Royal Palms and the Heart of Compassion
There are many stories that could weave a Dhamma narrative in my mother tongue. In the final analysis the weaving is the essence, not so much the telling. There are vertical threads and horizontal threads lacing together a fabric of strength and resilience. Cuba, its syncretic survival history of indigenous massacres, slave trades, colonialism, religious fusion and revolution, is a different country today than when my parents boarded an ocean cargo ship in Canada bound for Cuba. I was 40 days young. Born in the U.S. to Cuban parents, they chose to return to their culture, their families, their language. This resilient fabric, threadbare now after so many years of separation, still colors boldly stories of a Cuba vanished in the past, if it ever existed at all.
It wasn’t long after arriving in Cuba, that my parents experienced the new hardships post revolution and they applied to the U.S. State Department to be allowed to return to the U.S.. Permission granted; I was five years old then, one of the metric ages for language acquisition. Cuban Spanish is the basic building block of my sentence structure. It thrives in unintended double negatives, reversed word order and the faux amis of words carried over from one language to the other. It nestles among gaps of silence and quiet resignation on finding the right word long after the conversation has ended.
Now in the United States, I’ve always remained connected with something left behind prematurely. Not so much a clinging, as an awareness.
When I stepped out of José Martí International Airport in La Habana March 2024, the unmistakable sensation of a coming home, leaped in my heart base. Something there.
The Royal Poinciana trees and Royal Palms bid welcome to the travelers, many with awaiting family members. Some were tourists (or as is designated by the U.S. government for travelers to Cuba, “supporters for the Cuban people”) but most hugged their mothers and fathers, their sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles and cousins. For most of us stepping out of the airport that day, and every visit since, it has been a homecoming. Tears and laughter, trembling speech buried in full body hugs, emotions mixed with diesel fumes and the unmuffled noise of passing vehicles, like stepping out of a climate -controlled and ordered existence into a warm, welcoming chaos. Warmer in some months than others.
That first trip, a small group of faithful Dhamma practitioners waited for me outside a little rented apartment. They were very respectful. One of many beautiful adjectives that apply to Theravada Cuba, our core Dhamma group in La Habana, is respectful; to the Teachings and to the messengers of the Teaching. Another adjective is devoted. This group was hungry for Dhamma, devoted to Dhamma, waiting, wading knee-deep in a hodge podge of Internet interpretations, they were open-hearted and happy to receive a bhikkhunī. I went with my daughter, Amelia who had never been to Cuba and with faith that the doors opened gently because it was the right way. We were met with gratitude and friendship. It was extraordinary. The devas were with us.
What inspired me to return to my mother land? Growing up in the U.S. even with immigrant parents who left Cuba with nothing save the proverbial clothes on their backs (the Cuban government took everything from everyone leaving the country in those days), I nonetheless experienced relative freedom to grow up as a rebellious child. There was freedom to study in clean classrooms, to sleep on a clean bed, in a safe neighborhood. Freedom to choose one favorite food or two at the grocery store every week. To be loved by an extended family who worked hard at menial jobs so the next generation could have it easier. Being the recipient of that freedom and love and benefit, my heart pulls me back to those who didn’t have the same good fortune. We are one humanity.
They have studied hard too. They work hard too. Yet they do not have the same economic opportunities. And without placing blame anywhere on the spectrum of actions and events, it is a privilege to share this good fortune. I have met with the Dhamma as a human being. I have received the higher ordination of a bhikkhunī. There is this opportunity to share the many blessings, spiritual and mundane, with those who share faith and devotion in the Triple Gem.
As humans our higher language is compassion. Recognizing this, is our grace. Speaking this, is the gateway to the highest peace. There are many stories that could weave a Dhamma narrative in this, our mother tongue.
