Broken Paradise, by Cecilia Samartin
I was born in Havana, Cuba and left with my parents after the revolution
when I was still an infant. Naturally, I have no real memories of my
country, but over the years I’ve listened to a myriad of stories.
The air that I breathed was infused with nostalgia so that, although
I grew up in a typical American community, the feeling of Cuba, that
sense of lost enchantment, became a very real part of me. The older
I get, the more I realize this to be true, and I’ve noticed that
many like me (first generation Americans who must rely on imagination
rather than memory) jealously guard and hold reverent this fragile,
even mystical notion of homeland. Like so many immigrants, I dream of
returning. Perhaps not to live, but for a languorous and intimate visit,
during which I fantasize that within me will awaken a dormant spirit
that will guide me toward a deeper understanding of all that is meaningful
in life. It sounds a bit far fetched, I know, but for me, this is what
years of yearning have invoked.
We immigrants are often criticized for being
less than objective, and over indulgent in our idealizations about homeland.
The basic argument goes something like this; “If things were so
good back there, then why did you come here?” or, “If things
don’t measure up here, then why don’t you go back there?”
But the question about “here” or “there” is
not the one that intrigues me, but rather, that unique experience of
hovering in between. In my work as a psychotherapist, I’ve lost
count of the number of client’s who’ve told me that when
they’re in the old country they miss the new, and when in the
new country they wish they were back in the old. Where to find peace
and belonging when one’s sense of home is so dichotomized? Perhaps
a more useful, albeit more difficult question to answer would be, “Can
you be “here” and “there” all at once without
losing yourself?”
I’ve heard say that in order to successfully
embrace a new culture, one must die to the old. I believe it’s
more accurate to think of it as a series of little deaths - what we
euphemistically refer to as “letting go”, and it happens
whether the individual wants it to or not. Yet, as is true for the characters
in the book, some of us let go more easily then others, and I wonder
why it is that some adapt so effortlessly while other’s struggle
with so much grief. I ask myself, is it right to sacrifice the past
for the present in order to avoid the pain? And, is there truly anything
to gain, personally or communally, from pondering what was lost or what
might’ve been?
On a less ephemeral note, there has been
great controversy in my family and in the Cuban refugee community, and
more than a little energy invested in the question about whether or
not we should return to the homeland at all under present circumstances.
There are some who insist that so long as Castro is in control, going
back will only fuel and empower the communist machine. Others argue
that it’s precisely in returning and interacting with the people
that communism will eventually lose its grip, and dissolve peacefully
and gradually within that spicy concoction we know as Free Enterprise.
My indecision about this is, in part, what
compelled me to write Broken Paradise. In so doing, I gave
myself the opportunity to emotionally explore the issue from multiple
perspectives, and I have become more resolved in the process, as it
confirmed for me what intuition and experience have always taught me—that
in life, seldom are there simple solutions to complicated problems.
Needless to say, I’ve come away from
this venture without having answered the questions that inspired me,
but I’ve managed to arrive at my own personal compromise, and
to that extent it’s been a remarkably healing experience. And
so, I can say with heartfelt certainty that some day I will return to
a free Cuba. Until then, in Broken Paradise, I have my imagined
journey to comfort me. It was often joyous, and sometimes quite sad,
but for me anyway, it was a wonderful trip."
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