Translating Cuba

Camagüey is a Cuban province that rarely generates news much beyond low milk production and the slaughter of cattle. A vast plain that forms the widest part of this long and narrow island. A territory vegetating in the apathy of Cuba’s interior, and in the lack of opportunities, which has become chronic in the eastern part of the country.

But in the midst of this apparent calm, this week shock and rumors have taken over its main city, have obsessed the narrow streets of the village founded under the name “Puerto Principe.” The excitement centers around a young man of 24. Reiver Laborde Rico has returned to his family home, leaving behind an investigation in which he appears as a suspect in a murder in Italy.

From the tranquility of Lignano Sabbiadoro, a coastal village a stone’s throw from Venice, he has escaped to the shelter of his Camaguey region, but followed there by the gossip… and the press.

While his sister confessed to having participated in the murder of the elderly couple last August, Reiver insists on his innocence. So he told three Italian journalists who entered Cuba on tourist visas in search of testimony from the presumed fugitive. As he was being recorded, six police officers raided the house and confiscated the footage. The reporters were arrested and deported from the country.

TV and the official newspapers have been silent on the subject. They have not mentioned the scandal that the death of the the couple has unleashed in Italy, nor the alleged involvement of the two Cuban citizens. But notwithstanding this secrecy, the events are on everyone’s lips in Camagüey. Suddenly, the dead calm of the city is broken, as everyone talks about the drama happening thousands of miles away.

2 October 2012

As I was reading “an extensive special report” by a journalist for Juventude Rebelde,Nyliam Vázquez García–published on September 23 of this year and dedicated to Adriana, the wife of Gerardo, one of the Cuban spies sentenced to prison in the United States–I could not avoid thinking of those purple prose novellas that were often printed in magazines in the 1940s and 1950s. They were melodramatic in the extreme and were intended to elicit easy tears from the eyes of their young readers.

It is well-known and has been proven that these “five heroes,” as they are referred to on my planet, entered United States territory with false identities and joined the “Wasp network,” which was carrying out espionage activities for the Cuban government.

If Adriana, the wife of Gerardo, is back here, it is because she was expelled from the United States after it was shown she was part of this network, something that would surely prevent her from going back there. This would be a reason that country would not grant her an entry visa, though she remains silent on this subject. And the journalist, who surely knows this, avoids asking questions about it.

Adriana complains about the lack of communication with her spouse, and immediately recounts how she and Gerardo have only 300 minutes of phone time per month, which they are required to parcel out in 10 minute increments each day.

It seems she is ignoring the majority of Cuban wives and mothers with sons imprisoned for political reasons who cannot speak with them by phone for even ten minutes per month. Nor do they have access to the computers or the internet to play chess with their children here as Gerardo and other members of his network have done on more than one occasion.

In regards to the distance separating them, I would remind this woman that Cuban mothers are also separated by great distances from their imprisoned children, even when they are in this same country. The majority of us have also seen ourselves separated from our children for decades for reasons that are well-known to everyone. And we do not have the pleasure of periodically speaking to them by phone due to the very high cost of such calls in our country.

I think it is great that the wife of this man has found ways, which she relates to this journalist, to keep “the call of love and hope” alive. She is always buying presents for Gerardo on her numerous trips overseas, including a shirt he expressly asked for, as well as those used by President Correa of Ecaudor. In all sincerity, however, I would advice her to carefully store them between layers of blue silk and moth balls so that they are in good condition when her nephews and grandsons inherit them.

October 1 2012

Now one of the photos I had put in my posts has been taken by State Security and put in a 17 minute documentary to try to accuse Señora Martha Beatriz Roque and twenty other Cubans of faking their hunger strike.

I wasn’t able to watch the documentary because my television broke some weeks ago. Following the appearance of the photo (where I appear in the company of women I greatly admire), I had won the opportunity to be heard by some people who didn’t know about the hunger strike.

In reality, this protest is also targeted to the arbitrariness of the system that doesn’t recognize our rights and tries to destroy us. So it was not covered by any Cuban news media but merited an entire production by the Revolutionary “artists,” who offered proof — once again! — of how over time they patrol, monitor, and keep our lives under surveillance.

So in the later edition and with the efficient work of a sound engineer, or maybe just a simple sound guy, part of the Cuban public has taken it as “proof” that the hunger strikers, and especially Martha Beatriz, were not in a state of complete starvation, having been given vegetables through the window on a date, according to what I was told, of September 18, which is when the strike ended after having received a response from Chaviano’s kidnappers.

I’ve worn myself out trying to explain to my neighbors that if someone wants to say it’s a hunger strike and later wants to eat their fill secretly, they can hide the food before beginning the process. I have noted the magic of editing and sound, with which you can do almost anything in audiovisual material, which is why it doesn’t prove anything.

Martha Beatriz did not move from her deathbed where I saw her, did not let anyone in, and always refused to receive medical care. One of the women companions of the strikers, who were there to help them, had to revive her on several occasions when she lost consciousness. There wasn’t any doctor from the clinic like they showed in the documentary.

Ultimately I decided to investigate, consulting several publication about when and how many times and based on what it was said, or F. Castro said from the podium, or from the position of an accusing witness (as in Huber Matos’s trial), that Cubans who opposed and do oppose the politics of the Castro regime that has become Cuban communism are not representing themselves. To put it another way: in my country, from the beginning of this great scam, they have accused the opposition of being mercenaries.

A mercenary is someone who is not involved in the cause for which he risks his life, and who receives payment from those who truly are interested. When my country received a huge amount of money and arms, including nuclear weapons as in the October Crisis, from the Soviet Empire with the condition that communism would be installed, who was the mercenary in that economic relationship?

But earlier, when the former Cuban president Prío Socarrás and the then president of Costa Rica in 1958 supported the armed insurrection of the rebels of the Sierra Maestra with money and arms, what did the opposition against Batista use this money for that was not taboo and in an case was it necessary and just to use it for something that was never the freedom of the Cuban people?

What happens in Cuba is that the State is the owner of all jobs, including the self-employed who take care not to annoy the State. And the State pays a salary of less than 20 CUC (< $20 US) to its employees. And if one of them behaves in a way that turns into a “deserter” from the hyper-controlled politics (which above all tries to keep Cubans with an idiotic beatific smile of socialism on their faces, waving flags and worshiping the government icons) it turns out that this uncomfortable atom in sick and dangerous society will be left, in the first place, without a job, if they decided ahead of time that they weren’t going to continue to receive — as a mercenary! — a salary from the abhorring State dictatorship.

Then, as the Cuban opposition is peaceful and doesn’t buy weapons, State Security and its campaign of manipulation whip up the people who receive half a pound of oil for the whole month against people who eventually could be consuming olive oil.

The political prisoner Martha Beatriz Roque, the only woman among the 75 arrested during the 2003 Black Spring, and Antunez, and the many people they slander on television are not compensated, let alone with $50 million dollars, because no one is asked if they are willing to suffer everything they narrate in their testimonies and in the end if they would be given this sum would choose such an ordeal for their life. A life so short, so fleeting, so exhausting, like that of the whole world. Their health, their youth, their life, their freedom, cannot be compensated with money. Our time is too short to sell it.

It takes courage and faith in God to believe that Cuba can still be free of the plague that darkens it.

October 2 2012

If we compare the style of governance of the Castros during their respective terms in office from a bird’s eye view, we would make a serious mistake in believing the two autocrats are much the same.

You don’t need a magnifying glass to see the differences. What are the similarities? Well, the duo have authoritarianism in their genes. And they see democracy as their major enemy.

While Fidel Castro acted like a true visionary, father of the country and shopkeeper of the neighborhood, his brother prefers to exercise power from behind the scenes. Castro I was an impetuous hurricane. He never kept still. On any given morning he was capable of mobilizing all the means of production in the country for a banana harvest.

Overriding the national budget, he ordered the construction of a biotechnology center. Believing himself to be a world-class statesman, he devised a plan to abolish Latin America’s external debt.

His vocation was that of a warrior. He handled the various conflicts in Africa as though he were the supreme commander. He personally directed the military campaign in Angola from a mansion in Havana’sNuevo Vedado district.

He controlled everything down to the last detail. He knew the amount of asphalt needed to build an airport runway and the exact number of chocolates and sardines his troops consumed.

In domestic affairs he governed with the mentality of a shopkeeper. He ran some numbers on his calculator and decided to purchase refrigerators that he thought would be most effective in launching the energy revolution.

He could recite from memory the exact number of energy-saving lightbulbs the country had to import. And the benefits of Cerelac. And the amount of concrete required to build one-hundred daycare facilities.

Fidel Castro was an autocrat. A narcissist his entire life. Even in retirement he cannot be constrained. Now at times he predicts atomic disasters and swears he has discovered a formula—the moringa plant—that will satisfy all of humanity’s food needs.

His supporters consider him to be the most important statesman of the twentieth century; his detractors think he is certifiably insane. His 47 years governing Cuba were marked by predictions of war against “Yankee imperialism” and mass demonstrations condemning those who chose to leave the country.

When the mood struck him, he would storm TV studios and give long lectures on a variety of topics. But the figures do not lie; Fidel Castro was a bad administrator of the nation.

By the time he was forced to give up power due to illness, Cuba’s economic statistics had contracted in the extreme. Sugar production, the mainstay of the economy for centuries, was at the level it was in 1910. Cities were run-down and needed painting. Streets were filled with potholes. Drug dispensaries were empty. Free health care and education remained in place, but they were of poor quality and headed downhill.

The transfer of power to General Raúl Castro on July 31, 2006 occurred without popular consent. He was hand-picked by his brother.

Since the end of the 1990s many sectors of the economy have been run byRaúl Castro’s men, the military’s businessmen. It is a closed circuit of olivegreen-khaki-clad executives who have devised methods for entrepreneurial advancement, which they apply to their industries and businesses.

Raúl Castro has quietly buried the notion of volunteerism and the anarchy of his brother under thirty feet of earth. He has also shut down ludicrous government agencies like the Ministry for the Battle of Ideas—a monument to ineffectiveness—and restructured the administrative apparatus.

He has cleaned house as much as possible. Fidel Castro’s trusted men were either retired or went down in disgrace. Schools in the countryside—cradles of unwanted pregnancies and a burden on the national budget—were shut down.

The general has not taken these measures as a prelude to serious and profound reform. No. They are simply temporary cures intended to stimulate the functioning of a moribund economy.

The expansion of self-employment and the sale of houses and old Russian cars are not starting points for the implementation of liberal methodologies. The objective is to throw out ridiculous laws. Castro II is focused on the maintaining the continuity of the system.

To achieve this, he needs two things: dollars and the removal of the heavy weight of excessive state control. In the pursuit of efficiency and a rise in productivity he has come up with a plan in which a million and a half workers will lose their jobs.

If Fidel Castro seemed like an idealist, his brother has his feet planted firmly on the ground. The future, as foreseen by Castro II, is a capitalism practiced among friends which would allow them to control the country’s main economic levers.

Raúl is not betting on anachronistic Marxist treatises. He prefers Putin’s Russia. And he admires the economic growth achieved through capitalist means of the Chinese giant.

The general knows that, to perpetuate the work of Fidel, it is essential that there be an efficient economy which can satisfy the aspirations of the average Cuban, who wants to live in a decent house and have enough to eat.

To achieve this without losing power while keeping the opposition at bay is the goal. The differences betweenRaúl and Fidel are procedural. Castro I was more about revolution, the third world, mass rallies, applause and anti-Yankee rhetoric. Castro II is about doing things out of sight, without too much noise.

The general hopes that the work started by his brother and continued by him might last a hundred years. Or a little longer.

Photo from a blog by Tania Quintero.

September 30 2012

A neighbor who is always joking asked me yesterday, “Do you know what the polls say about who’s going to win the elections in Cuba?” Obviously it was impossible for me to respond.

As much as Venezuelans fear their country is looking like Cuba so in the end we ourselves must imitate Venezuela. What we have come to!

1 October 2012

Not having been in the Fajardo Hospital since its repairs, I was told that the Emergency Room was the most significant of the improvements. The Latin American students cared for Rafael Tuesday night, he’d had a fever since the previous day. They ordered urgent blood and urine tests. It didn’t occur to any of them to acknowledge him. The supervisor of the three students was a young as they were so I suppose he’s doing his social service or perhaps he’s a student too, who knows.

Waiting for the results of the tests allowed me to observe the national apathy that has really set in in that place. The lack of lights, the trail of dirt on the enamel painted wall, so easy to maintain with a damp cloth, cigarette butts on the floor under a sign that says No Smoking.

The waiting area seems to be a place for drunks to sleep it off, or the homeless, whose grimy aspect contributes to the bad impression. Inevitably, I wondered if the Hospital Director would pass through after the re-opening.

As the results of the tests were inconclusive, and as my son didn’t show any signs of improvement, the doctors said he would be kept under observation for any changes.

The next day two medical students went from house to house, thermometer in hand, checking for fevers. I let them in and they took Rafa’s temperature which was 102F. In the afternoon a new doctor came to the house from the clinic in my neighborhood and scolded me for not properly using the steps of the health care system (did you know? the family doctor is the primary caregiver and the hospital is the third step). He repeated the urgent order for tests, including a platelet count in the polyclinic (second step of the health care system), and made an appointment for the first clinic hour the following day.

I also accompanied Rafa on that occasion and saw what they did. The doctor took his blood pressure, pulse, listened to his lungs, looked in his eyes, opened his mouth, pulled up his shirt and looked carefully at his skin. That gave me confidence, what I would had expected the night at the Fajardo emergency room.

“We have to wait for the tests to come back but this is dengue. Home care, rest, liquids, no aspirin, and repeat the tests in two days. These platelets are very low and the skin color is irregular.”

Dengue. This is a war that is not spoken of. The School of Medicine has begun classes but the students and doctors who would normally be seeing patients are in the different steps of which I already spoke, handling cases about which the statistics are kept confidential, but they don’t appear to be diminishing.

The media carries on about the life cycle of the aedes aegypti mosquito, and thus the responsibility of citizens in its proliferation. Flowerbeds and vacant areas overgrown with weeds, water leaks, potholes, insufficient garbage collection, and abundant rains are a losing combination. There are no public ads about the inability to respond to this accumulation of problems, not even one article. What can’t be fixed won’t be talked about, seems to be the orientation.

As an aside: I hope Dr. Naybí will have long stay in our clinic.

September 24 2012

The year, 2050. The regime, still in power. The Coppelia ice cream stand, the most famous in Cuba, is in ruins, and tree roots have played havoc with the granite floor. Amid the rusty iron columns a couple of guys are trying to light a fire. They are rubbing two sticks together in the most primitive way. Moving their hands compulsively, desperately. Suddenly one looks up and predicts, “This is about to come crashing down. I imagine in the coming months they’re going to cut the stick ration in half… then how will we light a fire?”

This joke, which has been around for a couple decades already, is recirculating lately after certain statements by the former Minister of Culture, Abel Prieto. During a gathering at the Dulce María Loynaz center in Havana, he asserted that “Cubans don’t have a single joke that refers to the Revolution, nor to denunciations, prisoners of conscience, and ousted officials . He immediately added that the national jokes rather “talk about scarcities or emigration” but “in a benevolent way, forgiving, without rancor or bitterness.”

Such ingenuous pronouncements provoked laughter, even among those present, despite the official character of the site. The words of the current “Advisor to the President of the Council of State and Ministers” (i.e. Raul Castro) spread quickly, generating derision inside and outside the country. In Cuba-themed forums and sites internauts posted an avalanche of old and new jokes that refer to the prevailing system on the Island. Spontaneous anthologies of everything that has made us laugh; inventories of jokes that have caused us to snicker, even in the darkest moments. No one wants to suggest they can’t remember at least one joke about the system, the leaders in power, or the ideology of the Communist Party.

There is everything. From the usual stories where “Fidel Castro arrives in hell and finds other presidents there…” to the typical jokes starring Pepito, that mischievous boy who appears in many humorous stories. Nicknames, anecdotes, puns and wisecracks that made history have all been dusted off. A festival of derision detonated by the categorical statement of the former minister. As if Cubans had been expecting something completely ridiculous to make them laugh. And they’ve split their sides over it. Because there seems to be a direct relationship between the seriousness of the problems and the ingenuity of our humor, so in times of crisis hilarity wins. The nineties were marked by scarcities and abundant jokes; prodigious in both problems and humor.

Politics has been one of the main themes of popular jokes, along with sex and death. So it’s more than little naive to think that a political process that has lasted 53 years wouldn’t be the subject of scorn and sarcasm. What’s more, few governments have sparked as many jokes as the one led by Fidel Castro, and now his brother Raul Castro. It’s just that they never found a place in the official media, nor on humorous State TV shows, or in the official newspaper supplements of cartoons and jokes. So they circulated orally, unwritten.

It was in the years of the Special Period when Pepito started talking insistently about food. Every week there would be a new story where our crafty eternal child referred to food shortages or the culinary inventions appearing on our plates. He threw sharp darts of humor against government mismanagement and against its stubbornness in not allowing farmers markets or the possession of hard currency.

His jokes narrated the dark present and predicted a worst future. Like the one where the irreverent boy is sitting at the table and before trying the first bite he asks his mom, “Is it true that you once fried the floor rags and ate them like they were steak?” The stern lady just sniffed in annoyance. But the boy returned to the charge. “Mommy, is it true that they sold some monster meat on the food ration and called it “skinless dogs?” A long silence, and then in response the mother shouts angrily, “Shut up Pepito and eat your lizard!”

Stories like this have come to our ears this week, after Abel Prieto opened the Pandora’s Box of jokes. Just to prove the contrary, people have called on their memories and exercised their facial muscles.

But the funniest thing of all is that this man who is now an advisor to the president stars in one of the most famous Cuban jokes of the last two decades, one built on the fact that his last name is a slang word for “black.” It is a play on words that criticizes racism in the police along with the constant persecution of the black market. To the question of, “Who has been the minister most talked about in Cuba”… the answer is simply “Prieto”… thanks to what the cops say in the street: Prieto… whaddya have in that sack? And then comes the prolonged laughter, the cruel mockery.

With popular jokes, it’s better not to get involved, or to try to restrict them. Because they can fight back with a barrage of ridicule, a flood of humor.

30 September 2012

I had no intention of returning to the issue of state inspectors, which I addressed on 14 April of this year under the title “Inspectors: the new plague.” However, subsequent events witnessed by me and verified information given by some vendors on their own, the main victims, force me to do so.

Let me make myself clear, I am not against State inspection, but I am against the arbitrary manner in which it is performed and its methods. Going after a self-employed seller, as if he were a criminal or a fugitive from justice, at the first opportunity, punishing him with excessive fines — no lower than 250 pesos national currency the minimum monthly wage of a Cuban — is not inspecting anything, rather it is a witch hunt, especially when these inspections are not undertaken of government facilities, most of which remain dirty and unhygienic, as if there were no health regulations for them.

To fine a seller of homemade crackers or a vegetable seller 500 National Pesos because they stayed in one place for more than 20 minutes, is absurd and unjust. So is fining a candy seller who sells outside a school, given the demand of some clients, because according to the inspector this is prohibited because children can make themselves sick and the school director is responsible for their health. Yet at the same time the school is filthy, unpainted, with areas and bathrooms closed off, the drinking water — if there is any — comes directly from the street, there is a lack of drinking fountains, the hygiene stands out for its absence, and the students, without any cafeteria, have no lunch, it being replaced by what’s called a “hearty snack” (a little bread with some pasta and a miniscule glass of soy yogurt), which is not a snack much less a hearty one.

What is striking is that the voluminous apparatus of inspectors is directed only against the self-employed, who pay high monthly taxes (600 Cuban pesos to sell cotton candy on a corner). It seems that it is only them who the authorities are interested in inspecting and it so happens that by fining them they take away the meager earning they can get, in order to avoid their becoming rich and a part of the famous 1%, leaving them to belong to the 99%.

The plague continues making its rounds without any kind of control, and in the face of the rejection of the majority of the population, who every day reject it more and support the self-employed vendors, who offer better and more varied products and services than the establishments of the State.

September 29 2012

When the washing machine was a gadget of the future, or when it hadn’t reached the distribution it has, washing by hand was an art. Whether in a bowl, pan or sink, the white suds, but especially the characteristic whap-whap-whap typical of rubbing clothes between fists, signaled the presence of a consummate laundress.

As far as I know it was always a women’s occupation, men who needed washing done, with their awkward hand positions, or with a saving brush, would omit the ritual of soaking the piece over and over again, immediately accompanied by the whap-whap-whap.

At that time in my past when I gave it my best in the useless Schools in the Countryside, in the first of these (1967), my bunk mate was Silvia, a black girl three years older than me, shrewd and flirtatious. Silvia spent the week with her hair in plastic rollers secured thanks to an electrical cord wrapped around the ends of each roller.

Every night before bed, without a mirror but with tremendous skill, Silvia unrolled her rollers and rolled them up again. On Saturdays Silvia barely combed her hair, where the results of the week’s rollers was clearly evident.

But my admiration for Silvia was in the laundry, where why managed to return white shirts to their original color after wearing them to work in the fields. As a part of my conversion from a mama’s girl to a “New Woman” my mother changed my sheets, towel and work pants on the weekly visit, but the rest I had to wash myself.

I tried to imitate the Silvia’s dexterity and her whap-whap-whap, but didn’t accomplish either. My shirts finished those forty-five days pinkish-brown while Silvia’s came back impeccable.

After that I was determined to master the mystery of scrubbing clothes, and even get the exact rhythm of the whap-whap-whap. I’ve discovered that this sound has nothing to do with the efficiency of the wash, so when I need to wash something really dirty I always use a brush. The whap-whap-whap is comforting music.

September 27 2012

Once again they are celebrating another boring anniversary of the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR) on my planet. As time goes on, fewer and fewer people lend their efforts to this farce.

As I was visiting a friend yesterday afternoon in Vedado, I was able to observe in the formal garden of her building–which still retains the architectural beauty it had in days past–four neighbors gathered around a filthy and dented cauldron, poking the logs of a fire that the wind was determined to put out. They were speaking in loud voices, telling jokes in bad taste, clad only in shorts and exposing their bare torsos. It was an image that might well have been found in an engraving from an old history book about primitive civilizations.

These men were accompanied by three cute little dogs, one of whom had a woman’s name. I made a comment about this to a lady in the elevator with me. Incensed, she told me it was not just a dog’s name, but a bad joke that showed a lack of disrespect for a neighbor in the building, who had the same name. To me this was yet another indication of the class of people to be found making the traditional caldosa* for this event. During my entire trip home to Nuevo Vedado it was the only preparation of this sort I was able to observe. It must have been because it was still early.

Something else I noticed was that the smells coming from the cauldron were neither pleasant nor unpleasant in spite of the fact that something was obviously boiling in it. I then realized that almost no one from the CDR – at least not on my block – went door-to-door requesting food donations for the celebration’s communal pot any more as they often did some years ago. Certainly, food is not only scarce but the prices are excessively high and almost no one is in a position to give it away. Besides, there are ever fewer people attending these events since in their own homes many have to confront on a daily basis what could be described as – to paraphrase the title from an old film – the silence of the cauldrons.

Translator’s note: Caldosa is traditionally a thick broth or stew.After the Cuban revolution cooking it became a communal event in which neighbors brought whatever ingredients they had at hand. Some say this came about because of food scarcity; others believe that the change had more to do with the collective emphasis of socialism. (Source: cubaentuscon.blogspot.com)

September 28 2012

I am not given to interviews. Nor do I like them. Ninety percent of the time I turn down requests for them. A journalist’s role is to question, investigate, analyze and write. What I like about print journalism is the anonymity. Information, news, reporting or chronicling are what matter. Not the author.

I am caught between two currents. Government media outlets have accused me of being “counterrevolutionary.” Just like that, nothing more. I have never visited the United States Interest Section in Havana and I do not connect to the internet at an embassy. I swear it is not because of some neurosis. It is that I am disgusted by diplomats’ tendency towards flattery.

I pay 15 CUC out of my own pocket for two hours of time and once a week I go online from a Havana hotel. My first priority is to send my dispatches and, if time permits, I read online journals in Spanish and copy some texts, usually sports stories and world news.

The internet connection in Cuba is slow and the minutes remaining do not leave enough time to read emails or to visit Facebook, Twitter or Linkedin.

I would like to be able to read more blogs by renowned journalists from major media outlets directly, but I have to make do with links my mother sends to my email address. Once a week I copy them on USB’s, and later calmly open and read the articles on my laptop at home.

A news story captures the reality of the person writing it. No matter how much one may try to be balanced and objective, the article always somewhat reflects the journalist’s views.

I flee from wise monkeys, those whose egos are so big they often keep two beds in their rooms—one for themselves and one for their egos. No blog can completely capture the complex Cuban experience.

There are hookers, male prostitutes and gays disgusted by the economic inefficiency of the government. There are also people who believe in socialism and are confident that Raúl Castro’s reforms will work. Whatever beliefs one has, they should not be an impediment to dialog and the possibility of building bridges.

I like to write about losers. Or winners who are about to become losers. We are all Cubans. We do not all have to think the same way, nor should we. That would be very boring. When the government understands that it cannot govern only for the benefit its supporters, it will grow strong.

Some accuse me of being very critical of the dissidents. Once I described them as “banana dissidents,” which made me a countless number of “enemies.” They did not shoot me because they couldn’t. Instead they chose to accuse me of being a “security agent” and other such nonsense. For its part the government writes me off as a “mercenary.” This is the price one pays for having one’s own standards. I am a bothersome journalist.

But I do not see why people who think differently cannot have a civil discussion. We must stop gritting our teeth and clenching our fists and learn how to accept our differences. It is very easy to accuse and defame. It would be healthy to erase all these human miseries and distrusting attitudes.

The future of Cuba will be decided in ten years time. Perhaps less. All Cubans, whatever our beliefs, should put forth our best efforts to change and improve society. When we learn to say “I do not agree with you” instead of the more typical “you are mistaken,” we will grow as a nation.

Photo: Wooden sculpture of the three wise monkeys by Hidari Jingoro (1594-1634) at the Toshogu shrine, Nikko, Japan

September 26 2012

It’s not their best song but the theme cuts me to the bone. I listen again to the Arjona clip and again I shiver, I get up and punish the keyboard with a pain that hurts me, a pain that I try to put into words but can’t, because 50 years already seems like too much time and too many dashed hopes, scattered, promised and postponed, shipwrecked in the Straits even today.

First and core cause of each and every one of the deaths suffered by the rafters in the narrow gap, the travel ban was always a slap on the cheek, my only people divided in two, more than by the Gulf Stream, by the storms of intolerance. Due to this vilifying the professional and the athlete as a “deserter”; citizens served up a la carte, Spanish or Mesopotamian, who suddenly take advantage of their distant pedigree; the hookers who leave trafficking their bodies; selling their spit of the silence of cowards who fake it for crumbs; I see how the dignity of so many Cubans is prostituted.

Family separation caused by migration policy which the Cuban government has imposed for over half a century deserved to be categorized as a crime against humanity in whatever forum is respected. No other arbitrariness, among those held by the Cuban government during this time has been so traumatic and harmful to the people who experience it.

I say the people, because their selective nature strengthens their outrageous nuance: while depriving the people of their genuine right to travel, senior politicians and government wander the world, along with their children, wives, and — why not? — their lovers; they leave and return openly under cover of official missions or as managers of phantom firms and no one know what they do, and if these enjoy their scholarships in Europe, while those pass through Cancun, while I and mine have never gone farther than Matanzas.

It’s been over a year since Raul Castro publicly announced that his government would implement changes, which he did not specify, and the travel and immigration mechanisms, but already we are looking out from our subtle autumn and he gives the impression he doesn’t care, that they still have an entire lifetime to achieve the reunification of the Cuban family.

Every day that passes without the doors opening will be a shameful day and a new temptation for disgrace. Rarely was a leader at such a crossroads having in his hands, so clearly, the power to fix it; today the responsibility rests on his shoulders for every new death in the Straits as until yesterday Fidel Castro was responsible for implementing and maintaining intact for half a century this monster that causes so much pain in my people, that has essentially caused the most dramatic exodus in Cuban history.

There they tell of the mourning of the mothers and the absences and the look of the orphaned and dead children. Now is the time to vindicate, unconditionally, this right of the Cuban people! Anyone who opposes it at this time will be tried inexorably before history and found guilty for this slow genocide.

But while the power calculates in the shadows, I live with a recurring dream: in the midst of a vast and peaceful sea, on a bridge without borders or tolls two children gaze with clear eyes, offering diaphanous smiles, embracing without fear and forgetting everything. Sitting on a pile of new dreams they contemplate a warm sun that comes close to the edge of the common horizon, “The dawn is here brother,” they say, “the dawn!”

September 27 2012