Today is the first birthday of this personal adventure called “Citizen Zero.” This bottle thrown into the sea in the midst of my storms — daughter of hope and loneliness — bringing with her the breath of relief that is a balm on my burned skin.
This cry, that resists drowning in my throat, is a truth that is reclaiming its place under the sun, and I only hope that I it is enough to tell all my pain, all my hopelessness and rage. Tenderness is not enough, to not give impunity to the guilty, to not wash clean the cynics of the pantheon of the traitors, you have to risk more than your voice, you have to dare to burn your hands, you have to dare to jump the vacuum risking everything in the attempt.
This travel companion has been, for a year already, the humble shrine of my desire to regain what was usurped from me. It was at time the calm of someone who is at peace with himself, but at times also it was the stampeded of anger against the despot and the insolent who embezzled my rights.
It is the sincere attempt to spread a story that in some ways ceases to be mine and begins being a little bit of everyone’s, because the dark and sinister hand that tarnished my dignity, is the same one extended still over the dignity of all Cubans.
So every Monday I will come to this kind of therapy so as not to suffer the sterile agony before the wicked villain; to speak from my vocation like Jose Marti as a free man; so that the gall of the executioners will not contaminate what was saved from the wreck; to heal the hate that still appears on the stormy horizon; so that tomorrow the cowards won’t say …
December 13 2011
