If Cuba seems the island time forgot, it鈥檚 not just because of the classic 1950s cars on the roads or the Cold War atmosphere that continues to hover over U.S.-Cuba relations, including the still-strangulating U.S. embargo.
It鈥檚 also because Cubans鈥攖he vast majority of them鈥攈ave no internet. No smartphones, Google, Facebook, YouTube, or Skype. No regular email. No chatrooms. No access to media, library, or university websites. No Twitter, Linkedin, or tripadvisor.
Visiting Cuba recently with CODEPINK, I was part of a group who spoke to the former head of the National Assembly, Ricardo Alarcon. Alarcon attributes Cuba鈥檚 lack of internet to the continuing U.S. embargo, and surely there鈥檚 some truth to that. The Helms-Burton Act, committing U.S. policy and dollars to regime change, strictly blocks Cuba鈥檚 access to U.S. technology.
But there鈥檚 more going on here than a Dr. Strangelove-era stand-off. Even patriotic Cubans assume that Cuba鈥檚 lack of internet access dovetails perfectly with government policies restricting information. And whatever the reasons that Cuba is offline, getting the country connected is not a government priority. As Cuban filmmaker Yaima Pardo told me, there鈥檚 an 鈥渋nternal blockade鈥濃�攁 lack of political will that鈥檚 just as bad as the embargo.
Pardo, who has a day job with Cuban TV, is also part of Cuba鈥檚 small, struggling set of independent filmmakers. And she鈥檚 directed Offline, a thoughtful and yearning film about the plight of her isolated island.
Her film will never get mainstream distribution on Cuban TV or in theaters鈥擨 saw it in a Cuban living room. But Offline is carefully tailored yet powerful dissent from a loyal insider still resident, a poignant missive to Cuban officialdom. Pardo is trying to push the powers-that-be to care about connectivity, advocating the way adult children might lobby stubborn parents in a loving family with a huge generation gap.
She frames internet access as a necessary extension of the Cuban revolution. For example, in Cuba, education is officially prized, and an all-out, island-wide 1961 campaign transformed the country into the most literate society in Latin America. But today only university students can be assured of internet access: 鈥淥nce you graduate鈥hen you need to make use of everything you learned, they鈥檒l build a wall around you or slam a door in your face,鈥� an unidentified interviewee declares during Offline鈥檚 opening credits.
For Pardo鈥檚 earnest and passionate talking heads鈥擟uban artists, editors, and scholars鈥攖he internet means freedom. They view it as the portal to decentralized decision-making and democracy, freedom of expression, consumer choice, and the chance at reaching one鈥檚 capacity as a human being. For them, it鈥檚 the necessary bridge from Cuba鈥檚 old guard to the future.
As one, magazine editor Alen Garcia Aguero, tersely asserts: 鈥淎 nation that turns its back on technology turns its back on the world.鈥�
I found the film both fascinating and hard to process. Are Pardo鈥檚 respondents na茂ve or am I just jaded, with my too-acute awareness of the dark side of the internet鈥攖he cyber-bullying, the hacking, the platform monopolies, the pervasive corporate and government surveillance? Is the internet a leg-up for the most vulnerable鈥攁n equalizer鈥攐r just another way for those with power to consolidate it?
Obviously, it can be both, and how the internet will evolve is a question that鈥檚 still being fought out, in the United States and elsewhere. Meanwhile Pardo鈥檚 film is a fabulous reminder of the privileges so many of us take for granted.
Including the privilege of watching her film. In Cuba, it鈥檚 shared thumb drive by thumb drive. But we who are privileged with internet access can .
