In Cuba, discussing politics is more than a social taboo at dinner parties—it’s dangerous in almost any form in almost any location. Publicly deviating from the party line can get you demoted from a your job or in extreme cases get your passport seized by the government. You might think there’s nothing political to talk about in Cuba, where there’s only one party and no presidential elections, but the talk itself—or lack there of—is something to talk about.
Here’s how the system works: every Cuban over the age of fourteen is a registered member of El Comité en Defensa del Revolución (the CDR). For every city block there is a single committee, through which Cubans, over the age of 16, vote for their delegates, who in turn make up the Municipal Assembly. The government consists of a three-tiered hierarchy including the Municipal Assembly, the Provincial Assembly, and the National Assembly, which the president chairs. Each tier is responsible for the election of the one above it. In other words, the Municipal Assembly elects the Provincial Assembly, which elects the National Assembly, which elects the president. There are no official limits or restrictions for delegates based on race or gender, but the majority of them are white men. There’s also no official salary; delegates aren’t paid for their service but rather make a living from other, simultaneous employment.
I got this information not from an official source but a rare political discussion with a professor. For weeks our class had asked her to explain Cuban elections to us, and eventually, after us explaining our perceptions of the American system and her making sure the door was closed, she laid it out. My professor explained the disparity in gender in two parts. First, many Cuban women work what North American feminists have termed as the second shift, working women returning to their home after completing a full workday to complete domestic tasks such as cleaning, cooking, and child rearing, thus in effect working a double shift (one paid, one not) in one day. Traditionally, men aren’t burdened with the second shift, which in Cuba leaves more time and energy available for them to be politically active. Second, and most significant in my professor’s opinion, women simply aren’t interested in politics.
She told us she didn’t have an explanation for the lack of racial diversity among delegates because, according to her, all Cubans have equal opportunities regardless of their racial background. However, she did admit to the existence of racism in Cuba as a two-way street with some white Cubans prejudiced against black Cubans and some black Cubans prejudiced against white Cubans.
With one party and its one official ideology, we asked her what criteria Cubans use to elect their representatives. Apparently it’s based on their personal life stories—So And So serviced in Angola and is a true revolutionary, while So So makes a living off of remittances sent from family living in the United States—rather than their political beliefs or past achievements. She admitted that she doesn’t trust the delegates to represent her, her beliefs, or her needs. Though she hopes this will change in 2018 when Raul Castro steps down from power and the next president succeeds him. For the future, she wants the government to maintain its free healthcare and education, but she also wants to see an increase in possibilities for Cubans to widen their economic opportunities—that’s all far off though, only possible after a future change of power. Until then it’s a political waiting game and a hushed conversation.