freedom?

Habana 3/23 -- Nothing like a night behind bars to temper one's ideological enthusiasm.

I was forcibly detained by Cuban police around 1:15 a.m. this morning. No sooner had I left the office and turned the corner of Avenida Esperanza than I was enveloped by a crowd of retreating demonstrators. I struggled to hold my ground against the rush, but before I could fully assess what was going on, two uniformed officers grabbed me by the arms and pulled me aside.

I was loaded into a paddy wagon along with a half dozen others. All of us were shoved and manhandled and prodded, and have some minor bruises to show for it, but no one was seriously mistreated.

At the station, my protestations of Spanish citizenship proved useless. Phrases such as "disorderly conduct," "disturbing the peace," and "violating curfew." dominated the brief exchange and I was brusquely escorted to a large holding cell.

My cellmates for the night were a diverse group, and included a couple of pro-democracy firebrands who continued to shout slogans until fellow cellmates prevailed on them for some quiet, a couple of students whose concerns quickly turned from activism to what would happen after they were kicked out of the university, one gentleman who insisted in perfect Catalan that he was a Canadian citizen and an innocent bystander like me, a disheveled wino who passed out moments after I arrived, and a Cuban-American who said he was in the city on business having flown in from Mexico City only the day before.

Conversation in the holding room was muted, as we all contemplated the gravity of our situation. Finally, toward morning, I caught a couple of hours of sleep. I was awakened by the clanging of the cell door, and the Canadian and I were uncermoniously whisked out.

"Here are your things. You are free to go," the presiding officer at the desk intoned. I checked the contents of the plastic bag he thrust at me. My wallet and keys were there. It came as no surprise that my passport was not.

I shuffled bleary-eyed through the morning light. The city was quiet, the streets still littered with placards, burnt-out torches and other debris. I saw a few spent shell casings and at one corner the remains of a bonfire still smoldered. But there were few people to be seen, only a bicyclist or two.

When I reached the Malecon, I looked out over the Caribbean and the morning sun, which hung above the horizon in a heavy haze. The light silhouetted a number of naval vessels about a mile or so offshore. They looked to be destroyers or light cruisers. It was hard to tell in the haze.

Just outside the mouth of the harbor, two Cuban patrol boats cruised at idle speed in lazy circles.

I am back in the office again. The radio is still playing Cuban folk songs. There are no local newspapers yet. It is impossible to tell what has happened during the night.

havana hombre