A certain type of American always got along well with Fidel Castro. Jesse Jackson was exactly that type—left-wing, ambitious, publicity-conscious. He and Castro could do business together. And in 1984, they did.
Jackson, 42 years old at the time, was running for the Democratic presidential nomination. Being inexperienced in foreign affairs, he arranged to visit Panama, El Salvador, and Nicaragua in Central America. But those countries were afterthoughts.
It was Cuba that mattered. In early June that year, Castro invited Jackson to visit Cuba. A few weeks later, Jackson showed up, with a press entourage in tow. I was a reporter for the Baltimore Sun in those days and signed up for the trip. I’m glad I did. It gave me a chance to see Castro in action. Traipsing after Jackson was the price I had to pay.
Both men got what they wanted, but Castro got more. He gave up the one commodity of which Cuba had a surplus: political prisoners. Getting rid of several dozen saved money and freed up jail space.
Jackson called it a “breakthrough” in Cuban-American relations. It wasn’t. President Reagan’s reaction was terse. “I’m glad they’re home,” he said. Castro said the handover was “a goodwill gesture to [Jackson] and the American people.” Castro loved to tweak Uncle Sam.
Castro was a night owl. So it was at a midnight press conference that he read a 10-point declaration for him and Jackson. It called for full “normalization” and exchange of ambassadors. And this: “An invitation to Fidel Castro to visit the United States.” That was a big tweak.
The traveling press, with some exceptions, played along. Reporters pretended the release of prisoners to Jackson hung in the balance through grueling hours of negotiations. That made the deal seem all the more meaningful when it happened. But success had been baked in the cake.
The Jackson tour began in Panama, where he gave a speech of left-wing platitudes to a boisterous crowd. Then came El Salvador. Jackson urged President José Napoleón Duarte to recognize leftist insurgents as legitimate. With Jackson looking on, Duarte responded with a lofty speech about letting the people decide. It meant nothing. It led nowhere. Jackson was outsmarted. In Nicaragua, he said the Sandinistas were on the right side of history. Three decades later, we know he was wrong.
Then came Cuba. Everywhere we went, there were reminders we’d entered the world of Castro communism. Cubans eavesdropped on our conversations on the bus trip from the José Martí Airport to downtown Havana. The press stayed at the famous Havana Libre hotel. When I walked in the door, I was hit by the overpowering smell of mold and decay. At breakfast, the food was unappetizing except for the Bulgarian yogurt.
I was mistaken in thinking I would need Cuban pesos to buy anything. I went to a bank—I think it was a bank—and exchanged $100 in cash for pesos. But when I tried to spend them, the sales clerk insisted on dollars. I went back to the bank, put down the pesos, and asked for my $100 back. The teller looked at me like I was a fool. She was right.
Havana was a relic, the houses gray, dismal, and untouched by paint. There were plenty of American cars from the 1950s. I couldn’t figure out how they were kept running—until I was informed of the flourishing underground market of U.S. car parts. This seemed to be Cuba’s lone acceptable form of capitalism.
I forget what Jackson was doing the next day, but the press was left waiting at a park. An American woman sidled up to me and began telling me how wonderful Cuba was, how poverty was gone and health care was universal. She looked like she believed it. I assumed she worked for Castro.
Castro threw a magnificent reception for Jackson. The food was far beyond what an average Cuban could afford. So was the wine and champagne. The reception had a saving grace. I recognized the great Cuban heavyweight boxer Teófilo Stevenson. I shook his hand and tried to start a conversation. But he didn’t speak English, and I knew no Spanish.
After Castro, Stevenson was the most famous Cuban in the world. Castro liked to put him on display at public events, and for good reason. Stevenson was tall, handsome, powerfully built, and had won three Olympic titles. He might have been the greatest heavyweight in boxing history, but he never fought professionally. Nor did he try to defect, though he had many opportunities. He was a Castro man. Had he gone pro, he would have made millions. He died at age 60 in 2012.
If Jackson gave a second thought to the specter of a lavish reception in a Communist country largely populated by the poor and working class, he never said so. When he spoke at the University of Havana, he shouted “Viva Fidel!” and “Viva Che Guevara!” Or so I read. I don’t remember that speech.
After they agreed on the prisoners, Jackson flew off to Nicaragua, then returned to pick up 22 Americans and 26 Cubans. Castro greeted him at the airport and brought a crowd with him. They chanted “Fidel, Jackson.” Castro knew how to make his guests feel important.
As a parting gift, he gave Jackson a cigar. He put the wrong end in his mouth, making it impossible for Castro to light. Then Castro got on Jackson’s plane. He worked the press, shaking hands and grinning. He gave his fatigue cap to a female reporter. Castro was good at glad-handing. He had charisma.
The thought crossed my mind that Castro could have made it in a democracy and actually won elections. But his view must have been, why take a chance?
When Castro died at 90 on November 25, Jackson tweeted his respect. “In many ways, after 1959, the oppressed the world over joined Castro’s cause of fighting for freedom & liberation—he changed the world. RIP.” But in Cuba, Castro didn’t fight oppression. He imposed it.
Fred Barnes is an executive editor at The Weekly Standard.
