Some years have passed since I started thinking of the world in terms of fiction and poetry. Now I ask myself why I am not interested in fictionalizing some lies or some truths which produce some harrowing chills. I have asked myself numerous times.
In my mind, I can see the image of Jose Cano Fuentes — a Guantanamo native who was beaten by the political police in Santiago de Cuba. His face is purplish because of the bruises. I am then frightened by the wince of pain of Martha Diaz Rondon some days after the malevolence inflicted by state security in Banes on October 31st of last year. Some things are simply better suited for writing testimonies and not for literary skirmishes for contests I am no longer invited to.
The family of a very well-known cinematographer was infuriated when I quoted the words of a high-ranking Cuban official directed towards the festive and rebellious atmosphere which a certain provincial film festival inspired from young participants. I received a tier of reprimands, but the mentioned functionary did not. I could try to write a good comedy, a variety show of our times. However, I am not inspired by that kind of usurpation of collective memory. It’s just one more attack for another detailing of what is a public act and what is not. Just another alert on how those I can now call “my new readers” have diversified or have not let themselves be induced.
The literary event becomes global as soon as a local subject is brought up. It gets held up and becomes rancid when a woman from Las Tunas who studied my same profession in the 90’s and who now lives in Lausanne, Switzerland asks me to report news about the area where she lived until recently. What matters to me is to make a proper geography of my experiences. However, I must tend to certain requests from some of the most loyal readers of this blog, those who visit the site to know the latest happenings of this asphyxiated world in which I am still breathing and therefore I should not disappoint them.
On occasion, when I attempt to balance the story of the victims and their contingent problem, these pieces of desperation are tragedies worthy of Felix B. Caignet. I think the real fruits will occur when they understand why I can never remain quiet, because my only compass is to not lie and feel like a dignified man.
Translated by Raul G.
May 5 2011
