Author: Rosa Martínez

The Covid 19 is not a game, why don’t you understand it once and for all, I mutter to myself as I separate as much as I can from the lady in front of me.

Some people, myself included, take social isolation very seriously, as we know that this is the only way to prevent infection.

It was almost 4:30 pm, in Guantanamo when a large group of people piled into the first vehicle that arrived at our dilapidated bus stop.

Diana and I are long-distance friends. We’ve been sharing our dreams, happiness and woes over instant messaging for about two years now.

It’s 4:20 p.m., Monday March 17th. I leave my new job and head towards Guantanamo city center; I need to buy some basic items before I go home.

A friend who lives outside of Cuba, with whom I communicate every day, believes that I am increasingly pessimistic.

It’s born green, collected when red, sold when yellow and enjoyed when it’s black. Do you know what I’m talking about? Well, coffee…

After the crash, my parents quickly came to the scene and were really scared when they saw me on the floor (they thought that I had been hurt)…

I have read especially tourism books, that pigs are roasted on the island, people make sweets, coming together in street parties, setting off fireworks, pero…

Fate would have it that the arrival of the temporary situation (which everyone comically calls the crisis we are currently experiencing here in Cuba), caught me at a time when I’ve been on house-arrest, as I had a household accident which has practically cut me off from the outside world for some months now.