I’m Afraid of the World We Live In
HAVANA TIMES – I am afraid of the dawn, of repeating the same routine every day, and of staying stuck in the same place.
I am afraid when I see my mother wear herself out in front of the wood stove, her back more hunched every day, her fingers unable to count the misfortunes while her tears rise from the smoke and despair.
My daughter grows up thin and sad, dreams of little, and it is so hard for me to make her happy. I am afraid of the gleam in her eyes when she watches a video of some influencer showing off new stuff and asks me if it costs a lot. “I’m saving,” she tells me, and I know she is, but it’s not enough.
She’s a thirteen-year-old girl who doesn’t expect Victoria’s Secret underwear, acrylic nails, trips to Varadero, or going shopping with friends. A simple girl, who only wants to create her own world with words and images, a girl who trades luxuries for paintbrushes, acrylics, markers, and pencils.
She’s so much like me! I am terrified she will end up like me.
I am afraid of turning 65 and not having enough of my pension to buy a carton of eggs, of becoming like those gray old folks dragging their feet through broken streets, their stomachs growling, not having enough for even a small individual pizza.
I am afraid that the vendor on the corner will have his goods taken away, the ones that are missing from the pharmacy. The problem is no longer gathering the money for the medication, it’s watching my loved ones die without medical care.
I am afraid of schools where violence, theft, and corruption come first. Of teenagers using drugs in classrooms while the authorities hide the facts from concerned parents, and of a principal who cares more about a student’s bangs than her academic performance.
It hurts when this feeling arrives, that moment when you hate being Cuban, when patriotism is distorted, and the “order of the day” is to endure.
I don’t want to endure, I want to live. I want to see my mother happy again, not hear her crying in the corners when she thinks I don’t hear her. She has earned a peaceful old age with her needs met; she deserves the absolute certainty that the bread we offer is enough for everyone.
I am afraid of this Island that consumes us, traps us inexorably, destroys our dreams, robs us of the hope for a better future.
I am afraid of waking up one day with the suicidal courage to go out into the street and demand my rights. To go from being a “free” citizen to a face remembered only by those who love me and need me here, with them, “at the ready.” No, I can’t end my life as food for vultures, I can’t end up living behind bars while my family rots in an even crueler prison.
I fear myself when I discover that I am still the same dreamer despite the years. The hammer hits me constantly, and yet I go on, step by step, reinventing the maps to find the path that will help me survive on this island.