Factory of Spaniards

Jorge needs the birth certificate of his grandfather in the Canary Islands to obtain his new nationality, in the Spanish Embassy in Havana. Only two doors away, Evarista has been waiting three years for the marriage certificate of her maternal ancestors. This August another neighbor, Maritza, will leave with her two under-21 children to try her luck in Oviedo; she will board the plane with her new EU passport, obtained through the "grandchildren law." Everywhere people are rummaging in drawers for family photos, reconstructing family trees which until the other day were the preserve of genealogy cranks. Cubans are looking backward and abroad, dusting off their links with the old country. Few places are as crowded and busy as the consulates; few possessions as precious as a relative who once spoke Spanish with the lisping pronunciation of Castile.

Cuba is a sinking ship, and songs about economic reforms are not enough to keep us tied to the mast. When one way out is shut, the internal pressure finds other routes. A couple of years ago it was through Ecuador; you did not yet need a visa to go there, and from there many made it to the States. Others are still stuck there, in illegal status. Another recent route was through Russia. Friends used to tell us they would soon be flying to Moscow, when we knew full well that they had no intention of staying in what, for a while, was also by way of being our colonial metropolis. Then came Spain, the inverse Columbus route, for the third generation born beyond the sea. The consulate on the corner of Cárcel and Zulueta, where the red-and-yellow Spanish flag flies, has become a magnet for those who want to leave. The waiting line is immense; the guards inspect your papers before letting you in; the midday Caribbean sun beats down, but no one desists.

The bumptious nationalist rhetoric in the media is in bizarre contrast to the dreams of emigrating cherished by a majority of Cubans. A real obsession for getting away crosses all lines of age and politics. Even in the ranks of the Communist Party, measures have been taken to slow the stampede, preventing members from initiating Spanish nationality procedures. Disappointingly, many prefer to give up their party card, rather than putting their Spanish granny's papers back in the drawer. The failure takes the form of emigration - "voting with your feet."

Meanwhile, the sea is still an option. The boats are no longer the ramshackle affairs that rode the waves in the balsero crisis of 1994. A GPS costs about 300 euros on the black market, and is of sovereign utility in making it to Florida. In some intricate coves along the northern coast speedboats are still arriving, sent by exiles to pick up their families. The risk is huge for crew and passengers alike, but getting out comes first. It is known that boats have been intercepted - by the US Coast Guard or the Cubans - at least a dozen times, but they keep trying, as if a great magnet were pulling them outward or, rather, as if a force of repulsion were pushing them from within.

Those who have small children, or fear the sharks, look for other ways. To obtain another nationality is one. People trek through courthouses, archives and bureaus. For this you need a lot of persistence to overcome the foot-dragging, concealment and obstruction.

At last, when Granddad's dossier is complete, you can go to your appointment in the grandiose edifice with the red-and-yellow flag. There are dozens, hundreds, thousands of applicants each week - a factory assembly line, entering the door as Cubans and coming out with papers that make them Spaniards. They even walk differently when they come out. They seem lighter, less nervous, more Spanish.

Yoani Sánchez is a Cuban journalist, author of the award-winning blog Generación Y.

© Yoani Sánchez / bgagency-Milan