At the end of his July 31, 2006, broadcast, the visibly nervous anchor on Cuban Television News announced that there would be a proclamation from Fidel Castro. This was hardly uncommon, and many Cubans no doubt turned off their TVs in anticipation of yet another diatribe from the comandante en jefe accusing the United States of committing some fresh evil against the island. But those of us who stayed tuned that evening saw, instead, a red-faced Carlos Valenciaga, Fidel's personal secretary, appear before the cameras and read, voice trembling, from a document as remarkable as it was brief. In a few short sentences, the invincible guerrilla of old confessed that he was very ill and doled out government responsibilities to his nearest associates. Most notably, his brother Raúl was charged with assuming Fidel's duties as first secretary of the Communist Party's Central Committee, commander in chief of the Revolutionary Armed Forces, and president of the Council of State. The dynastic succession had begun.
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It was a miracle that the old telephone exchanges, with their 1930s-vintage equipment, didn't collapse that night as callers rushed to share the news, in a code that was secret to no one: "He kicked the bucket." "El Caballo" -- the Horse -- "is gone." "The One is terminal." I picked up the receiver and called my mother, who was born in 1957, on the eve of Castro's revolution; neither of us had known any other president. "He's not here anymore, Mom," I said, almost whispering. "He's not here anymore." On the other end of the line she began to cry.
It was the little things that changed at first. Rum sales increased. The streets of central Havana were oddly empty. In the absence of the prolific orator who was fond of cutting into TV shows to address his public, homemakers were surprised to see their Brazilian soap operas air at their scheduled times. Public events began to dwindle, among them the so-called "anti-imperialism" rallies held regularly throughout the country to rail against the northern enemy. But the fundamental change happened within people, within the three generations of Cubans who had known only a single prime minister, a single first secretary of the Communist Party, a single commander in chief. With the sudden prospect of abandonment by the papá estado -- "daddy state" -- that Fidel had built, Cubans faced a kind of orphanhood, though one that brought more hope than pain.
Five years later, we have entered a new phase in our relationship with our government, one that is less personal but still deeply worshipful of a man some people now call the "patient in chief." Fidel lives on, and Raúl -- whose power, as everyone knows, comes from his genes rather than his political gifts -- has ruled since his ultimate accession in February 2008 without even the formality of the ballot box, prompting a dark joke often told in the streets of Havana: This is not a bloody dictatorship, but a dictatorship by blood. Pepito, the mischievous boy who stars in our popular jokes, calls Raúl "Castro Version 1.5" because he is no longer No. 2, but still isn't allowed to be the One. When the comandante -- now barely a shadow of his former self -- appeared at the final session of the Communist Party's sixth congress this April, he grabbed his brother's arm and raised it, to a standing ovation. The gesture was intended to consecrate the transfer of power, but to many of us the two old men seemed to be joining hands in search of mutual support, not in celebration of victory.
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