What Is Wealth?
HAVANA TIMES – Lately, I think a lot about quantities. About portions. A bit of rice falls on the floor and I wonder: if I patiently gather it up, could it fill a bird’s stomach? One of those I feed while it rests on the stair landing, since they’re in danger on the balcony because of my cats. I’ve always hated numbers and math. But how can I now avoid the exercise of calculating what you have, what it costs, what’s missing…
Yesterday, I saw an elderly woman of humble appearance buying half a pound of rice. I wondered if she lived alone or if she would have to share with someone else that small bundle she took with her—clutched in a tense hand in a plastic bag that wasn’t even new.
At the stall where I buy mincemeat for my animals, a thin man opens his knotted hand and unrolls bills in his palm—not even 50-peso bills, but 20s, and even 10s! The vendor shows annoyance as he counts the money. Then, with a violent gesture, he cuts a piece from the frozen, bloody mass.
They call this place Calle Ancha in Alamar, to the east of Havana. It’s a busy area because there aren’t many food shopping options in the neighborhood. At the end of the street, you can see the sea. You’d like to think that that patch of blue can refresh your eyes with a glance. Transport you to those places you once visited and witnessed with awe how supplies were abundant—natural, like air.
How can you not question what they call fate, destiny, karma… Why some and not others? You try to remember that there is splendor in this world where, when we were young, we believed (imagined) in an undeniably grand future.
You ask yourself how one can make the leap, leave behind the line that confines you within poverty.
Meanwhile, I do what seems most fair. I never allow food to rot without being eaten. That is an unforgivable crime.
I always remember what my aunt said—she emigrated to Miami many years ago: “With the amount of food thrown away in this country, all of Latin America could be fed!”
Then you think of all those who could satisfy their hunger with what others discard. That’s how unconsciousness works—even in Cuba, there are people who don’t think, before throwing it in the trash, to share the remains of their dinner with an animal they’ve seen scavenging through garbage for something digestible.
“They say man thinks as he lives” …
And going back to numbers, I know there are infinitely more who abandon animals than those who rescue and adopt them.
For protectors, the challenge of survival is disproportionate because we always prioritize our rescued animals. There, between Cubans who leave and those who stay, between those who feel compassion and those who look the other way, is where the balance breaks.
And accepting that means losing strength, doubting whether any sense of proportion or justice exists.
Acting, moving from within the darkness, imbuing our acts and events with a secret and kind meaning.
I don’t mean blind faith but an expectation rooted in evidence.
Still, I become increasingly convinced that reaching that state of grace is a process I don’t control. It arrives when you least expect it, like a soft gust of wind.
Suddenly, the vendor tells you that you overpaid and even gives you a smile.
You spot a familiar face in the crowd, someone who’s glad to run into you, and you can even share the current distress without shame or sensationalism. What a relief when there’s no need to compete. Not even over misfortune.
To be who you are and even feel fortunate. Not because you lack ambition, but because you understand that there is a time for everything, just like the seasons. They can’t be forced, pressured, summoned with complaints or tears.
And one day, the seed you planted—fueled by a raw and genuine yearning—will also sprout for you. Nourished by efforts scattered in countless directions. With or without faith. Through all the crises. Resisting, whether you meant to or not.
Until you break the curse, allowing effort to finally break through and unfold with the simplicity and grandeur of trees.