Congratulations, Dad! Or Not. Or What?

June 15, 2025

Text and photos by Nester Nuñez (Joven Cuba)

HAVANA TIMES — “Happy Father’s Day, Dad! You know I hold you in the highest regard, right? But hey… where are you? At the agromarket, doing maintenance on the turbine, or helping your buddy with the engine? Dude, why didn’t you at least take today to sleep in a little and let your “lady” pamper you a bit? Take advantage of it, you’re almost one of those old guys who fall asleep in the armchair during the day and can’t sleep at night. Well, up to you. All right, a kiss. I’ll be back by noon, I guess. We’ll talk later. Happy Father’s Day again, old man. Love you.”

The man finished listening to the WhatsApp voice message from his son [also in Cuba] and, in a reflexive gesture, massaged his temples—without smiling, without feeling joy at the greeting. He was sitting at the kitchen table in front of a cup—the usual white one, with a small crack in the handle that never completely broke—filled with coffee he hadn’t yet tasted. In front of the counter, he had placed the bags with produce from the market. Just to do something, he took off his lightly sweat-dampened T-shirt and hung it on the back of the neighboring chair. Then he leaned his elbows on the table and covered his face with both hands. It looked like he was crying silently, but he was just thinking about the audio and about everything. The coffee stopped steaming.

“You can’t even have a halfway peaceful Sunday in this damn country,” he said. “Not even on Father’s Day. Unbelievable!”

He grabbed the phone and transferred 360 pesos to his son in Cuba [that had come for a top up from his brother outside the country].Then he sent a text message: I’m here. Keep me posted. Take care!

At another time and under different circumstances, he might have written: Come back. Don’t go getting into trouble. You’re not going to change anything with what you’re doing. Or at least: Tell me where you are, who you’re with. Or Don’t be late, son. I love you too. But by now, after almost two weeks since the University publicly voiced its position against the Etecsa “price hike,” he had learned to hold back. He drank a little coffee, though without desire. A message came in right away.

“Dad, man, that money you sent me came from my brother [to you] for Father’s Day. I thought it was clear I’m not accepting top ups from abroad—neither direct nor through third parties—until this issue is resolved for all Cubans. It would be very hypocritical of me to accept that privilege now.”

The firm tone of the message confirmed what he’d already been thinking.

“Look, son, I get your point and I respect it, but I know you well. If you’re out on the street at this hour on a Sunday, it only means you went to meet up with the other guys. Listen carefully: you don’t know if you’ll need to record audios, film, upload it to the cloud or livestream… Please, stop being so naive and buy the damn data right now. Don’t use it if you don’t think it’s necessary but have it ready just in case.@

He sent the voice message and, unsure of what to do next, picked up the T-shirt and put it back on. Then he carried the sweet potatoes to the pantry and put the eggs in the fridge. Luckily, he got a quick reply:

“Hitchcock’s spirit, get out of my dad’s body! Dad, man, you just made up this whole suspense thriller in your head, didn’t you? You’re worse than Mom. Look, to calm you down: yes, we’re going to meet up for a bit, talk and all that, but it’s chill. Ever since they announced the multidisciplinary group between ETECSA and the FEU, we haven’t had a chance. They want to wait until some of us graduate, until final exams are over, until summer vacation arrives. They’re playing their cards, hoping everything cools down and we lose momentum. But no one here is that naive anymore. But you, chill out, this is going to be informal and just for a little while. Stop with the fear and paranoia and make a nice breakfast to surprise Mom when she wakes up. Better yet, if the power’s still on, make one of your famous sweet potato puddings, ‘cause I’ll be back hungry.”

Far from relaxing, the man grew more worried. He didn’t know for sure whether his son’s lighthearted tone was due to youthful inexperience and carefree spirit, or whether the boy was just trying to soothe him. Before replying, he took his time. He put some water on to boil and started peeling the sweet potatoes on autopilot while thinking.

“Fear and paranoia, he says. Fear and paranoia. Fine, yes. I don’t know how we got to this point, but it’s true. We carry it deep inside. It’s a learned fear with memory. Like the whipping my father gave me because I said at school that my mom listened to Radio Martí. I’ll never forget that image, right next to the old Russian VEF radio still lying around. I didn’t understand a thing, but from then on I learned that what was said at home wasn’t to be repeated in public. I was five years old, man—five or six, in preschool. I don’t know if Radio Martí even existed yet, or if what I said at school was that some family friends had just left the country. It was around the time of the Mariel boatlift. What did I know about hate rallies and all the turmoil back then? Oh God, what a deep wound. By staying silent, by not confronting, by looking the other way, by avoiding trouble, we let our lives—and even the country—be stolen from us.”

“Though it wasn’t entirely like that, because at the University we also tried to change things. Change what, exactly—I can’t even remember anymore. It was the ’90s. Oh right, it was because of that huge banner they painted: ‘THE UNIVERSITY IS FOR REVOLUTIONARIES,’ and the hardliners wanted to do a purge. That’s how it started. We wanted to talk, to be included, to debate, to take part in the process of change. But, as always, everything came from the top down. Since then, academic economists have been proposing solutions, and no one has listened. So ,you withdraw. You come to the conclusion that adapting is better than confronting—or at least easier. We endured hurricanes, blackouts, the Special Period, migration crises, ongoing shortages… and we always just survived by ‘making do.’ Skirting around what couldn’t be changed. Adaptation became our survival strategy. And we made it this far, which is no small feat—but for the young, just surviving isn’t enough.”

“They want to build THEIR country, and they’re fully within their rights. The problem is they still haven’t come up against a power that has no interest in anyone’s participation—because it’s had more than enough time to sit down and listen, and it hasn’t. Now, they’re only doing it because of pressure, but democracy just isn’t in their nature. And it’s dangerous to challenge that order of things. I don’t know if the kids are fully aware of what’s coming. Well, that too will be part of their struggle, their growth, their learning. It’s not fair for me to pass on my old fear to my son, but I can’t pretend like nothing’s happening either. Damn, I liked it better when I could still carry him on my shoulders. I wasn’t ready for this moment. Although, looking ahead, I think this might end up being one of the best Father’s Days.”

He threw the last pieces of sweet potato into the pot, lit the burner, and reopened WhatsApp to leave another voice message:

“Listen to me, son, because it’s better to be cautious. Listen carefully: you’re meeting outside the university, which is the “legal” space for debate. Later, as a way to put pressure on you, they might say you gathered to conspire, and that’s a serious crime punishable by law. Don’t meet in anyone’s house, because whoever lives there will be labeled the ringleader, an agitator, and who knows what else. They’re very good at planting doubt, guilt, and fear deep inside. They’ll come after you when you’re most vulnerable—when you’re alone—they’ll call you one by one. Look, this conversation shouldn’t be happening here, but I don’t have another option, so I’m continuing. Make sure no outsiders are present at the meeting, although honestly, assume from now on that everything said there will become known sooner or later, even if you don’t want it to. Any decision should be made by consensus. Debate and assign homework.

“Each person should think independently and come to their own conclusions. No one should try to convince or drag others along, because that person will be singled out with special malice. Lastly, stay focused on the specific issue, which is the ETECSA pricing. Don’t go beyond that. Don’t jump ahead. Based on that, think logically. Try to tone down your youthful enthusiasm and passion. Present arguments, analyze all possible actions and their medium- and long-term consequences. And please, call me paranoid or whatever you want, but delete this and all related messages right after listening.”

Still in her pajamas, yawning and stretching, the woman walked into the kitchen just in time to hear the last sentence.

“Who has to delete messages? Who were you talking to? Is there something to be worried about?”

The father put the lid on the pot and handed the phone to his lifelong wife.

“Our son. He’s grown up now.”

The mother listened to the entire message. Then she sighed.

“I knew somehow this wouldn’t just end here, but I thought they would take a break, that any reaction they had would take more time. Did you make coffee?”

“It’s cold.”

“Doesn’t matter. Pour me some just like that and sit down so we can talk.”

The man obeyed, grateful that she was there, as always, to share the burden and see things from a different angle.

“How are you feeling? All the ghosts have come back, haven’t they?” —she drank from the white cup with the worn handle— “You’ve already thought your life here was crap, that you could’ve been a top-level professional if they hadn’t derailed your career for not being politically trustworthy… What else? Already blamed yourself for not holding out during the interrogation, for not leaving the country 30 years ago with the whole family…”

“That’s not fair.”

“You know I’m not blaming you for anything. I’m bringing up the hardest issues to examine the place you’re speaking from when you talk to our son. Just like all that really happened, you forget that even then, you never stopped expressing your opinion—at work, in the CDR, wherever you went. The same reasons you’re where you are, are the ones that made you a respected man. And our son knows that. He saw it, he lived it. He learned more from you than you realize. When I look at him now, I see the same image of you when you were at university.”

“That’s exactly why I have to protect him. I don’t want him to end up like…”

“He won’t. Nothing will be the same, because these are different times. His generation grew up with the world in their hands. They’ve seen memes, blogs, debates, songs, the reality of other countries, protests, democracies, and different ways of doing politics. They were 14 or 15 when Wi-Fi came to the parks, and 16 when they were made to watch Fidel’s funeral caravan. Did we ever ask him how he felt about that, what it meant to him? And today’s little pioneers still say the same slogan: “Pioneers for communism, we will be like Che.” Who is Che? What is communism? They just want to live peacefully, study something they like, earn enough to live decently, travel if they can. The most dangerous thing I see, maybe, is that they’re growing up without a guiding theory—but who’s to say they won’t find their way in meetings like today’s?”

“It’s not as easy as you make it sound.”

“I never said it would be easy.”

He put his hands over his face again, either hiding or searching for strength in that darkness:

“Then I’m just not ready for what’s coming.”

“You always find strength—from who knows where. You’re the father of this family, in every sense of the word.”

“But I couldn’t stop… it’s because of me that…”

A new message notification interrupted a thought he clearly didn’t know how to finish. The woman signaled and played the audio on speaker:

“Thanks, Dad, for the advice and for the support behind it. I listened: I deleted all the messages, even though I still think you’re overreacting. The other thing, Dad, man, we know it, you know it, and those higher up know it too: the protest is against the ‘price hike,’ but it includes everything. It’s not just ETECSA. We’re tired of watching everything decided without us. Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I didn’t care—but I do. The measures get more and more unpopular. One of these days, they’ll charge for gas, electricity, and water in dollars. They don’t know how to do anything but live off the money others make abroad, and that’s not sustainable. That’s not what you taught me. My whole life, I saw you hustling to put food on the table, but now it’s impossible—and we’re not even among the worst off. What really gets me is that the people in charge don’t have any plan other than asking us for resistance and endurance—and if they do have one, there’s no guarantee it’ll work. Mariel was one of the last big promises, remember? Huge port, Special Development Zone, free trade… Did it solve anything? There’s no tourism, there’s nothing.

“I know part of your pain as a father is because my brother left. On July 11, you practically became our mom to keep him from going out to protest. And yeah, maybe he’d be in prison now and not in the US. He called me the other day. He’s only four years older and even he told me it’s not worth getting into trouble. That I should finish school, that he’s saving up to get me out of the country somehow, as soon as possible. See? Is that what you and Mom want? Because if things don’t change, there aren’t many other options. Work for a salary of three or four thousand pesos? When your salary and Mom’s together still aren’t enough? Or do I hang up my degree and work for some microbusiness? You already know all this, Dad. No need to stir the pot. I love you so much, but for now, I’m going to fight my own path. We’ll see what happens after that. Big hug. And check on the sweet potato pudding—you always overcook it.”

The mother got up to turn off the stove and then said:

“What are we going to do? We have to rise to the occasion.”

The father picked up the phone and called the first parent of the kids from the group. “We need to talk,” he said. “We can’t leave them alone.”