Fidel’s words meant to inspire the people to eternally support the ‘revolution’ which, through effective use of propaganda like “Revolution or Die”, the country has been fighting for 50 years now, and continues to fight. (Against whom I don’t understand, as Fidel, until his recent retirement, was one of the longest rulers of a single country in the world’s recent history.)

In between scenic walks through the mystical capital city of Havana, horseback rides through tobacco plantations and sugarcane fields, and a day spent sunbathing on a spotless white sand beach, our group had several encounters with local nationals who were not blessed with the state given right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness that all of us take for granted. These encounters revealed what really is happening underneath the repressive government controlling the country.

On our first morning, we attempted to contact the cousin of one of our classmate’s sister-in-laws - Esperanza. My initial thought was that it was a beautiful name and I told one of my travel companions its meaning in English – hope. I also recalled the dual meaning of the verb esperar… it not only means to hope, it also means to wait for. Esperanza didn’t have a phone so we called her neighbor; the neighbor told us to call back at 5 pm when Esperanza would return from work. We called at 5 pm, but we were told by the neighbor she wasn’t there. We asked when to call and were told not to bother. “Esperanza salio.” Hope left.

Sadly, we were without Esperanza, but we took it upon ourselves to explore the city and find ourselves new BFFs. I made friends with Luis, who preferred hanging out in bars befriending tourists than the banality of a full time job that would pay him $20 a month. He asked if we wanted to check out some dance clubs and make some local friends. Instead I told him we were looking for a ‘casa particular’ the country’s special housing option where local residents rent bedroom to tourists (under government control, of course). He led us through his neighborhood in the old city which mystically intertwined magnificent architecture with destitution, 1950s Chevy convertibles with broken, discarded bicycles, and playful children with spying neighbors. “If any cops stop us, tell them you are a friend of my father,” requested Luis, who had explained to me the night before his father was a successful businessman in Miami. Luis had casually mentioned one day he hoped to move to Miami and reunite with his father. We reached a casa particular owned by his friend Manuel, who took us up to his apartment and then brought us up to his roof deck (pictured) with a magnificent view of the city skyline and harbor – enough for us to agree to stay with him.

Sitting on his roof deck, I invited Manuel to join us for a drink. He declined but did engage us in conversation. He was training to be a lawyer. He was happy, he told us, while pointing to his heart. Then he leaned in towards us and began whispering, even though no one could possibly have been within 500 yards. “But what they do to us is unfair. We are handcuffed. We are not free. He spoke in broken English, uttering phrases like human spirit. The people are poor, we have nothing. I had a chance to leave, but I didn’t… this is my home. And we hope things will change.” Esperanza. Hope hadn’t left after all.

Our Esperanza proved to be more than someone we had simply hoped to meet. She proved to me a metaphor for a country in handcuffs. Esperanza may not have been easy to find, but it was clear she had not left. And through our interaction with the local people, it was apparent Fidel’s words hold true today, though in a manner different than he intended. A better world is possible. Along with the Cuban people, nosotros esperamos. We wait…we hope.