Review of Arthur Miller's "The Crucible"

Arthur Miller’s The Crucible tells the story of the Salem witch trials, which occurred in the year 1692. A collective hysteria developed in the town after several children fell ill, and many babies died at birth. The reigning authorities’ explanation was witchcraft, and evidence for this included the discovery that young girls were surreptitiously dancing in the forest, which was interpreted to mean that they were secretly communicating with the devil. This belief system spread like a virus and eventually became the unquestioned orthodoxy of the courts, which had supreme authority to identify the innocent and guilty. Arthur Miller was inspired to write the text because he was a victim of the collective hysteria of his time, namely McCarthyism, a period in which witch hunts were carried out against those suspected of having communist sympathies. The more sinister aspect of McCarthyism, as in the Salem witch trials, was that authorities, who are supposed to serve the common good, became agents of division and tribalism which destroyed the bonds of civil society. In both cases, as in other mass hysterias, independent thinkers who raised legitimate questions about government policy were scandalously punished, ostracized, and persecuted.

The text is a masterpiece which should be required reading for students of politics, because it shows how power operates during those periods when certain beliefs become orthodoxies among people who occupy the highest echelons of the state’s bureaucratic apparatus. A small minority is able to recognize the political psychosis, and The Crucible is also a story about these types of semi-heroic figures. It is not the most educated; on the contrary, The Crucible demonstrates how the educated class plays a pivotal role as transmitters and perpetuators of the hysteria. Rather, it is the rule breakers, or those whose livelihood is independent of the authorities, who can see what is actually occurring. But even for them, dissent carries a high price, and an inflection point is reached when they must either choose the path of conformity, which brings material comfort and security, or their conscience, which brings pain, exclusion and persecution. 

In the opening scene, the reader encounters Betty, who is delirious and unresponsive, lying on her bed, surrounded by her father, the Protestant Pastor Parris, convinced that she is possessed. The devil is stalking Salem, preying on victims, particularly vulnerable young girls like Betty, and evidence for this, Parris and others believe, is that the girls were dancing in the forest (dancing was banned in Salem). When this belief takes hold, the accused are pressured to confess their crimes and renounce the devil; this would expiate their sins and make them “pure” enough to re-enter the community. Those who refused to confess were publicly hanged. Understandably, many dishonestly complied, as lying and betraying oneself seemed like a small price to pay to avoid an untimely, humiliating, and excruciating death. It was Salem’s highest authorities—lawyers, judges, and Harvard-educated theologians—who were the agents of this charade. Most others went along out of a combination of sincere belief and fear of both the invisible enemy (witches) and of the awesome power of the authorities who arrogated to themselves the right to monopolize how this enemy would be interpreted, understood, judged, and acted upon.

But not everyone fell into line. One of The Crucible’s main characters is John Proctor, a strong, hard-working independent farmer. He does not work for the state and hence his livelihood is not dependent on accepting its narratives. He is a “sinner”, but in the moral not criminal sense: while his wife was sick, he committed adultery with Abigail. The latter, in turn, is participating in the hysteria, claiming to be in communication with the devil, whom, we are told, reveals to Abigail his agents in Salem. Abigail says that Mary Warren, John Proctor’s wife, is among those whom Satan is using to curse the good people of the town. Proctor can see what the real motives are: Abigail desires Proctor, but his wife Mary Warren stands in the way. If the latter were to be tried and executed for witchcraft, Abigail could marry the man she covets. Thus, Proctor’s regrettable betrayal of his saintly wife also allowed him to see that, below the hysteria, other motives were at play. Once that bubble has been punctured, it becomes easy to see sinister motives elsewhere. For example, a farmer Putnam had a property dispute with his neighbour, and the Salem witch trials represented an opportunity to exploit the hysteria for material gain. 

A striking feature about the witch trials is that the authorities were utterly blind to these ulterior motives despite the evidence being in front of their eyes. There is an exception: Hale, the brilliant theologian, arrives in Salem from Boston to help the authorities deal with devil’s machinations, but after a series of interviews and observations, he recognizes that many of the accusers are lying. His voice of reason is drowned out by those of other authorities who, by then, had already executed dozens of suspected witches, and could not fathom that they may have been wrong.

When the pregnant and saintly Mary Warren is arrested because of Abigail’s false testimony, Proctor must convince the court that her accuser is a liar, and so he must confess his marital infidelity. While he is questioned, he also reveals his belief to the authorities and the public that the witch trials are a farce. He is arrested and languishes in jail for three months. On the day of his execution, he is given the opportunity to confess the sin of witchcraft and, in so doing, avoid the hanger’s noose. For average men, going along with the lie would have been easy, but Proctor is a man of integrity and conscience, and hence must struggle. The pressure on him was immense, because his pregnant wife is present, and she needs him to remain alive to feed the family (they already have three children). He buckles and dishonestly vocally confesses, but then, the judge asks him to put it in writing. Proctor could not proceed and destroys the document he was supposed to sign, while yelling the truth to the judge that the whole thing was nonsense. Shortly after, he is hanged.

The Crucible is a timely reminder that societies periodically experience collective hysterias, and despite differences in culture and historical epoch, they share certain patterns. One is that everyone’s attention becomes focused on some external, malign, and invisible force, such as witches or communists, which are perceived to cause some sort of pathology. Subsequently, an elite class of actors, usually politicians but also judges and experts, arrogates to itself the right to save the community from this mortal threat by monopolizing how it will be interpreted and acted upon. Their actions, in turn, help to fixate everyone’s attention and fuel the hysteria. Saints and sinners are created by the authorities because they categorize those who go along with their narrative as “good”, and those who dissent as “bad”. The latter face many punishments, from execution to unemployment to ostracism. Interpersonal and civic bonds are destroyed, sometimes irreparably. One of the more pernicious aspects of these events is that authorities become so entangled and invested in the orthodoxy that, when evidence emerges that they may be wrong, they double down rather than critically question their own beliefs. The most cynical reason is that they are saving their skin, as they are fully aware that admitting they may be wrong would mean publicly recognizing that all the pain and suffering was pointless and cruel. Although they may escape justice, history is never kind to these petty tyrants, while heroes like Proctor are vindicated because their perspicacity, courage and integrity prevented them from following the herd.

Review of Tolstoy's War and Peace

Tolstoy’s War and Peace is an extraordinary text, and often leaves an impression memorable and intense. It recounts the Napoleonic wars, particularly the invasion of Russia, and in the process, the reader learns lessons such as, how war can be a spiritual activity, an observation that grates the modern proclivity, to believe war is always immoral. With the latter Tolstoy might agree, but from his personal experiences fighting in Crimea, also noticed that fighting, devotion, patriotism, and soldierly bonding can be a panacea, for the pettiness of life, or at least some elements of which it is comprised: rivalries, jealousies, insults, economic insecurities, ego-driven fears; all melt away, as it were, when facing an enemy and one hears, bullets whizzing and shrieking, penetrating those pointlessly seeking, to avoid this cruel fate. 

 

An important lesson of War and Peace is the many manifestations of love, at times it is carnal and ego-driven, at others it rises above, ones’ mere wishes and desires, and transcends lust’s extinguishable fires. Lastly, the reader learns these timeless lessons while gaining knowledge about a crucially important time in human history: the French revolution, Napoleon’s subsequent attempts to establish a new Rome centered in Paris as the eternal, cosmopolitan capital city, and the failure of this grand project partly, or mainly, because of Russia’s resistance, equally valiant, sacrificial, and bloody. I’ll conclude this blogpost with some personal reflections on the period during which I read War and Peace, the summer of 2021, while I was in Spain and Italy, in the middle of the 4^th wave of Covid-19, when I had many close calls with this devil of a plague. 

 

War and Human Psychology

 

Inter-group violence is a constant in the human past, regardless of political units including ones which encompass, empires, tribes, gangs, cities, nations, religions; all, at one time or another, engaged in, war and violence. Thinkers have approached this subject from a scholarly perspective, trying to understand what causes war; others from a legal and moral point of view, ascertaining whether law can render the evil of killing no more. In the 20^th century at least, the latter view has prevailed, in legal instruments, political efforts and cultural symbols, many of which entailed, the idea—alien to our ancestors—that war is wrong and should, like other forms of violence, be ended, or could, be allowed only in limited circumstances, like those intended, to prevent invasion and ensure territory is defended. 

 

This approach, judging by the violence of the 20^th century, has clearly failed to materialize. Nonetheless, at the level of law and culture, there is little doubt that war is not a legitimate way to realize, glory and prestige, as it was in the past. Now, professional sports, economic competition, and scientific achievement are the routes to national glory; this shows how, culturally at least, humans have developed other ways to imbue their national stories, with triumph and victory. War and Peace challenges contemporary sensibilities because it presents war as enjoyable, even spiritual, in its capacity to create deep and lasting bonds between soldiers and with the fatherland; in the process, the ego is deflated, as it as were, subsumed to something greater, which reveals how petty most human concerns actually are. The pain of unrequited love, the frustration of economic insecurity, betrayal induced rage; all turn to oblivion when in sacrifice the soldier is engaged. 

 

This tendency is clearly demonstrated in the lives of many of the text’s main characters, particularly Andrei Bolkonsky. Handsome, intelligent, and wealthy; one would think he has all it takes to be happy. And yet he is miserable, in part because he is in a loveless union, with the beautiful Liza, needy, demanding, fearful and who soon will, bear his child. Her needs entail, for Andrei, a loss of freedom that is unbearable, but there is a way out of a situation he finds so terrible: he is a member of the Russian nobility, and hence is imbued with the values of military duty. He jumps at the opportunity, therefore, to fight Napoleon’s forces, in Austria, at the infamous battle of Austerlitz. Russia and its German ally attempt to defeat the French, despite great acts of heroism and sacrifice, they could not wrench, victory from this decisive battle; history has ultimately saddled, says Tolstoy, responsibility on the Germans for this humiliating defeat. But I digress, and return to the figure of Andrei, whom, despite being a rich nobleman with a lot to lose, charges against the enemy forces, who are firing mercilessly, on foot or while riding on their horses. Andrei is gravely wounded and profusely bleeds, while on the ground looking at the sky the following he perceives:

 

How quiet, calm, and solemn…the way the clowds creep across this lofty, infinite sky. How is it I haven’t seen this lofty sky before? And how happy I am that I’ve finally come to know it…nothing, nothing is certain, except the insignificance of everything I can comprehend and the grandeur of something incomprehensible but most important! 

 

Andrei recovers, and extraordinary acts of bravery are recognized and hence encouraged, by those in the highest echelons, including the Emperor Alexander. Andrei is not so lucky during the next great confrontation, the Battle of Borodino, which occurs on Russian soil; Napoleon himself was present to encourage his men, but his plans were destined to spoil, by the great sacrifices of the Russian forces, which were unwilling to surrender despite horrendous losses. Half of their men perished, while the French lost a quarter. The latter’s attempts to conquer Europe were gravely wounded, as was Andrei, by exploding cannonball. He did not die immediately, and was transported to Moscow, but this city had to be evacuated quickly, because Napoleon’s forces were on the prowl, for new conquests, and Russia’s eternal city was soon swarming, like the pest, with foreign bodies. 

 

Pierre Bezukhov also figures prominently in the text under examination. The illegitimate son of Count Vladimirovich is rich, intelligent, and often distracted, intellectual, somewhat ridiculous, and goodness often refracted, through this extraordinary character; he marries the lovely Helene, but could not share with her, his destiny. Their motives were impure, and both would bear the brunt, of failure arising because she wanted his wealth, and he desired her [expletive]. Predictably, they are miserable, and their pain is relieved via satisfying their baser appetites; she is unfaithful, while he drinks excessively and passes sleepless nights, gambling, womanising  and finding temporary release, from the misery and hollowness which does not cease. Pierre tries to escape in religion and joins the Masons; he gives much to charity, fights a duel, but none of this provides the peace he is seeking.

 

The Masons preach against the evils of war, and so Pierre is constrained from fighting, for, doing so would betray his deeply held beliefs; all that changed, however, when Napoleon seeks, to conquer all of Mother Russia. Pierre is forced to reconsider, and also sees an opportunity to escape his deeply bitter, existence characterized with a loveless marriage and frequent licentiousness; he therefore decides to join the fight without any pretentiousness, about how successful he would be. In the battle of Borodino, this wealthy and miserable nobleman goes to the front lines, where cannon and bullets are mowing down his comrades by the nines; by chance alone does he escape the death which descended on others in the prime of their lives, cut down in youth’s blossom when it mostly thrives. He feels, during these dramatic scenes, that 

 

The deeper he immersed himself in that sea of troops, the more he was overcome by anxious restlessness and a new joyful feeling he had never experienced before…it was a feeling of the need to undertake something and sacrifice something…he now experienced a pleasant sense of awareness that everything that constituted people’s happiness, the comforts of life, wealth, even life itself, is nonsense…the sacrificing itself constituted a new, joyful feeling for him.

 

His adventures do not end there; Napoleon must not be allowed to triumph in Moscow thinks Pierre. And so as others are evacuating the city, he remains and plots assassination, a suicidal mission to tear, through Napoleon’s head a single bullet while approaching him deceptively; certain death would occur inevitably.  Pierre with other Russians is captured, and so his plan fails; the French firing squad begins to plaster, the wall behind them with blood and entrails. At the last second, Pierre is spared, and is taken back to the jail. Shortly after Napoleon realizes that he will fail, to conquer Russia, and so begins the French retreat. Pierre, meanwhile, has a new perspective on life; all the things that cut his heart like knife—Helene’s unfaithfulness, alcoholism, gambling—seem, after these experiences, utterly trifling, devoid of significance or importance, even amusing, as one disinterestedly observes, an unruly child finally snoozing, in his relieved mother’s arms. An important lesson of Pierre’s discovery of freedom from his troubles, however, is that it was unsought; he decided to join the battle, not to escape painful thoughts, but to pursue heroism and sacrifice. Pierre’s liberation from his self-imposed chains was the unintended consequence, not the aim.

 

Finally, Nikolai Rostov, Natasha’s brother, also experiences sorrow; he is in love with Sonya, his cousin, but could not envisage a better tomorrow, enveloped in her warm embrace. The reason is that she does not have a dowry, and hence cannot bring, badly needed money, to Nikolas and their potential offspring. What is more, the Rostov’s are in economic dire straits, in part because of Count Rostov and Nikolas’s unfortunate tastes, for gambling. Unquenched desire and economic insecurity, singularly or together, produce misery, but Nikolas finds release in the army, as he and his comrades, with their unbreakable bonds and collective mission, endeavor to liberate the fatherland from the French. During the intense fighting, Nikolas “had the happy air of a schoolboy called up before a large public at an examination in which he is sure he will distinguish himself.” As bullets and cannon whizzed by and mowed down his compatriots, “the sun began to hide itself behind the clouds. Ahead of Rostov, another stretcher [for the wounded] appeared. And his fear of death and the stretcher, and his love of life and the sun—all merged into one painfully disturbing impression.” 

 

The many kinds of love in War and Peace

 

Love, like death, frustrates our efforts to understand, forces in the universe we often have little hand, in when or how they occur. Their mystery invites the pondering, of the mystical, unfathomable, and eternal. War and Peace does not skirt these puzzling questions, and via the lives of the main characters teaches us lessons, such as that there is no singular kind of love. It comes in many forms, some at the level of, some above, earthly considerations of desire and lust. The higher form is, so to speak, closer to the divine even if, in some circumstances, it cannot be consummated, while the lower form can bring much pleasure provided it is placated, within the confines of family and commitment. Between these extremes exist many different kinds, some of which through War and Peace’s characters the reader finds.

 

For example, after the death of Liza during childbirth, Andrei and Natasha fall in love with each other. This love gave Andrei a “vivid awareness of the terrible opposition between something infinitely great and indefinable that was in him, and something narrow and fleshy that he himself, and even she, was.” Both are youthful, attractive, wealthy, and imagine, with justification, the happiness of marriage and toddlers. These plans fall apart after Natasha’s betrayal; subsequently, misery, sorrow, and despair, could not fail, to pollute their existence equally, even though she holds primary responsibility. But during the retreat from Moscow, an unexpected miracle occurs, they reunite while she has recovered from the emotional injury, and he gravely wounded from an exploding canon during the battle of Borodino. Their love is reignited as she tends to him, providing comfort and relief from the pain on his festering, wound; akin, to a never ceasing object violently penetrating fragile skin. During his final moments on this earth he is surrounded, by Natasha’s pure love which is founded, on forgiveness, care, on the recognition of fragility, and not on carnal desire, with its potentially warping intensity.

 

Pierre, as mentioned above, was unlucky in love, and paid dearly for the mistake, in terms of misery and hate, for his pathetic union with a woman depraved. But she, like Andrei, is destined to an early grave, making Pierre an eligible bachelor; Natasha has a similar status, giving Pierre the opportunity to flatter her. In reality, little effort is needed, because their union is natural, destined, and perhaps seeded, by something greater than their mere wishes and desires, legitimate and normal, for the pleasures of matrimonial fires. This occurs despite some important differences; she is gorgeous and unpretentious, he is fat, absent-minded, and somewhat ridiculous. But he has a heart of gold, as does she; their motives are pure, and neither want to be free, from the responsibilities and duties associated with marriage and family, even though Pierre—unlike Natasha— has already tasted the forbidden fruits of the carnal tree.

 

Rostov falls in love with Sonya, the feeling is reciprocal. The reader is led to believe that their wishes will be fulfilled, an impression which remains until, certain obstacles get in the way. One is that Rostov’s family is broke and unable to pay, debts accumulated from badly managed finance, meaning Rostov’s marrying a rich woman is their only chance, to escape the pain and humiliation of economic insecurity, a fall from grace worsened by the Rostovs ancestral nobility. Nikolai’s inability to consummate his passion with the beautiful Sonya, plus his family’s desperate economic situation, is too much to bear, and to escape he goes and fights to prevent Napoleon’s attempt to tear, apart the Russian motherland. He performs valiantly and is promoted, loved by his men, happy to fight, and he has largely forgotten, the natural desire for Sonya’s delights. 

 

His fate was destined with someone else. Marya, less pretty, very rich, and extremely devout, wants to leave Moscow, but cannot, because her peasants refuse to abandon their fertile plots, to Napoleon’s hungry soldiers. Nikolai arrives on her estate and discovers her plight, and the intransigent peasants would not dare put up a fight, with this battle-hardened warrior. Marya is saved from a fate much scarier, than she could contemplate, and in the process, a spark ignites which leads to her fate, of marriage with Nikolai. She is not as pretty as Sonya, but other qualities are ideal, on top of, her wealth, which saves the Rostovs from the bad hand dealt, to their economic fortunes. 

 

Lessons of History

 

One of things that makes War and Peace a pleasure to read, is that one learns not only of the above characters’ deeds, but also an important period in history, namely, Napoleon’s attempt to establish a new Rome, an imperial republic with Bonaparte as ruler enthroned. Determining the destiny of Europe, perhaps the planet, seduced millions, and not only the French, which is why in Napoleon’s army was entrenched, with many nationalities, united in their reverence, for the sovereign emperor, his mere presence, was sufficient to drive them into paroxysms of furor. Napoleon would achieve, in his own words, a condition where:

 

Europe would become truly one people, and each person, traveling everywhere, would always have found himself in a common fatherland. It would have called for all rivers to be navigable for everyone, the commonality of the seas, and that the great standing armies be henceforth reduced to nothing but guards…on returning to France—great, strong, magnificent, peaceful, glorious—I would have proclaimed its limits immutable…I would have associated my son with the Empire; my dictatorship would have ended, and his constitutional reign would have begun…Paris would have been the capital of the world, and the French the envy of nations!

 

 

The reader witnesses Napoleon’s triumph, in the battle of Austerlitz, allowing the occupation of Vienna and the emperor’s unchallenged prominence, in Austria. Russia was next on the list, of countries and peoples to fall under Napoleon’s fist, and the emperor had grounds to believe, that in this endeavor he would succeed: mainly the Austrian, German, and Russian inability failure to stem, the power of the French Revolutionary forces’ canon, launched in the name of liberty, equality, fraternity, even as blood splattered among those on the receiving end. 

 

The Battle of Borodino is one of the more riveting scenes of the book; Napoleon himself was present, although safely ensconced, far from the battlefield, where ferocious fighting occurred, between Napoleonic and Russian soldiers, half of the latter later interred, to an early grave. Technically the French won the fight, because eventually the Russians were in flight, allowing the latter to occupy the capital like a thief in the night. But it was a pyric victory as this proceeded losses, so large almost incredible among the French forces. They found Moscow empty of most of its citizens, who preferred the misery of escape and hunger rather than, being subjected to the rule of foreigners; moreover, to deny them the fruits of victory, the remaining Russians burned their sacred city. This scorched earth policy, as it came to be known, was another blow to the already weakened French, as was shown, by their deaths from disease and starvation. Under these conditions, and the approaching brutal Russian winter, the only hope for Napoleon’s forces to avoid huge losses and the sinister, relegation to history’s failures, was to return to French soil; and so they left. Despite all the blood, sweat, and toil, they were forced to leave their most prized possession, hoping to salvage what they could, in utter desperation. Very few survived when they finally reached France, the overwhelming majority stood no chance, against the cruel hands of fate; walking thousands of miles in freezing weather with nothing on their plates. Hunger, disease, and fatigue left many too weak to escape, and as they dropped, their young bodies were left to waste. 

 

This was ultimately, says Tolstoy, the most important contributor, to the destruction of Napoleon’s attempt to become the emperor, of Europe, a design which would have destroyed all the other sovereigns, subjecting peoples to a vision that’s foreign, to their distinctive histories and nationalities. War and Peace takes a position, on the perennial debate between those who envision, a political order organized around the rights of man; on the other side are those who believe this is a mistaken plan, as nations—with their distinct cultures, languages, histories—cannot be erased; attempting to do so provokes displaced, peoples to respond with all available means, to defend their homeland from foreign invaders keen, to destroy, pillage, and violate, all in the name of freedom, and after much loss and sacrifice, the nationalists almost always beat them. 150 years after the publication of War and Peace, the debate between nationalists and universalists still inflames, public discourse although it goes by different names, such as liberal and conservative, highlighting how these disputes have not arrived at a definitive, denouement. Rather, the underlying ideas can still motivate movements, from Brexit to populists who denounce, liberals’ attempts to pounce, on national sovereignty, which, nationalists believe, must have absolute primacy, over attempts to open borders—to trade, ideas, migration—or at least make them porous.

 

The distinctive character of nations plays a major role in the text under discussion: Italians, Germans, but particularly French and Russian, nationalities are examined with Tolstoy’s analytical eye, and some of his observations are quite amusing, and this quote shows why:

 

[German general] Pfuel was one of those hopelessly, permanently, painfully self-assured men as only Germans can be, and precisely because only Germans can be self-assured on the basis of an abstract idea—science, an imaginary knowledge of perfect truth. A Frenchman is self-assured because he considers himself personally, in mind as well as body, irresistibly enchanting for men as well as women. An Englishman is self-assured on the grounds that he is a citizen of the best-organized state in the world, and therefore always knows what he must do, and knows that everything he does is unquestionably good. An Italian is self-assured because he is excitable and easily forgets himself and others. A Russian is self-assured precisely because he does not know anything and does not want to know anything, because he does not believe it possible to know anything fully. A German is self-assured worst of all, and most firmly of all, and most disgustingly of all, because he imagines that he knows the truth, science.

 

I am of Italian origin, and it is not difficult to say, that, as a people we are “excitable”. It is hard to deny the general thrust, of his claim that the differences between nations go deeper than the outer crust, of nationalist rhetoric. Despite the French represented as the main villain, they are not, in War and Peace, the main target of Tolstoy’s opprobrium. Rather, it is the Germans, who are presented in ways, that have a tendency to leave a rather bad taste, in one’s mouth. As many readers know, during the Napoleonic wars, Germans allied with Russians to defeat this scourge, that threatened them both with extinction, but despite their common purpose there was much friction. The Germans were supremely logical and scientific, but all their brilliant strategizing could not prevent, the humiliating defeat at the battle Austerlitz, which ultimately permitted Napoleon to continue his campaign to inflict, submission on Europe’s peoples. 

 

The Russians, in contrast, were sentimental; intuitive, mystical, traits embodied in General Kutuzov’s elliptical, comments during his leadership of the battle of Borodino, which was decisive, in fatally weakening French forces at the time precisely, when they were on the cusp of achieving final victory against the enemy. This Russian general takes up a lot of space in the text, he a heroic, almost mythical figure, but not because he flexed, his muscles as did the French, like a baboon banging its chest. No; Kutuzov was aware of a much higher power, that was beyond the fetish for reason and which towered, above mere human designs. Calling it fate, God, or destiny, does not matter, for Kutuzov, it was real and could shatter, man’s greatest conceit, such as Napoleon’s vision that he could complete, the conquest of Europe. He was destined to lose, it was written in the stars, and so Kutuzov’s approach to fighting these wars, was not brilliant strategizing or military science; it was effort and sacrifice but included an alliance, with the detested Germans, who were not ideal partners, just less bad than, the hated French.

 

I’ll conclude this blogpost with some thoughts on the summer of 2021, in which I read War and Peace, all 1200 pages, while travelling in Europe and visiting many places. I accomplished the task by devoting a few hours a day, to the text while in Italy and Spain, in cities where I would stay, for several weeks at a time. First Salerno, then Barcelona, then Naples, and then my family’s ancestral town, characterized my travels during summer from June all the way down, to the end of August. It was exciting and dramatic for many different reasons, one of which was I landed in Spain just as the tourist season, took off, leading to an explosion of cases, of Covid 19 in many of the places, where I was. 

 

This led to many close calls; in Barcelona I was informed, that three people I had interacted with several days before, were sick with Covid, and one can imagine my relief, when I tested negative; but nonetheless, after this episode it was my belief, that Spain was not safe, and so I returned to Italy, where I have citizenship, friends, and family. While there I felt at ease, partly because I was with people I love, who were pleased, that I was healthy and unharmed despite, being in Spain while Covid-19 infections ravaged through the night, of the nation’s hospitals. The commitment to read War and Peace was not easy, because while in Italy I was engaged in many other enjoyable activities: going to the beach, visiting friends, hiking, yoga, cultural events, and visits with family. What is more, War and Peace is not a text one can skim or read quickly; its philosophical depth and analytical profundity, not to mention the value derived from its historiography, mean that it is advisable to go slowly. Therefore, I took my time, doing my best to go over each and every line, sometimes twice or thrice, so that I could be sure, that I absorbed all the meaning Tolstoy wanted to confer. Doing this daily for several hours, allowed me to appreciate Tolstoy’s literary powers, which have placed him in the pantheon of history’s great thinkers, who shows how man’s conceit, such as Napoleon’s attempt to tinker, with the natural order will inevitably fail, while helpfully reminding readers that even the great are ephemeral and frail. 

 

 

Salerno in the summer of 2021

I have been coming to Italy every few years since I was a kid, and each summer for the past 15 years. Last year was an exception; while I was in France in the summer of 2020, I had wanted to go to Italy, but my relatives were concerned about having contact with someone who was travelling internationally. This year, I wanted to return to visit friends and family, and also to be immersed in the culture of a country which has been so central to my life—on top of the strong bonds with many people, I have written and published extensively about the politics of Italy, particularly in relation to Europe. Additionally, the epidemic had, by late-Spring 2021, significantly improved, even though the country’s reopening began in April. During the final weeks of June, for example, Italy had fewer than one thousand new Covid-19 cases per day, which is very low for a country of over sixty million people, while intensive care beds were mostly devoid of Covid patients. However, my relatives were still concerned about having contact with someone travelling internationally, particularly since one of them is eighty-five years old and relatively fragile. For this reason, I decided to rent a place for a month rather than, as I always did in the past, stay with family. This decision, it turns out, would make the experience of coming to Italy very different, mostly for the better, as this blog post hopefully will show.

 

Salerno

First, it may be helpful to briefly discuss some family history and the associated geography of the region where I stayed. Both my parents were Italian immigrants; my mom is from a small village in the province of Salerno, and my dad is from a small village in Calabria. Since my brothers and I were raised by our mom, we have been closer to the relatives in the former part of the country, and hence Salerno is the region I have been coming to frequently all these years. The old house where my mom was born and raised is still in the family’s possession, and is about 50 metres from the newer place where my close relatives live. Typically, I’d sleep in the old house, while spending the day and evening with relatives in the new house. Occasionally, I would go to the city of Salerno to visit friends or do some shopping, which I always enjoyed, but limited public transportation imposed significant constraints. It is a 45 minute bus ride to the city centre, and the last one returns at 7 pm; therefore, many activities, particularly ones which involved returning home late in the evening, were not possible.

Main Street of Salerno

 

Lodging in the city of Salerno not only meant I no longer had said constraints; unexpectedly, it opened up a whole new range of experiences which I had not imagined. First, being close to the centre of the town meant walking through it frequently for even the most mundane activities, like grocery shopping. Doing this allowed me to appreciate the medieval buildings, particularly in the old part of town. A feature which stood out was that many buildings have ancient Greek columns embedded to the façade, or to the corners to provide added support. One reason for this is that Southern Italy, including Salerno, was once part of greater Greece, and so there were—and are—many Greek ruins close by. Builders in the middle ages had access to them and decided to use the materials in the construction. From the perspective of a history buff in 2021, the effect is pretty dramatic. The medieval buildings already possess a certain charm, in part because they are mainly Roman in style and architecture, particularly the huge entrances with elaborately designed arches; the ancient Greek columns attached add the halo of Greece’s golden age, as well as the luster and prestige of their exquisitely crafted style. It also creates a sense of a continuity with the ancient past. Salerno, like other parts of Italy, has been invaded and settled by Etruscans, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans, Spanish, and French, but I am highly confident that many of the city’s inhabitants are descendants of the Greeks who once lived and thrived in the city, and who built temples and other public buildings with the timeless and universal beauty of the classical style, elements of which can still be seen on many buildings.

Greek column embedded in a building

 

Another exciting feature of staying in Salerno was being so close to Amalfi Coast, one of the most beautiful places in the world (quite literally). When staying with my family, I would occasionally take the bus to this location, or we would go together by car. From where I was lodging in the summer of 2021, Vietri, one of the pretty little towns on the coast, was only a 15-minute walk away, while others were easily accessible by bike. Cycling on the Amalfi coast was like seeing it for the first time, even though I have gone there frequently for decades, because more of the senses are stimulated. The winding and hilly road upon which I rode is embedded into the rock facing the sea, and there is much vegetation above and below. As a consequence, the air is fresh and clean, and there are pleasant odours emanating from the various plants and trees. The Mediterranean is always visible, but on some stretches one can literally hear the waves splashing on the beaches and rock formations below. And when biking through one of the beautiful little towns, one can easily stop to soak in the landscape, grab an expresso, or walk through one of the tiny medieval streets (a video of this adventure can be found here).

 

Another discovery during my sojourn was that there are groups in Salerno which organize outdoor activities on a regular basis, and for a decent price. The first activity I participated in was hiking, on a location called Sentiero Degli Dei (Path of the Gods). It is an appropriate name, since it is near the top of the mountains which bestride the Amalfi Coast, and the view is quite extraordinary; from the path one sees the vast horizon of the Mediterranean, with its azure waters seamlessly blending with the sky. The little towns mentioned above are also clearly visible, but from a greater distance and higher altitude, they seem to be small colourful settlements surrounded by, on one side, the sea, and on the other, the vivacious green of the mountain’s vegetation. And these views are visible while walking along a well-trodden path, although some parts are dangerous because there are no barriers between the path and steep rocks below; one slip and it would be all over.    

Hiking

 

Another activity I discovered was yoga. I have been doing mindfulness meditation since November, and am well-are of the health benefits of the types of practices associated with disciplined breathing. And so when I learned that there were outdoor yoga classes, I jumped at the opportunity. One session was particularly memorable because we were on the beach, and began around sunset. We did the extremely calming breathing exercises as the sun was setting, which bathed the landscape—the shore, sand, and trees behind—in soft and fading light while the sound of the waves gently splashing, plus the odd squeak of a seagull, helped to create a sense of oneness or unity between body and nature. The other yoga sessions were not as memorable in part because they occurred in a more mundane place, i.e., a park. But this experience taught me how these kinds of practices can be very beneficial, and also an excellent way to make new friends (which I did).

 

Kayaking was another sport I did in Salerno, and it allowed me to see the Amalfi coast from a different angle. We departed from Salerno, and paddled by the coast to two adjacent towns—Vietri and Cetara. On the way, we stopped on stunningly beautiful beaches that are inaccessible on foot; they can only be reached via the water, and hence either by boat or swim. Consequently, there are very few people. The greenish-bluish tint of the water, which reminds one of beaches in the Caribbean, is surrounded by rock formations that provid shade if one needs relief from the piercing midday sun. Unlike activities above, however, I had a negative experience while kayaking: on the way back, I experienced sea sickness. The water was choppy because of the many boats in the vicinity, and for some reasons unknown to me, it triggered dizziness, nausea, and muscle weakness. Consequently, the guide had to tie his kayak to mine so that he could drag me back, which was very humbling given that I was the youngest person in the group; some were decades older and for them, the sport seemed like a breeze (although they are seasoned participants, while it was my first time kayaking on the sea). 

 

Finally, I had the fortune to be in the city during the Festival of Literature, which is a week-long event where scholars and thinkers from across the country—and a few international ones too—discuss their research or their latest books. Despite coming to this part of Italy frequently, I never knew that this event existed. I discovered it via an advertisement that was posted by a park I passed by whenever walking to the old part of town. The poster piqued my curiosity, and so I decided to attend the events, and they were very enjoyable. There were talks on everything from Plato to Dante to more present concerns associated with Italian history and the pandemic. Moreover, these talks occurred in some of the city’s prettiest buildings, like the Medieval cathedral, Il Duomo, in the centre of town. The exterior courtyard—where the talks occurred—is surrounded by ancient Greek columns which, as mentioned above, were likely part of ruins nearby and were included to the construction materials. Attending a talk in such an illustrious location greatly enriched the experience.

 

 

Nicolas Taleb's Skin in the Game

I read Nicholas Taleb’s Skin in the Game while in Havana during the Winter holidays of 2020. I am familiar with his ideas because I’ve encountered them frequently in the press—many intellectuals whose work I read, like John Gray, often cite him, and his books are often reviewed in the periodicals, like the Economist, that I subscribe to. I have been meaning to read one of his books in their entirety for a while, but other commitments got in the way. I decided to finally accomplish the task while in Havana, because while I was there, I could devote the early hours of the morning to reading (while spending the rest of the day and the evenings out and about). The effort was worth it, as Skin in the Game provides a fresh and provocative perspective which goes a long way towards explaining one of the key features of the present era (and about which I have published), namely, the rise of populism. 

 

The main concept in the book’s eponymous title, skin in the game, has a seemingly simple meaning: the value or seriousness of ideas or beliefs is directly proportionate to the risk incurred for holding or promoting them. This places a special responsibility on elites, because it is them, and not the masses, who develop, propagate, and apply new ideas. During pre-modernity, the logic of skin in the game was the norm. Taleb cites the examples of bad Roman emperors, ones who harmed the interests or the people of the empire; most were killed by the praetorian guard. The benefits of this system, says Taleb, is that it helped to filter out bad leaders and select ones who were willing to make major sacrifices for their beliefs. Another way Taleb helpfully demonstrates the idea is with doctors and pilots in the modern world. Both pay dearly for their mistakes, and this tight link between the ideas in their heads, and actual consequences in the real world, ensures that, over time, good practices flourish and spread, while harmful ideas and the people who hold them are pruned by reality. 

 

In the modern world, many categories of people at the non-elite level—barbers, mobsters, cooks, etc.—have skin in the game in the sense described above. If they harm others, they pay a price in terms of lost income, employment, or reputation. The same cannot be said about many contemporary elites, says Taleb, particularly politicians, bankers, and journalists. Many in these categories hold and promote ideas and policies and pay no price if they are wrong or cause harm. The example Taleb cites repeatedly is those politicians and journalists who endorsed regime change policies in the Middle East, and particularly Libya in 2011. There were sound theoretical and empirical reasons for expecting this to be a disaster for Libyans, which is exactly what it turned out to be, and yet political decision-makers and their promoters in major newspapers paid no price for the harm caused by the policy they helped to actualize. In other fields, in contrast, like medicine and aviation, or among average people, being so disastrously wrong would have produced severely negative, even career destroying, consequences. Another example Taleb cites is finance. Bankers responsible for the crisis of 2007 not only did not pay a price for their mistakes; they were rewarded with tax-payer bailouts even as the consequences of their decisions were offloaded to ordinary members of society. And politicians which were decisive in providing these bailouts were subsequently rewarded by the very firms they saved.

 

These examples highlight how the absence of skin in the game is a major cause of corruption in the contemporary world. Many are aware of it but are afraid to speak out, and this leads us to another important observation in the book under review: the tension between ethical decision-making and worldly attachments. More prosaically, in Taleb’s words it is hard to speak out when one has a mortgage and kids; the risk of harming the interests of loved ones is simply to high, and hence salaried professionals—in major firms, academia, or media—who see the corruption at the heart of the system are silent. Taleb, of course, does not fall into this category; although he is a scholar, he is independently wealthy and hence possesses what he calls “fuck you money”, the freedom to challenge powerful interests or groups. 

 

A number of important implications flow from these arguments. One is that it is important to pay attention, not to what people say, but to what they do and how much they are willing to risk for their ideas. Professional members of the commentariat who regularly bloviate their policy prescriptions in polished, verbose, and Ivey-League inflected English should be ignored; those who actually risk something if they are wrong have more credibility. 

 

There are also implications for policy. In order to restore integrity, systems need to be designed so that those in power have skin in the game. Taleb might say that we need to rehabilitate the best features of the Roman model, whereby leaders who decide on war actually participate in the fighting (as Julian the Apostate did); those who cause harm to innocents would be swiftly punished. This would increase the likelihood that virtuous leaders would be selected, ones who valued cautiousness and prudence, and whose interests were aligned with those on the receiving end of their decisions.

 

Lastly, Taleb endorses more entrepreneurial activity so that more people can develop a level of economic independence which permits them to denounce corruption without a devastating loss of income. There is a need for a corrective mechanism when the system goes off the rails—defined by Taleb as one where powerful people do not have sufficient amount of skin in the game—and this is less likely when one cannot, at risk of being unable to pay the mortgage, criticise those in power.

 

It is hard to say whether these prescriptions would fix the problems that afflict modern democracy, of which the most salient symptom is the rise of populist parties, some of whom reject the system outright and want to overthrow it. Taleb is undoubtedly correct that among the most important instances of corruption in recent history were the failed humanitarian interventions and the financial crisis. There is nothing particularly original about this observation, but Taleb’s analysis adds depth by shedding light on the underlying reality of the absence of skin in the game as a major cause of these debacles and the consequent harms done to average people. Had there been skin in the game, promoters and executors of these policies would have been punished, creating a sense of justice and weakening the support for radicals who promised to bring the system crashing down. At the same time, those with leadership aspirations would think twice about their proposals and reforms in the knowledge that if they are wrong, they will pay a heavy price. Perhaps this would help to stitch together the ruptured bond between leaders and the public.

Havana during the holidays of 2020

I am writing these introductory lines while sitting at the desk in my hotel room in Havana, in front of a window which overlooks the bay of Cuba; I can see the waves gently splashing against the fort built by the Spanish in 1589 to protect their territorial acquisition from (mainly English) invaders. I travelled alone to pass Christmas and New Year’s eve in the country, and it is the first time I have been outside of my home, Toronto, during the holidays. I decided to make this trip for three reasons. One is that I am nursing a bit of a heartbreak as a consequence of relationship which ended in November. The second, and related, reason is that it is a bad time to experience heartache in Toronto: the city is in full lockdown, and almost everything is closed, while we are expected to avoid in-person contact with others. Consequently, the events that usually bring me joy during the holidays—big family get-togethers, Christmas concerts, meeting friends for dinner or a coffee—are not possible, meaning I’d be spending most of the time alone in my 550 square foot condo. Thirdly, in March of last year, I began learning Spanish, and wanted to be immersed in the culture of a Spanish speaking country, where I would have opportunities to frequently talk with native speakers. For all these reasons I had a strong desire to travel, and I chose Cuba because it is one of the few Spanish speaking countries where the pandemic is relatively under control. In early December I purchased tickets for a two week sojourn.

View from my hotel room

 This is the second time I have travelled during the pandemic. The last time was when I went to France in the summer of 2020. That trip was anxiety-inducing, but it also helped me to understand that it is possible to travel relatively safely during these crazy times we live in. Flying was very different this time. The flights to and from France were almost empty; in contrast, the flight to Cuba was full, mostly with Cubans returning home, rather than with tourists. Upon arrival to the airport, all passengers, without exception, were administered a Covid test. After leaving the airport, I had to go to my hotel, and could not leave the premises until the public health authorities contacted management to inform them of my result. I waited two days, and upon obtaining the green light, I felt an immense sense of relief, although admittedly in the hotel I did not feel very constrained; while waiting for the test result, I passed the time reading on the terrace overlooking a Havana street while soaking in the warm air, soft breeze, and urban landscape, or walking around the relatively large hotel premises and speaking Spanish with the very friendly staff. 

 

Although the pandemic in Cuba is mostly under control, signs of it were evident around the city. The most visible was the ubiquity of masks: in Havana they are obligatory, including outdoors, and must cover the nose and the mouth. During my two week stay, I rarely saw anyone not wearing a mask properly, even though there were hardly any police on the streets. Unlike in North America, where anti-maskers often protest against this unconscionable symbol of servility, Cubans mostly accept the minor inconvenience of covering their face for the collective good of society. Facetiousness aside, another feature of the pandemic was the relative lack of tourists. Staff at the hotel told me that tourism collapsed 80%; this was clear on the streets where only the odd European or North American could be seen. Lastly, although bars and restaurants are open, nightclubs are not. In some other respects, life appeared to be as it was before the pandemic, particularly in public transport; to get around I took packed buses almost every day where mask-wearing Cubans of all ages were squished together. 

Packed bus in Havana

 

A notable feature of this trip is that I have a Cuban friend who lives in Havana. He has an interesting family history: before the revolution, his mother delivered messages between the rebels camped in the hills and those hiding in the city, while his father was one of Che Guevarra’s personal bodyguards. When I went to his house for dinner one day, his mom recounted the details of those events and showed me pictures of she and her husband with Castro, Guevarra, and other icons of the revolution. She is in her mid-seventies, and hence was a teenager during pre-revolutionary times; I asked her how it was, and she affirmatively replied “mal!” (bad), recounting instances she witnessed of police brutality against innocent civilians. (Interestingly, she is a devout Christian despite being a firm supporter of the socialist revolution. In other countries, the two belief systems often clash and people are either on one side or the other).

 

Upon arriving in Cuba I knew little about the country other than what I read in history books. Having a local friend with local knowledge was very valuable in reducing the frictions and uncertainties of visiting a country for the first time. Although he and I spoke English (he lived in Canada for 20 years and speaks both official languages), he introduced me to his friends and family with whom I spoke only Spanish, and this allowed me to practice and improve my knowledge of the language considerably. When I arrived, I was probably at the beginner-intermediate level; by the end of my trip, I was above the intermediate level and would probably obtain advanced had I stayed one more month. Getting used to the local vernacular was quite the challenge, because I learned standard Spanish using a language app (Pimsleur), where words were expressed fully, slowly, and clearly; in Cuba, people spoke rapidly, often truncated the words, and used a distinctive local vocabulary.

 

These experiences of hanging out and speaking frequently with locals taught me other interesting things about the country. One is the state of race relations. Walking around Havana, I did not see much evidence of racism—mixed raced couples, friends, and families seem to be the norm. When addressing one another, Cubans of all races often say “mi hermano” (my brother). This piqued my curiosity, and so one day I asked my mixed-race Cuban friend, who is 48 and has lived in the country for most of his life, whether he has ever experienced racism. “No”, he flatly said, although he qualified this by stating that that does not mean there is no racism in the country. One reason for this relative lack of racism, I surmised, is that there has been much more racial mixing and hence many more mixed race offspring, creating blurry and fluid distinctions between racial groups compared to say, in Canada and Europe. This is evident in the physical features of many Cubans. In Canada, it is often easy to identify someone who has one white and one black parent. Not in Cuba; many light skinned people have dark skinned parents and vice versa. And the widespread mixing of indigenous, black, and white peoples has led to combinations of features that defy the simplistic racial classifications people in North America are familiar with. 

 

Another notable feature of my travels is not being connected to the internet all the time. The telecommunications infrastructure in Cuba is not very developed, and hence connecting online is cumbersome and expensive. There was no wifi neither in my hotel room, nor in the cafes and restaurants I frequented. To check emails, I had to purchase an (expensive) internet card at the hotel’s reception, which gave me 1 hour of access, and connect in the hotel lobby to a very unreliable signal. Because of this, I checked and responded to my messages only once a day, and stayed online for approximately 40 minutes. In addition, for three days, between December 30^th and January 1^st, I had no internet access at all because I was in the countryside with my friend’s family (more on this below). It was the longest in at least 20 years that I have been completely offline. This was a major bonus, because I was even more fully immersed in the local social and cultural context. 

 

I also noticed some of the social implications of the lack of internet connectivity: when walking down the street, or in a bar or restaurant, the vast majority of people are actually socializing and talking with one another. In Toronto, or other cities in developed countries, the most common sight in public places is people looking at their phones. They are not fully present in the moment or place where they find themselves; rather, their attention is compartmentalized. Seeing this aspect of Cuba reminded me of pre-smartphone life in Toronto, particularly little Italy (St. Clair West Ave.), where I grew up, when people would hang out in front of cafes, or on their porches, and socialize without digital distractions. This experience of being in a country which has still not made the transition to a society where the smartphone is an omnipresent feature of social relations gave me a bit of nostalgia.

 

As mentioned, I spent new year’s eve with my friend and his family, the latter of whom live in San Jose, which is about a 30 or 40 minute drive outside of the Havana city centre. This, too, was a memorable experience, and for several reasons. One was the opportunity to participate in a Cuban holiday tradition, which involves slaughtering a pig, and inviting extended family over for a feast. I watched—and filmed—the men of the family grab the pig from its pen and forcefully place it on a table, while each fulfilled complementary roles; one held the back legs, another the front ones, another actually did the killing by stabbing it directly in the heart while another held its mouth closed to reduce the extremely high-pitched screaming, screeching, and squealing made by the pig as it was fighting for its life. This, admittedly, was hard to watch (and to film!), in particular because one sensed that the pig knew it was going to die and suffered immense anguish as a result. My instinct was to turn away and go into the kitchen, but I forced myself to watch because I was soon going to eat this pig with the rest of the family. It was therefore ethically incumbent upon me, I felt, to see the entire process, even the unpleasant parts. After the pig was dead, they shaved it, removed its innards, put it on a stake, and began roasting. It was all very collaborative and social; while doing this, there was much talking, story-telling, joking, reminiscing, and all the other forms of communication which contribute to the joy of big family get-togethers.

Doing my part before the feast

 

During my three days in San Jose I also witnessed and experienced a level of poverty that is unknown in Toronto. Cuba is still a developing country, which means that many households lack the basic necessities that people in rich countries take for granted. The house I stayed in while in San Jose had no hot water, shower, flushing toilet, or toilet paper. I have been taking daily cold showers for years, and so bathing with frigid water was not a problem. But because there was no shower, this involved filling a bucket with water, and using a cup to scoop it and then pour it on my body, for both lathering and rinsing. And since there was no toilet paper, the process of cleaning after defecating was more or less the same with the exception that one washed only the backside. To flush human waste, one had to use the same bucket to pour water into the toilet. I slowly got used to this, and had I stayed longer I would have eventually fully adapted, but I could not wait to get back to my hotel in Havana where I could once again have the accoutrements of modern life. Nonetheless, it was a valuable experience because it taught me how the meaning of “poor” or “poverty” can change depending on context. For example, when my mom left my dad and took sole custody of me and my three brothers, for the first 3 years we were poor—on welfare, living in a rat infested apartment in one of Toronto’s run-down neighbourhoods. Although my brothers and I were deprived of some things, we never lacked the basic necessities. Hence, compared to my friend’s family in Cuba, we were hardly poor; rather, we had that status compared to our peers in Toronto. I also learned that it is possible to live with dignity while lacking material resources (within certain limits). My Cuban hosts were mostly happy and absorbed in the moment and the simple joys of being together. Many people I know in Toronto are either miserable or much-less happy for a myriad of reasons—failed relationships, broken families, economic insecurities, and other sources of anxiety—even though they are materially comfortable. 

The house I stayed in on New Year's Eve

 

The trip to Cuba taught me a lot about geopolitics as well. American sanctions' policy against other countries is a recurring feature of the news cycle, and while staying in Cuba I actually saw their effects, which are quite brutal. When Obama was in power, he eased restrictions, and many more Americans travelled. This increased standards of living for many because of how dependent the country is on tourism. When Trump came to power, harsh restrictions were once again imposed, and hence many lost an important source of income. At the same time, many goods could no longer be imported. Consequently,  stores lack basic necessities and the shelves are almost completely empty. Because international banks and financial firms cannot do business in Cuba as a result of the sanctions, the Cuban diaspora cannot, or can only with a very high cost, transfer much needed money to struggling members of the family in the homeland. This creates more economic hardship and stress (although some adapt better than others). The purpose of the sanctions, say many hardliners in the U.S. who favour them, is for the Cuban people to become so frustrated that they rebel against the socialist government and replace it with a (pro U.S.) liberal democracy. In my view, this is delusional. Most Cubans, perhaps like most people, are not concerned about these ideological and abstract ideological clashes; rather, like others they are more concerned about the concrete aspects of their lives—paying the bills, supporting their children, and ensuring a decent standard of living for their families. Moreover, rebellions are often successful only under very specific conditions, one of which is the existence of an elite vanguard which represents an alternative government and which enjoys a high level of support among the people. There is little evidence of this in Cuba. 

 

I spent most of the time in Havana’s city centre, and greatly enjoyed the old Spanish architecture. One notable place is the cathedral built in 1777. On Christmas Eve I went there for midnight mass with my Cuban friend, and it was enchanting. Before the mass, the church bells rang loudly and rhythmically for around 20 minutes. When the mass started, the pews were full of locals who came to attend the service, which included a  choir that sang Christmas carols. Subsequently, the priest delivered a powerful homily (in Spanish of course) which placed the meaning of Christ’s birth in the context of the horrible year which was about to end, characterized by pandemics, riots, and economic crises. I could not help but notice how different public speaking is in Havana compared to in Northern countries.  There is the stereotypical Latin passion which manifests as much more gesticulating and body movement but in a way that is coordinated with each sentence and phrase. Speaking is more performative, a kind of symphony of voice, breath, message, emotion, facial expression, and other non-vocal communication. There are no pause sounds, like the “umms” that English speakers often express between sentences and words. Rather, the pauses, some lasting 3 or 4 seconds, are silent, while the speaker looks intently at members of the audience, until the next passionate sentence bursts out to enrapture the listeners’ attention. This is very similar to how public speaking occurs among members of my own ethnic group (Italian), and reminded me that the common Italian phrase “cugini latini” (Latin cousins) to refer to Southern Europeans or Latin Americans actually has substance. 

Typical street

 

I’ll conclude with general observations about being in a socialist country. Despite having this status, there is clearly a lot of private market activity in the country. Cubans, like people elsewhere, buy and sell goods, from houses to clothes, for the purpose of making a profit. Some are doing quite well—I visited one friend who was staying in a house situated in a very upscale neighbourhood—although locals told me that it is mostly because they have children successfully working in the U.S. who send money back to Cuba. One remarkable feature was that there was no advertising anywhere, which was a stark contrast with North American cities which are saturated with it. For example, I went to watch a film in Havana, and it just started with no commercials! In Toronto, commercials often last 20 minutes before the movie even starts. In a similar vein, public spaces in Toronto, like bus stops, sidewalks and major streets, are full of posters selling one thing or another. In Havana, they were nowhere to be seen, and my sense was that this improves the urban landscape considerably.