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Hutchins Center for African and African American Research at Harvard University
 
 
Santería in Cuba: contested issues at a time of transition
Author(s): Maha Marouan
Source: Transition, No. 125, Religion (2018), pp. 57-70
Published by: Indiana University Press on behalf of the Hutchins Center for African and
African American Research at Harvard University
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.2979/transition.125.1.09
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Marouan • Santería in Cuba 57
Santería in Cuba
contested issues at a time of transition
Maha Marouan
I’m Yoruba, I weep in Yoruba
Lucumí.
Since I’m a Yoruba from Cuba,
I want my lament of Yoruba to touch Cuba
this joyful weeping in Yoruba
that comes out of me.
I’m Yoruba,
I keep singing
and crying.
And when I’m not Yoruba,
I am Congo, Mandinga or Carabalí.
—Son’ Number 6, Nicolás Guillén (1947)
As i sat listening to my friends banter in a café in Old Havana, someone 
blurted: “The Revolution should apologize to gay men, prostitutes 
and religious practitioners!” Then, not to lose the momentum, he 
continued playfully, “It is not me who is making this statement. It 
is the ancestors who are speaking through me!” A roar of laughter 
and spirited interjections followed. This tongue-in-cheek comment 
revealed a historical reality of the early years of the Cuban Revolution 
where any manifestation of religiosity was seen as counter-revolutionary. 
Afro-Cuban practitioners of Santería were particularly affected by this 
stigmatization. Many found themselves with no prospects. They were 
not allowed to join the Communist Party; they were denied professional 
training, college degrees, promotion, travel outside the country and 
good housing.
The Communist Party lifted its prohibition against religious believ-
ers in 1991. The constitution was reformed the following year, declaring 
Cuba a secular state instead of atheist. Since then, Santería has been 
experiencing a moment of revitalization. This paper, the result of many 
visits to Cuba over the years, is a meditation on the religious landscape 
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58 DOI 10.2979/transition.125.1.09 • Transition 125
as shaped by the current economic and political changes in Cuba: the 
initial collapse of the Soviet bloc, economic crisis, the relentless U.S. 
trade embargo, and most recently, a changing relationship with the 
U.S., including the opening of the U.S. embassy, the easing of business 
and travel restrictions resulting in 90,000 tourists arriving in Cuba 
between January and May 2016. These changes are producing new 
racial and gender dynamics that complicate the historical legacy of 
Santería, and which also contribute to the rise of new religious voices 
that challenge the commercialization of the religion.
Bashezo, 
Tending my 
Garden, 2017. 
Performance 
still, soil, broken 
ceramic plates 
and cups, dried 
flowers, glasses, 
bottle cap fan, 
fabric, and effun 
(powered snail 
shells).
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Marouan • Santería in Cuba 59
The history of Africana religions in Cuba has been one marked by 
marginalization, stigmatization and exploitation. During the years of 
the Republic (1902–1959) Afro-Cuban religious practices were crimi-
nalized. The subsequent Socialist state (1959–) discouraged any reli-
gious expression until the 1990s. In the same year Cuba was declared 
secular, a World Congress of Yoruba religion, the first of its kind in 
Cuba, took place in the presence of the Communist Party and govern-
ment officials. This was the beginning of public forums on Africana 
religions in Cuba centered on debates about hierarchy, orthodoxy and 
autonomy.
The shift to the secular phase allowed Santería practitioners to 
take their gods out of hiding and the religion began to thrive openly 
both inside and outside Cuba. These developments have not neces-
sarily benefited Afro-Cuban practitioners. With tourism at the heart 
of the economic recovery plan, new patterns of social mobility and 
commerce arose, and some of the structural inequalities of the early 
years of the revolution were exacerbated. The cost of ceremonies and 
the price of initiations skyrocketed. Afro-Cubans found themselves at 
a disadvantage and unable to compete in a tourist economy in which 
whiteness was privileged, and their religious practices were marketed 
and engaged as a commodity.
Statistically, it is hard to gauge the pronounced popularity of Santería 
in Cuba, because while 82% of Cubans are officially documented as 
Catholics, the initiation into Santería, or Regla de Ocha, requires bap-
tism in the Catholic Church. Interestingly enough, Santería, practiced 
by most, is what preserves Cubans’ link to 
Catholicism—a historical irony considering 
that the Catholic Church has historically 
exercised a policy of calculated tolerance 
with the expectation that African-derived 
religions would eventually disappear. This, 
of course, has not been the case. Africana 
religions in Cuba represent an impressive 
historical model of survival. “There are very few people in Cuba who 
go to the Catholic Church to see the Virgin Mary. They go to see 
Yamaya, the Yoruba goddess of the sea,” comments Juan Dionisio, a 
santero and the head of the House-temple of Regla, a municipality of 
Havana.
The “normalization” of Yoruba religions in the 1990s diminished the 
stigma associated with Afro-Cuban belief systems, but also represented 
a moment when the secrets (or what believers call “the mysteries”) of 
Santería became compromised. The religion became institutionalized 
as folklore to a growing population of tourists who provided the main 
source of revenue for the island. At a national level, the mainstreaming 
Interestingly enough, 
Santería, practiced 
by most, is what 
preserves Cubans’ 
link to Catholicism.
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60 DOI 10.2979/transition.125.1.09 • Transition 125
“Our religion is about 
problem-solving,” 
says Dionisio, “it is 
a book for life.”
of Afro-Cuban cultures marked a shift in the way Cubans began to 
conceive of their racial identities. Fidel Castro declared Cubans an 
Afro-Latin people, and Santería became the religion of the nation, 
regardless of race or cultural heritage. Cubans often use a phrase 
derived from a poem by the leading Afro-Cuban poet Nicolás Guillén 
called Son número 6, “El que no tiene de congo, tiene de carabalí ” (Who is not 
part Congo is part Carabali) in reference to the racial hybridity of the 
island. While on the surface this statement optimistically challenges the 
myth of racial purity and the false binary of “black and white” prevalent 
in U.S. racial discourse, it silences any meaningful conversation about 
systemic racism and cultural appropriation.
The commodification of Santería in Havana resulted in an explosion 
in the number of babalawos, or priests who belong to the order of Ifá, 
a divination system strictly male-centeredand heterosexual. Santería 
contains two orders, Ocha and Ifá. Each has its oracular specificity, 
the first heterogeneous, and inclusive, and the second, male-centered 
and exclusive. The Ocha order has historically been women-centered 
and their history is bound by a patriarchal religious culture and influ-
enced by the market and its demands. The Ifá started to expand in 
Cuba in early twentieth-century, specifically between 1915 and 1920, 
and excluded women from its divination system. This exclusion only 
sharpened in the decade of the nineties with the Ifá reaching the 
height of its popularity. The religion became a lucrative business, and 
the number of babalawos grew to meet the demands of foreigners and 
the Cuban diaspora.
Yet, despite the current commercialization of Santería, the import-
ant role played by religious practitioners (babalawos, santeras and 
santeros) cannot be denied. After three decades of without organized 
religion, Santería reemerged to serve the 
needs of many Cubans, attracting a large 
following because of its practical approach 
to life. It is a religion that does not con-
cern itself with the after-life, but with the 
here and now. “Our religion is about prob-
lem-solving,” says Dionisio, “it is a book for 
life. It talks to you about your past and your present and prepares you 
for your future.” To this end, religious practitioners such as Dionisio 
remain central to the evolution of their communities. They are respon-
sible for strengthening the bonds within their religious houses and 
providing ethical, religious and psychological guidance. “Babalawos 
and santeros are in charge of fostering inside their religious fami-
lies the human values of solidarity, equity, tolerance and acceptance 
that are important and needed in any society” says Henry Heredia, an 
Afro-Cuban santero and an international Relations specialist at the 
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Marouan • Santería in Cuba 61
research institute Juan Marinello in Havana. Santería is also inclusive. 
Despite some gender restrictions that surround the Ifá priesthood, the 
religion accepts all sexual and gender orientations.
However, with the explosion in the number of babalawos, it is easy 
to notice the absence of female religious figures in the public space in 
Havana. The Ifá priests have become the public face of the religion; 
although, historically, women were the first founders and leaders of 
the religious houses in Cuba. The exclusory politics of the Ifá priests 
insures that they are the only voice of religious authority, and there-
fore, the only ones benefiting from the religious market. Babalawos 
often affirm that Ifá is part of Ocha, but Ocha is not part of Ifá. Ocha 
is inclusive, but Ifá is exclusive. This calculated refusal to be absorbed 
into the larger Santería community has landed babalawos power and 
religious monopoly.
To control religious knowledge, babalawos have relied on flimsy 
religious explanations that restricted the oracular powers of Ocha 
priestesses, or santeras. For instance, while there are sixteen signs in 
the cowrie shells form of divination, Ocha priestesses (and priests) are 
limited to twelve. Only the babalawos can divine beyond the twelfth 
sign. If the remaining four signs appear during an initial reading, the 
session has to be closed and the client must be sent to a babalawo for 
further reading. This is ironic since historically santeras have always 
spoken the language of Ifá.
Though these rules may show a deliberate attempt to restrict the 
power of santeras, the authority of the babalawos is hardly challenged 
because they possess prestige in their religious communities. Their 
knowledge remains unquestioned because they are seen as the pro-
tectors of their communities. The Ifá priests have also excluded gay 
men from divination. The existing gay babalawos have come out of 
the closet only after their initiation. “No babalawo would dare to ini-
tiate a gay man into Ifá,” stated Heredia.
This current reality contributed to the growth of a strong hetero-
sexual tradition that turned the culture of divination into a mascu-
line enterprise saturated with sexist claims against women. This does 
not mean that the voices of women are completely absent. Female 
religious figures, especially in Ocha, continue to work within their 
communities and perform divination although their voices remain 
lacking in the public sphere. While women within Ifá are perceived 
as spiritually superior in practice, they are told they are unfit for Ifá 
priesthood. In most religious houses, women’s jobs are restricted to 
the hard labor of domestic work such as cleaning the animals, cook-
ing, decorating, etc. Formulaic biological arguments such as female 
menstruation and half-baked anti-feminist statements are also used 
to discredit women’s spirituality and justify their marginalization. 
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maha
this sentence should be: While women within Ifá are perceived as spiritually superior, in practice they are told they are unfit for Ifá priesthood.
62 DOI 10.2979/transition.125.1.09 • Transition 125
As I was having a casual conversation about the place of women in 
Ifá with a religious practitioner, one of my friends made the mistake 
of introducing me as a feminist. The practitioner saw it fit to explain 
to me that a woman “could support but not join” the Ifá for the same 
reason that men “could support but not join” the Cuban Women 
Federation! 
“Until the 1980s, it was the women who were the avant-garde of 
the religion. They were the educators and the big priestesses (santero-
nas); the babalawos had little authority,” stated Victor Betancourt, a 
well-known Afro-Cuban babalawo residing in Old Havana. Those like 
Betancourt who was initiated in 1963 
at an early age and taught by power-
ful priestesses is aware of the insidi-
ous sexism that shapes the religion 
currently, and attributes the present 
climate to the lack of historical awareness. Betancourt is cognizant of 
the centrality of women religious practitioners to the religion and has 
witnessed the gradual receding of their voices. “We are going back to 
how women were doing things,” states Betancourt, who is working to 
restore the religion to its earlier form (before its commercialization) 
by relying on the legacy of long-standing priestesses, who he believes 
have the true knowledge. In collaboration with other religious houses, 
Betancourt records oral texts of the earlier periods, preserved by san-
teras, and deciphers them for meaning. “The songs is where all the 
knowledge is,” says Betancourt.
Although this is a draconian task, especially considering that the early 
songs have not been preserved in their original Yoruba, Betancourt’s 
restoration project remains necessary for the recovery of female reli-
gious voices. These songs originated in Africa, yet, how they’ve evolved 
in their local contexts in Cuba speaks to a rich legacy interpreted and 
re-contextualized by women. The dismantling of many religious houses 
during the early years of the Revolution, most of which were run by 
women, disrupted the religion’s oral tradition, which was carried in the 
songs and chants of the Orishas. Since the time of slavery, songs were 
the medium through which the religion was preserved and transmitted. 
Forbidden to teach their children about their religion, enslaved Africans 
passed on their knowledge through songs, a medium inconspicuous 
enough to not cause suspicion. Through this project of restoration, 
Betancourt and other babalawos who share his vision, offer an interven-
tion to the absence of female voices from the current religious scene. 
Raymalú Morales, an Afro-Cuban researcher in Popular Culture at the 
Institute Juan Marinello is also optimistic and believes thatdespite an 
insidious sexist culture, the voices of women will reemerge organically 
because women have always been a central part of the religion.
It is the white babalawos 
who have become the 
face of Santería.
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Marouan • Santería in Cuba 63
In the face of tourism, a change in the racial genealogy of the 
religion hs also emerged. It is the white babalawos who have become 
the face of Santería. This is not surprising, considering that racial prej-
udices still prevail. As in many parts of the Caribbean, whiteness is still 
associated with authority and privilege in the public domain. Like many 
parts of the Caribbean, European culture (i.e. light skin) is still seen 
as superior to African culture (i.e. dark skin). Tourists to Cuba, as well 
as the Cuban diaspora, mostly white, are more likely to consult white 
babalawos. “This could simply be a matter of convenience,” observes 
Bashezo, 
Preservation, 
2017. 
Installation 
close-up, soil, 
broken ceramic 
plates and cups, 
glasses, and dried 
flowers.
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64 DOI 10.2979/transition.125.1.09 • Transition 125
Heredia, “People run in the same social circles and white Cubans who 
come to Cuba for initiations are more likely to go to babalawos who are 
in their same white social circles.” In addition, whites in Cuba are in 
general more economically privileged, and as a result, white babalawos 
are able to navigate the new religious market with more ease. This is 
changing the racial genealogy of priesthood. Significantly, the majority 
of white Cuban babalawos who were initiated in the 1990s in Havana, 
when the secrets of the religion became accessible to whites, have 
Afro-Cuban godparents (those they were initiated by), but the majority 
of their godchildren (those they initiate) are white. It is possible to find 
in Havana now religious houses where all the members are white. This 
is even more noticeable in Miami, where there is a large population of 
white Cubans, catered to exclusively by white babalawos.
Many Afro-Cuban babalawos, especially those who stayed true to 
their faith in the early years of the Revolution when public religious 
worship was prohibited, view the growing number of white babalawos 
with suspicion. This is not because they believe the latter are not prone 
to Ifá priesthood—especially considering that many Afro-Cuban baba-
lawos, particularly in poor neighborhoods, have white godchildren. 
Babalawos like Betancourt who promotes a discourse of unity is keen 
on making a semantic distinction between whites (with capital W) 
and whites (with lower case w). He sees that many “Whites” are simply 
exploiting the current situation for economic gains. “Those of us who 
are insiders to the religion can see that they are not religious, that they 
don’t have religious feelings and they don’t have the faith. They don’t 
believe in our deities, they don’t believe in our ancestors because they 
still have racism in their hearts.”
Afro-Cubans who were not willing to give up their Orishas during 
the three decades of atheism paid a high price and carry bitter mem-
ories of being denied educational opportunities, jobs and housing by 
the Communist Party because of their religion. As a result, many still 
live in poor, dilapidated neighborhoods of Old Havana. With the com-
modification of Santería, it is white babalawos who can afford mobility, 
especially to places like Mexico and the U.S., and they are the ones 
benefitting from the waves of visitors flooding Havana from Europe, 
Mexico, Canada and the U.S. for initiations and religious consultations 
that are extremely costly. Since the 1990s, prices have been rising, not 
just for the goods needed in the ceremony, but initiation fees have also 
skyrocketed. There are babalawos who make more than one thousand 
dollars per week when the monthly salary for the average Cuban is 
twenty-five dollars.
These changes in the racial landscape of the religion are reinforced 
by a new racial discourse that lends legitimacy to white priesthood. The 
idea that white babalawos are better informed about Santería prevails. 
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Marouan • Santería in Cuba 65
According to some, being aware that they were not raised in the reli-
gion, white Cubans work harder to expand their religious knowledge. 
This argument, while it asserts the authority of whiteness, conveniently 
dismisses the knowledge of Afro-Cuban babalawos, who, according to 
many whites, might have inherited a Yoruba culture and folklore, but 
have none of the in-depth knowledge.
The 1990s was also a paradoxical decade. Policies designed to 
acknowledge Afro-Cuban cultural contributions directly resulted in 
the mainstreaming of Africana Religions. This prompted fundamental 
questions about racial identity, religious belonging and orthodoxy; 
especially that Santería in Cuba is non-hierarchical and has no central 
authority. Tension exists between those who believe in the necessity 
of “purging” the religion of its “foreign” elements and look towards 
Nigeria and Ile Ife as their central authority, and those who consider 
the transculturation as authentically Cuban and see Santería, not as an 
African religion, but as a Cuban religion with African roots.
To many, the transculturation of Santería, or what Cubans call el criollo, 
or creole, in reference to it’s hybrid nature, is a unique and positive 
manifestation of a history of survival and ability to adapt to dominant 
political systems. Shifting to the Nigerian model causes many philo-
sophical and aesthetic dilemmas for babalawos and religious adherents 
alike. Religious rites in Cuba are bound by the particular culture of 
each religious house, the way the relationship to the ancestors has been 
preserved in that particular house, and the fact that such relationship 
cannot be easily changed because the ancestors are at the center of the 
religion. The same can be said for ingredients such as tobacco, native 
to the Americas, and ceremonial objects, many of which come from 
the Catholic Church such as candles, bells, candelabras, etc., and are 
fundamental to any religious ceremony.
The question of authenticity is also complex. While those in support 
of the Africanization of the religion believe that the Nigerian model is 
the most authentic, since it is the one brought by their enslaved ances-
tors from Africa, others recognize that embracing the Nigerian model 
might be challenging. They believe that el Criollo, or the creole model 
is, in fact, the most authentic as Cubans have succeeded in preserving 
elements no longer existent in Nigerian Yoruba practices. The fast 
spread of Pentecostalism among the Yoruba in Nigeria—particularly 
among Yoruba chiefs—complicate the assertion that there might still 
be a primordial version of the religion in Nigeria for Cubans to claim. 
Dionisio tells me, “It is the Nigerians who are coming to us and feeding 
from us and our ancestral knowledge.” Collaborations between Cuban 
and Nigerian religious practitioners are common. Most Cuban practi-
tioners I have met over the years are well informed about the Yoruba 
religion in Nigeria and open to debate about origin and orthodoxy. 
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66 DOI 10.2979/transition.125.1.09 • Transition 125
Perhaps this openness explains, to an extent, the major role Cubans 
and the Cuban diaspora have played in universalizing the Ifá divination 
system, especially in the U.S., Latin America and Europe.
Many of those who support the Creole model lament the Catholic 
Church’s attitude towards their religion.Santería priests and prac-
titioners are aware that the relationship to the Catholic Church is 
a one-way street. Many Santería priests attend the baptism of their 
godchildren in Catholic Churches, but they know their gods are not 
welcome in the Church. This is ironic, since Santería practitioners are 
the ones who support the Church. Even casual observation reveals 
swaths of Santería adherents in their beaded necklaces and bracelets 
heading to the Church for baptisms, funerals, etc. This tension is not 
just doctrinal, but also racial. Betancourt shared a telling anecdote 
with me about the visit of Pope Juan Pablo to Cuba in 1998. The Pope 
asked for a tambor de fundamento, a sacred drums performance, which is 
not surprising. Pope Juan Pablo was known for his revolutionary char-
acter and ecumenical spirit. The performance took place in Church 
St. Nicholas. Betancourt, who was sitting close to the priest, heard him 
Bashezo, 
Tending my 
Garden, 
2017. 
Close-up, soil, 
broken ceramic 
plates and cups, 
dried flowers, 
glasses, and 
bottle cap fan.
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Marouan • Santería in Cuba 67
comment under his breath: “What are these bloody blacks doing here 
with their satanic nonsense?”
It is true that the 1990s changed many of the misconceptions 
about Afro-Cuban culture and religion; however, in addition to the 
Church, many Cuban intellectuals and government officials still 
believe that Santería and other Africana religions in Cuba such as 
Palo Monte, represent a legacy of ignorance. More interestingly, 
the growing numbers of white Cubans who embrace Santería and 
take on priesthood still carry many stereotypes about Afro-Cubans. 
Adhering to the religion does not necessarily signify a change in 
racial consciousness. This is especially noticeable among some 
middle-class white Cubans who have adopted the religion through 
an intellectual process directly linked to cultural and governmental 
institutions.
Cubans who want to africanize the religion express a need for cen-
tral authority and a preoccupation with the clandestine style in which 
rituals are conducted in the Creole model. Because the Creole model 
does not subscribe to a dogma, there is an opportunity for unscrupu-
lous, untrained individuals to claim priesthood and adopt clandestine 
practices purely for economic gains. The Nigerian model provides a 
clear path and rituals that are marked by simplicity. The Creole model is 
more extravagant, with an exaggartated prominence of animal sacrifice 
ceremonies which some babalawos might 
exploit. The Cuban Reggaeton group Kola 
Loca provides a poignant social commentary 
on the Creole model and the demands of 
some babalawos in their song entitled, La 
Estafa del Babalawo, (the deception of the 
Ifá priest). The song is a satire and humor-
ously mocks the excessive demands of a 
priest when visited by a devotee who was 
struck by a stream of bad luck. To remove 
the curse, the priest asks for five hens, a 
can of gasoline, tangerines, chicken feed, duck eggs, a phone card (in 
U.S dollars), a painting of the Mona Lisa, a baby turtle, a bald frog, six 
hundred-dollar bills, etc. When the man’s situation does not improve 
and he returns to the babalawo, the latter goes on the defensive and 
tells him that this certainly was not the fault of Orula (the Orisha of 
divination and patron saint of the Ifá priests). The song ends with a 
tongue-in-cheek statement: “One has to respect the babalawos!”
The zeal with which some babalawos approach the religion is an 
attempt to conceal an enormous theological gap. Because of the lack 
of a principal dogma, many priests do not take the trouble of learning 
in-depth about the meaning of each ritual. Instead, animal sacrifice 
To remove the curse, 
the priest asks for five 
hens, a can of gasoline, 
tangerines, a painting of 
the Mona Lisa, a baby 
turtle, a bald frog, six 
hundred-dollar bills, etc.
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68 DOI 10.2979/transition.125.1.09 • Transition 125
becomes the answer to a multitude of issues. The more complex one’s 
problems are, the more animals they are required to sacrifice. This sim-
plification of the religion is perpetuated and transferred to devotees, 
who, having paid such a high price for the ceremony, do not feel the 
need to be fully devoted to the faith. Those who object to the central-
ity of animal sacrifice argue that under slavery the practice of animal 
sacrifice was curtailed simply because it was unaffordable and the faith 
survived. Perhaps the the Creole practice reflects an attempt to assert 
authority and power through material symbols of excess and wealth 
against a historical legacy of enslavement and deprivation.
Yet, one cannot ignore the economic challenges of the everyday life 
in Cuba, which also partially explains this zealousness. Many of these 
practices were established at the peak of the economic crisis in the 
early 1990s, when food scarcity was widespread. Heredia insightfully 
explains: “It is hard to think of animal sacrifice as excessive when it was 
performed to help feed families.” In fact, what typifies Santería the 
most and explains its popularity is this attentiveness to the community 
and its needs. I have heard many Cubans make the statement that 
Santería is the ultimate expression of socialism because it is founded 
on the concept of sharing. When there is a 
ceremony, the whole neighborhood shares 
the food and drink regardless of religious 
affiliation.
While tradition holds that animals are an 
essential medium of communication with the 
Orishas, some practitioners find that the act of 
animal sacrifice poses a theological dilemma. 
Animal sacrifice presupposes the superiority of humans and assumes 
that animals exist merely for human consumption, an idea they per-
ceive as incongruent with the animistic philosophy of Santería which 
holds that all elements of nature as endowed with spiritual essence. 
These practitioners, instead, shift their focus from animal sacrifice 
to plants instead, which they perceive as being endowed with more 
power. “The real Ache is in plants. Every religious ceremony starts with 
the use of plants. I communicate with my Orishas with flowers, fruits 
and candles,” reports Heredia, also one of the few in Havana initiated 
into Ocha “without blood.” Raufe Rafael, an outspoken Afro-Cuban 
babalawo who leads the trend against animal sacrifice in Havana, argues 
that since animal sacrifice is a symbolic act it can be transcended. What 
matters most is one’s intention, not the number of animals they are 
willing to sacrifice. “We should work with the energy of the living, with 
the energy of life. There is no need to kill,” he states. Rafael was aban-
doned by his religious family and his clients when he shared his views 
on animal sacrifice. When he decided to initiate his children without 
“It is hard to think 
of animal sacrifice 
as excessive when 
it was performed to 
help feed families.”
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Marouan • Santería in Cuba 69
blood, his community condemned him and predicted that his children 
would die.
Rafael also belongs to a growing number of environmentalist 
religious practitioners who attempt to reform practices deemed both 
harmful to the environment and unpractical. Rafael opposes the 
throwing of large quantities of food and fruits in the sea and rivers, 
not just because this harms other living organisms, but also because 
he believes that only a small portion of the food should be used as 
offering, the rest should be shared among the living instead. He 
believes that the community is the beating heart of the religion and 
therefore it should rejoice in the sharingof food and drink. Only 
time will tell the impact these environmental concerns may have on 
the way these religious practices are enacted. The environmentalist 
discourse is growing in Havana, and there is a rise in interest in Bud-
dhism and other eastern philosophies which have a similar approach 
to the environment.
For many Afro-Cuban practitioners of Santería and their religious 
communities, the religion provides an alternative space, independent 
from the state, where they can assert autonomy. Despite the fact that 
they have not been the main actors in the way their religion has been 
interpreted, they have continued to carve an autonomous space for 
themselves. It remains to be seen how the restoration of diplomatic rela-
tions with the U.S. after 54 years, and the explosive uptick in American 
tourism will affect the religious landscape. Will the growth of tourism 
mean a further commercialization of Santería? Considering the exist-
ing prejudices in the U.S. against Africana religions, often portrayed 
in popular culture as “satanic,” “evil” and “backward,” will Santería 
offend the sensibility of the growing number of U.S. visitors? Will a 
state-controlled tourist industry in Cuba repress the public expression 
of Santería? Will the religion be separated from its historical context 
and reduced to gothic symbols and images, similar to the way Vodou 
has fared in New Orleans?
Although Cubans are aware that the U.S. embargo was not the 
sole cause of the economic crisis, the U.S. stance continues to play 
an important role in the national discourse and in the articulation of 
Cuban national identity. The voices and debates in this essay encapsulate 
the transition Cuba is experiencing between an impinging free market 
and a socialist culture with its emphasis on egalitarian values. I remem-
ber how palpable this tension felt during the week the U.S. embassy 
opened, which coincided with Fidel Castro’s 89th birthday. Cubans 
celebrated the triumph of socialism, while simultaneously yearning 
for a better relationship with the U.S. “el Comandante’s” birthday cel-
ebrations were everywhere. In El Palacio de la Rumba (Rumba palace), 
Afro-Cuban music was blasted alongside socialist slogans. One of the 
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70 DOI 10.2979/transition.125.1.09 • Transition 125
Cuban Fives, a national hero, who shared a birthday with Castro was 
there with his family, and many lined up to greet him.
The opening of the U.S. embassy took place the following day. My 
landlady, overtaken by emotion, talked about how the normalization 
of U.S./Cuban relations could mean a better economic future for her 
son. I watched the ceremony from a distance, beneath the scorching 
sun. While John Kerry gave his speech I had a casual conversation with 
a bystander. I told him I lived in New York. “The city of rats?” he asked. 
I could tell he enjoyed the surprised look on my face. When I realized 
what he meant, I laughed. “Yes. Mainly in the subways,” I said. With the 
same amused look on his face he continued: “If the U.S. is such a super 
power, how come they couldn’t defeat the rats?” 
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