Dariela Aquique’s Diary

A few years ago, security cameras were mounted in the streets of the main cities of the country, which at the beginning caught everyone’s attention for being so out of the ordinary.

As everyone knows, the press in Cuba lacks many freedoms. In its wide zones of silence is included the “red chronicles,” those daily tragedies, crimes and obituaries in which death is a common denominator that orchestrates the drama of these convulsive times.

We have begun a new year after having left behind December, when from early in the month Cuban families labored to make sure of everything from a leg of pork to a crate of beer, bottles of rum or well-liked yams for their end of the year traditional Creole dinner.

Our country — in the middle of an economic embargo, without great natural wealth and because of other things that I don’t want to refer to — is in fact immersed in underdevelopment, which causes us to be the daily witnesses of an abrupt subversion of values.

My grandmother used to say that “social segregation” was apparent back in her day. Places where people assembled were defined by their race, status or other distinctions, as people’s attitudes reflected individual and collective cultural norms of that time.

Upon the arrival of foreigners, one of these guys immediately approaches a European woman and with a shameful accent asked her what country she was from. Evidently not understanding a single word, she smiled, which he interpreted as an unequivocal sign of flirtation.

My neighbor (like many people) doesn’t work and doesn’t study. He’s a kid educated under the Revolution, but he lives off of “business,” from “inventing.” Yet his income allows him to enjoy places that are so expensive that an experienced and qualified professional can not afford them.