Irina Echarry’s Diary

The girl who was crying on TV and hugging the Spanish flag probably doesn’t know why she did that. One acquaintance told me, “It’s great that the native motherland won; we all have some Spanish in us.”

Many of us in the capital have gotten ahold (through flash drives) of a video from a camera placed in front of the bus stop at the intersection of Jesús Peregrino and Belascoain streets; at this site is one of Mashenka’s eyes.

Could it be that we’re returning to the stress-filled situation of the 1990s? It’s likely that we are. Officially, no one speaks about the real situation.

At once I understood that I shouldn’t think badly of people. The young woman was perhaps in a hurry; it could have been that people were expecting her, or that she hadn’t eaten anything all day, or that she had something urgent to take care of.

If this is going to exist, it would be good that Cuban pornography was less sexist, that the women learn to relax and reach the same degree of satisfaction as the men, in short that they are allowed to seduce for pleasure.

When I walk through Old Havana, I don’t feel as free as I’d like to be. It’s my city and my country; however there are simple things I can’t do.

Several months ago a new resident moved into the building. At once the speculation began: “He has to be a manager,” “The Party must need him in the municipality, that’s why they gave him an apartment here,” “They say he’s going to take care of some of the problems,” and on and on… Popular imagination in the building went wild.

Two years ago in my voting district, there was an act of popular autonomy. Someone in a meeting stood up and proposed Sergio as the delegate. They had previously asked him and he had agreed. Immediately a host of hands rose in support.

I only liked the country in the daytime. I liked to see how the farmers would plant crops and feed the animals. But what delighted me most was seeing the earth thanking the rain for its water, as I watched the drops trying to penetrate the cracks.