The Name of One Person

by Randi Brill, Am Shalom Board Member and Cuba Trip Participant

January 28, 2014

Today at the United Hebrew Congregation Cemetery in Cuba—we remembered. As we stood at that tiny Holocaust memorial monument just inside the entrance, we said Kaddish for the six million Jews who perished as well as for the people we’ve personally lost, those we continue to remember in our hearts. As I uttered the all-too-familiar words, I felt the pain of my own newest loss so acutely. How could it be possible that I am truly standing in Cuba on this stunningly bright and beautiful day saying Kaddish for my mother exactly nine months and one day after her death? How?

My mother would have indeed taken Jewish worry to entirely new heights at the mere thought of her daughter being in Cuba at all, and “Oy, in an old cemetery, no less.” As I acknowledged how fresh this loss of my amazing mother still remains, I realized yet again the common denominator of loss. Everyone in this cemetery became a loss to someone—hopefully.

Her funeral was in Pittsburgh. I have no family anywhere else. Three days later, we held a last night of shiva at home in Glencoe. Rabbi Steve came to the house that afternoon with candles, prayer books, and a little stuffed bear sporting a T-shirt. While it was for the girls, since that day and by tacit understanding, this little bear remains steadfast at its post in my office. Each night, as I repack briefcases, untangle tech cords, and other such prep, this little bear stands by. In these quiet hours, the pain’s been known to seep in. Or is it out? Either way, this bear is fine company as its T-shirt reads, “We all laugh differently, but we all cry the same.”

How fitting to remember that in this country so rich with differences, in this cemetery so full of people and lives to be remembered. We do all cry the same. As our group began to explore, our mission was as follows: “Find and remember the name of just one person buried here. Many may have no family left in Cuba, no one to remember them.” Here I am, able to cherish everything from big moments to little pearls of wisdom from my mother. Some days, I can still almost remember the sound of her voice. Yet many of those buried in this cemetery may not be remembered at all—by anyone.

So I set off to find “my” name. I walked from headstone to headstone, hoping a name would resonate. I looked for graves where no one had placed any tiny stones to signal remembrance.  I’d see a name and realize how young so many were when they died. How could I possibly know which name to choose? I was becoming convinced I should try to remember them all when my husband called me over to one particular grave.

There, with no tiny stones on top, was the grave of a man born in 1888 who died in 1936, just 48 years later. The name on the headstone read “JOEL ROSENHOCH BRILL.” That is certainly a name I’ll remember. While he may or may not be a REALative, this man is now family.

And to think, I’d been relieved my mother had no idea I was in Cuba. She always was a woman of few words, and today it feels like the word was only one. BRILL.

Cuba: On The Cusp of WHAT?

Written by Randi Brill, Am Shalom Board Member and trip participant

January 27, 2014

Today begins DAY 3 of four days in Havana. There is much to see, absorb, discover, and experience. Yet, there is a patina, a sort of film over it all, that I have a strong desire to peel away. It’s like the opening of a movie that starts with a watercolor painting and gradually morphs into today’s clear world. In Cuba, that watercolor world IS today—and it is very much in focus. The clarity with which I see everything is so sharp, so crisp, with colors so vivid that they feel like another sort of paint—powerful and pure acrylics, swirling straight from the tubes.

My designer’s eye feels both electric and kinetic at once. Even with my medley of physical cameras, I’m unable to keep up the many images my mind’s camera is capturing so much more rapidly. Doorposts, archways and crumbling chunks of stone, with their jumbles of juxtaposed paint colors, reinforce my realization that there is no bad photo to be taken here. 

Everywhere you look is another photo waiting to be taken. 

And yet with all of this striking imagery, it is equally clear that there is a powerful undercurrent, heavily pulling at much of this country, locking it into a time long past for those of us only visiting here. Parts of Havana seem like Mayberry. Life moves much more slowly and simply than our frenetic lives at home. With no technology or cell coverage, there are no incessant pings, dings, or rings to distract from the only job required here: to be present. And I am.

I flip from absorbing and recording to clicking and capturing. At the same time, I fall into a familiar activity from my work, figuring out what makes other people tick by attempting to put myself in their shoes. My mind wanders. How would I be and feel if I lived here, wearing these shoes? How would I contend with having so few choices and so little power to create change? I feel a growing knot at the mere thought of it.

Then I realize that creating change is what I do as naturally as breathing in my world. If I’d lived my entire life here, I would not know what it is to create change. I would not know how much choice and power I’d be missing. I’d only know the familiarity of my own Cuban existence. As I walked early today, the city was waking up. People were walking slowly and presumably to work, they were cueing into lines to wait, or sitting on corners, talking or not. They were not rushing, carrying cups of Starbucks, or listening with earbuds in private isolation. These people were simply out on the streets, showing up for the gift of this day.

“Boker Tov.” “Boker Or.” The light. There’s a fine light here, I think. I see in my mind’s eye an image from our early walk. It was a strong ray of light. A little boy was clearly on his way to school. He wore a backpack, sturdy black shoes, bright blue kerchief around his neck, and a crisp white shirt. As he slowly meandered, his little smile was genuine. He was clearly happy to start his day—in his world, the only world he knows. As he grows up, this familiar world of his will change into something new and different.

WHAT? No one knows, no one says, no one is sure, and no one declares. Many might wonder, sort of. On this bus, we imagine and envision. Where we live, we think we know. Here, they know that they do not.

The concept of change will be so unfamiliar to Cuba. I toy absently with the change management strategies that will no doubt begin for people for whom such ideas will be so foreign. Regardless of the specifics, having so little choice will gradually be replaced by more choice—of some variety. And there will be catch up—a lot of catch up.

I recognize a metaphor. With Crohn’s Disease, for years I could eat only plain, bland, typically beige foods. Highly disciplined, I never deviated from these foods, never risked the painful price to cheat. After major surgery, finally free of tubes and able to eat, a tray of “real” hospital food appeared. Instinctively, my alarms went off. “I am not allowed this food!” Quite a discussion ensued and my doctor finally arrived. He said, “Randi, you CAN eat this now. You will not get sick. Your body is fixed. Now, your brain must to catch up. Eat the corn soup and you will see.”

The Cuban people will likely encounter a great many “new foods.” They, too, are likely to struggle with newfound options, whatever they may be. They may also need to incorporate an increased speed of life if a technological explosion courses through this country. Will the music be even faster, the Jews even stronger, the colors even brighter, and the textures even richer?
I only hope that with all the gains that may come, this splendor only grows.

Clearly, my quick blog post has also grown, the surface of this experience barely scratched. And yet next I must capture my time in Cuba in only six words—by dinner.

Hemmingway did it.

“For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

Wow. I’m no Hemmingway.

The incredible woman we met at the museum did it, too.

“Don’t try to understand this country.”

So I will try.

 “A Jewish community determined to survive.”

“Changes, choices, coming. Connections, cultures, uncontained.”

The title of this blog is six words, too.

“Cuba: On the Cusp of WHAT?”

We must all wait for that answer. In the meantime, we must continue to act, continue to take care, and continue to show up to climb those haystacks. I have a strong feeling I will be back.