By: Claudia Padrón Cueto
Lidier has been detained in Cuba for 138 days. He is like a prisoner on an island jail. Confined to his home, without bars, guards, or trials; imprisoned in a country he cannot flee because there is only water everywhere, and from which he is not allowed to escape either.
"You are prohibited from leaving the country. Do you have a problem with that?" asks an officer from the Ministry of the Interior who identified himself as Major Angel, while holding up his passport.
"This is because of repression, because of my political activism," Lidier replied, and the agent's face contorted in annoyance at the word used. Repression It is a forbidden word on the Island.
***
It's February 15, 2020. Lidier and his wife Caridad are at José Martí Airport in Havana, with a pre-checked Copa Airlines ticket. He goes through first, stops in front of the immigration booth, and looks at the camera while an officer checks his information in the system. The next step should have been for the officer to stamp his passport for departure, wish him a safe trip, and open the gate for him to board. However, none of this happened.
The agent looked up at Lidier and told him he couldn't leave the country. He simply explained that his wife could fly.
Lidier and Caridad had arrived in Cuba a month earlier to visit their families, as they did every year. But this time he wasn't allowed to return to Uruguay—where he has lived since 2016—and no one has told him why since.
At that moment, with little time to spare, the two decided that the best thing was for her to at least return to Uruguay.
Whatever happened to Lidier, someone had to pay the rent, the car, keep their job; life in Uruguay doesn't stop. Lidier, with no other option, stayed on the island demanding the government "regularize" his situation until he could leave.
According to data compiled by the Patmos Institute, at least 245 residents in Cuba were or still are subject to travel restrictions for political reasons from January 2019 to March 22, 2020. Preventing people from leaving the country is a tactic often used by the government as punishment for those who are "inconvenient" to them.
Two months later, Lidier's mother went to the Citizen Services office of the Ministry of the Interior (MININT), where she was verbally informed that her son had been "regulated" under Decree-Law 302, Article 25, sections d and h. Lidier's participation in peaceful demonstrations against human rights violations on the island, 4,358 miles from Havana, gave the Cuban government the perfect pretext to prevent him from leaving the country for "reasons of defense, national security, and other matters of public interest." A cautionary tale for those who dissent from the system, even if they no longer reside in Cuba.
Who is Lider Hernandez?
Lidier Hernández Sotolongo is a 34-year-old computer engineer. He has lived almost his entire life on the outskirts of Cruces, a town in Cienfuegos with about 35,000 inhabitants, bisected by the highway that connects that province with Villa Clara. It is a town quite similar to the rest of the small municipalities: with its central park that defines the local architecture, the rural houses with low ceilings, red roofs, and porches supported by columns.
When he was a child, there was a shoe factory and a bagasse products factory. Those factories no longer exist. There were also six sugar mills, the main source of employment. Today, only two remain.
His family has lived for three generations on a small farm at the entrance to the village, in a neighborhood called PROCUBA (Cuban Bagasse Products). It is a static settlement of about 30 houses where practically the same families have lived for decades and which has changed very little.
Lidier usually speaks slowly and emphasizing each letter, but when he gets excited his speed increases and his voice becomes a breathless little tune.
She also has a very good memory, to the point of being able to describe in detail everything she is asked about. For example, the first demonstration she attended in South America, in January 2019. She learned about it almost by chance, while watching a program by Alex Otaola. YouTuber Cuban with the most followers and famous for his opposition to the communist regime.
Lidier could have chosen to stay on the sidelines, as most of his compatriots who emigrate do: disconnect from the island, be grateful for having made it out, and remain silent. Lidier, instead, wrote down the name of the person speaking in the video, looked them up on Facebook, and told them he wanted to join in.
On January 26, some 40 or 50 Cubans marched along Feliciano Rodríguez Street in downtown Montevideo, carrying their country's flag and signs demanding the restoration of freedoms suppressed in Cuba. Their intention was to reach number 2690, the location of the Cuban embassy, but they were intercepted a block away by a group of Uruguayans from the Communist Party, supporters of the Cuban government. These supporters prevented them from proceeding and loudly chanted praises to Fidel Castro.
In the videos of that march, which circulate on the Internet, you can see a kind of choral confrontation between two sides: one that speaks of dictatorship and violated rights, where Lidier is; and another that accuses them of being traitors and mercenaries.
After the March of the Forbidden in early 2019, the Cuban man from Cruces participated in about five more demonstrations, always advocating for the restoration of rights on the island. From the marches, he broadcast live on his social media, gave interviews to the press, and was later invited to radio programs.
Dissident from a revolutionary family
Lidier Hernández, by joining the Actions for Democracy Movement, the Somos+ collective, and serving as a spokesperson for the civil association Cubanos Libres in Uruguay, became a visible leader and ceased to be an anonymous face to State Security, the Cuban political police. This was made clear to him in March 2019 when he returned to Cuba for the second time since leaving.
At six in the morning, Major Yosvani León arrived at Lidier's parents' house under the pretext of a social visit. He chatted with the family in a friendly tone about trivial matters. Only when it was time to leave did he tell Lidier that he had to report to the Immigration and Foreign Affairs office in Cienfuegos in two days.
He arrived in the morning and was taken to a small room with a single desk. Martín, the State Security officer who "services" the area, took his place at the desk. Another officer, who never gave his name, stood in the left corner. On the desk was a computer where they typed the interrogator's answers.
Lidier sat directly in front, in one of the two wooden armchairs with foam cushions that had been placed at the entrance. The office had a single double-leaf window through which light streamed in, and on either side hung two giant photographs of Fidel and Raúl Castro in military uniform.
Martín, fat and with thick hands, was leading the interrogation in a friendly tone. The nameless officer, on the other hand, only intervened to lend a certain severity to the threats.
They interrogated him for over two hours without stopping. It was a barrage of questions about his family, his wife's family, his friends in Uruguay…
—How much do you earn there as a computer programmer?
Leader does not respond.
—Who are the organizers of the march?
The leader remains silent.
—What do the leaders of the revolution represent for you?
"I have no idols," he tells them.
According to Lidier, Martín barely takes a breath between sentences. He talks nonstop, like someone who enjoys listening to himself. He recites from memory the virtues of the Cuban Revolution and of Fidel and Raúl. Then he questions his interlocutor for "playing into the hands" of Cuba's historical enemy: the United States.
During that interrogation, the officer in charge of the area told him that, with his public denunciations, he was aiding imperialism in its quest to seize control of the island. They assured him that they had him identified as one of the opposition leaders in Uruguay, and that if he continued to speak out against the Cuban government, there would be consequences. And indeed there were. The interrogation concluded with a subtle piece of advice: "Your family are decent people.".
After that visit in March 2019, Lidier returned to Uruguay and continued participating in demonstrations for Cuba. The last of these marches was just days before his most recent visit.
Life before Uruguay
The Hernández Sotolongo family includes teachers, housewives, members of the Communist Party, farmers, veterans of the Bay of Pigs invasion and the fight against counter-revolutionary groups, members of Parliament, and district delegates. Ideologically speaking, they are a united and revolutionary group.
Except for Dieguito, an uncle of his father's who left in the 1980s with the "scum" due to political problems, no one in his family had been a dissident until Lidier began denouncing repression against activists and independent journalists, speaking out about human rights violations, attending marches, and demanding freedom of expression. This made him the second "dissident" in the Hernández family. A political betrayal that his father still refuses to accept, simply because he still believes in the Cuban Revolution.
Lidier was also a revolutionary. He was one for most of his life; he even studied computer engineering as an intern because, as a teenager, he dreamed of joining the Ministry of the Interior (MININT). Later, he realized that wasn't the life he wanted. He decided to leave, and after eight months of waiting for his discharge, he obtained his military release. Then, he was subjected to a new waiting period: five more years of restricted status, unable to emigrate. Other colleagues who requested discharge only had to wait 36 months.
Lidier's habit of speaking his mind and not keeping quiet had led to accusations of having "ideological" problems, which resulted in his departure being denied. After several appeals, he was finally allowed to leave the country after three years and departed for Uruguay.
As he emerged from that bubble that is Cruces, as he read online about parts of the national history that were erased from textbooks, and listened to testimonies from the exile community, he says he began to "deprogram himself.".
«"At first you doubt the victims and give the State a vote of confidence because it's difficult to break with so much dogma. In Cuba, you wake up slowly until you manage to fully open your eyes... Some never do.".
Lidier says his parents don't understand his political opinions, nor do they accept them. He, on the other hand, understands them. Accepting the violations his son denounces, even accepting what they are doing to him today, is to acknowledge the failure of a national project promised six decades ago that no longer exists. "It's accepting that you were used and that you're living a farce today.".
The regulated sector's fear
Lidier's fear is hearing the sound of a motorcycle and thinking that State Security is coming to deliver another summons or arrest him. His fear is walking through town and thinking that every police officer or patrol car he sees is watching him. Out of fear, he checks every word he types in a text message or says on a call because he's almost certain his phone is tapped.
Today he says that fear makes him question whether it's better to turn a blind eye to injustice or to denounce it. But this young man's greatest fear is being imprisoned on the island when his life is no longer in Cuba. Just thinking about it fills him with anxiety, gnawing at his stomach as if a hole were opening in his chest and sucking him in.
Lidier has been imprisoned in Cuba for 138 days. During this time, he has given two interviews to Uruguayan television and ten to radio. He filed a complaint with the Cuban court, which was rejected; he has tagged top Cuban officials on Twitter, but none have responded. He has also written letters to the Communist Party, the Immigration Office, and the Citizen Services Office of the Ministry of the Interior. Until early June, he had received only one response: to wait.
However, after waiting four months, he called the Immigration Office and was finally notified that he could take a humanitarian flight to Uruguay, amid the Covid-19 pandemic, available in a couple of days.
Lidier immediately bought his ticket and said goodbye to his closest friends and family. He didn't post anything on social media, nor did he speak to the independent press in Cuba or Uruguay. It's best not to anger the government or draw attention to himself, he thought. On June 13, at the airport, with his checked ticket in hand, he received the news that he was still "regulated," the word State Security uses to tell someone they cannot leave Cuba.
Lidier was never released from restrictions. Lidier simply cannot leave Cuba.
—You cannot travel. You are banned from leaving the country. Do you have a problem?
The scene repeats itself. And Lidier remains imprisoned in this jail that is the entire island.
Two days later, Uruguayan Foreign Minister Ernesto Talvi wrote on his Twitter account: «Lidier Hernández, a Cuban citizen residing in Uruguay, was not allowed to board the Copa flight in Havana and return to Uruguay to reunite with his wife. Uruguay has expressed its concern to the Cuban authorities and is working intensively to facilitate his return.».
***
It was February 15, 2020. At José Martí Airport, Lidier said goodbye to his wife. An official returned his suitcase, which was already in the plane's hold, and escorted him to the exit gate. He walked almost instinctively, not fully grasping the magnitude of what was happening. He walked with a single thought in his head: "How long will this last?"«