How I Spent Christmas Despite Everything in Cuba
HAVANA TIMES — A sister in the faith let me know that a meal would be held for people experiencing homelessness in the city. I decided to help out. I almost always do—whether at church or in independent groups—when these kinds of initiatives come up. My participation is not mainly about helping someone else who is more vulnerable than I am. Nor do I do it for the salvation of my soul, or because I’m at a more advanced stage of spiritual evolution. No.
It’s because I suffer from tendencies toward depression—a biological predisposition that comes to me from my mother’s side of the family. And ever since I’ve listened to talks by psychiatrists and psychologists who say that charitable actions make the brain generate dopamine and serotonin, and therefore counteract states of sadness, hopelessness, or depression, I take these tasks very seriously. I do them as therapy, like the vitamins my aunt gives me every morning with breakfast. I take it very seriously for health reasons. I hope my Divinity understands me, forgives me, and, if His infinite Mercy so wills it, blesses me.
So, I said to myself: Thank you, my Divinity! An opportunity to help my mental health! And that December day I ran to the San Egidio Macroecumenical Center, located on Aricochea Street, just a few houses past the sports complex. When I arrived, there were about twenty-some people sitting on small wooden benches, plastic chairs propped against the wall, and at tables set up in the center of the hall. I greeted each one by shaking their hand and saying the same thing: “Merry Christmas.” Always with a smile, and with respect. Until I reached the other end, where the entrance door was, next to the table with the young people from the group responsible for the activity. I greeted them in the same way.
I told them, “I’m going to the kitchen to help,” and as I headed that way, a young man who was sitting at one end of one of the tables called me over. I approached, he shook my hand again, and began to tell me: “I’ve lost everything…” And he started listing everything he had lost, to the point that I almost thought he meant even his own life. I listened to him—not the way I do in front of the television watching Communist propaganda programs where they say we are the perfect society and I burst out laughing. I listened to this young man—dirty, most likely suffering from alcoholism—who was telling me he had lost everything, with all the attention I could muster, with all my respect.
I was aware that listening to him and serving him a plate of food that morning was all I could do for him. Because I didn’t even feel that my response to what he shared with me was the right one. I said something along the lines of how we must maintain faith above all, despite everything, and something else. But faced with these realities, I feel ashamed because I always experience that I have nothing to add, that I don’t know how to answer. And what I frankly want is to remain silent. But I also believe that not responding in these cases is wrong, and I react with the Christian discourse the church taught me, even though the circumstances tell me it makes no sense.
I admit it affected me. And the plate of food I handed him afterward did not make up for the emptiness that this experience generated in me. So, I hurried into the kitchen. I introduced myself. I didn’t know anyone. Those I did know didn’t participate this time. The power came back on. Christmas songs were played. Plastic plates of congri, meat, and root vegetables were served. I served some, and then I started washing dishes. Many people took part. I know because I was the one washing, and I got tired. That thing where just when you think you’re finishing and you’ve washed the last dish, more and more and more arrive.
After the meal, there was a cultural program. I loved the idea. I am convinced of what Christ said: “Man does not live by bread alone.” And in Cuba, since food is an odyssey, we forget that life can be much more than that bite the body needs to make it through to nightfall. In Cuba, we have the Government’s circus, not the bread of the Romans. The church’s bishop would arrive at any moment to say a few words for Christmas. I decided to leave before that. I was truly exhausted, because I am also struggling with the aftereffects of a virus that causes me a lot of pain, especially in my arms. I left without making much noise.
I walked home. Resting every so often like an elderly woman. When I arrived, I shared the experience and my mother and aunt were glad. In general, I was glad too—except for this thing that still circles in my head: what do you say to a person who tells you they have lost everything? If you too have also lost much, even if it doesn’t show, and you’ve felt that way many times? And that you must keep trying, no matter what happens.