Marco A. Linares

What does democracy mean to me? A collection of essays by Florida International University students

What is democracy? This is a question that many have pondered for centuries past and likely for centuries to come. Etymologically, democracy comes from the Greek word demos, meaning “the people,” and kratia, meaning “power or rule.” Some scholars argue that democracy must be understood as it was put into practice by the Greeks in ancient times; that is, as rule by the people. I think that defining democracy that way is too constrictive. Democracy is an ever-evolving concept, one whose basis is the ancient and abstract idea of “rule by the people,” but has grown to mean much more than that. Most scholars agree that modern democracies have developed into a form of government consisting of at least four basic elements: free and fair elections to choose and replace the government, a strong civic life and involvement of the people with government, protection of human rights, and the rule of law that applies to all equally. But even after expanding the definition, the discussion of democracy and its meaning remains theoretical and abstract. That is the reason why this essay delves into my personal encounters with democracy—or lack thereof— and how they changed my interpretation of democracy and its usefulness.

I was born and raised in Cuba, a communist country teeming with suffering and jealousy, but I had a different life from most Cubans. I was raised in the outskirts of Havana in a fairly large house that my mother and father had built with their honest labor, one brick at a time. My mother has always been a hard worker; she used to work as a regional manager for convenience stores devoted exclusively to tend to tourists, but she left that position soon after I was born and moved into a different line of work. Together with her brother who lived in the United States, she delivered remittances to the families of those in exile who were suffering under the regime in Cuba. This operation, which was approved by the government, started out small but eventually expanded to cover every province in Cuba and to deliver thousands of dollars a day. After studying the Cuban economy, I learned that family remittances are the second-largest source of its revenue, behind tourism. Unfortunately, my mother must have rubbed the wrong person the wrong way one day or someone had grown tired of her business because, when I was five years old, I woke up one morning to find an unusually large number of people in my living room. Some were dressed in military uniforms, others were policemen, and a few were dressed in plainclothes. My mother took me to school after forcing them to wait outside, and when I returned my mother informed me that we had to go live with my grandma for a while. Later I learned that the house where I had spent the first five years of my life in was taken away by the government under dubious charges of “unjust enrichment.” There was a prop trial in which the decision was preordained and could not have changed no matter what: not a single item was entered into evidence but that was it—all the sweat and hard work that went into building that house was gone. This was my first clash with the absence of democracy.

That encounter shaped the meaning of democracy for me. Democracy—a concept I would only later discover—was a utopian ideal that meant that everyone would be treated the same under the law. In a democracy there would be no arbitrary trials with predetermined outcomes, evidence would have to be brought forth to justify claims, and children would not have to wake up to countless strangers rummaging through their toys without cause.

The years passed, and I had another experience that forever shaped how I see democracy. While living with my grandmother I attended primary school nearby. There I was taught about the elections that we had in Cuba at lower

* Marco A. Linares Cordero is attending the University of Pennsylvania Carey Law School where he is expected to obtain his J.D. degree, as well as a Wharton certificate in management, by 2024. He was born and raised in Havana, Cuba, but was forced to flee the country at the age of thirteen because of the political pressures his family faced at the hands of the regime. He attended Florida International University where he earned a double major in political science and international relations, with an emphasis on the Middle East and North Africa region. Someday he hopes to return to his birthplace and work toward creating a functioning democratic government in Cuba.

Václav Havel Program for Human Rights & Diplomacy Steven J. Green School of International & Public Affairs

government levels—never for president—and how secret ballots were used so that nobody could know how an individual voted. I must have been six or seven at the time, but this concept inspired me: it seemed to reflect a radical way of thinking in which the people could voice their worries and concerns by choosing their leaders. After that class my teacher asked for volunteers to guard the voting urns, and because I was so inspired, I was among the children who raised their hands. That weekend I had to guard the urns for about two hours, the last hours of the voting day. Every time someone dropped their ballot into the makeshift cardboard urn, another student and I—dressed in our full school uniforms—would give the voter a military salute and say, “Thank you for voting.” The two hours flew by, and since I was excited to learn more about this radical way of government, I stayed a bit later to ask questions and see the process unfold. When I ventured into the designated vote-counting room, I was shocked to see that the urn I had guarded for two hours had not even been opened. Instead, the voting officials were counting the number of voters who had checked off their names from the registration list; then, while looking at a small piece of paper with some numbers scribbled on it, they allocated the votes and sent the election results in a sealed envelope to the central agency in charge of tallying all the votes.

From then on, I would think of democracy differently. Democracy could not be that which I had witnessed but would have fair and free elections that were meaningful, as I had been taught earlier in school. Democracy should allow people to voice their opinions, and these should be able to change the outcomes of elections; votes should not be divvied up at the whim of whoever is in power to maintain and further that power. Democracy allows people to speak and genuinely listens; it allows people to vote and to change things.

Another vivid memory of an encounter with Cuba’s absence of democracy came during my fifth-grade history class. We had been taught about the horrors that Spanish colonization left in our country and about how the semi-successful revolt against the Spanish rule led to an American-backed/controlled government. In a textbook attempt to vilify the United States, our teacher explained to us in great details how awful things were under Batista’s rule. She explained how there was no rule of law (extrajudicial killings were a daily occurrence), how there were no jobs or opportunities for people to be able to afford basic necessities, how poverty was extremely high, and how the people were unable to voice their concerns or participate in government. This discussion lasted through several classes. I then, with my fifthgrade mentality, raised my hand to pose a question that had been in the back of my head since these lectures began. I asked a very simple yet challenging question: “Teacher, how are things better now than then?” This question made her open her eyes as wide as I had ever seen them, ask to be excused for a minute, and walk out of the classroom, only to return with the principal who promptly took me to his office. I was extremely lucky that the principal was a reasonable man who chose not to report my family and me to the authorities, something that would have likely landed us in trouble. Instead, he explained to me that there were certain things I could only think but not express. He further explained that I was young, and he understood my question but vehemently reiterated that such statements could not be voiced, less so in a public school full of children and government employees. After this encounter I nodded along and pretended to agree with discussions for the rest of time in school. I never thought much of it until I was already living in the United States and read Orwell’s 1984. I had a vivid flashback to that very conversation, and I realized that fifth-grade me had hit it spot on: things were not better; they were simply masked better under Castro.

My reflection on this encounter further solidified my perception that democracy was the best way of government. Democracy meant that students could openly criticize their teachers and readings and could engage in a productive dialogue in which they could have their questions answered. Democracy meant that students could speak without having to think about the ramifications of their words or weigh them against their curiosity or desire to learn. Democracy meant that one was free to express oneself on any occasion, whether people agreed or disagreed with those opinions.

What does democracy mean to me? A collection of essays by Florida International University students

A few years passed, and I was in secondary school in seventh grade when I faced the strongest antidemocratic challenge of my life. By then we had moved to a nicer house that my mother had jumped through hoops to get for us. My grandmother had come to live with us, and I remember coming home from school to find her pacing by the front gate. She told me that my mother had left about an hour before to buy some olives for something she was cooking and had yet to return. As it was—and still is—usual in Cuba, produce and food were often difficult to find, and one would have to drive all over town to find something. Knowing this, I looked at my grandma and told her not to worry—telling her that my mother was probably running around town as usual—but that did not seem to convince her. I went to my room and began working on my homework. I had finished my homework and put all my books away when my mother knocked on the front gate, accompanied by a number of military soldiers in uniform and two men in plainclothes. I opened the door and looked around in wonder, and she told me not to worry, to simply grab my backpack and go to our friend’s house the next block over until I was told to come home. Our house was being searched once again. I promptly walked to my room, got my backpack, and began heading out. I had walked half a block when I heard shouting behind me—a military officer was chasing me because he had forgotten to search the backpack before I left. Right then and there, in the middle of the street, half a block from home, this man forcefully removed my backpack and began to search it. I vividly remember this scene where he carelessly rummaged through it, pulling my books out of it, briefly leafing through them, and tossing them on the ground. Ironic as it was, one of the books he carelessly threw on the asphalt was my civics book. I remember wanting to cry but refrained from doing so because I did not want to show him weakness.

This forever changed the definition of democracy for me: democracy became a way of government in which citizens had certain rights guaranteed by the government to protect them from the government itself. Democracy was a place where a young boy would not be searched in the street at the whim of a soldier, a place where there was a procedure in place for conducting searches, a place where no matter what, human dignity would be respected. That day I was in our friend’s house until around ten that night, and I spent that entire time wondering what was going on. I worried and paced restlessly around their yard the entire time, neither eating nor drinking, just wondering what would happen next. Finally, when I returned home, I was met by my grandmother, who was sitting on the porch trying to control her weeping. I looked around for my mother until my grandmother looked at me and simply said, “They took her,” before crying uncontrollably once again. I aimlessly wandered through all the rooms, gazing on the disorganization and destruction the soldiers left behind: my old toys all spread on the floor, my clothes thrown on the mattress, our bookshelf barren. My mother was detained in the highest security prison in all of Cuba for sixty-three days before being released. She was in prison on Mother’s Day and on my birthday, dealing with gruesome conditions I dare not repeat. She had lost thirty pounds and had a series of parasitic infections that took years to cure. They had found no evidence, filed no charges, and there was no trial or apology—she was returned to us along with everything else they had taken.

This was the climax to my encounters with the lack of democracy, and this experience made our family decide to flee the country as soon as we could by any means necessary. This experience changed yet again my perception of democracy. Democracy was a place where due process was not only seen in the pages of the penal code but also practiced by those in government. Democracy was a place where human rights were inviolable and applied to all. Democracy was a place where humans did not have to live inhumanely because the government wills it so. This experience, compounded with all our other dehumanizing experiences in Cuba, made us come to the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Yet, having heard only vilifying comments about the United States made our adjustment process difficult. I adapted slowly, and as I began to study and learn about my new home, I came to the realization that a vast majority of those criticisms were unfounded and all were incredibly misleading. For the first time ever, I was witnessing democracy in action. It was no longer a crazy idea or an abstract concept: I was seeing the outcome of elections affect the outcome of policies; I was finally able to

question my instructors and their instruction without being reprimanded for it; I was reading about a myriad of cases in which people’s rights and dignities were upheld regardless of their alleged crimes. After a couple of years passed, I became a part of the democratic process when I was able to vote! This was something that made me weary given my prior experience, but eventually gave me unrivaled satisfaction to see that my voice can make a difference.

The United States brought everything into perspective: all my past encounters with the Cuban government served as some sort of negative democracy through which I was able to see what democracies should not be, leaving behind only what they should be. Though it was a difficult and arduous journey, I am glad that I had to experience what I described earlier. Otherwise, democracy would not mean so much to me.

The more I learn about democracy and the more I study the undemocratic practices around the world, the more that fond I grow of it. Democracy has evolved for me into becoming a way for a society to shape its future, to decide what its priorities are, and to use them in determining who represents those priorities best. It is a way to safeguard everyone by affording them a series of rights and freedoms and upholding them. Democracy is simply the best way of government for the people, by the people.

Ultimately, scholars will continue to argue the abstract concept of democracies, but this undoubtedly fails to capture its essence. The original Greek definition has changed greatly: the voters have changed from being landowning males only to encompassing a much larger section of the population, and their power has also grown significantly to encompass a series of rights unheard of before modern times. But democracy is still more than that. Personally, democracy is essential not only because the people have a voice and can choose who speaks for them but also because it guarantees rights I never had growing up, rights necessary to safeguard the people from their government. The meaning of democracy is as unique as fingerprints. Every human will have a different one, but one thing is certain: this meaning never stops evolving and changing how we see and interact with it.

Václav Havel Program for Human Rights & Diplomacy Steven J. Green School of International & Public Affairs