Cuba's crisis of change

The Vatican played a key role in getting Washington and Havana to talk. Now Pope Francis himself has come to Cuba, en route to the US. "As a missionary of mercy," he said.

Mercy towards whom, I wonder, sipping a gin and tonic in the stylish ground floor bar of the recently restored art deco hotel in Havana where I am staying. It's just a short distance from the Cuban parliament, a neoclassical building with a disturbing similarity to the Pantheon in Rome and Capitol Hill in Washington.

Mercy towards ordinary Cubans who have suffered for more than half a century from the US embargo? (There is still food rationing in Cuba.) Or towards the poorest of Havana's poor, who live in dilapidated apartment blocks with wooden shutters dangling at their dark windows like loose teeth. Not to mention the grinding poverty of the rural population. Mercy from whom? God? The Americans? The central committee of the Cuban Communist Party?

Feeling slightly bemused and not quite sure that this gin and tonic was a good idea in the stifling heat, I look out at the lush palm trees across the street. Cuba's sultry climate and luxuriant vegetation give this island the feel of an unspoiled paradise.

But only at first sight. Stroll a couple of blocks from the recently renovated Old Town with its friendly little bars and live music, where the classical buildings are painted all the colors of the rainbow and there is flamenco dancing on a Saturday evening, and you'll discover harsh, drab poverty.

My view across to the Capitol is suddenly blocked by a passing car: a 1950s Pontiac convertible, painted candy floss pink. Havana is famous for these old gas guzzlers. Restored with genuine love and infinite ingenuity, most of them operate as taxis. A group of overweight middle-aged men in baseball caps are riding in this one, taking photos of the parliament building. "Americans," explains a waiter, seeing the astonishment on my face. He says it without any judgment that I can discern. It's merely an explanation.

A banner in the hotel lobby, fluttering from the balustrade of the mezzanine, greeted visitors in Spanish: "Welcome, Archdiocese of Miami!" But that was just a coincidence. These are probably ordinary tourists, not pilgrims who have come to see the pope. Since the easing of travel restrictions there have been regular charter flights from Miami; it's only a half-hour trip across the water.

The barman is playing a CD of Placido Domingo singing light classics. Strains of Schubert's "Ave Maria" mingle incongruously with conversation over pre-luncheon drinks.

The role of religion

What role religion will play, if any, in Cuba's transformation is hard to know. Of all the Latin American countries, this island has the smallest Catholic population. The Marxist revolutionaries were committed to stamping out religion and it appears that they were pretty successful. They were helped by two factors.

First, most of the Cuban clergy had sided with the rich and powerful before and during the revolution, so it was natural that the general populace would turn against the church. Secondly, Cubans had a "default religion" to which they could turn when they lost faith in Catholicism: Santeria, the Yoruba mythology and rituals that the slaves brought with them from Africa.

"Santeria is much less demanding than the Catholic Church, and it's not so hypocritical," explained Lourdes, a svelte Cuban woman in her 70s who spends six months of the year in Havana and the other six in Spain. "I was born into a Catholic family and was educated by nuns, but I saw how the sisters favored the girls from rich families, and that turned me against the Catholics."

As a young woman, Lourdes "converted" to Santeria. Later, she returned to the Catholic faith. "Now," she said, her coppery skin wrinkling at the bridge of her nose in a mischievous expression, "I am kind of both." And that, it seems, is typical of Cubans.

Pope Francis, with his down-to-earth approach towards religion, his empathy for the weakness of the human condition and, above all, his radical commitment to the poor and the marginalized in society, might be providing just the right kind of inspiration in Cuba during a period of political and social transition.

The Vatican has already earned itself a lot of respect by brokering the US-Cuban detente. Pope Francis is now using that capital to tell Cubans: "Show mercy towards each other." Cuba has to feel its way forward without hatred or blame about the past. But even more important: it has to find ways of carrying the weakest and the most vulnerable members of society when the capitalist tsunami hits.

"I like this pope," said Lourdes thoughtfully. She meant, I think, not only that Pope Francis shares her distaste for hypocrisy, but that his message of mercy is just what Cuba needs at this critical time. There is nothing "charming" about the hard life of the average Cuban - unless perhaps you are a tourist looking for photographic motifs.

But embracing raw capitalism in all its brashness and egotism probably isn't the answer either. Cubans like Lourdes sense that, and are searching for answers.

John Berwick is DW's religious affairs editor.