IX. State of Fear

The repressive practices of the Raúl Castro government documented in this report have generated a climate of fear that has a profound impact on dissidents and Cuban society as a whole. Fear of repression shapes behavior, pressuring Cubans to participate in pro-government activities and discouraging them from voicing dissent or participating in activities that may be perceived as “counterrevolutionary.” Individuals who express unpopular political views live in constant fear of being harassed, beaten, or arrested.

The Cuban government’s widespread use of surveillance and infiltrators creates an atmosphere where Cubans feel they are constantly being watched. Surveillance is not only a source of anxiety in itself, but it also fosters distrust and suspicion within the dissident community. This distrust extends to the laws and institutions entrusted with protecting Cubans’ rights. Dissidents have no confidence in the ability of the courts to give them a fair trial.

Fear is a central part of the Cuban government’s strategy of isolation, which pressures friends and family members to sever ties with dissidents. This isolation, together with other forms of harassment, takes a significant emotional and psychological toll on dissidents and their families. It may lead to depression or lasting psychological problems.

Self-Censorship and Coerced Allegiance

Fear pressures individuals to participate in pro-government activities and show their allegiance to the party. Having a job, belonging to the local “committee in defense of the revolution” and the state-sponsored union, attending pro-government rallies—all are seen as ways of proving one’s loyalty to the “revolutionary” project. To not participate is to mark oneself as suspicious, or even dangerous.

In the words of human rights advocate Ramona Sánchez Ramírez, “Everything works through fear.... People know they have to go to revolutionary activities, because if not, they’re looking for trouble.”[342] “Gerardo Domínguez,” a youth in Havana, told Human Rights Watch that his local committee for the defense of the revolution took attendance at meetings and government-sponsored events, and passed along the names of those who did not attend to security officials.[343]

Fear also discourages individuals from voicing dissent or from participating in any activity that may be perceived as “counterrevolutionary.” Non-dissidents and dissidents alike repeatedly said that any form of dissent could lead to repression—be it an arrest, a beating, imprisonment, or some other measure. As former political prisoner and leader of an unauthorized labor union Pedro Pablo Álvarez Ramos described the system:

In Cuba everyone has a file. If you are not in line with the system or are unwilling to carry out the tasks they assign, if you do not want to adopt that attitude or be part of the party, or of the committee—then you’re marginalized.... Those are the ones regarded as likely to commit crimes. In Cuba, one has to be a revolutionary for everything.[344]

Human rights defender Rodolfo Bartelemí Coba told Human Rights Watch, “We live 24 hours a day ready to be arrested at any moment.... Sometimes they enforce [the punishment] at this moment, sometimes later, but they always enforce it when they see fit.”[345] Alexander Santos Hernández described the threat of repression as ever present, calling Cuba “a system already designed to prosecute you.” He said this was especially true with the “dangerousness” provision, which he described as, “a law that’s prepared so they can accuse you [of breaking it] at any moment.  It’s like a trap for a mouse with its mouth open: they just have to wave it in front of you and in just one day you’re in prison.”[346] Of the “dangerousness” law, Eduardo Pacheco Ortíz said, “They’re always instilling fear with this law. Every opponent has been suppressed by fear.”[347]

Several individuals said they had deliberately scaled back their participation in activities that could be considered critical of the government to avoid being arrested. William Reyes Mir used to be an active member of a small, unofficial political group that aims to make Cuba into a multiparty system. But he said that since completing two years of forced labor for “dangerousness,” he had not participated in any of the organization’s activities, out of fear of being arrested.[348] During interviews Human Rights Watch conducted in Cuba, interviewees said that even speaking to outsiders was likely to arouse the suspicion of the neighborhood “revolutionary” committee, and that talking about human rights could lead to their imprisonment.

Local Cuban blogs provide a window into the way fear permeates Cuban society on the whole. In his blog “From Here,” former journalist-turned-blogger Reinaldo Escobar wrote:

You can be certain that the vast majority of the people living in Cuba have never felt repression by the government on their own flesh. A few have been taken to Villa Marista [prison], and many have even been visited [by authorities] and warned not to misbehave. Most people have not been dismissed from their jobs or expelled from school because of their political views....

Why then does an index finger cross the lips, eyes widen, or a look of horror appear on the faces of my friends when at their houses I commit the indiscretion of making a political comment within earshot of the neighbors?  We already know where those who fight in the face of fear are ... and the paralyzed are all around us, waiting to see what the brave ones do.[349]

Yoani Sánchez, who writes the blog “Generation Y,” wrote:

Soon, very soon— [the neighbors] warn me—I could hear a knock at my door very early one morning. In anticipation of this, I would like to point out that I do not keep weapons under the bed. However, I have committed an unfailing and heinous offence:  I have believed myself to be free....  

But don’t fool yourself; I’m not entirely innocent.  I carry with me a mountain of misdeeds; I have routinely bought on the black market, I have commented in a low voice—and in critical terms—about those who govern us, I have nicknamed politicians and joined in the pessimism.  To top it off, I have committed the abominable offense of believing in a future without “them” and in a version of history different from that which they have taught me.  I repeated the slogans without conviction, washed the dirty laundry in full view and—the greatest transgression—I have joined words and phrases together without permission.[350]

Although some point to the emergence of such blogs as proof that Raúl Castro’s government tolerates dissent, many of the blogs are blocked within Cuba. Moreover, access to the internet is limited to a few government-run centers and tourist hotels, where it costs approximately US$5 per hour, or one-third of Cubans’ monthly wages. Private internet connections require special permission from the government, and are rarely granted.  

As a result, bloggers often write their posts on home computers, save them on memory sticks, and upload them through illegal connections. Ironically, bloggers rarely have the opportunity to see their own blogs. In an August 2009 post, blogger Luis Felipe Rojas wrote: “I write without being able to answer those who support or rebut my poor arguments. Never have I been able to see this blog online.”[351] Furthermore, as novelist Ángel Santiesteben wrote on his blog, individuals who write critically risk “the loss of friends, some of whom distance themselves out of fear of repression,” as well as threats and physical attacks by government officials.[352] Blogger Rojas was the subject of an arbitrary arrest and interrogation because of his writing.[353]

Surveillance and Suspicion

Constant government surveillance makes dissidents feel as though their every move is being watched, while the use of infiltrators fosters distrust and suspicion among groups.

Dissidents repeatedly said that their phones were tapped and their conversations recorded by security officers, citing as evidence the fact that authorities later repeated back to them parts of phone conversations or people with whom they had spoken.  Víctor Yunier Fernández Martínez told Human Rights Watch that he could be punished for saying anything critical about the government over the phone:

These words I'm saying to you could cost me my life. They may lead to my summoning. They could come here to look for me right now in a car, because here all the phone lines are governmental, they’re bugged.[354]

The day after a telephone interview with Human Rights Watch, dissident Eduardo Pacheco Ortíz said he was arrested while walking down the street. In a later call, Pacheco said, “They did not tell me anything about the call because they don’t want to give themselves away. But I know that it is because of the call.”[355]

Dozens of times during Human Rights Watch’s phone interviews with dissidents, calls were abruptly cut off, and in several cases dissidents’ phone lines were suspended for hours or days after interviews. Dissidents attributed these phenomena to interference by censors.

Dissidents said government officials deliberately revealed their surveillance capabilities as a form of intimidation. Marco Antonio Lima Dalmau said that during previous interrogations government officials had mentioned information that they would have known only if they had planted microphones in his home.[356] “Joaquín Durán,” a member of the clergy, said that when he was brought in for questioning by State Security, officers ran down a list of every political activity and gathering that he had attended in recent months.[357]

Dissidents told Human Rights Watch that the government used infiltrators to collect information. As evidence, they pointed to preemptive arrests before planned gatherings and security officers’ knowledge of issues discussed in small groups. René Velásquez González—the son of a political prisoner who has attended meetings of unauthorized political groups—said that, even when among dissidents, he was very careful when voicing criticism of the government, because there was no way of being sure that everyone was trustworthy.[358]

Distrust of the Courts

Dissidents say that Cuba’s judicial system works hand in glove with security forces to repress dissent. In the words of dissident Rufina Velásquez González, “In Cuba, judges and juries are basically another arm of the state security forces. They are there so that the laws of the revolution are followed, not justice and legal parameters.”[359]

Dissidents routinely told Human Rights Watch that they had no faith in the ability of the courts to reach just decisions or fulfill their duty to safeguard fundamental freedoms. Dissidents called their trials “theatre” and “a show,” and said their sentences were “pre-written” and “pre-decided.” According to Enyor Díaz Allen, “In Cuba, there are no rights. When they want, they put you in prison.”[360] Other dissidents said the legal system was used to shield government officials who committed abuses. Ana Margarita Perdigón Brito, a dissident who suffered numerous beatings at the hands of security officers, said, “The authorities are authorized with impunity. Whether they break the law or not—nothing happens to them.”[361]

René Gómez Manzano described the way the various branches of the Cuban government work in concert to repress dissent:

This works like a sugar processing factory, where first you put in the cane, then it goes through a mill, and the process continues until the bag of sugar comes out the other end. The police grab you and go to the district attorney saying, “Look, we detained this individual.” Then the district attorney accuses you. And if the district attorney accuses you then the initial court immediately punishes you. You appeal and when it reaches the superior court, the superior court ratifies the action and that’s it. A reversal of the initial court’s decision is practically unthinkable. There’s no other way to do things there.[362]

Former political prisoners and family members of current prisoners said courtrooms were filled with uniformed and plainclothes officers and members of “rapid response brigades,” creating a threatening atmosphere. “The room was full of armed men,” said Yaraí Reyes Marín, the wife of journalist and political prisoner Normando Hernández González, describing his show trial in 2003. She said the armed officers, who greatly outnumbered Hernández’s immediate family, made her feel frightened and isolated.[363]

Dissidents’ lack of faith in the independence of the courts has real consequences for their conduct in legal proceedings. As seen above, dissidents repeatedly choose not to appeal their decisions or even contest the charges against them because of the perception that any challenge—no matter how well-founded—would result in a harsher sentence.

For example, William Reyes Mir did not appeal his sentence of two years’ forced labor for “dangerousness,” despite the fact that the state prosecutor falsified charges against him. He told Human Rights Watch, “Here people almost never appeal because appeals are dangerous. [The lawyers] threaten that if you appeal, it could end up badly.... People appeal and end up with harsher sentences.”[364]

Emotional and Psychological Impact

Everyday acts of repression, inhuman imprisonment, and fear take a significant emotional and psychological toll on dissidents. Former political prisoner Víctor Yunier Fernández Martínez told Human Rights Watch that since his release from jail in February 2009, he was afraid to leave his home:

At this moment I feel tense, I feel stressed, because they’ve already condemned me.... I'm not even going out, I'm here in my house. I'm afraid of walking, I'm afraid they’ll take me back to prison. I fear it because I already suffered, my whole family suffered. I fear for what might happen to me.[365]

The emotional and psychological repercussions often extend to the families of dissidents. Journalist Juan Carlos Hernández said that, as a result of his frequent arrests, his wife began to suffer anxiety attacks and chronic nightmares about him being arrested. As a result, she had to seek psychiatric treatment. He described the atmosphere produced by this intimidation:

Yes, I'm afraid. Not just me—my family. We live in constant confinement. If they knock on the door, we don’t want to know who it is, our hearts pound so hard it feels like they’ll burst.... When you analyze this series of actions, they practically have it designed to throw your nerves out of balance.[366]

Wives and children of political prisoners said they experienced periods of depression as a result of their husbands’ or fathers’ confinement. When her husband was charged with “dangerousness” in January 2007, Bárbara González Cruz was unable to leave her bed for several weeks, her son said. She stopped eating and would not speak to anyone.[367]

Rebeca Rodríguez Souto’s son was a teenager when his father—journalist Dr. Alfredo Pulido—was sentenced to 14 years in prison in 2003. Rodríguez Souto said that after his father’s detention, his behavior changed dramatically. He became reserved, did not want to go to school, and withdrew into isolation. She said she regularly found him taking his father’s clothes out and laying them on his bed, where he would stare at them.[368] 

Juan Francisco Sigler Amaya said public acts of repudiation, which had been repeatedly staged outside of his home, had terrified his four children. He said they had suffered lasting trauma from the siege of their homes—replete with menacing chants, insults, stone-throwing, and threats—telling Human Rights Watch: “[The acts] stay etched in their minds for a lifetime. They traumatize them and they will carry this psychological burden. From this horror, they get frightened by anything, and don’t allow anyone to enter the house.”[369]

Former political prisoners described lasting pain from the cruel, inhuman, and degrading conditions they endured in Cuban prisons. Manuel Vázquez Portal, who was released in 2004, was subjected to sustained periods of solitary confinement, and engaged in hunger strikes to call attention to the abysmal conditions in which he and other prisoners were held. He said that five years after his release he continued to suffer “periods of irritability and depression,” as well as recurrent nightmares about solitary confinement, for which he has sought psychological treatment.[370] Pedro Pablo Álvarez Ramos, a political prisoner who was released in February 2008, said:

I had never suffered from depression, and now every once in a while it happens to me. Sometimes I wake up very early in the morning and think that I'm still in prison. No one is spared. One lives so much horror—it’s such a difficult experience, being isolated—especially when one hasn’t done anything.[371]

A Strategy of Isolation

Fear is a critical component in the government’s strategy to isolate dissidents from their neighbors, coworkers, friends, and loved ones. Authorities use what clergy member “Enrique Jiménez” described as a system of “rewards and punishments” to cut off those it sees as its enemies: ongoing contact with those labeled “counterrevolutionary” may lead to punishment, while informing on them or isolating them is rewarded.[372] 

In eight cases, dissidents said that authorities pressured their family members and friends to sever ties with them. Dissident Alexander Santos Hernández, from Holguín, said that his childhood friend—a woman who has never been involved in dissident activities—was told by authorities that her daughter would be expelled from school if she maintained her friendship with Santos.[373]  

Sometimes, pressure by government officials can cause family members to end relationships with dissidents. Enyor Díaz Allen, a dissident in Guantanamo, said that his mother had stopped talking to him because of pressure from police.[374] Digzan Saavedra Prat, a dissident from Holguín and former political prisoner, said his brother cut off all contact with him when authorities warned him that continued contact with his “mercenary” brother would cost him his job.[375]

Roberto Marrero la Rosa, a human rights advocate in Camagüey, has a daughter-in-law who used to work in the public prosecutor’s office. According to Marrero, government officials approached her and said that if she wanted to keep her job, she would have to divorce her husband (Marrero’s son) and put their child up for adoption. When she refused, she was fired, Marrero said.[376]

Former political prisoner Eduardo Pacheco Ortíz described the effect of such isolation on his family’s social network in Matanzas:

In the city, no one is allowed to talk to me. People who come to my house are immediately called by state security and reprimanded. Then these people—for fear of losing their jobs, for fear that [the authorities] will take it out on someone in their family—simply stop talking to me.[377]

Rufina Velásquez Gonzales—daughter of political prisoner Ramón Velásquez Toranzo—said security officers approached several of her friends and asked them to report secretly on her activities.[378] She said the harassment she received in public was a major factor in her decision to leave Cuba for the United States—a decision made harder by the knowledge she was leaving a father in prison and a brother and mother who had been shunned by much of their community. 

Rufina’s brother, René Velásquez Gonzales, who remained in Las Tunas with his mother, told Human Rights Watch that authorities questioned everyone who spent time with him, asking why they were spending time with a known “worm.” One day, after having a soda with a friend, security officers accused Velásquez of trying to indoctrinate the friend with “counterrevolutionary ideas.” Following the incident, Velásquez decided to stop hanging around with his closest friends to avoid getting them in trouble. His co-workers stopped talking to him, and his girlfriend left him. He described the feeling of isolation as asphyxiating. “It’s like having someone plant a boot right in the middle of my chest, and applying so much pressure I can hardly breathe. Just when I think I am going to suffocate, a little air makes it through. And then the pressure is back again.”[379]