It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when Islam was first introduced to Cuba. Some historians believe it may have been as early as the 1800s, when enslaved people from West Africa were brought to the island by European colonialists. Today, there are estimated to be just over 10,000 indigenous Cubans practising Islam, and until recently, there was no purpose-built mosque on the island.
My first trip to Cuba was in the summer of 2009. Castro was still alive, and this small Caribbean island was celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Cuban revolution. I arrived on a small propeller plane from Panama City, greeted by the humid air and tall palms lining the airport. As I left the plane and walked towards arrivals, I took a deep breath. I was in Cuba, but why? This was the exact question the immigration officer asked me. Tourism had been growing, but I imagined it must still have been rare for Muslims like myself to visit this socialist island. After a few minutes of back and forth, he handed back my passport with a “bienvenido”, welcome. I had come to Cuba with one purpose: to see if life could flourish and a society could prosper outside capitalism. I wasn’t a communist, but I wanted to believe in a philosophy that offered social harmony through the principle of brotherhood.
After spending a few days in Havana, I travelled around the island, visiting Cienfuegos, Trinidad, and as far south as Santiago de Cuba, passing by Guantánamo Bay. Religion as a whole had largely vanished after the 1959 revolution, but each city and town still has a cathedral located in its main square. Socialism had replaced the Catholic Church, and for decades, atheism became the state’s official ideology. It wasn’t until the 1980s that attitudes towards religion softened, allowing Catholicism and Santería (an Afro-American religion of Caribbean origins) to be practised more openly. But what of Islam?
In 2007, Castro promised to build a mosque following a request from Cuba’s Muslims. It would not be until 2015, one year before his death, that the country’s first mosque was established. Funded by the Saudi government, this mosque provided a public, central space for practising Islam. Until that point, Cuban Muslims either prayed at home or, if they were in Havana, within the Casa Del Árabe (House of the Arab).
For 22 years, congregational Friday prayers were held in this beautiful Andalusian-style house, once belonging to an Arab trader. I remember visiting it in 2009. The ground floor featured an open courtyard, brightly lit, with a finely cut stone fountain at its centre, still flowing, surrounded by tropical plants and a few guava trees. The house was built in a typical Damascene style, undoubtedly brought from Syria to al-Andalus during the Umayyad period, and later lovingly transplanted to Cuba by an Arab trader in the early 20th century.
I climbed the stairs and found the first floor carpeted, unusual in this climate, and devoid of furniture, having been converted into a prayer space. A simple yet beautiful wooden minbar occupied one corner, with an old Moroccan glass lamp hanging above it. While exploring the house, I met the caretaker, who explained in Spanish that this casa was only opened once a week, on Fridays, for prayers. I was surprised to find that Havana even had a Muslim community. In addition to Cuban Muslims, some of whom had Arab roots, this makeshift prayer space was also attended by foreign dignitaries and diplomats, mainly from the Arab world. After the caretaker left, I descended to the fountain, performed wudu, and completed my afternoon prayers. Just as I was leaving, I noticed a peacock standing beside the fountain, a vivid reminder of paradise that would stay with me as I travelled the world.
I returned to Havana in 2016, eager to visit the casa again. It was Friday, and I hoped to meet the small Muslim community gathering for prayer. As I walked through the historic centre of Havana, the city seemed changed. The streets were livelier, and where I once saw old men reading newspapers or playing chess, musicians and artists now lined the way, hoping to attract tourists. The atmosphere felt charged, as though a long-awaited festival was about to begin. Cuba had started to reform its tourism and economy, slowly allowing capitalism to creep in.
When I reached the casa, I found the doors shut, with no signs of activity. I tried to push open the heavy wooden doors, but they wouldn’t budge. Just as I was about to give up, feeling as if I had some claim over this place, I noticed a new mosque across the street. It was the Abdallah Mosque, which had opened a year prior with government permission, providing space for hundreds of worshippers. The walls were whitewashed, supported by wooden columns, a distinctly Caribbean urf (custom). Inside, the walls bore large black Qur’anic verses, and a straw mat covered the floor for prayer. Soon, around a hundred men and women gathered, and we prayed together.
When I left the mosque, the casa’s doors were open. God had answered the plea of my heart. I entered quickly, in case it closed again, and walked around, noting how much was as I remembered. Yet, something felt different. Since the mosque’s opening, the casa was no longer used for prayer. The call to prayer had ceased, and worshippers no longer prostrated on its floors. The peacock, too, had disappeared.
114 Calle Oficios. That’s the address if you find yourself in Havana. Though, I’ve been told that the casa is now permanently closed.
Note: This essay is taken from the travel series found in Finding Him: A Journey Across the Islamic World