The residents rose before dawn and retired after dark, forming surreal lines of order. Their faces were fixed in reverence.

In rural Cuba, there was no trace of the cynicism or state pressure that was on display in Havana.

The revolution delivered to the rural poor the benefits of cities, like doctors and teachers. Schoolgirls and weathered farmers shared an unscripted devotion born of admiration for Mr. Castro’s ideals and values, and for the self-respect he gave his people.

On Saturday, in Revolution Plaza in Santiago de Cuba, where his revolution began, the ambience was one of genuine warmth. People were enjoying one another, their friends and families, a human connection that predated the distraction of selfies and social media. A distinctly Cuban togetherness unbroken by technology.

Mr. Castro was buried in the city Sunday morning, the revolutionary interred in the heartland of his revolution. Compatriots from his earliest days hobbled to attend, as did students, soldiers and officials. As the procession finished the final mile from the plaza to the cemetery, a stillness presided over the crowd.

But the refrain of the journey was the same. What had been carried in the chants of Cubans and on their shirts and banners now emerged without a word: Yo Soy Fidel.