A Feminist Meets Fidel Castro

Can Women End War? A Feminist Meets With Fidel Castro

I met him. I had a drink with him. I argued with him. Fidel Castro and I squared off. And we had a conversation about women that still resonates with a message for today, and for this season.

Back in 2004, I had the honor of serving as women’s history faculty for the excellent Semester At Sea program, which since the early 1960s has been a “floating university” to complex destinations. Every year, twice a year, its ship brings several hundred students and professors through a dozen ports of call, one hundred days of travel and assignments in each land. For 2004, we had the State Department’s blessing as an education outfit to disembark in Cuba, and with my class of students I went ashore and heard Fidel speak to a packed house at the University of Havana.

Yes, he stood for four hours in his signature fatigues, denouncing global conflict, (with a water glass in hand, and he never paused to take a single sip.) Overwhelmed, in headphones with translation, my students looked to me: no bathroom break? And I shook my head: no chance. Indeed, no toilet paper. Tune in. Be patient. You’ll remember where you were today.

When the marathon of talk had ended with a flourish, and my students fled to ponder in the safety of our ship, the unexpected happened, and our faculty delegation from Semester at Sea were casually invited to have drinks upstairs, as Fidel Castro’s personal guests that day. Some declined, a statement of discomfort; cannot party with a dictator. I accepted, wide-eyed, the historian in our group, aware of fleeting opportunity; even then we saw the shadow of his coming frailty.

Upstairs to a private chamber where without a frisk, a pause, or any metal detector I could see, we simply stood with freshly mixed mojitos handed out and barged into translated conversation with our host. I had on a loud-print yellow dress, and as the younger, femme-appearing member of our party I drew some quick attention from Fidel. I summoned up my C+ high school Spanish as he gripped my bicep in his hand and asked me what I taught. Yes, women’s history.

Aha, he reacted. If women ruled the world there would be no more war: the maternal instinct is so strong. His beard rose up, assuming I’d agree.

But standing, sweating, sipping rum and racing to record the moment in my head, I did talk back. I said I disagreed, that women in authority could be warlike, moved by nationalism; Margaret Thatcher, no? Or Phyllis Schlafly, who once said the atomic bomb was a great gift given to the United States by a wise God. The wives of slaveowners who given opportunity were punitive to slave women and children; the queen of England known as Bloody Mary; or even Isabella, expelling Jews and Muslims from her Spain, and funding Inquisitions and witch burnings; all women. Not a legacy of peace.

And if he took it in, I’l never know, as others grabbed their moments after mine and in turn argued or agreed, uncomfortable, dazed, aware we came thus burdened as Americans, our government long hopeful for his death, the Cuban-American students on our voyage wretchedly aboard the ship unwilling to betray their parents’ pain and come along as tourists of their past.

Today I wish I’d been much bolder and, given an extra moment, I’d have come out to the man, and asked about the AIDS camps which interned anyone marked with HIV in the late 80s. I’d have worn some jewelry announcing my own LGBT identity, expressing my challenge to repression (there or here.) Today Raul Castro’s daughter, Fidel’s niece, is championing LGBT rights in Cuba, as my niece speaks for me in her own college papers, though I wonder what will happen to my “next term” as an out/feminist professor in the new U.S. administration Fidel Castro has not lived to see; our incoming Vice-President who advocates conversion therapy. And will I have a glass of wine with Pence, and argue about history, in English, if invited? These images swirl hot as any Caribbean wind as I watch news: exit Castro, enter Trump.