The War I Didn’t Ask For
HAVANA TIMES – My name is Fabiana and I am 42 years old. I’m an artist — or at least I was. There was a time when I saw art as a form of expression for my rebellious spirit, a way to illuminate the dark corners of my existence. Today my brushes rest in a drawer. I haven’t lost my creativity; it’s just that my hands no longer respond when reality takes over. In this country we can’t afford the luxury of “painting for the love of art.”
As an artist I searched for light; today it is only a memory. There is none, none, none — that is the phrase of the moment. The immediate future has been lost, and having a hobby feels like a betrayal of empty stomachs. My consolation is that I can still manage to “draw” something to put in my mouth by the end of the day. Sometimes I feel invisible, but that’s normal — we are full of shadows. I am one more of those blurry figures walking across an island that is going dark piece by piece.
The situation has gone from hard to unbearable. The Cuban government announces a “state of war,” repeating its discourse of resistance and dignity in the face of the recent events in Venezuela with the capture of its president at the beginning of this year. For many, that was when everything fell apart. There is no bread, no electricity, no medicine, no rest. We look at our children and try out explanations that fall short. But this is something we were already living through even before January 3, 2026.
The ultimatum launched from Washington translates into: give in, or I’ll cut off the little that was keeping your exhausted country afloat. No more oil — therefore no transportation and no electricity. These words mean endless nights for the people, food spoiling, and hospitals in darkness. While the powerful make their moves in their “game of thrones,” we remain in the role of disposable pieces, the bodies that inevitably pay the price of the outcome.
Wooden coffins, flags, and solemn speeches accompanied the remains of the 32 Cuban soldiers killed in Caracas. Children who will not return, young people who died far away in a war that did nothing to resolve their mothers’ hunger or our children’s pain. In Cuba there is no aspirin to cure the cancer eating us alive, but there is no shortage of slogans that poison us every day.
Fear can be felt in the streets. People talk about war, and the government sets up checkpoints, constant searches, military maneuvers, increased repression. The internet appears and disappears — I no longer know whether it’s because of fuel shortages or to keep our cries from escaping. The truth is we live inside a box, isolated, under constant surveillance, exhausted by the struggle to survive.
I think “state of war” is just a phrase used to justify this paralysis that steals our right to breathe. Opinions are divided: some call for negotiation and others insist that “no one here surrenders.” In the middle are the mothers, fathers, children, the elderly — ordinary people who only want to sleep with a fan running and wake up without fear. I have been fighting for 42 years, and my wish is simple: I want to live.
Why must I go on resisting while I paint shadows in the darkness and hope that dawn will be more than a metaphor?
Read more from Fabiana del Valle’s diary here at Havana Times.