Those of Us Still Standing in Cuba, Don’t Know What to Do
HAVANA TIMES – I’ve decided to try selling my books in some other places. To try my luck, for example, at the Loma de la Cruz (Hill of the Cross) in Holguin. I set up my volumes on one side of the little fort there and went to sit down on a bench across from it. In a short while, people began to arrive. Young people doing exercises. A young girl took selfies, others sat down on the grass, and later two ladies arrived and sat down near me. Like good Cubans, we began talking as if we’d known each other all our lives.
One is seventy-four years old, the other sixty-five. They come to this place to ask for spare change. It doesn’t have to be just foreign tourists, they remark, they ask almost everyone who comes to this hilltop. We began to exchange complaints, no longer about the heat, but about the torments of life: the lack of water, the blackouts, the prices… How terrible hunger is, Bertha comments to me. And I tell her, yes, we’ve felt this since the nineties, or – who knows? – maybe even before.
They tell me that they get to the hill via a path from their neighborhood. That indeed the rationed bread rolls haven’t come to the store for several days. There’s a rumor going around that the bread that comes will be earmarked only for children under seven, like milk has been restricted for years. I can’t believe that this would happen with the badly baked bread rolls that are already in short supply. Nelsa, the other woman, tells me that she’s also brought her daughter-in-law here, to ask for money, but she’s blind and the path has a lot of rocks on it. So, she can’t bring her anymore.
A bus full of tourists parks. Bertha and Nelsa approach some of the foreigners who have scattered around the site. Most refuse to give them anything. I recall that one of the things that bothers me most when I’m walking down the streets is having someone come up to me begging for money. Sometimes they’re mothers with children, other times old people, or alcoholics. But now, it annoys me that they’re not giving any money to Bertha and Nelsa. They have made me more sensitive. I only see one person reaching in his pockets.
Taking a different view, I also recall that I, myself, have been one of those who is constantly asking family and friends outside the country to please, bring me this or that. The system has transformed us into a population of beggars. It’s not only my new friends. Not producing anything and having almost everything subsidized (the licensed private businesses haven’t been around for a long time) have caused us to be constantly begging those who do produce to please help us.
Moreover, I can’t allow myself to forget that I was able to complete a good part of my studies, which had to be paid for monthly, thanks to many kindnesses received. That means a commitment to pass on the favor. So, while it’s true that it annoys me to be asked for money, it’s also true that I don’t allow myself to refuse those who ask. I had a teacher who would sometimes pass me ten dollars when he shook my hand – I was included in a project of his, which was to help ten students in each class.
The tourists look here and there, walk around very sure of themselves. They take their photos and leave. Bertha and Nelsa feel somewhat encouraged by what they received. It embarrassed me to be there offering my books – no one even approached them out of curiosity. Bertha tells me that it won’t work that way, I should be standing next to them, holding them out. I tell her she’s right. They note that those young people sitting on the grass on the other side of the fort also ask for money.
A few steps down, where the road practically begins, there are some little cafes. The private ones offer alcoholic drinks, snacks, tacos, beers, juices, but at a much higher price than those in the city. I chose not to look too hard at them. There’s a young guy selling handicrafts behind a table he’s set up, and another food stand that’s State-owned, but doesn’t have affordable prices either. The only thing free is drinking water and the bathroom.
By now, it’s near noon. Nelsa says she’s going home. Bertha says she’s decided to leave for the park. She trusts she’ll have better luck there than here. Both are holding some papers in their hands where I’ve written down the pronunciation of how to ask for money in English, and the words “thank you.” I’m surprised, because they end up pronouncing them pretty well. That makes me happy.
We tell each other it was a pleasure meeting. I assure them I’ll be back and try to sell my books with a better skill, and I hope we’ll meet again. We say goodbye, and I gather up my books and go, using the stairs. The next time I’ll think about bringing coffee to share, and maybe some other thing to eat.
It’s sad – not only has Cuba has been transformed into a factory that exports people to every part of the world, but also more than a few – myself included – find it also transformed into a hell suffered day by day. It’s a reality that’s ever more impoverished, with a population ever more aged and powerless.
That project “to reach 120 years,” so proclaimed here to the four winds via all the routes and mediums of communication, can’t come to realization under so much suffering, just to keep living. Those many years that supposedly represent a blessing, would become just the opposite – a tragedy.
Bertha and Nelsa aren’t just two isolated cases that I ran into by coincidence at one of the highest points around the city of Holguin. People like them can be found all over, ever more frequently. And even if you don’t believe it, it’s not a challenge that touches just a few individuals. It’s a challenge for everyone, for society as a whole – the fate of those who are most vulnerable.