A Critical Perspective from History
By Yalil Guerra, Special to the Van Nuys News Press
Clarifying Note:
This article does not seek to call into question cubanía—either as an identity or as a lived experience—which I assume in an intimate and unequivocal way. Rather, it aims to engage in a deeper reflection on the historical and cultural foundations that shaped it. Recognizing myself as Cuban to the core does not exclude the need to interrogate the past more profoundly, from critical perspectives that are rarely explored. Looking at history through different lenses is not an act of negation, but one of intellectual awareness: a search to understand, in all its complexity, the processes that formed us and that still resonate in our present.
I will not attempt here an exhaustive definition of what “Spanish” and “African” mean to Cubans, since what arrived on the island under both designations was, from its origins, deeply diverse. Neither Spain nor Africa can be understood as culturally homogeneous realities, and any attempt to reduce them to unified categories impoverishes the historical reading of Cuban identity.
Spain, for example, is far from a monolithic cultural block. Even today it is organized into seventeen autonomous communities and two autonomous cities, reflecting a historical plurality marked by regional, linguistic, and cultural differences. Speaking of “the Spanish” in the Cuban context therefore implies recognizing a multiplicity of traditions that were already present during the colonial period.
Something similar occurs with the African heritage in Cuba, which does not originate from a single source or people, but from a vast and complex network of cultures from different regions of the African continent. Among them were, among many others, Mandingas, Wolofs, and Fulani; Gangas, Longobás, Maní, Quisí, and Minas; Lucumíes, Carabalíes, Congos, Motembos, Musundis, Mombasas, and Sacuaes, as well as groups that arrived directly or indirectly from various African regions. Far from being anecdotal, this enumeration illustrates the richness and complexity of African contributions to Cuban culture.
The Cuban ethnomusicologist, essayist, and anthropologist Fernando Ortiz was among the first to point out this reality when, in Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar (1940), he formulated the concept of transculturation. For Ortiz, Cuban culture is not a simple sum of Spanish and African elements, but the result of a dynamic process of exchange, transformation, and constant creation, from which a new reality emerges—distinct from its original components.
Along the same lines, historian Manuel Moreno Fraginals emphasized in El ingenio. The Cuban Sugar Industry (1978) that Africans brought to Cuba did not belong to a single culture nor share a homogeneous identity. On the contrary, they came from diverse societies with their own languages, religions, and social structures—factors that had a decisive impact on the island’s cultural configuration.
Recognizing this plurality does not question cubanía; on the contrary, it enriches it. Understanding that both Spanish and African influences arrived in Cuba in multiple and fragmented forms allows for a more honest historical appreciation of the process through which these traditions met, transformed each other, and gave rise to a new culture. Cuban identity thus emerges not from a single, immutable essence, but from a complex and living convergence that continues to define us today.
1. Introduction: Where the Question Begins
The Cuban contradanza and the habanera are often upheld as indisputable emblems of nineteenth-century Cuban music, frequently presented as manifestations of a national identity in the process of formation. However, a thoughtful and critical perspective invites nuance: until 1898, Cuba was a Spanish province, lacking its own political sovereignty. In that context, the composers and musicians who shaped these genres were, from a legal and juridical standpoint, subjects of the Spanish Crown—that is, Spanish citizens.
Until 1898, Cuba was legally an overseas Spanish province, recognized as such by the Constitution of Cádiz (1812) and the constitutions of 1869 and 1876, which integrated it into the Spanish Nation rather than defining it strictly as a colony, even though for long periods it was governed through colonial structures and practices. This duality—province in legal terms and colony in daily administration—explains much of the political, social, and cultural tension of nineteenth-century Cuba. Those born on the island were subjects, even though their rights were conditioned by special laws and a centralist administration. Understanding this distinction is not a semantic exercise, but a historical necessity: only within this framework can we rigorously read the formation of creole elites, the emergence of a complex urban society, and consequently the development of cultural expressions—such as music—that arose in a territory not yet a sovereign nation, but already beginning to imagine itself as one.
2. Citizenship and Historical Context: Cuba as a Spanish Province
December 10, 1898 marked the end of the War of Independence—also known as the Spanish-American War—with the signing of the Treaty of Paris, a document that irrevocably redefined the geopolitics of the Caribbean and the Philippines. This treaty confirms that all inhabitants of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines were subjects of Spain—that is, Spanish citizens—including those dedicated to music, literature, painting, and dance.
Article IX of the Treaty of Paris unequivocally states:
“Spanish subjects, natives of the Peninsula, residing in the territory over which Spain by this treaty relinquishes or cedes her sovereignty, may remain in such territory or may remove therefrom, retaining in either event all their rights of property, including the right to sell or dispose of such property or of its proceeds; and they shall also have the right to carry on their industry, commerce, and professions, being subject in respect thereof to such laws as are applicable to other foreigners. In case they remain in the territory, they may preserve their allegiance to the Crown of Spain by making, before a court of record, within a year from the date of the exchange of ratifications of this treaty, a declaration of their decision to preserve such allegiance; in default of which declaration they shall be held to have renounced it and to have adopted the nationality of the territory in which they may reside.
The civil rights and political status of the native inhabitants of the territories hereby ceded to the United States shall be determined by Congress.”
An analysis of this document confirms that these territories were Spanish provinces, comparable to the Canary Islands or Mallorca today, or to Guadeloupe and Martinique as current French territories, and Hawaii and Puerto Rico as belonging to the United States, whose inhabitants are considered U.S. citizens. This juridical and historical framework is essential for understanding the identity and nationality of artistic creators during the colonial period.
Everything created in the arts—whether music, literature, painting, or dance—and all individuals born in these territories were, by law and by history, Spanish citizens. Recognizing this does not diminish the significance of their work, but it does compel us to think about the notion of “Cuban” in a more nuanced and historically grounded way.
3. The Euro-African Fusion in Music
The so-called “Cuban” contradanza, for example, stands as a creole version of the European contradance, transformed and enriched by the rhythms that resonated in the streets, festivities, and dances of the time. This reworking endowed it with a singular, unrepeatable character, distinct from the European model cultivated by figures such as Mozart and Beethoven.
Born as the country dance in England and later refined in the French court, it arrived in Cuba as an imported European dance, a natural product of the cultural networks of the Atlantic world. Its presence on the island reflects less an isolated creative act than a historical process of circulation, appropriation, and transformation characteristic of many colonial-period musical expressions.
The novelist and musicologist Alejo Carpentier argues in Music in Cuba that the contradanza was introduced by French immigrants fleeing the Haitian Revolution in the late eighteenth century. This widely disseminated thesis has shaped the dominant narrative about the genre’s origins for decades. However, other respected scholars such as Zoila Lapique and Natalio Galán propose a more complex reading: the contradanza may have arrived via multiple routes and earlier dates, directly from Spain, France, or England, as part of the standard salon repertoire of the time.
What is certain is that by 1803 the contradanza San Pascual Bailón was already documented, providing clear evidence that the genre circulated and was practiced in Cuba at an early date. Even more revealing than its presence, however, is the transformation it underwent on Cuban soil. From the mid-nineteenth century onward, the contradanza clearly incorporated rhythmic patterns of African origin, the result of interaction between European models and a free, urban, and culturally active Black population that had already become an integral part of Havana’s social fabric.
The pianist, pedagogue, and writer Cecilio Tieles, in his lecture Catalan Presence in the Habanera in Cuba, points to the existence in Havana of a free and transculturated Black population, which he described as euronegra or Euro-African: musicians trained in European aesthetic codes and values without renouncing their African roots. From this milieu emerged the musicians Tieles identifies as Afro-Hispano-Cubans, active since the late eighteenth century and undisputed protagonists of Havana’s musical life long before a Cuban nation existed in the political sense.
Figures such as Ulpiano Estrada—who conducted operas by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Gioachino Rossini between 1817 and 1820—or Tomás Buelta y Flores, whose orchestra achieved notable popularity and economic success, illustrate this phenomenon. Buelta y Flores, however, was persecuted in 1844—along with other Black musicians—under accusations of conspiracy against Spain, when in reality they represented an emerging Black petite bourgeoisie perceived by colonial authorities as a threat. It is no coincidence that both were Habaneros: Havana was the epicenter of this complex musical modernity.
In this context, it is revealing that Spanish composer, musicologist, and pedagogue Felipe Pedrell mentioned five composers of contradanzas, three of whom were Black—Tomás Alarcón, Ulpiano Estrada, and Buelta y Flores—compared to two white composers: Muñoz y Zayas and Manuel Saumell. This fact, far from anecdotal, confirms the central role of Afro-Hispano-Cuban musicians in the formation of one of Cuba’s fundamental nineteenth-century genres. As José Antonio Saco noted, at this stage it would be more accurate to speak of an early awareness of nationality—or more precisely, of a musical identity differentiated from Spanish music, but still distant from the modern concept of cubanía.
The habanera originated in Cuba during the first half of the nineteenth century. The first documented habanera was El amor en el baile, by an anonymous author, published in Havana’s literary newspaper La Prensa on November 13, 1842. The genre was also incorporated into the European classical repertoire. Julián Fontana, a friend of Chopin, published in Paris in 1845 Réminiscences de l’Havanne and Souvenirs de l’île de Cuba, Op. 10, in 1847. An emblematic example is Bizet’s Carmen (1875), although the principal promoter of the rhythm was the Spanish composer Sebastián Iradier (1809–1865), author of La Paloma, composed in 1863 after his visit to Cuba. Later, composers such as Claude Debussy, Maurice Ravel, Isaac Albéniz, Manuel de Falla, Enrique Granados, and, further into the twentieth century, Ernesto Halffter and Xavier Montsalvatge integrated the habanera into their works, adapting and reinterpreting it from contexts far removed from the island. This demonstrates that what we now recognize as nineteenth-century “Cuban” music was already circulating and being transformed beyond Cuba, in contexts where Cuban political sovereignty did not yet exist. For many of these composers, the habanera was Spanish, even though its origin was undeniably Cuban.
Carpentier observes that the habanera was not originally called by that name by its performers in Havana; it acquired the term as it spread beyond the island and gained international projection. This phenomenon highlights the genre’s transnational circulation prior to independence, situating it in a historical framework in which musical expressions developed before the Cuban state existed as a sovereign entity.
Nicolás Ruiz Espadero, pianist and composer, has been the subject of a necessary reassessment within the project Hispano-Cuban Romantic Music of the Nineteenth Century, led by pianist Cecilio Tieles and musicologist Jesús Gómez Cairo, held in Havana between June 21 and 24, 2018. In that context, Tieles emphasized:
“Cuban Romanticism grew in a particularly favorable environment for music and, for evident historical reasons, was closely linked to Spanish culture.”
In the realm of piano music, a generation of fundamental figures stands out—Fernando Arizti, Pablo Desvernine, Adolfo de Quesada, José Manuel Jiménez Berroa, Ignacio Cervantes, Gaspar Villate, and Cecilia Arizti—the latter three direct disciples of Espadero, whom Tieles considers the most important figure in Hispano piano music prior to Isaac Albéniz and Enrique Granados. Particularly significant is the fact that Espadero developed his entire artistic and personal career in Cuba, without ever leaving the island.
Closeness to Spanish culture cannot be explained solely by artistic or cultural affinities, but by a concrete historical condition: until 1898, the inhabitants of the island were legally Spanish citizens, born in the province of Cuba. This fact, often relegated or softened in later narratives, compels us to reconsider how our cultural history—and by extension, our educational and identity formation—has been constructed. It should be emphasized that this reflection does not question cubanía as a feeling or cultural expression; on the contrary, it contributes to a more lucid and nuanced understanding of a shared past indispensable for understanding who we are today.
In this sense, Fernando Ortiz’s concept of transculturation is particularly illuminating. Ortiz conceived Cuban culture not as a mere juxtaposition of influences, but as the result of a profound and creative fusion between Spanish and African elements. One may speak, if desired, of roots—a father and a mother—but the fruit of that union, the “child,” constitutes a new, indivisible entity with its own traits, irreducible to the sum of its original components. Ignoring or minimizing this hybrid condition not only impoverishes our understanding of historical development, but also distorts the reading of what, over time, we have come to recognize as fully Cuban, even though its formation occurred within an unequivocally Spanish legal and juridical framework.
4. Cuban Music after 1898: A Conscious Identity
Only after 1898, with Cuba’s formal independence, can one speak of a music that may be considered fully Cuban from a juridical standpoint. This is, of course, my personal interpretation and concern, and I invite readers to explore its nuances.
Twentieth-century composers worked within the framework of an emancipated nation, with its own flag and anthem, conscious of the need to project a distinct identity to the world. Their works not only expressed individual talent, but deliberately reflected the culture, memory, and identity of a country that was finally sovereign, endowing music with an authentically national voice.
Musical creation in this period reveals itself as a mirror of a nation beginning to define itself politically, socially, and culturally. Each work, each rhythmic or melodic innovation, bears the imprint of a Cuba that was learning to recognize and assert itself. Figures such as Ernesto Lecuona, Alejandro García Caturla, and Amadeo Roldán personify this consolidation: their music not only delights, but clearly proclaims the identity of a sovereign people, embracing without reservation all the influences that converge in our culture and contribute to its singular richness. Also noteworthy is the case of Carlo Borbolla (1902–1990), whose figure stands as a bridge between European musical tradition and Cuban music in formation, integrating popular and academic elements with rigor.
I am fully aware—and I affirm—that music created prior to that date is undoubtedly Cuban in its cultural and expressive genesis; but from a juridical and historical perspective, it belongs within the Spanish framework. A similar situation occurs with Andalusian flamenco, the fandango of Huelva, or the various musical expressions of Aragón and northwestern Spain—Galicia, Asturias, and Cantabria—all bearing unmistakable local traits while remaining integrated within a single juridical center: Spain. It should be remembered that each province or region imparted a specific color to its music, generating a plurality of sonic languages coexisting under the same political and legal structure. Cuba was no exception within that historical network.
The process of defining the new Cuban nationality was consolidated primarily after May 20, 1902, when the Republic of Cuba was proclaimed, the U.S. military occupation ended, and the national flag was raised with Tomás Estrada Palma as the first president—albeit under a sovereignty still limited by the Platt Amendment.
5. Creators in the Diaspora
Another key debate concerns how “Cuban” works created outside the island can be considered. Does emigration strip someone of their cubanía, or does it accompany them throughout their lives? In both the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, creators who have emigrated—and continue to do so—carry with them love for their homeland, along with all the influences that have shaped their intellect and formation. Thus, each member of the diaspora creates new forms of art beyond physical borders, with or without syncopation, but always rooted in a connection to Cuba.
All musical creation arises from personal experience, but in the Cuban case that experience is inevitably traversed by the nation’s historical and cultural memory. Within it coexist memories, persistent resonances, and silences that also form part of the discourse. Cuba expresses itself both through proximity and distance, in a continuous tension between past, present, and future projection. In this symbolic space, music affirms itself as a vehicle of recognizable identity, whether conceived on the island or in the diaspora, bearing witness to a cubanía that is plural, dynamic, and constantly evolving.
Recognition of these creators, who from distant lands continue to embody and project our culture into the present, should be approached with an elevated and dispassionate perspective, beyond ideological affiliations or political contingencies. History will vindicate them and ultimately incorporate them into the common heritage; and within a century, when the disputes of our present time have faded, their names and works will be inscribed—without reservation—into that collective memory that transcends circumstantial fractures and binds us together as an indivisible historical community.
6. Final Reflection: Honoring History and Projecting the Future
This essay is also a call for cultural unity and for the preservation of national heritage. Our music connects us with European, African, and many other traditions. Preserving this legacy requires historical honesty: only by recognizing our diversity can we strengthen Cuban identity and transmit it to future generations with pride, awareness, and dignity.
This text is an invitation to look attentively and affectionately at our history. It is not about questioning for the sake of questioning, but about approaching with respect those who made it possible, recognizing their achievements, doubts, and expressive richness. In my view, it is from this comprehensive perspective that we can honor our creators, safeguard our heritage, and accompany Cuban music toward a future that lovingly embraces its roots while opening itself with hope and creativity to new possibilities.
