Author: Rebeca Monzo

The 2013-2014 school year begun, dragging into this new stage all the deficiencies and errors accumulated during these past 30 years.

After swallowing the bitter pill of acquiring uniforms, sending them to be taken in or out, finding another from the son of a friend he no longer needs, in order to have two sets to alternate, finding the books and something to cover them with, paying for notebooks with CUC (hard currency), because the ones from the school are not enough, pencils, backpack, socks, sneakers or shoes (a parent’s worst nightmare), everything an investment in hard cash, the task with the biggest responsibility, because of what it implies, is to successfully enroll children in a school (one of those that corresponds to the area of residence), which has enough teachers, since the deficit of educators is such that many classrooms don’t have a teacher assigned to them.

Each day there are fewer young people who aspire to major in pedagogy, among other reasons, because the salaries paid are insufficient, and they don’t enjoy the minimal conditions needed or the social acknowledgment of exercising one’s profession correctly, as well as the charged ideology that being a teacher entails.

Many young people, who were taken with the profession, end up leaving the classroom to go to work in the tourism or restaurant sector, to find something more attractive and better paid. So then they call those students who didn’t succeed in passing the exam for this major, and who prepared only three months for the teaching profession, as well as those put up as substitute teachers in televised classrooms, provoking the sleepiness and boredom of students and teachers, without noticing the errors of education that has occurred through the years.

Now the government complains of the tremendous academic deficit of our educators and pupils, which prevents the latter from being accepted in the universities, which, in turn, have seen a decrease in their academic level, due to the politics and partisan ideology that has always been a priority in teaching. At this very moment, there is a case being made that this school year be dedicated to “The Five Heroes.” For this, of course, they didn’t consult the teachers or the students. Again, politics over teaching.

Another aspect to take into account is that it is principally the parents and the teachers who in the days before the classes begin, must, with their own resources, clean the classrooms and school yards and on occasion, even provide the paint with which to repair these into decency. Some parents, who can count on certain economic resources, even buy electric fans to ensure that the environment is more pleasant in their children’s classrooms. All of this is common practice. Once again the citizens resolve the problems that belong to the State, who publicly makes note of its “victorious triumph” and in the case of education, one of the “triumphant flags” raised is socialism, which in these moments is totally worn down and frayed.

In addition, there is constant talk of recovering formal education, good manners and social mores, and I wonder: who were the principals responsible for these disappeared and destroyed values, instilling in adolescents the promiscuity reigning in forced scholarships and schools in the countryside, where the good manners transmitted from the family are retracted, considered petty bourgeois behavior?

Who could have forgotten that it was the teachers themselves who, in many schools in the eighties, supplied sticks and stones to the students, under guidance from the authorities, to repress anyone who intended to leave the country?

Now, who should we blame for the improper conduct, vulgarity and marginality developed in our society where the bad examples have gone hand in hand with economic and social decline for half a century, where the fear induced has led us to be involuntarily complicit with our silence.

4 September 2013

Much has been said lately about the subject, after the most recent address of Raul, where he addressed these social problems that were simply ignored. Now the media constantly make programs dedicated to this social phenomenon, in efforts to improve what they themselves decided to ignore all these years of Revolution, becoming unwitting accomplices and partners.

Television, one of the most important means of dissemination, is precisely the one that has influenced programs and novels, where vulgar language and gestures have been the constant, regardless of the old and well-known phrase of “a picture is worth a thousand words.” This method, therefore, is a massive “fixer” of good and evil.

I remember about twenty years ago, in a famous and popular TV show on Saturdays, led by an elegant and fine presenter. Interviewing the famed Spanish actor Echenove, she asked: “How has your visit to Cuba been?” Echenove, totally uninhibited, replied, “pues me ha ido de pin…“* She blushed, then said “excuse me, but that word is ugly and you shouldn’t say it.” “What?” he argued, “it can’t be, because everyone here says it.”

As for promiscuity and poor hygiene habits, our press emphasizes offenses committed by individuals, and closes its eyes to the problems caused by bad management and the continued lack of hygiene in food handling practiced in state facilities. The most representative example is the sale of unrefrigerated pork in the farmers market, not to mention that it is transported without any hygiene in open air  vehicles, even on occasion with workers sitting on the pieces of meat.

They also criticize how and where coffee cups are rinsed, that are sold freshly brewed at the various private and public establishments, as well as the water used to make fruit juices sold, improper handling of certain foods, etc. and, what is never mentioned, is where did they learn all these bad habits reminiscent of the Middle Ages.

Weren’t voluntary work and the schools in the countryside the genesis of all this  promiscuity that also brought so much of this social indiscipline? What were the conditions of those camps and schools so that these situations didn’t occur, mainly due to the lack of clean water and adequate facilities, forcing many students to have to relieve themselves “open air” like animals? Why, then, weren’t adequate provision taken so that this didn’t happen? On the contrary, they were established as standard practice.

On the other hand, they are now also attacking the phenomenon of noise and music at soaring that makes people scream to be heard, and annoys the neighbors, forcing them to listen to what they don’t want to. This also happens in many buses, where in addition to crowding, heat and odors, we must also must stoically endure the deafening sound of music, imposed by the driver or some lazy and rude passenger who doesn’t care about disturbing the other occupants of the vehicle.

“It’s never too late if the reaction is good”, I would say, to paraphrase an old maxim, given the new concern of the media. But what concerns me, extraordinarily, is that we have had to wait nearly half a century, for Raul to talk about it in a speech, to “become aware” of it, and that, as he usually does, he continues to attack the effects without having the courage to denounce the causes and, above all, those who caused these and other social ills.

*Translator’s note: He uses a vulgar phrase [which Rebeca does not spell out in full] meaning, roughly, “it’s all gone to hell,” thinking it means “it’s been fantastic.”

26 August 2013

In spite of negative propaganda from the official media, a large segment of the population, especially young people, have imagined some sort of eventual return to capitalism, the only system that allows one to dream.

Twenty years ago, when they first started issuing the first licenses for small private businesses on a restricted basis, these dreams took some effort. Small home-based restaurants, known as paladares, led the way along with homes and bedrooms rented out to tourists as well as old cars made before 1959 which served as taxis. Only the strongest of these survived due to, among other things, the large number of restrictions they had to sort through as well as all the various pressures they had to endure.

Since then the country has seen a proliferation in the number of small private businesses with an ever-increasing thematic focus. They include paladares, sweetshops, daycare centers, carwash and auto detailing shops, gymnasia, hair salons, barber shops, copy shops, small boutiques, party and wedding planning services, formal wear rental, 3D movie theaters and even the occasional spa, to name but a few. All of these are in the service sector; none are in manufacturing.

Now, what has been the common denominator hindering the development of all these initiatives? It is first and foremost the absence of wholesale markets and the dearth of laws authorizing the importation of consumable goods to help create the proper infrastructure for the establishment and expansion of these businesses. Another significant issue is demand, which in the case of paladares is far below the level of supply. This is not the case, however, when it comes to the well-known timbiriches, or street vendors, who swarm through the streets offering sparse light snacks, some of questionable hygiene, at a relatively low cost commensurate with the salaries and pensions we receive.

On the other hand, the best placed businesses exist where strong investment is seen. They are, mostly, supported by start up capital, which can be provided by FE (family in the “exterior”), the foreign investment union or the children of some high directors who possess the best residences in this country, due in part to the relations of their progenitors, and a lot of money “saved” during this half century of their families in power.

Now appears a not so new method: cooperatives of a new kind (services, artisans and others), where they group together to offer their services or sell their products. But first of all, they almost always suffer from the lack of products, so it is the client who must bring them to be able to receive the benefits. This is the case of the old garage at Mayia Rodriguez and Santa Catalina Streets, which is now called “New Cooperative,” a better name for a hardware store and not for an establishment of this type, without respect to that other more appropriate, by which it was always known.

In this case the client must bring the wax, the lubricants, etc., even the detergent.

Anyway, to my view, more than a solution this is entertainment and a way that the government has to gain time, because they are not deep measures that can change or restructure the now exhausted economy of our country.  So let’s keep “Playing” at this savage capitalism, since from an optimistic perspective, we can assimilate it as a necessary entertainment for a not so distant future.

22 August 2013

I was working as a diplomat in Paris, where I lived with my husband and baby son, who was eighteen months old, when I was faced with a problem that had to be resolved as soon as possible. It meant having to travel to Prague, the capital of what was then Czechoslovakia, to see people who could help me in this endeavor. I was carrying a letter of introduction which would allow me to stay in the residence occupied by Cuban embassy staff working in that country, whom I personally did not know but with whom my husband had a long friendship.

I was very excited about the trip since this would be the first socialist country I would come to know after my own. I got a lot of advice from Cuba’s “security comrades” in Paris about things I might encounter in the Czech capital, such as changing dollars on the black market and “other temptations.”

I arrived on August 20, 1968 at noon. I had barely gotten off the Air France plane when I was intercepted by some Czechs offering to exchange dollars but — doing as I had already been advised — I answered in Czech, “I don’t have.” This is the only sentence I knew how to say in that language.

A chancellery official and the Cuban embassy chauffeur, who were waiting for me, drove me immediately to the official residence, located in a hilly neighborhood between the airport and the Soviet residences. I submitted my letter and was introduced to the ambassador, his wife and sister-in-law, who was in Prague at the time. They put me in a bedroom — a spacious room with a bath — on an upper floor of that beautiful, old residence.

That afternoon we enjoyed an exquisite meal prepared by the Czech cook, which included, among other delicious dishes, an unforgettable salad made of raw vegetables dressed with olive oil and copious amounts of goat cheese sprinkled on top. I was told this was one of the country’s typical dishes.

As we were chatting afterwards, they warned me not to be bothered if I heard train noises as I was sleeping as there was a rail line behind the building and trains went by at various times during the night.

Although the conversation was very pleasant, I was tired from my flight and finally excused myself, retiring to my room so I could rest. Another consideration was that the ambassador and his wife also had a baby, who was only a few months old, and I did not want to unduly take advantage of their hospitality.

That night the noise from the train turned out to be truly unbearable. All through the early morning hours the constant noise from carriages travelling over train tracks meant I hardly got any sleep at all.

Very early I went into the all-white bathroom to wash up and get ready for the meeting I had previously scheduled from Paris. I was to be accompanied by the wife of the ambassador, who had graciously offered to serve as my guide. As soon as I was ready, I went downstairs and found my hostess. I smiled, said hello and told her, “I am ready now. When would you like to leave?”

At that moment this sweet-natured woman said with a certain degree of exasperation, “We can’t. We’re occupied.”

The tone with which she said this seemed a bit odd to me but, since I knew she had only recently given birth, I said, “No problem. I will just wait until you are free. It’s no bother.”

Becoming even more irate, she said, almost screaming, “No, we are being occupied by Warsaw Pact troops!”

It was then that I noticed the house was full of women and children running through the reception rooms. The nervous women were barely able to control the children. Since it was made of wood, the little ones storming up and down the wide staircase leading to the upper floors produced a noise so deafening that it seemed like Soviet tanks were in the building itself.

The cook and cleaning lady, who were Czech, understandably left for their respective homes. The question then came up of who would take charge of cooking for all these people. There were almost a hundred, including children and their mothers, whom the ambassador was housing in the residence as a security precaution. The men could be found in groups occupying various diplomatic offices in the embassy, the commerce bureau and the Latin Press.

Since no one was offering to take charge of cooking for those of us in the residence, I raised my hand and accepted the responsibility. Several of the children were still eating baby food and the family’s food supply was quickly exhausted, as were the pears and apples from the trees in the rear patio from which I made stewed fruit and jams.

The government had declared a state of siege, so we could only leave the building to look for supplies. With a guarantee of safe conduct, several people — among them two security officers and me — left to buy things at stores reserved for those in diplomatic service. This allowed me to observe the city firsthand. On top of the gray patina that socialism had been gradually leaving over time, there now stretched the the dark shadow of an invasion, saddening the beautiful, old city. The facade of the museum on Wenceslas Square was already displaying the scars of its first encounters with the invaders.

Prague fought back by covering all the street signs and addresses — as well as the bronze plaques of buildings where professionals lived — with black paint. Signs read, “Ivan go home” and “Prague, a second Vietnam.” There were exit arrows with the words “1,849 km to Moscow,” indications of citizen outrage and opposition to the occupation of the country.

Soldiers and tanks were stationed in parks and squares. Large cauldrons were hung in the middle of lawns to prepare communal meals for the troops. The city displayed its saddest face.

I was only supposed to stay three or four days, so I brought very few changes of clothes as well as little make-up or toiletries. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to use the last of these supplies, particularly hairspray, in a makeshift hair salon, which I set up myself in the main reception room to entertain women in the afternoon so that their nerves would not be on edge the entire day.

I began to fantasize that, to leave, I would have to “hitch a ride” from tank to tank until I got to the border, from where I would take a plane to France, where I had left my little son with his father, who would be waiting in terror from not knowing anything due to the lack of communication resulting from what was going on in the country.

The atmosphere was uncertain and stressful. Our situation was made worse after Fidel Castro issued declarations of support for the occupation. Up to that point, whenever we drove out of the embassy, the Czechs made things easy for us. After that, things became ugly. Our vehicles parked on the street had their tires slashed, and fruit and rotten eggs were thrown at buildings were Cubans were known to be living or staying.

There were many challenges I had to face in cooking for that many people in what was a spacious but very antiquated kitchen. There were only a few gas burners; the rest used charcoal.

A pair of male colleagues were “assigned” to me. I do not know if they were supposed to be looking after me or if I was supposed to be looking after them, but they served as my kitchen help. They were always following me, trying to figure out how I managed in the middle of all that chaos to always be made-up and ready to go first thing in the morning.

At the time it was fashionable in Paris to draw eyelashes on the area below the eye with a very fine eyeliner. I was an expert at it. They were always trying to surprise me. They would come upstairs earlier and earlier every day looking for me, but I never gave them the pleasure of catching me unprepared. This became a kind of game that helped relieve the tension. The days passed like this until the airports were finally reopened. At that point my clothes were quite shabby and my make-up supplies had been exhausted.

I remember on the way to the airport asking the chauffeur if he spoke enough Czech to stop at a pharmacy and buy me some hairspray so that I would not arrive in Paris in such a state. He very eagerly told me yes and stopped at one of the pharmacies on the way.

He returned to the car with a large gray metal can on which appeared the face of a woman whose large head of hair was blowing in the wind. He confidently assured me that this was the best hairspray in all of Prague.

After putting it on in the car, I immediately began to feel my hair being impregnated by an oily liquid with a medicinal smell. It was a hair treatment. My exasperation knew no bounds, nor did his uncontrolled laughter.

“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “When we get to the airport, I’ll buy myself a scarf to hide this disaster.”

Once I got to the terminal, I noticed that all the stores were closed, so I had to board the plane in this condition. Once on board I was able to buy a silk scarf that cost me dearly, like everything they sell in-flight. In the tiny bathroom inside the plane I managed to cover my entire head with paper napkins so as not to ruin that precious piece of silk, signed by Christian Dior.

As I got off the plane at Orly Airport, there was my husband, holding my son in his arms, waiting for me. How I looked no longer matter. In one second the sight of them swept away all anxiety caused by the separation and uncertainty of those twenty-three days. I returned having gone through a great ordeal and having learned several new phrases in that Slavic language, which I dare not repeat here.

19 August 2013

Before starting have all the ingrediants on hand.

Panetela

Ingredients:

2 1/2 cups flour

2 1/2 cups white sugar

6 eggs

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

A pinch of nutmeg

1/4 cup lemon or orange juice

Procedure:

Pre-heat the oven.

Oil the pan and line it with paper

Pass all the dry ingredients through a sieve or colander.  Separate the whites and yolks.  Beat the whites until stiff, like meringue, and little by little add the sugar while beating constantly.  Add the yolks one by one.  Pour this mixture in the bowl with the dry ingredients, without beating, fold them together little by little until the mix is homogenous.  Pour this into the pan and bake it at 425 degrees for 20 minutes.

If you live on “my planet” and you were able to gather the six eggs, get the flour, either in the hard currency store or on the black market, happen to have a little nutmeg (if not ask your friend who travels for a little,) have a lemon, because the ideal would be orange, but if there’s none in this moment, “not even in the spiritual centers,” then you will see how easy it is to make this delicious recipe, to accompany a good breakfast or a frugal afternoon snack.

Please, don’t complain, these are very easy recipes for a very complicated country.

17 August 2013

This seems to be the year for varied and curious anniversaries. The one most “clucked about” is the sixtieth anniversary of you-know-what. There is also the fiftieth anniversary of Radio Encyclopedia, the fortieth anniversary of the Youth Labor Army and most notably the very curious thirty-fifth anniversary of the Isla de la Juventud (Isle of Youth), which with the stroke of a pen swept away the Isla de los Pinos (Isle of Pines), which for so many years had been the younger sister to the Island of Cuba.*

I have come to visit my friend Lisa, whose daughter is twenty-seven and pregnant. She tells me she is going with her to “González Coro” Hospital, formerly the “Holy Cross” clinic. After listening to me talk about the avalanche of this year’s anniversaries and commemorations, she says it would be a good idea to add to the list the water leak that has been present at this facility ever since she was expecting her daughter. At first they put a metal bucket under it to catch the dripping water, she says. But the leak is still there — though in the interim it has become more like a waterfall — so now they have a big plastic container to catch the “precious liquid.” However, from time to time it overflows and spills onto the granite floor over which the expectant mothers walk, putting them in danger of slipping and falling.

The fake roof in the area of leak has rotted from moisture and is coming off, but this does not seem to trouble anyone. When they can no longer use the space for medical exams, they will close it and later the entire hospital, as was the case with its counterpart, “Clodomira Almeida,” which has been in total ruins for years, as well as “Maternidad de Línea,” which is also closed, to name just two examples of this type. This leak is now as old as my friend’s daughter, twenty-seven years and counting. Like the Puerta de Alcalá,** it “watches time go by,” faced with the indifference of the hospital director, the medical personnel, the Ministry of Public Health and even the patients themselves. Will this be yet another curious anniversary to celebrate?

Translator’s notes:
*Isla de los Pinos is the second largest of Cuba’s islands. Its name was changed in 1978 to Isla de la Juventud.
** A well-known traffic circle in Madrid, marked by a triumphal arch.

4 August 2013

These days the term “going shopping” has fallen into complete disuse. Now it is better to say you are “going looking.” This stopped being a pleasant task many years ago. Just having to confront the reality of an almost non-existent public transport system and the high summer temperatures are enough to make you think twice. Nevertheless, yesterday I went with my friend to “make the rounds,” as we say here, in hopes of finding a faucet that would fit within her tight budget. On this occasion we went to the stores in Central Havana.

For more than thirty years I have refused to visit these old retail establishments, which previously had been the most famous in the city. I remember that before 1959 the intersection of Galiano Street and San Rafael Street was called “the corner of sin” because it served as a place of temptation for men. They went there to watch the parade of beautiful, well-dressed women who often went shopping in this area as well as to enjoy the sight of the lovely, well-groomed employees who worked at its stores.

I went with my friend as an act of solidarity since I had resigned never again to frequent these places. The first big shock came when I entered a store called Transval, the former Ten Cent, which still holds lovely memories for me. We found ourselves going through the unpleasant and unavoidable experience of having to leave our purses in a cubicle after first removing everything of value — wallets, cell phones, glasses, keys, etc. — which we then had to awkwardly carry in our hands since, according to a store sign, they would not be held responsible for items missing from purses in their custody. In other words, not only were we at the mercy of the very people who would rob us, but we also had to turn over our ID cards to them as a guarantee, something that is prohibited by the Ministry of the Interior.

For me entering Transval had a brutal impact. Of the formerly comfortable, pleasant and well-stocked Ten Cent, the only things that remained were the building’s structure, the beautiful granite floors inside and out, and the granite staircases, which were unbelievably well-preserved. We immediately went to the hardware department, but the prices posted there were, practically speaking, out of reach, so we continued our painstaking search until finally, at the least likely place, we found a faucet my friend could afford, for sale in CUC of course. From there we went to La Casa Quintana — the old jeweler whose beautiful logo still hangs above the entry — which is now the lamp department of the above-mentioned store. We later went to El Bazar Inglés, a dark, sweltering place which displays and sells very unattractive items made by local factories and priced in Cuban pesos.

We then headed towards La Epoca. Our visit there was exhausting. We went to every department even though we knew we were not going to buy anything. My friend just wanted to see what was available so she could later buy clothes and shoes for her husband and son when she had the money. This meant I had to go up and down an endless number of stairs — not only here but in the other stores we visited as well — since there were almost no working escalators, even in the stores that had them.

As we were leaving, I noticed Fe del Valle park, a site where El Encanto, the most emblematic and beautiful store in the city of Havana, had been located. I could not help but think that its tragic demise in a fire* may have been the best possible outcome for an establishment which was a storied example of Cuban culture and elegance. At least it disappeared at the height of its splendor and did not end up like its neighbors — Flogar, Fin de Siglo and La Época to mention but a few — which have become sad caricatures of their former selves.

*Translator’s note: El Encanto, Havana’s most elegant department store, burned down on April 13, 1961, the eve of the Bay of Pig’s invasion. An employee later confessed to setting the fire, which killed an employee, Fe del Valle. The site was later turned into a park, named in memory of the deceased.

2 August 2013

It was a peaceful, bright morning, the sea, as usual, shone splendidly with its habitual shades of blues and greens, the treetops swayed to and fro in the soft breeze.

The happy natives were all engaged in their daily work.  Suddenly, all the birds, in unison, took flight to the high sky, squawking.  Cats fled terrified in search of safe refuge while the howls of mongrel dogs and pure breeds were rising.

All the inhabitants of the beautiful city, astonished, raised their gazes to the sky. That enormous artifact landed to the wonder of all. It threw out fire and light from all of its circular openings that surrounded its enormous circumference “green like our palms,” which made it blend with the landscape.

Soon its rounded doors began to open and some green bearded beings began to come out, sporting necklaces of strange seeds.  Smiling, they raised their long extremities in greeting while they descended from the enormous apparatus which we much later supposed was a “time machine.”

At first everything seemed to go well.  Everyone was excited by the marvelous apparition.  They seemed inoffensive beings and even friendly, but this did not last long:  one of them, the greatest in stature, immediately turned the counterweight to manipulate one of the levers, and everything began to change.

At first these changes were almost imperceptible.  Besides, local men, women and children, as well as the visitors, were communicating well with the giant and all seemed normal.  Nevertheless, many of the natives, suspicious, preferred to stay some distance away observing what was happening.

That big green man did not stop turning the lever, and as he gave more turns, some objects began to disappear: fabrics, trucks, cars and even grand houses and buildings.  Afterwards, many animals, preferably of the greatest size, later money and finally people.  Everything was growing dark.  Now the hatches of the enormous artifact did not radiate light, also the fire was going out.  Night was taking over the countryside.

But that big man did not let go of the control.  Each time that some little green man or any other color approached to be heard, he raised his other hand and with a simple gesture made him disappear.  Little by little fear was taking over everyone and paralyzing them.  Many, who managed to react risking their lives, left for other worlds, availing themselves of any small boat or device that was still functioning.

The green fields began to cover themselves in thorny roots, which obliterated with their advance any other crop.  Even the air was petering out, and there had to be a rapid census in order to be able to equitably distribute what remained.  Cards were also printed where it was noted each month what each person consumed.  The green ones, who at the beginning had been apportioned the best houses, moved to live on the outskirts, where there were still trees, and they kept themselves out of view of the recently captive populace.

Thus, slowly, the locals, due to all these shortages, were mutating: new beings were born without thought, with a line for a mouth, a small stomach, long arms to stretch to reach the few fruits that remained in the tall and thorny tops of the new vegetation, big feet to be able to stay standing in the same place for hours and strong legs to cover great distances walking.

Sunk in the isolated dark, they were erasing from their minds the images of the happy time in which their ancestors lived, before the arrival of the enormous green machinery.  As everything was being exhausted and destroyed, the consequences of this began to affect, although in a small measure, many of the green men not so close to the giant.  Thus, there was no other solution but to open a little some other hatch, to allow in some fresh air from the outside.  Due to this, finally they had to authorize the entry of foreign carriers of a little breeze.  In spite of the prohibitions and the harsh punishment inflicted, many of the mutants approached the recent arrivals, trying to create close connections to be able to leave with them.

Of course those that took most advantage of this new situation were the youngest. As a consequence, more old ones wandered alone through the occupied territory. Now a newborn was rarely seen.  The women, by force of precarious food and intensified work, agreed not to get pregnant.

So, little by little, that beautiful asteroid where they lived was becoming greyer and dustier. The plagues from the sewer waters flooded all the city with their fetid aroma. The farm animals did not manage to satisfy the food needs, because these in their turn did not have anything to eat and were dying. Now there was only left some green grass which all the inhabitants, terrified, covered with old canvasses so that it would not be detected, for fear that they would also be rationalized.  More mutants were escaping to other latitudes.  No one noticed the dangers of the crossing. They preferred to die in the effort than to continue living without hope.

One day as in the trencadis all the fragmented pieces of that ancient civilization dispersed through the universe will come together to again form a strong and beautiful social mosaic.

Translated by mlk

9 July 2013

Yesterday, faced once more with the frustration of not being able to connect to the internet, my friend and I decided to go shopping in the stores of the area. She needed a faucet for her kitchen and I didn’t take any money as I went along just to look.

We got to the complex of stores at 5th and 42nd, the name it is known by. We immediately went to the hardware store and saw the few things on display in the show cases. Among them was one that caught the attention of my friend: a quick-opening faucet acceptable enough and reduced from 11 to 4 CUC. It fit within her meager budget, so she set out immediately to call the seller over to show it to her. Commenting on the price, he responded that the faucet had a defect, it leaked. So my friend rejected it and commented that she was looking for one because the one she had also leaked and she wanted to solve the problem.

After searching through the rest of the departments, all of them with so little merchandise it gave the impression there had been a huge robbery, which we commented on with one of the employees, who turned her face away to answer. It seemed more like a set to film the Cuban TV comedy San Nicolás del Peladero. We continued on, poking through the haberdashery department, where I usually buy some of the materials for my work.

I suddenly discovered in one of the display cases a brand new pedal for an electric sewing machine, and as I’d just bought mine a few year ago, it made me happy to know they still had these parts. Also it was reduced in price. The card marked 11.45 CUC had been crossed out and said 7.95 CUC. Great, I thought, too bad I didn’t bring any money, but next week when I come back here I’ll buy it.

I got home suffocated by the immense heat of the street and the delay of the buses, and ran straight to the bathroom to wash my face and hands and change my clothes for something fresher. When I commented to my husband about the electric pedal and the price cut, he told me, “Get ready, I think we should go now, because if there are only a few or only the one in the window, now is the time to buy it.”

We arrived at the store and when I asked the employee to show me the pedal that was on sale because I wanted to buy it, she calmly said, “Yes, it’s on sale because it’s broken and doesn’t work.”

“How is it possible,” I asked her, “that you put on sale in the display case an article that doesn’t work, and at such a high price in hard currency? Useless merchandise shouldn’t be put out under any circumstances, it’s misleading to the public and immoral to do so. This is absolutely Kafkaesque,” I added.

She remained silent, as she knows me as a customer, and we left there like souls possessed by the devil.

Sadly, this isn’t an isolated event, it happens with incredible frequency, being an almost common practice to sell articles that are extremely damaged or that don’t work for what they were designed, with price reductions which, even more than an attack on their customers’ wallets, show an absolute lack of respect for them.

30 July 2013

As I was reading a newspaper article in today’s Granma written by a journalist named de la Hoz, I could not help but smile at the apparent cynicism.

This journalist identified symbols of what he described as “the new rich” such as the use, and in some cases perhaps ostentatious display, of things that in other societies would be considered perfectly normal. These include taking a ham sandwich and cola to school for the afternoon snack, or perhaps wearing a pair of brand-name shoes like those for sale for hard currency in many of the city’s stores. These shoes are undoubtedly of better quality and more durable than most which are for sale also in CUC at much lower prices but which are of much poorer quality. I can understand how a parent who can make the sacrifice will try to buy the most durable items, the ones whose labels are not simply decorative but presumably indicate a certain level of quality.

This reporter seems to have forgotten that just a few years ago the only students taking nice snacks to school were driven there by chauffeurs and sported backpacks and clothes with foreign labels. They were the children of high-ranking officials, the ones people called “los hijitos de papá” or Daddy’s kids. I live in Nuevo Vedado, a neighborhood where I have always been surrounded by these children since they attended the same school as my sons, who enjoyed none of their privileges — a situation I always found myself having to explain to them but which they were never able to understand.

I still remember the look of astonishment on the face of my older son when, as an adolescent, he came home from school with stories he heard about a birthday party for the fifteen-year-old daughter of a comandante who had closed off their street, brought in a mechanical organ and filled the swimming pool at their house with flowers. There was also an enormous buffet shared with kids in military service who served as waiters. This happened during the worst of the Special Period. It was just one of any number of examples of similar neighborhood parties, which coincidentally all took place in the homes of high-ranking officials. These were the same officials who would later move to Miramar and Siboney* so they could be more discreet.

But getting back to the previous subject of school snacks, they are almost non-existent, so meager and of such poor quality that it is inconceivable that they could take the place of lunch, as has been proposed. It is for this reason that many parents — a majority, in fact — make sacrifices and jump through hoops to see to it that their children have a “decent” snack consisting of a ham and cheese sandwich and a soft drink. I do not understand why the journalist in question claims this is a privilege that only parents who own private businesses can afford, especially since entire families are engaged in these enterprises.

If we are witnessing improper and indiscriminate displays of so-called symbols of power, it is due precisely to the bad examples to which average citizens have served as onlookers and not as participants. One should keep in mind that today the difference is that they are paid for by working parents who are self-employed, artists, athletes and others, and not by those previously mentioned. It would also be useful to point out that, if they paid people decent salaries that reflected the actual cost of living and the country were economically productive, everyone would have the same opportunities to improve not only their children’s school snacks but the quality of family life too and, in the end, all of society.

*Translator’s note: Miramar is a neighborhood which was home to Havana’s wealthiest citizens before the revolution and today houses numerous foreign embassies. Siboney is an affluent neighborhood favored by members of the Cuban military.

18 July 2013