The Noble Task of Not Going Crazy in Cuba
HAVANA TIMES – Three in the afternoon in San Cristobal, Artemisa. The power went out half an hour ago, and the neighbors on my block are saying it won’t be back until the early morning. Their predictions are more reliable than the weather forecast or the official press, which is why I ignore the latter.
In my “blackout chair,” I fan myself with a broken fan while the heat melts away any will to work. And I think—because no matter what my body is doing, my mind never rests. It processes, coordinates, gets depressed, and strengthens itself all at the same time.
I’m 42 years old and I don’t know when I went from being a young artist full of dreams to this woman who no longer has the desire or strength to create. I keep fighting—because I’m alive, for my teenage daughter who still has the drive to move forward, and for my mother who’s lost everything but still gets up each day, dragging her legs.
I studied art in Pinar del Río at a school that no longer exists. I graduated believing I was going to change the world, that talent alone could feed your children or pay for your mother’s medicine.
That was in the early years—when I was still young and free of responsibilities. But all of that disappeared the same way friends, lovers, family, meat, oil, bread, medicine, hope, and dignity have disappeared. How naïve of me, change the world? Nothing changes here. The years go by and it’s the same thing, though honestly, now it’s worse.
Publishing a book on Amazon was practically an act of rebellion and faith. I didn’t earn a cent, but someone in Spain bought my book and left a five-star review. Does that count as international success? It doesn’t matter what others think, it’s a victory to me.
I write, and the pay helps me get by. I still paint landscapes to sell in Viñales, but even tourism is in decline and sales are practically nonexistent. My husband and I also run a small shop selling fish and aquarium supplies.
Selling fish on an island where even water is scarce, where blackouts are constant is tough. But people still come, buy a betta fish, and even give it a name. If there’s one thing we have in abundance, it’s imagination to survive the absurd.
In October, my daughter turns fifteen. She doesn’t want a party, photos, or a dress, she just wants a laptop. And I feel like someone has thrown me off a fifth-floor balcony, because I couldn’t give her a celebration or pictures even if she wanted them—much less a laptop. I couldn’t afford one even if I sold all the fish, poems, drawings, and furniture I have. Still, I smile and tell her we’ll see what we can do, while guilt eats away at me inside.
My mother lives alone in Pinar del Río. She turns 67 in August. She used to be a strong woman, determined to conquer the world to get ahead, but ever since my father died, she’s changed. Every day there’s more emptiness in her eyes, a visceral fear of running out of resources, so that we, her grown children, don’t go without.
Despite everything, I keep writing on the computer when we get a moment of “power surge,” on my phone, or on paper. Now I do digital drawings because my art supplies have run out, and I can’t afford to replace them. As long as I have words and images, I can resist in that little bubble where it doesn’t matter if there’s electricity, a future, or answers. That’s the only thing that keeps me from ending up petrified in front of my phone, waiting for the next report from the Electric Company.
My name is Fabiana and my possessions are few: fish, poems, drawings, my husband’s shoulder, my mother’s kisses, my father’s photos, my brother’s smile, a daughter who dreams of soaring on a laptop she doesn’t have—and my sanity.