I just wonder: Does there exist only one way of thinking about Cuba? What type of education is it that attempts to produce homogeneity, some sole way of thought, that doesn’t allow questioning or diversity of thought and action? Am I misinterpreting what I read?
It’s not exactly because I’m turning into an old gossip, or that I find certain pleasure in seeing how people make their way down the street struggling against this chilly weather. Nor have I succumb to paranoia: watching out for an enemy that’s watching me. It’s nothing like that.
A friend of mine told me that the Russians who came when the socialist camp still existed were not like this – arrogant and imperialistic. However, the truth is that the memories I maintain, overpowering ones, are unlike that.
I will try to keep up a logbook, my binnacle of the Havana International Book Fair. I believe these types of writings begin with the weather: the south wind kept making a mess of my hair; I had brought a coat for nothing, according to the meteorological reports La Cabaña fair site was supposed to be cold, but instead it was hot – very hot.
The fact that the Havana International Book Fair is dedicated to Russia makes my hair stand on end. I fear they’ll again try to establish the same aristocracy here that existed back then in the former Soviet Union, but one with a Russian essence. I’m afraid they’re the ones who will attempt to impose their aesthetics and prices, in both the State market and the black market.
Since a little over a month ago, I’ve been learning how to camouflage myself; I didn’t want to write. Around me was death and hunger, more than what was printed in the papers.
“My name is Anya and work is the only thing that interests me. My story is like that of many women who have come to feel that the most essential things in life are to be found between the four walls of home. That’s where our husbands and children are. Why ask for more?”
My grandmother’s illness took the whole family by surprise. After we got the news, it was only a question of days. Her cancer had already spread far along, so much so that it was impossible to eliminate it.
I’m the first to enter. My classmates soon arrive and there is a buzz of conversation, something very normal because we’re all very young and we all have the same expectations. The professor, quite serious, states what according to him is going to be the cornerstone of the entire course: “Here, no one knows more than I do.”
People around here, and around the world, might think that my occupation of writing has only served to vent my frustrations; and in good measure they’re right. Writing is my way of exorcizing demons, although those I show you in Havana Times are, or may seem, quite docile.