We may be gradually dying, without shedding a single drop of blood and we can be killing little by little, without shedding a single drop of blood. And since there’s no blood, there’s no photographer or video crew coming to film this death.
Who was so interested in not seeing the Yukpas come to Caracas? Who was so interested in not having the voice of the Yukpas heard on the national media?
A few years ago the Ministry of Popular Power for Indigenous Peoples in Venezuela was created. The ministry has had its achievements…and made some very major missteps as well. In the last few weeks people have again started talking about Sabino and the Yukpas in hushed voices.
In recent weeks, the spirit of the people of Venezuela has been like what I can only compare to a baseball playoff. I’m making this comparison from my point of view as a Cuban who has never seen the streets of Havana spontaneously filled other than in the final series of the playoffs, especially if the capital’s Industriales team plays Santiago de Cuba.
What makes me laugh most is that those who taught us all that trash never believed it themselves. I imagine it must have been funny to them, playing a trick on a naive child knowing that only with time would the youngster discover the cruelty of the joke.
Sometimes he’s dressed up like a woman, others times he’s placed naked with blacks eager to “sodomize” him. They dress him in butterfly wings or feature him half-naked and stunted under the legs of a muscular and almighty Chavez.
I recently met several Cubans who came to Venezuela for a couple of weeks. Since I know how difficult it is to come to an unknown country and “find things” at prices affordable to our pockets, I offered to show them around, serving as a kind of guide.
There’s a joke that, unfortunately, reminds me of Cuba. It’s old and really doesn’t get a big laugh. There’s a man in the middle of the ocean. His boat capsized and he’s barely managing to hold onto a thin piece of wood that won’t keep floating for too long.
I don’t believe in the press. I don’t believe in journalists, or in the best intentions of any editor. The illusion of a “free press” is held only by those who live with the fear of being imprisoned by a system.
It’s nighttime and I can hear the sounds of drums. I can’t help but to stand here on the balcony, the night is rainy and rinsed away all the other noises of the city. This is when you can best hear the beating of hands on leather.