Erasmo Calzadilla’s Diary

Traditionally, in philosophy classes in Cuba, those taught to all undergraduates in the course Philosophy and Society, very little emphasis is put on trying to elucidate what is the individual. Certainly this is a topic that can lead us far. It can guide us to deep self-examination of our lives and actions, but bureaucratic instruction is quite distant from these aims.

These animals ended up being part of our life, and each was almost like another neighbor. Nonetheless, the day of cruel sacrifice would arrive; men would again start sharpening their knives.

There wasn’t a soul left on the shore at this hour – an unusual situation – due to a cold front which had enveloped the city. We collapsed as soon as we reached the sand, overcome by fatigue and sleepiness.

I had never been in a courtroom before; it was quite small with long wooden benches, like in the movies. The judges and lawyers were dressed in long black gowns, which I imagine must be hot as hell in the summer.

The true hero of the kids in my neighborhood is Misha, a very well-known Reggaeton singer and composer who has been unmatched in giving a sense of identity and belonging to those youth. He walks on foot through our community, and no one ignores his simple and charismatic greetings.

It turns out that one of the people who read my article (about the mysterious and recent expulsion from Mt. Olympus of important political figures in Cuba), someone identifying himself as a philosophy professor, turned attention away from the burning issue I had raised to aim his guns at me instead.

Today will be the first hearing in which I am appealing my expulsion from the university. When everything is concluded -for good or for bad- I’ll recount in detail everything that has happened. I haven’t done so yet because many of my friends think that I might bury myself deeper, and I believe that they’re partially right

Not long ago, I wrote about the rebirth that was taking place in “El Electrico”, the community in which I live on the outlying south side of Havana. It is far enough away to be free of hustle, bustle and the pollution of the central city

As we had secretly yearned, we got lost. Emotion returned something to our faces, but only slightly, because we suspected that soon we would find our way out of there. While we strolled along those sunny paths, we told stories and passed the time throwing stones, like children.

Even accepting as true that the transition of power in our country can be democratic and just, it is undeniable that these domestic hurricanes have left standing in their wake only the oldest of stock: an old troop of soldiers of irreproachable honesty and fidelity.