, or maybe Massip’s “vanguard” aesthetics were just that far off the popular mark. Whichever may be the case, the next film devoted to Martí did not emerge until nearly forty years later, in a Cuba and ICAIC remarkably unlike that of the late 1960s and early 70s.

Melancholic aesthetics and an eye for youth

With the loss of Soviet subsidies and the renewal of U.S. hostility in the 1990s (i.e. the Torricelli and Helms-Burton Acts) socialist Cuba found itself adrift in a world where history had allegedly come to an end. Cubans were plagued by scarcities that not only provoked hunger but also disenchantment and embitterment.[6] The balseros (rafters) crisis of 1994 was only the most dramatic symptom of this larger crisis of legitimacy, as fewer Cubans—especially younger Cubans—were swayed by accounts of all that the revolution had historically sown and reaped. It was no small irony, after all, that 1990s Havana began to bear an uncanny resemblance to the notorious 1950s. Indeed, Cuba’s metamorphosis into a tourist and dollarized economy bred a culture of hustlers, sex workers, jockeying, entrepreneurialism, and conspicuous consumption that led Cuba’s greatest filmmaker, Tomás Gutiérrez Alea (2002), to declare: “We are losing all our values.”

The Cuban Communist Party (PCC) did not, of course, stand idly by in these distraught years. The government pursued a series of structural adjustments in the economy in order to adapt to the new neoliberal reality, yet it was clear that ideological adjustments were called for as well. As Hernandez-Reguant (2009) has noted, the cult of José Martí figured decisively in this process, as the revolutionary regime came to embrace a more nationalist than internationalist profile. So, too, was it clear that Cuba’s youth (i.e. the revolution’s future) were at stake. In this regard ICAIC was all the wiser in its shift towards films in which children and adolescents are protagonists who voice discontent or embody creative alternatives. Exemplifying this tendency are Juan Carlos Cremata’s Viva Cuba (2005), Gerardo Chijona’s Boleta al paraíso (2010), Ian Padrón’s Habanastation (2011), Rudy Mora’s Y sin embargo (2013), and Ernesto Daranas’ Conducta (2014). Finally, amidst and in dialogue with these films and historic alterations has come Eye of the Canary.[7]

Directed by Fernando Pérez, Eye of the Canary is a two-hour fictional biopic that offers the viewer an intimate look at Martí, first as twelve-year-old “Pepe” (Damián Rodríguez) and later as seventeen-year-old José Julian (Daniel Romero). Four relatively equal parts bear the titles, “Abejas” (Bees), “Arias,” “Cumpleaños” (Birthday), and “Rejas” (Bars). In “Abejas,” we are introduced to José Martí as the meek, bullied schoolboy whose friends and family lovingly call “Pepe.” His introspective and voyeuristic gaze drives the film visually and is powerfully conveyed by a face that peers from the edge of doors, windows, or shrubs. That gaze bears witness to a series of humiliations, as when Pepe accompanies his father to the countryside and sees enslaved Africans illegally and brutally brought to shore.

 In “Arias,” Pepe returns to Havana where he continues his studies and works as bookkeeper in Don Salustiano’s café. Here an older university-aged Cuban speaks openly of his hopes for a Cuba Libre, a seditious act that an older Spanish captain reacts against. It is thanks to Don Salustiano that the young man’s life is spared, a courageous act for which Don Salustiano pays dearly when, later in the film, his café is callously destroyed. All this Pepe sees and quietly absorbs, but at this time, at home he is just a dutiful son and brother who hands his earnings over to his father for the family’s keep. Pepe’s sensibilities to the tragic and to the arts are featured as well. As a volunteer at a local theater, and in a particularly sublime scene, Pepe stares mesmerized by opera singer Adelina Patti’s recital of the aria “Nessun dorma” (None shall sleep), from the final act of Giacomo Puccini’s Turandot.

The arts and theater continue to be noteworthy signifiers and spaces in “Cumpleaños,” the point at which the seventeen-year-old Martí is introduced. Martí is now the prized pupil of school rector Rafael María de Mendive and actively partakes in propagandistic campaigns for Cuba Libre. Arguably nowhere else is this campaign as lively as it is in the Villanueva theater, where thinly veiled puns are tantamount to cheers for Cuba Libre, all under the watchful eyes of Cuban “volunteers.” When at last the stock mulatta performer lets her hair down and cries out “¡Viva Cuba Libre!”, the theater is raided by loyalists, a repressive act that comes to engulf all of Havana. When the young Martí is caught and held at gunpoint, he is ordered to cry out “¡Viva España!” The young Martí’s audacious silence speaks volumes.

But his audacity leaves Martí’s mother inconsolable and his father bewildered. The youth is imprisoned for a “treasonous” letter in which he calls on a friend to conscientiously object against military service to Spain. In “Rejas,” thus, we see the imprisoned Martí in his patriotic splendor, refusing to recant his letter and stoically carrying out his seven-year sentence to hard labor in a stone quarry. It is no easy sight to bear. Through a cloudy, sepia colored lens, the viewer sees a frail, if not sickly, Martí who shuffles his way around, weighed down by shackles that tear at his flesh. In a deeply moving scene, the father Mariano visits him and gently places small pillows between the shackles and his son’s sore, bloody ankles, while mother Leonor and sisters beg the Governor General for clemency. And although the (Cuban) viewer knows fully well that Martí was to be set free and exiled to Spain, the film ends in a still of the adolescent Martí’s fiery gaze from behind his cell.

On an aesthetic register, the film is marked visually by a melancholic gray that echo’s Pérez’s Madagascar (1994)—an aesthetic that defies any sense of Cuba as a sunny tropical island or Cubans as revolutionaries with “pachanga.” Here, Cuba is portrayed as a musty, dreary space of urban squalor and gray skies that all told convey a sense of oppressiveness. This aesthetic is effectively echoed by the film’s sound, which sets a tragic aura through the operatic aria and, at the film’s close, the national anthem played on the piano in a “broken” key—a far cry from its usual milieu of orchestral brass and nationalist rallies or parades. Overall ambient sounds and dialogues emphasize secrecy, with many spoken in near whispers and set in clandestine locales.

Aesthetically Fernando Pérez (Sánchez 2011, 82) dedicates Eye of the Canary not to José Martí but to playwright Virgilio Piñera—Piñera’s Aire frío (Cold Air) to be exact. Cold Air, too, conveys an aura of oppressiveness and melancholia through the trope of Cuba’s unbearable heat and the Romaguera family’s inability to enjoy any happiness or hope. “Here the heat doesn’t kill you […] but it doesn’t let you live either,” says daughter Luz Marina, the play’s most vocal and memorable character (1959, 52). Luz Marina’s daily gripes and grievances, as well as the play’s drama, happen in the family’s small, overcrowded home and do not change over time. The use of setting strikingly reinforces a sense of claustrophobia and despair. Eye of the Canary echoes Cold Air with its stress on family strife, economic hardships, and domestic space. One need only look to the numerous scenes set in the young Martí’s home—with its cracked walls, aged furniture, and parents who commiserate over their financial precarity. Furthermore, Martí’s family is torn asunder by political affiliations and circumstances beyond their immediate control.

All told, Pérez offers Cubans a Martí with whom they can readily identify. He is not clad in saintly luminosity or statuesque grandeur. Rather, he is shrouded with a melancholic aura and inhabits a vulnerable body. Yet for all that, his integrity and valor are still clear, just as his incarcerated strife is admirable to the viewer. One is moved by Martí’s passion and by his quietly fierce gaze at film’s end. Pérez rejects the customary, near compulsory, reenactment of Martí’s tragic death. Instead, he depicts a Martí in the flower of his youth—crying out for that most seductive of desires in our times, namely democracy.

Dissident voices, assembled bodies

Let us recall how audacious and unlikely it was that the young Martí would write a play (Abdala) featuring a heroic black protagonist and an African kingdom as the allegorical Patria. It was far likelier that Martí, son to a Valencian military officer and Canary Islander mother, would be loyal to Spain and fear the Cuban rebels as “negro hordes” out to incite a “race war.” But this white Havana schoolboy chose to embrace the soldiers fighting for independence (the mambises) and to tell the tale of a war not only for national sovereignty but also for racial equality. Years later Martí would refer to race as a “sin against humanity” and advocate for a “moral republic” in which Cubans were to be judged and rewarded by their talents and virtues, not their color (2002, 318).

Yet when it comes to Martí iconography in Cuba, whiteness visually reigns with all its familiar connotations of purity, holiness, cleanliness, peace, and goodness. One need look no farther than the two key memorials in Martí’s honor, namely the Havana Central Park and Revolution Plaza statues, each of which cast him in immaculate white marble. Nor is it any less telling that the The White Rose’s title poetically endorses a pure and peaceable Martí—a far cry, that is, from the fictional black warrior Abdala or the mambises (independence soldiers) of Cuba’s multiracial liberation army.[8]

Whether Eye of the Canary diminishes Martí’s iconography in terms of black and white is not easy to discern. The young Pepe wears a black armband to mourn the death of Abraham Lincoln, an act that symbolically affiliates him with the abolitionist cause in Cuba. The upright and persecuted Don Salustiano wears a black beret. When Pepe is off to the countryside he befriends Tomás, an elder Afro-Cuban who is simultaneously his servant and mentor. It is Tomás who teaches Pepe about Cuba’s flora and fauna and, in a visually striking scene, how to ride a horse. That the horse is black is no idle detail. For whether it is Esteban Valderrama’s oil painting “The Death of Martí at Dos Ríos” (1917) or José Massip’s Pages from Martí’s Diary (1971), Martí is customarily mounted on a white horse, one that visually cues the (Christian) viewer in on the death of a saintly martyr. One could argue, thus, that Eye of the Canary provocatively affiliates the color black with antiracism, integrity, solidarity, and liberty—rather than with sin, ugliness, war, and death as is customary in the Occidental collective consciousness.

As a character, the tender and “wise” Tomás is, however, an anomaly. The film only portrays Afro-Cubans as slaves—never as mambí soldiers or civilian advocates for Cuba Libre. Their naked bodies and agony are called on to visually ennoble the cause of the young Martí, but never to substantively voice or enact a project in their own right. In visual terms, the black body is rarely other than an object of cruel treatment or an eroticized object for the white gaze, as when Pepe stares at an Afrocubana who, at the river’s edge, does laundry with her breast absentmindedly, yet enticingly, exposed.

The same could be said with respect to the film’s gender normativity, which takes its cues from none other than Abdala. When asked by his mother, Espirta, what his love for her awakens in him, Abdala bluntly replies, “Do you really think there is anything more sublime than love for one’s patria?” This patriotic love is readily conflated with a love of war and phallic prowess. Thus, Nubians are portrayed in the literary text as “fierce tigers” and “ferocious panthers” mounted on “noble steeds” with spears at hand. Abdala can in fact hardly temper his (near orgasmic) enthusiasm to see “torrents of blood” flow through the African plains as Nubians repel the foreign invader:

“Oh! What strength and life such joy brings to my soul! How my valor grows! How the blood in my veins burns! How this invincible ardor stirs me! How I desire to be off to battle!” (2012, 14-15).

Even Abdala’s sister, Elmira, scolds her mother for her tears and grief in masculinist terms:

“Do you not hear the sublime sound of the roar of battle? … With what joy I would swap out this humiliating dress [veste] for the lustrous armor of the warriors, for a noble steed, for a spear!” (2012, 22).

In this novel, Martí thus wrote a war fantasy in which women are ancillary to and identified by their relations to men: sister or mother to the “illustrious warrior.” Their dramaturgical roles are to exemplify the (im)proper conduct of women in times of war: “A Nubian [that is, Cuban] mother is not she who cries if her son soars to the patria’s rescue!,” says Elmira to her grieving mother (2012, 22). Rather, she, as Elmira has done, sees her brother (or son or husband) off to war with a loving kiss and great pride—if not (penis) envy! In so doing, she subordinates her love of family to that of love for one’s Patria and her deeds as woman to that of his as man: he redeems the Patria and she exalts him for it, not least if he dies in the act. “Battle laurels” and the “crown of martyr” are what await Abdala—never Espirta or Elmira.

In the film Eye of the Canary, it is Martí’s mother, Leonor, who (hysterically) pleads for her son not to wager his life for the Patria. This is no idle drama, for it is precisely her grief, marvelously performed by Broselianda Hernández, that conveys the emotional turmoil and sacrifices that the young Martí had to endure in order to be political. The only other women in the film are Pepe’s younger sisters, who are mere bystanders to the drama of Cuba Libre. Women thereby come to symbolize the antipolitical (Leonor), the apolitical (sisters), or the erotic (the Afrocubana). Rarely, if ever, are they called on as protagonists forCuba Libre or as exemplars of the ethical. One need only take into account that the young Martí learns all that he knows about justice from his father—not his mother. It is Mariano who stands up for the rights of an elder guarijo (peasant) in the streets of Havana and the rights of enslaved Africans in Cuba’s hinterland. As father and conscientious officer of the law, Mariano is the young Martí’s source for the ethical, whereas Leonor is little other than a stoic wife or hysteric mother.

That said, Eye of the Canary does break ranks with Abdala and Cuban historical cinema in at least one quite extraordinary way, namely its choice to foreground non-violence and civil disobedience. The young Martí is no “illustrious warrior.” He is openly identified as a “dissident,” never as a mambí and never armed. Neither are any battles nor the Liberation Army ever depicted. Indeed, never once does the (Cuban) viewer see a machete, the most popular of emancipatory symbols in the Cuban imaginary. When Spanish volunteers come knocking aggressively at school rector Mendive’s door, the mambí rebelFrancisco, who is taking refuge in Mendive’s home, stands with a pistol at the ready. Nearby stands Martí, with his mentor’s newborn baby in his arms—a scene that defies nearly all of Cuba’s historiography and historical cinema on the subject of the independence wars. In Eye of the Canary violence is never as such the “revolutionary” violence of the guerrillero; it is, rather, only ever the repressive violence of an imperial and state apparatus that either executes (Francisco) or imprisons (Martí) dissidents. The viewer does not walk away visually roused by erect phallic objects (machetes, rifles) in the hands of virile men who chant “¡Viva Cuba Libre!” Instead, she or he bears witness to an incarcerated dissident who symbolizes civil disobedience and a cry for democracy.

That these are the matters at stake is made evident in the classroom and trial scenes. In class, the young Martí and fellow (male) students debate what the word “democracy” means. Martí’s trusty friend, Fermín, defines it in terms of free speech and a free press. Others disagree in a cacophony of yells that Martí silences as he stands and declares that true democracy lies in Yara and with Céspedes forces. The historic Martí did, after all, categorically endorse armed revolt. The film’s Martí, however, mainly responds to a prophetic call to speak truth to power. To this end, he writes and he speaks regardless of the consequences. He writes his play in poetic verse, Abdala; publishes his clandestine periodical, Patria Libre; and stands by his “treasonous” letter. He speaks out at home, in the classroom, and, most dramatically, at his military tribunal, where he defiantly stands and declares: “My right to speak has never existed!” The fact that he does so in a decidedly contemporary vernacular makes his plea all the more lively and salient to today’s Cuban youth.

Yet Cuba’s youth, especially among women and men of color, are not particularly hailed by the film. Not only Martí but also nearly all whom he learns from or with whom he conspires and collaborates are phenotypically white (propertied) men: school rector Mendive, father Mariano, Don Salustiano, best friend Fermín, Manuel de Céspedes, the Villanueva theater director, etc.. Furthermore, the film never equates “democracy” with elections—neither Martí nor any others cry out for their right to vote. Martí and his closest allies agitate for and boldly embody a free press, free speech, and, one safely infers, the right to assembly.

In this way, one could argue thus that Eye of the Canary is not a call for liberal democracy as much as participatory democracy. And in this respect the film (released in 2010) could be read as in touch with a world in which youthful bodies come to overtake plazas (i.e. in Tahir Square, in Spain, in Greece, in Zuccotti Park, etc.) not only to dramatize their grievances against monopolized power but also to enact its alternative, namely democratized power. What has stood out most conspicuously in contemporary activism is the politics of assembly, which Eye of the Canary gestures at in the collective and creative ecstasy of the Villanueva Theater. Intellectuals as renowned as Judith Butler (2015) and Michael Hardt and Anotnio Negri (2017) have begun to theorize assembly as a new horizon of emancipatory politics today. And it is intriguing to me that Butler has pointed out that the right to assembly is always haunted by the specter of prison—precisely where the film’s Martí ends. That the film renders the national icon a political prisoner is, indeed, no idle choice in socialist Cuba, which for years has had to ward off ideologically driven assaults on its “totalitarian” system.

Eye of the Canary’s desacralized Martí, a vulnerable yet venerable Martí with whom everyday Cubans can identity, no doubt opens critical horizons otherwise foreclosed by hagiography and the nationalistic romance with the “Apostle.” Its melancholic aesthetics and youth perspective convey a disillusionment with Cuban reality and a rebellious audacity that is prophetic and non-violent. Importantly, that rebelliousness is not subsumed by calls for sovereignty and patriotic loyalty. Rather, it bespeaks—in contemporary vernacular no less—a call for a free press, free speech, and the right to assembly. Yet the bodies that politically assemble in Eye of the Canary are almost exclusively urban white petite bourgeois men and their desires articulated as political rights. Conspicuously subdued or altogether absent are Afro-Cubans, Cuban women, and peasant or proletarian Cubans who organize for Cuba Libre and who would likely advocate for social and economic rights as well. Perhaps Pérez, as a Cuban, can take social and economic rights for granted and, as an artist, has the responsibility to provoke reflections on that which cannot be taken for granted (i.e. free press and rights to assembly).

This may be a sober reminder that the film is one made by and for Cubans. The irony, however, is that with socialist Cuba’s pragmatic concessions to the neoliberal world system, the social and economic rights of Cubans are no longer as secure or as equitable as they once were. True to Martí’s word, “Cuba Libre” was never merely a cry for due processes or liberties; Cuba Libre embodies expectations of collective welfare. It was to be a Cuba with all and for the good of all. Judged by these criteria, Eye of the Canary welcomingly and imaginatively bids for yet falteringly enacts the desires called “democracy” and “Cuba Libre.” Perhaps, however, one could never satisfactorily translate into words, images, or a story such desires as bountiful as these. Perhaps, as with Eye of the Canary, one can only point to horizons that await our elaborations, however fallible yet necessary.

Notes

1. ¡Nubia venció! Muero feliz: la muetre/poco me importa, pues logré salvarla…/¡Oh,1.que dulce es morir cuando se muere/Luchando audaz por defender la patria!  José Martí, Abdala. (Barcelona: Red Ediciones, S.L., 2012), 24.

2. No temaís una muerte gloriosa, que morir por la patria es vivir. Lyrics, sheet music, and historical information can be found at: https://www.ecured.cu/La_bayamesa. It is said that Perucho cried out that very verse as he faced his death by firing squad.

3. Quoted in Rafael Rojas, “Otro gallo cantaría: Essay on the First Cuban Republicanism,” in The Cuban Reublic and José Martí: Reception and Use of a National Symbol, eds. Mauricio Font & Alfonso Quiroz (Lexington Books, 2006), 9.

4. The exact quote reads: “I lived in the monster, and I know its entrails—and my sling is the sling of David.” José Martí, “Letter to Manuel Mercado,” in José Martí: Selected Writings, ed. Roberto González Echevarría (Penguin Classics, 2002), 347.

5. See: Julio García Espinosa, “For an Imperfect Cinema,” (1969) reprinted in La doble moral del cine (Eiciones Voluntad, 1995) and in English (translation by Julianne Burton) in New Latin American Cinema, Volume 1, ed. Michael Martin (Detriot: Wayne State University Press, 1997), 71-82. Also see: Ana Lopez, “Cuba,” In The Cinema of Small Nations, edited by Mette Hjort and Duncan Petri (Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 179-96.

6. For excellent accounts on the cultural effects of the “Special Period,” see: Ariana Hernández-Reguant, ed. Cuba in the Special Period: Culture and Ideology in the 1990s (Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); José Quiroga, Cuban Palimpsests (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005).

7. Eye of the Canary was not, however, initiated by director Pérez, ICAIC, or the Cuban Communist Party. Eye of the Canary is one installment in a series of eight films on Latin American “liberators.” Proposed by Spanish actor Sancho Gracia and producer José María Morales, the films are (financially) backed by Spanish cultural institutions and state bodies, but each is co-produced by a filmmaker (and crew) from the respective country i.e. as in the cases of the Venezuelan Luis Alberto Lamata’s Bolivar, hombre de dificultades (2013) and the Mexican Antonio Serrano’s Hidalgo, la historia jamás contada (2010).

8. The film’s title, The White Rose, is drawn from Martí’s Versos sencillos (1891): Cultivo una rosa blanca,/En julio como en enero,/Para el amigo sincero/Que me da su mano franca. Y para el cruel que me arranca/El corazon con que vivo,/Cardo ni oruga cultivo/Cultivo una rosa blanca. [I tend to a white rose/In July as in January,/For that true friend/Who offers his frank hand to me. And to the cruel one who tears out/The heart by which I live,/Thistle nor thorn do I give:/For him, too, I have a white rose.]

References

Alea, Tomás Guttiérez. 2002. “We Are Losing All Our Values.” boundary 2 29(3) 47-53.

Bejel, Emilio. 2012. José Martí: Images of Memory and Mourning. Palgrave Macmillan.

Butler, Judith. 2015. Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Castro Ruz, Fidel. 2007. Historia me absolverá. La Habana: Editorial de Ciencias Sociales.

Chanan, Michael. 2004. Cuban Cinema. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Death of a Bureaucrat. 1966. Directed by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea. La Habana: ICAIC.

Ette, Ottmar. 1995. José Martí, apóstal, poeta, revolucionario: una historia de su recepción. Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México.

García-Marruz, Fina. 2011. “A Fernando Pérez.” In José Martí: El ojo del canario, edited by Carlos Velazco, 15-16. La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC.

Guerra, Lilian. 2006. The Myth of José Martí: Conflicting Nationalisms in Early Twentieth-Century Cuba.

Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

Kirk, John M. 2012. José Martí: Mentor of the Cuban Revolution. Fernwood Publishing.

Font, Mauricio and Alfonso Quiroz, eds. 2006. The Cuban Republic and José Martí: Reception and Use of a National Symbol. New York: Lexington Books.

Hardt, Michael and Antonio Negri. 2017. Assembly. Oxford University Press.

Hernández-Reguant, Ariana, ed. 2009. Cuba in the Special Period: Culture and Ideology in the 1990s. Palgrave Macmillan.

José Martí: El ojo del canario. Directed by Fernando Pérez. ?????

La rosa blanca: momentos de la vida de José Martí. 1954. Directed by Emilio Fernández. Cuba-Mexico.

López, Ana M. “Cuba.” 2007. In The Cinema of Small Nations, edited by Mette Hjort and Duncan Petri, 179-96. Edinburgh University Press.

Martí, José. Abdala. 2012. Barcelona: Red Ediciones, S.L.

Martí, José. “My Race.” 2002. In José Martí: Selected Writings. Edited and translated by Esther Allen. Penguin Books.

Martínez Heredia, Fernando. “Ante el ojo del canario.” In José Martí: El ojo del canario, edited by Carlos Velazco, 158-163. La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC.

Páginas del diaro de Martí. 1971. Directed by José Massip. La Habana: ICAIC.

Piñera, Virgilio. 1959. Aire frío. La Habana: Escena Cubana.

Virgilio Piñera, Aire frío (La Habana: Escena Cubana, 1959), 52.

Quiroga, José. 2005. Cuban Palimpsests. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Rio, José del. 2011. “Con los ojos fijos en la altura.” In José Martí: El ojo del canario, edited by Carlos Velazco, 126-131. La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC.

Rojas, Rafeal. 2006. “‘Otro gallo cantaría’: Essay on the First Cuban Republicanism.” In The Cuban Republic and José Martí, edited by Mauricio Font and Alfonso Quiroz, 7-17. New York: Lexington Books.

Sánchez, Jorge Luis. “Ver a un héroe a través del ojo del canario?” In José Martí: El ojo del canario, edited by Carlos Velazco, 92-102.

Stock, Ann Marie. 2009. On Location in Cuba: Street Filmmaking during Times of Transition. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

Velazco, Carlos, ed. 2011. José Martí: El ojo del canario. La Habana: Ediciones ICAIC.

Weiss, Rachel. 2011. To and from Utopia in the New Cuban Art. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Источник: https://www.ejumpcut.org/currentissue/Morales-JoseMarti/text.html

Hospital Palmetto

W 20th Ave, 7150, Hialeah, Florida, United States
7100 west building must address the "NO SMOKING SIGNS "situation immediately, appears signs have been removed., and monitor the area, as people continue to smoke regardless. It's a Health corporation, smoking area's are to be 20 to 50 feet away from all main ENTRANCES according to the HEALTH DEPARTMENT. Sad to confess I only visit the hospital on a ER situation. It's a very Daunting experience when U visit the facility. In fact doesn't feel you're in a modern updated Miami facility, but a urban unkept building instead. It's a private hospital, management needs to step it up cause the hospital, sadly it has a very low ratings on each category as surveys is concerned. Again am thankful is close by to Miami Lakes for any emergency situation. Doodles. 🙏🎄🧿🌍🙏
Источник: https://www.waze.com/en-AU/live-map/directions/united-states/florida/hialeah/hospital-palmetto?to=place.ChIJdfd2zoC72YgRJanhC6cRuPk
Contáctanos

PBS es una organización sin fines de lucro 501(c)(3).

Источник: https://www.pbs.org/latino-americans/es/timeline/
1800

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  1. ada orang cakap cukup 25 hari kita punya akaun kene ban,ada ke yg dah bertahan sampai 2 3 bulan?

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