God, babalawos and Castro
Is there room for all in Pinar del Rio?
by Bret Sigler
It's Sunday morning in the Northwest Cuban town of Pinar del Rio, and as they have for nearly a decade, religious folk are preparing for church. Oscar Leon Damien parts the faded floral sheet that serves as a bedroom door and steps into his blue-walled shoebox of a living room. He sits in his wooden rocking chair, picks up his bible and runs through notes in his head, making mental checks to ensure that everything is in order.
A few blocks away- less than a ten-minute walk from Damien's small apartment- Mario Luis Ramos Madera rolls out of bed. He pulls an old but clean soccer jersey over his well-built shoulders. He slips past his son, careful not to wake him, and steps outside to have a smoke. He lights up an unfiltered Popular- Cuba's national brand- and offers a bit of tobacco to Eluggua, the orisha of opportunity.
In a small house in the center of town, Juan Carlos Rojas buttons his banana yellow shirt and ties his matching tie, letting it hang a good inch above his belt buckle. His mind wanders. He wonders whether there will be enough room for his Sunday school students inside the church or if they will have to meet under the tree out back again.
On the other side of Calle Jose Marti, the town's main thoroughfare, Mario Cesar Aguilar rehearses choir songs with one of his parishioners. The mornings are cool in the offices behind the temple. When he sings, Aguilar shuts his eyes behind his glasses and crosses his hands over the gold crucifix that hangs from his neck. His high, monotone voice drifts to the heights of the lofty ceilings.
The routines seem ordinary enough, but Cuba's return to religion has sparked fervent debates that have been absent for decades. As Cubans again begin to consider God- some for the first time- profound theological questions arise. Who is God? Who needs him? And what is his place in communist Cuba?
When Fidel Castro's revolution triumphed in 1959, 80 percent of the population considered themselves Catholic. Many others practiced Santeria, and Evangelical Churches were a just blip on the holy radar. But the new system brought new social standards. Catholicism was seen as the religion of the conquistadors and the wealthy, and as a result, many of the clergy left for Miami with their rich congregations. Attending church was considered antisocial and the government placed social hurdles in front of those who were openly religious- they were barred from joining the communist party and the military and many were prohibited from entering the university.
"Whoever condemns a revolution such as ours," said Castro after Cuban bishops officially denounced his government in 1960, "betrays Christ and would be capable of crucifying him again."
But Christ was still alive, although not well, and practicing religion had become a clandestine affair. Churches shut down. Evangelicals met in small groups behind closed doors. The pious erected makeshift altars in their living rooms. But when cracks appeared in the revolution in the late eighties, a generation that had become disheartened by the mortal Messiahs of Jose Marti, Che Guevarra, and, presumably, Fidel Castro, looked for salvation elsewhere. Sunday attendance rose again, Evangelical groups expanded and university students formed religious groups. Religion exploded. The pressure finally prompted government retreat and the atheist state became lay in 1992.
And now, with its new stature, religion has become both a commodity and a salve. This dynamic is especially evident in the small town of Pinar del Rio as Catholics, Evangelicals and Santeros vie for position in a community craving spiritual fulfillment.
"You cannot be a man of faith if you're not obedient!" an assistant yells out to Damien's congregation. He is a tiny man leaning over a small, wood-paneled podium. His arms forcefully emphasize each word. The audience quickly turns their backs to the altar, kneels on the floor and puts their heads face down on the pews. Damien watches from behind a rickety piano.
"Cast Satan out!" the man continues, his voice now becoming hoarse. The congregation begins to speak in tongues- some barely whispering, others nearly shouting in an almost rhythmic cadence. The smell of sweat fills the small temple. "Cleanse yourself of Satan. Accept Jehovah as your savior!"