A Story That Shouldn’t Be Silenced

Illustration by Fabiola Gonzalez

By Fabiana del Valle

HAVANA TIMES – There are stories that touch me and leave scars. They aren’t mine, they weren’t my experiences, but after listening to them I feel forced to write. This is one of those stories impossible to bottle up, a testimony that strips bare the rawness of life and death in Cuba.

Just when I think that nothing could surprise me more than what I’ve already seen or heard, a story appears that surpasses the previous ones. The thing is, on this island everyone’s lived experiences seem like they were lifted from a nightmare. Here in Cuba, the unbelievable is customary, even death loses its dignity.

Sometimes I think I’ve now reached the limit of endurance, but then something more appears, something that breaks away from everything. Why am I surprised? Don’t I live on an island where horrors repeat like implacable echoes?

This incident happened to one of my mother’s neighbors. I can still see the expressions on his face as he told us. He’s a young man, a Jehovah’s Witness, and on that day he left his house to attend one of the meetings the group holds weekly.

When he arrived, he got news that the father-in-law of one of his Church fellows had disappeared. They searched tirelessly for him, the uncertainty was unbearable. They feared the worst, because the man suffered from hyperthyroidism and had stopped taking medication some time ago.

The search extended downriver, because the last time they’d seen him was around that area, but they didn’t find anything. Three days later, some young guys found a body floating under the bridge. It was him.

The family’s grief was immense, but what followed was even more devastating. The police investigators arrived hours after the discovery; they said they didn’t come before because they didn’t have gas for the patrol car. After examining the body, their determination was that he had committed suicide. They advised the funeral home, put him in a coffin, and sent the body directly to the cemetery.

When the family reached the cemetery, those in charge of burial asked them to step away for a moment. But my mother’s neighbor and two other men stayed to help with an absurd task.

There they were, with trembling hands, facing a body with the abdomen open and nearly 72 hours under water. Without gloves, they were asked to reincorporate the internal organs that were scattered around the coffin. Their contact with the body made their skin crawl, and the smell made them retch.

That job should have been performed by a forensic specialist with knowledge and preparation, not by them. In Cuba, though, the blows, even the cruelest ones, are shared with no anesthesia. What should have been a final gesture of respect ended as a shared nightmare.

They agreed that the close relatives must never learn of what happened there. The rest saw only a closed coffin and never suspected anything, but they were left marked by the horror of that moment. The three of them spent nights without sleeping and days without eating. My mother’s neighbor says he still smells that odor all the time, as if it had penetrated his skin.

How unfair it is living in a country where tragedy wounds the living and robs the dead of the right to rest in peace! I’m not one of those who enjoy movies, literature, or images of horror, and if I share this story it’s because I think there are some things so inadmissible that they mustn’t be left silent.

The person who entrusted me with this story received a wound he didn’t deserve. I only lend my voice so it doesn’t remain in silence.

Read more from the diary of Fabiana del Valle here on Havana Times.

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