My Friend at Holguin’s Exhibition Hall

By Lien Estrada

HAVANA TIMES – It was Sunday and I decided to take a walk. During my stroll, I arrived at the corner of Maceo and Libertad, where the Exhibition Hall in Holguín has been located for decades. It was then that I was surprised to run into a friend who was working there. We began to discuss the topic that I suspect most Cubans talk about when they meet somewhere: the more than noticeable degradation of almost everything that concerns us. Economic, labor, social, and even familial aspects, because any of these influences the rest.

In our conversation, we couldn’t find any good news, and the deterioration was revealed even further than expected. Facing the idea, “no wonder people prefer exile rather than adapting to the new circumstances,” we agreed. It’s not a just crisis of recent times, and those who have the possibility simply leave and do not return, we continued to comment.

“Would you believe,” my friend asks me, “that they still charge me for the Territorial Troop Militias (MTT) here?” “How can that be,” I responded surprised, “if it’s been known for very long there hasn’t been a threat of a Yankee invasion?” In other words, its purpose no longer exists. It’s incomprehensible how people are still designated by the political apparatus to collect this fee destined for the army for the sake of an imperialist invasion that never took place.

“How is it possible?” I asked again. “When I myself applied for a job at a center, they asked me for that paper, and I exclaimed: ‘MTT paper?!’ And they reacted: ‘True, it’s problematic because it’s a phantom organization.’ They themselves know they disappeared a long time ago!”

“Nor does the Revolutionary Defense Committee (CDR) exist,” he replied. “When have you seen them make stew again on their anniversary? Or carry out the numerous activities that were programmed in the neighborhood throughout the year? True,” I added, “there are no longer any types of patrols. Nowadays, you have to pay a watchman to guard the neighborhood where you live because otherwise, you’ll be robbed. Those neighborhood CDR patrols from the 70s and 80s are no more.” “That’s right,” my friend replied. “We have to endure what political transitions imply. The disintegration is evident.”

We said goodbye, wishing each other luck. You never know what we still must experience. The day was clear and, thank God, not oppressively hot. I walked back home.

Read more from Lien Estrada’s diary here.