Dare to Believe in Cuba
HAVANA TIMES – In Cuba, people celebrate the end of the year primarily with music and food. And a bit of alcohol. I suppose it’s the same in the rest of the world.
Not having the traditional food for that date adds another layer of anguish to the daily struggle, a race for basic survival that grows increasingly chaotic.
Some people make rag dolls to burn at midnight when the clock marks not just the transition from one day to the next, but from one year to another, from disappointment to expectation.
It’s curious how, on that day, even the most skeptical throughout the old year feel that December 31st represents the threshold of change.
Because the shift in the calendar must mean something magical—something to lift us out of disaster. Whether by expiration, causality, or miracle.
Cubans are generally superstitious. That’s why the ritual of burning a doll representing the past year must carry away all the bad: delays, misery, stagnation. Or throwing water out of the house as a kind of exorcism.
But there are countless other rituals surrounding the transition to a new year: toasting with whatever you have in your glass among family and friends. Placing money (even if borrowed) in your pockets to attract prosperity. Hugging, wishing each other the best. Laughing. Thinking positively, even if only for this special night that stands apart from the relentless impossibility.
Walking around the block carrying a suitcase is said to guarantee travel.
Wearing new clothes on the first day of the new year. A day when almost everyone goes out to visit family and friends.
I don’t know to what extent these rituals were observed this January 1st. The worsening public transportation system and the cost of taxis must have discouraged many.
After all, now we have access to social media. The world is just a few digits away. (And, of course, depending on the phone balance.)
Who knows the cost of the cell phone cost from where it was sent, from which greetings are compulsively sent—with dreamlike lights, cheers, and sparks of hope.
A word we hope isn’t lost in the days following the collective celebration. When the music and laughter fade. When another change of digits concludes the holidays, and this exaltation in the air dissipates—this promise of change.
Something that beats in unison within nearly every Cuban, even if they don’t dare to say it: that my country will rise from the ashes like the phoenix.
That I can thrive through my own efforts in an environment of freedom. That fear will vanish. That my children won’t have to leave. That Cuba will become a place to build, grow, and shine… And never again a cursed land, a broken dream, an experiment, or a waystation.