Liberty, equality, fraternity. So goes the French Revolutionary motto to which the abolitionist society Les Amis de Noirs responded with the iconic image of a kneeling, shackled black slave who asks, "Am I not your brother?"

The motto and the image have been circling my mind since I first learned, around two weeks ago, about the systematic harassment and repression of young Cuban artists of the San Isidro Movement. "Are we not artists?" I envision them asking their colleagues and artsy types around the world. Only a handful have responded, however.

The San Isidro Movement is composed of a few hundred Cuban artists and intellectuals who have been protesting against the 2018 Decreto 349, a decree severely restricting artistic expression and the commercialization of artists' creations, be they rap concerts, theatrical productions in private homes or paintings sold in city parks.

In September 2020, a group of artists and intellectuals, among them Luis Manuel Otero Alcantara, Yanelys Nunez Leyva and Tania Bruguera signed the San Isidro Manifesto. The document proclaimed their right to creative independence, freedom from dogmatic dictates by government entities and the pursuit of nontraditional aesthetics.

The signatories rejected the appointment of "supervisor-inspectors" (arts komissars) tasked with censoring artistic creation and warned with NATO firmness that "an attack on one of us, is an attack against the collectivity."

On Nov. 9, police agents violently arrested San Isidro Movement rapper and performance artist Denis Solis. Two days later, he was judged and sentenced to eight months in prison for contempt of a police officer whom he said had illegally entered his home. He only called him "an animal inside of a uniform."

On Nov. 18, 18 young artists including Otero Alcantara quartered inside the movement's gallery; some began a hunger and thirst strike demanding the release of Solis. A few days later, state security agents burst into the gallery and arrested 15 of them.

When Otero Alcantara was re-arrested on the 27th, around 200 San Isidro activists and their supporters did something unprecedented. They staged a protest in front of the Ministry of Culture, where they forced a meeting with the vice minister.

In response, the Cuban state has unfurled a four-pronged offensive: mobilizing SWAT and other repressive forces — is the nightstick mightier than the rapper's microphone? — unleashing thuggish counterprotestors — Fidel! Fidel! Fidel! — deploying oficialista artists such as members of the Cuban Rap Agency — such thing exists — and mounting an Orwellian all-media propaganda campaign — let's not forget that Castro coined the term "fake media" back in 1959 when Donald Trump was playing soldier at the New York Military Academy.

Protestors, the Cuban government claims, are mediocre artists who are subsidized by and respond to Miami mafiosi and Trump's imperialist administration. In an hourlong TV special on the subject, a parade of state experts referred to the protests as a "soft coup" and "deflating theatre" and linked movement leaders to exiled terrorists.

Several leading non-dissident Cuban artists have, in fact, spoken out against the restrictions. These include singer-songwriter Silvio Rodriguez, graphic artist Jose Angel Toirac, film director Carlos Lechuga and actor Luis Alberto Garcia.

While some international organizations such as Amnesty International and the International Society for Human Rights have brought attention to art censorship and the ongoing wave of repression, international artists and intellectuals, with minimal exceptions, neither see nor hear, much less speak.

Earlier this week, Cuban American interdisciplinary artist Coco Fusco boldly called on American foundations (i.e. the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation), museums (i.e. MoMA) and the progressive media (i.e., The New York Times) to speak out.

Why this silence?

It may sound silly, but It is partially a matter of coolness. Cuban dissidents have never been cool; after writing "Revolutionary Cuba," I became more uncool than ever. Fusco was, until recently, as cool as they come. Now she is not.

"Don't you dare censor that painting of the Virgin Mary made out of elephant dung!" the cool ones say. "What about my performances?" I can hear Bruguera ask. "And don't you dare remove that book from my local library!" they say. "Why are my books and those of fellow Cuban exiles absent from Cuban libraries?" I respond. "Defund the police," they demand. "What about the Policia Nacional Revolucionaria?" my compatriots ask.

They are, above all else, kindred spirits of those tormented souls whom a 14th-century Florentine described as "Pacing around with weary steps and slow/ A painted tribe of spirits I survey,/ Whose haggard looks express fatigue and woe" ("Inferno," Canto XXIII, The Hypocrites).

Readers can reach Luis Martinez-Fernandez at [email protected]. To find out more about Luis Martinez-Fernandez and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: gabrielmbulla at Pixabay