Do You See What I See?

In Kimberly Christen-Withey's (formerly Kimberly Christen) "Does Information Really Want to be Free?: Indigenous Knowledge Systems and the Question of Openness," she tempers the "celebration of openness" in the context of sharing information within digital media with the notion that it only provides "a limited vocabulary with which to discuss the ethical and cultural parameters of information circulation and access in the digital realm" (2874). This "limited vocabulary," in Christen-Withey's estimation, generally favors uncritical and unbridled uses and reuses of digital information over and above those engagements with digital information and information writ large which take into consideration the material implications of extending information and cultural artifacts into various media--digital or otherwise.

To be clear, Christen-Withey's concerns in "Does Information Really Want to be Free?" relate directly to the cultural heritage of indigenous tribes and how that knowledge might be protected in a manner that befits and honors such indigenous tribes on their own terms. This blog entry seeks to extend this conversation about protecting cultural heritages and other related knowledge to the Cuban people--inside and outside of Cuba proper. I would specifically like to consider photographs and digital artifacts that offer a lens into Cuban lives and residential areas as they exist today. While there are dozens of digital archives related to Cuba--many of which are listed on The University of Texas-Austin's Latin American Network Information Center (LANIC)--I would like to focus on the National Geographic's Web site for a 9-day expedition to Cuba.

Much of the National Geographic Web site simply extols the virtues of not only visiting and engaging with the culture of the Cuban people, but it also includes a small photo gallery. Generally speaking, these photographs and the information that surrounds them seem relatively harmless and banal on the surface. Baseball in the streets . . . a mural of Che Guevara on a city wall . . . a well-maintained Studebaker. Cuba: "The Place Where the Past Meets the Present." Amidst these celebrations of Cuban culture and tourism, though, National Geographic perhaps ignores the prickliness of matters of Cuban identity, politics, and, perhaps most important to the thrust of this blog entry, property.

By invoking matters of "property" in the context of visual representations of Cuban lives and residential areas I harken to some of the more "conservative" worldviews espoused by Cuban refugees who were generally among the first wave of Cubans to leave or be forced out of Cuba after Fidel Castro took power. My intention here is not to paint this first wave of Cubans with a broad stroke, because my own family on both my mother and father's sides were part of this group. But I'll perhaps get to that later.

It becomes clear in this unique and difficult history that the manner in which the Cuban population regarded themselves in the aftermath of this diaspora communicated a particular politics towards the nations that hosted them (the United States, Puerto Rico, Spain, just to name a few examples) as well as the nation--their home--they left behind. These terms play an important role in Next Year in Cuba: A Cubano's Coming-of-Age in America, a memoir written by Gustavo Perez Firmat about his family's flight from Cuba and their struggle to strike a balance between two cultures. One of the debates that occupies much of Perez Firmat's project in Next Year in Cuba, is whether to regard himself as an "immigrant" or an "exile." In Perez Firmat's estimation, to identify oneself as an "immigrant" was not only to resign yourself to one culture, but to leave your rightful culture behind you. To be an "exile," though, implied a more liminal and indeterminate space in which the prospect of return was kept intact.

And there's the rub. Return? Return to what? Having left virtually every bit of property and capital they owned in Cuba, these resources were generally appropriated by the Cuban government or re-distributed to others (not necessarily family or close relations) who remained in Cuba. In Next Year in Cuba, those who remained in Cuba and claimed these resources are regarded as "squatters" on the "rightful" property of the "exiles" who lie in wait to return to Cuba to re-claim this property once the Castro regime is dispensed with.

While this example from Next Year in Cuba is not necessarily a microcosm of how all Cuban refugees/exiles/immigrants necessarily feel or think, it does offer a lens into the sorts of stigmas and anxieties that surround matters of property for Cubans inside and outside of Cuba proper. I mean, if some Cuban exiles have taken inventory of their "rightful" property and capital, it might be said that there are certainly stakes involved in representing Cuban lives and residential areas as they exist today in digital media.

With the United States and Cuba recently beginning serious talks about lifting the embargo and relaxing travel restrictions to Cuba by United States citizens, these issues of "return" are perhaps reaching fever pitch. And with many prominent Cuban American voices--like that of Marco Rubio, the Republican Senator of Florida--actively and vehemently resisting diplomatic negotiations between the United States and Cuba that in any way extend or support the Castro regime--whether Fidel, Raul, or any other Castro enthusiast--one has to wonder what "return" actually means for Cubans inside and outside of Cuba proper in the 21st century.

I realize that I have spent much of this blog entry not really addressing the matter of actually including photographs of Cuban lives and residential areas as they exist today within digital media, but I guess that's my point. Indeed, it becomes very unclear how, specifically, these images and visual representations are being used by different audiences. With a majority of Cuban citizens within Cuba not having material or free access to the Internet and other digital technologies, it begs the question: For whom are these digital archives actually designed? And while I would not necessarily propose that these issues with Cuban identity, politics, and property ought to foreclose on the prospects for representing the Cuban people as they exist today within projects in the digital humanities, I would suggest that these issues should absolutely play a role in the development of an ethical and methodological framework for such projects. For my own purposes in the project that I am developing (please see my blog post from January 18, 2015, for more information about this), there is a great deal of value and currency in employing these sorts of  lenses in projects in the digital humanities, considerations, however, that I have not necessarily seen enough of in archives and sources about Cuban lives as they are lived today.