Carmen Pelaez is a filmmaker and freelance writer based in Miami.
One year ago this week, on December 17, 2014, the U.S. and Cuba agreed to end their Cold War feud and reestablish diplomatic relations. In July, the two countries reopened their respective embassies. And in the past week, the U.S. and Cuba have agreed to allow regularly scheduled direct flights. Among the developments, the decision to restart direct mail service between the U.S. and the island was the least impressive.
I could barely muster a shrug. The last time I sat down to write and send a letter to my family or friends in Havana was in 2001. After all, snail mail is almost as much a relic of the 20th century as the Castros themselves at this point.
As a Cuban-American filmmaker and writer, I had hoped for something more significant in a year during which the U.S. and Cuba have made huge strides in reestablishing relations. I had hoped for a decrease in the jailing of human-rights activists, or an announcement that the Cuban government had accepted Google’s offer to provide free WiFi island-wide. Maybe even an increase in the average Cuban's income through a bigger expansion into private business. Instead, I can now send letters and packages directly to friends on the island, albeit without any guarantee of what will happen when these things get there.
In the 1970s, letters were our lifeline to friends and relatives left behind. Receiving one was a random, treasured occurrence, and every time a relative traveled internationally, writing back was equally exciting. The 9-year-old me wrote long letters about how I wanted the Revolution to be over so that I could finally live in Cuba.
My grandmother would always make me rewrite them. I didn’t understand why; I was just being honest. "Because every letter they get is read by the government, and this could get them in trouble!" she scolded. I would tear up my eloquent pleas and write generic letters about my life and what I wanted to be when I grew up, all the while thinking my abuela was exaggerating. But when I visited Cuba for the first time as an adult, I realized how right she was.
Mail will be going directly between the two countries, and that would have been a wonderful development a few decades ago. But if this policy really is about engaging with Cubans, we need a development that brings them into the 21st century, not one that looks to repair old Cold War wounds.
Ahead, some of the letters I exchanged with family in Cuba.
My mom’s family was divided during the first 27 years of the Revolution. At the center of my family was my great-grandmother Apipita, who stayed behind with her daughter Gloria. Gloria’s husband, José, was a political prisoner for 27 years. Finally, in 1989, the entire family was reunited when, upon José’s release, he and Gloria went straight to Miami.
Photo: Courtesy of Carmen Pelaez.
In this letter, my great-grandmother Apipita responds to two letters I wrote to her — one from April and one from December. I was upset because a frenemy was torturing me in junior high school. Api suggested I take it all in stride. I can’t imagine how silly my problems must have seemed to her, considering her daily reality.
Photo: Courtesy of Carmen Pelaez.
My great-aunt Ninita was the caretaker of our family home. I stayed with her every time I traveled to Cuba. Her letters to me were always full of questions, and she was the most curious person I have ever known. She passed away in Cuba in 2002.
Photo: Bruce Loshusan/Courtesy of Carmen Pelaez.
My great-aunt Ninita wrote to tell me how much she enjoyed my letter and my friend’s visit. She loved when people stopped in to our family home, and she was always happy to give them a tour. My friends always returned from Cuba with great stories about her.
Photo: Courtesy of Carmen Pelaez.
In this letter, my great-aunt Irene tells an 11-year-old me that instead of being a lawyer, I should consider being a writer because she enjoys my letters very much. I keep this one on my desk and look at it whenever I need encouragement. Ironically, Irene worked at the post office until she retired in the late 1950s.
Photo: Courtesy of Carmen Pelaez.
This letter was very upsetting. My friend in Havana wrote to tell me that her husband beat her so badly she almost lost an eye. She wasn’t able to leave him because she had asked the Housing Committee to find her an apartment, and they said there were none available. Her husband, an alcoholic, would continue to be abusive until he finally left the house.
Photo: Courtesy of Carmen Pelaez.
This letter was never sent because we didn’t have any friends traveling to Havana at the time. In it, I tell my great-grandmother I’ve been busy with exams and send her my grades. I tell her I miss her and that I hope to see her soon. Little did I know that later in that year — 1986 — she would come to the U.S. as a political exile.
Photo: Courtesy of Carmen Pelaez.Like what you see? How about some more R29 goodness, right here?
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