By Fabiana del Valle
HAVANA TIMES – Dariel spent the weekend at his wife’s parents’ house. They ate together in the bedroom that evening, watching a reality show. They’d chosen something light to keep them entertained and not thinking about the blackout that had been scheduled for 12 AM. Everything seemed to indicate that this would be a night like any other; peace while there was still electricity.
Hours later, everything was enshrouded in darkness. The awful heat appeared, the mosquitoes and gnats that fed off his sleep. He tried to sleep, but his brain couldn’t focus.
He watched the illuminated circle of a lamp drawn on the ceiling and began to think about his future, and recent events that bring Cubans a great deal more pain, anguish and misery.
He dedicated every insult in his vocabulary at the President and his followers, the people who announced what was coming from October onwards on the Mesa Redonda TV show.
We don’t know how much longer this new period of sacrifices for “regular” Cubans will go on for, for those who live off a wage or “side-hustle”, but it doesn’t matter because there’s never enough money at the end of the day.
“Aside from all of the rambling, it’s easy to read between the lines: we’re still “fucked” and things are going to get worse. We must resist they say, be creative in the face of this “situation.” OK, don’t think anymore, try and sleep, you’re not going to solve the country’s problems tonight.”
He closed his eyes, crying out to Morpheus and every god in the present and past, in vain. That early morning, as his body agonized between sweat and bites, his mind traveled to the Cuban leaders’ homes.
How do they sleep and eat? He wanted to know if they, or their children, have ever had to suffer even half an hour of a blackout, the mosquitoes or sickening hunger that most of the country is suffering.
Do their wives know what it’s like to be standing in front of a stove with empty pots while a child cries between their legs? Have they ever been a father forced to maintain the household with any kind of work, qualified people with degrees locked away in a drawer because it doesn’t make sense to work for the State on these measly wages?
“Well, if they ever did experience anything like this, they’ve forgotten about it now, we know they live like kings,” he said as he rubbed a rash on his back.
“The worse thing is that beyond their luxuries and squandering, they ignore the Cuban people’s suffering, justifying the awful administration of the economy on the blockade, as well as the series of bad decisions made over the past 34 years. God, these sleepless nights bring useless thoughts!”
Dariel tried to fall asleep, but his whimsical mind led him to think about his feelings. He was curious, he needed to know if these people felt any kind of remorse for all the bad they’ve done, a burden on their conscience for all of the sacrifices Cubans have to make to survive. If the President has any regret for his actions, for being a puppet, a facade.
His entire body was in pain, full of scratches, sticky with sweat after having struggled the entire night with so many questions, heat, mosquitoes, and dogs barking at the darkness.
He was like that until 4:30 AM when the fan came back on, then he was able to cool down a bit. But a new thought occupied his mind:
“Careful, don’t fall asleep, you have to get up at 5 AM to get home, if you don’t leave early, you’ll get stuck on the highway. Man, you can’t give up, another day, another fight for survival.”
Read more from the diary of Fabiana del Valle here on Havana Times.
