Letter from Havana - News International - Brief Article

Dance Magazine, April, 1998 by Neil Okrent

For many Cuban dancers, leaving Havana means leaving their heart behind. This dilapidated but gorgeous city, with its African and Spanish rhythms, can exert a pull greater than can the material seductions of life in Europe or the United States. And Cuban families are close, with several generations often living under one roof. For many Cuban dancers, separation from their families, even to advance their careers, is unthinkable.

For those who do leave Cuba, communication with family is tough, as phone lines are ancient and mail is slow. San Francisco Ballet's Jorge Esquivel left the island six years ago but has never lost contact with his ex-wife, ballerina Amparo Brito, or his daughter, Yoira. Esquivel spends hundreds of dollars a month telephoning and sending them money. "It is very expensive and I am not rich," he said, "but they are my family. How can I forget them?" His story could be repeated by countless other Cuban dancers who have left la patria to advance their careers overseas.

Although highly regarded by society, dancers enjoy few material privileges in Cuba. Their monthly salaries are similar to those of any Cuban worker--120 pesos for a new dancer to 400 pesos for an experienced dancer, which corresponds to between $5 and $17 per month. (This is not all-inclusive--because Cuba is a socialist country, housing, education, and most food and medical bills are paid by the state.)

Dancers endure the same problems of daily life as do other Cubans--long waits in line for the bus; lines for shopping; lines for everything. There are power blackouts, hot water is a luxury, and there are occasional shortages of food, clothing, and medicine. In spite of these obstacles, the dancers persevere and create world-class performances.

Part of the reason is in the adoration of the Cuban public. Dancers are heroes in Cuba. A performance of Ballet Nacional featuring, for example, Lorna Feijoo or Yanet Acuna, Galina Alvarez, or Catherine Zuasnabar will pack Havana's majestic downtown theater, the Garcia Lorca. Every principal ballerina and choreographer has loyal fans who never miss a performance. Cubans support and respect dancers, and in turn, the dancers take their work seriously and give their all in performance.

Cuba is a country of dancers, where people start to dance as soon as they start to walk. Each performance is the subject of intense popular discussion and radio reviews, and every ballerina is a celebrity. You could wander--as I did--past unnumbered houses in central Havana, searching the old neighborhood for the house of Conjunto Folklorico dancer Mayellin Sanzarig. I asked some little girls in school uniforms if they knew where Mayellin lived. They all knew and led me to her front door. A few of the girls were dance students at Escuela Nacional de Arte, hoping to follow in Mayellin's footsteps.

The Cuban dancers' only economic privilege is their opportunity to earn foreign currency when they tour outside the country, but wages are low. Cuban dance companies are bargains for foreign promoters. United States tours are complicated by the rules of the embargo, which limit the amount that performers can earn. Conjunto Folklorico toured the States in 1996, but despite sell-out performances, embargo rules limited dancers' daily salaries to $50.

The U.S. does not make it easy for Cubans to emigrate--most Cuban dancers working outside Cuba find employment in Europe. On Ballet Nacional's European tour in the summer of 1997, Feijoo was hired by a company in Geneva, and Zuasnabar was hired by the Bejart Ballet. Both dancers are young and close to their families, so these were giant leaps; both wanted to be part of Ballet Nacional de Cuba's recent American tour, but Bejart's schedule kept Zuasnabar in Switzerland. Feijoo came back from Geneva for the Southern California and New York City performances of Cinderella. Her sister, Lorena Feijoo of the Joffrey Ballet, flew from Chicago to see her. One aspect of the tour, not mentioned in the press, was the lack of political security to keep dancers from defecting: such security measures surrounding Cuban artists who tour overseas are a thing of the past.

Dancers who leave Ballet Nacional to work overseas must obtain Alicia Alonso's blessing and pay 10 percent of after-tax earnings back to Ballet Nacional to maintain good standing with the company. As long as these rules are followed, artists can come and go as they please.

Ballet Nacional's Acuna was in Spain for the summer and fall of 1997, staying on to work after the company returned to Cuba. I was surprised when she came back to Havana. "My fiance is here," she said, "and my family. In many places classical ballet is becoming extinct, but we have an audience in Cuba, and this is what I love." A few top European dancers have come to Havana as instructors. Ana Casas, from the Spanish flamenco company Axis, teaches with Havana's Ballet Espanol. "The dancers here have a lot of passion," she said.

Life in Havana is sometimes a struggle, but to dance for love, to be in the company of artists who love their craft and audiences who respect it--all this can mean more to a performer than life outside Cuba, where the world, by comparison, can seem indifferent and cold.