The Truth of Cuba | Page 12

We’re a little nervous, quite bubbly from the beer, and we just did some bullshit, but the only con is me, I’m 25 years old. Both are much older, they are already famous journalists, one legendary. We try not to look at each other so as not to laugh, but it doesn’t come out and we let ourselves be tempted. We did a round of five some time ago to decide who would take the stage on this sidewalk in the outskirts of Havana, to thank the neighbors for the warm welcome they just gave us.

Everything was very fast. We have been in Cuba for almost two weeks now, traveling in a Van, with two drivers who are Angolan veterans and with whom after 5000 kilometers we are almost parents. This morning, we returned to Havana because today is the day we celebrate the anniversary for which we were invited: 35 years ago, the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR) were created. , which are actually every block in every neighborhood of every town on the island.

Today in the Van, as soon as we entered the city, we asked what we were going to do at night, and they said to us “nothing, they are having dinner at the hotel”. The invitation had been on the occasion of the anniversary of the CDR, but it consisted in knowing the country from start to finish. The celebration in each committee that evening was collective but at the same time intimate: neighbors who know each other all their lives would come out to celebrate their organization in the streets of their neighborhoods, they told us, which in tense times , understood the military defense of the island, but now they work as warden of the block, where it is known if there is one or more pregnant women on the block who possibly need a doctor, if an elderly person lives alone, or is where everyone with a problem goes.

It was not expected that we, five Argentinian journalists, would go to any celebration because the CDRs were not to be shown. We, who had met in Ezeiza, spent the first few days divided into two groups (three for, two against – from Cuba -), but with the hustle and bustle of the trip we got along well. One of the “cons” said in the Van that we wanted to go to a party that night. The rest of us said no, it was good that way, that we left them alone. The one who insisted was a guy from a far-right southern newspaper whose owners had been implicated in crimes against humanity. At the time, it was not said like that. Democracy was a few years old. But in Ezeiza, this reporter had confessed to losing his body, when the rest of us were surprised that he was invited and we told him. “I will know, but later I will tell the whole truth,” he told us, as if he already knew Cuba and as if he already knew what the truth was he would tell. The rest of us sniffle. He was downright anti-Cuban.

This afternoon, one of the drivers took care of his complaint, but said he couldn’t resolve it. That I had to consult. That it should be any other CDR but not the one in your neighborhood, as that could be seen as an “influence” that no one wanted. He consulted and after a while they gave him the data of a block in any neighborhood.

At night we arrived, after more than half an hour of travel. We got out of the van; Those of us “in favor” felt someone else’s shame for interrupting with our presence a celebration that was not for us. However, as soon as we entered the neighborhood, we saw a hastily made parade that said “Welcome Argentinian Brothers”. And on the other side we saw a hundred men, women, children and old people applauding and celebrating us.

These simple people came to greet us. We sink into a sea of ​​arms, hugs, kisses, caresses of hair, laughter. The head table was set for us. They filled us with gifts: the children had made crafts for us, dolls, painted wood, pebble necklaces, felt-tip drawings. They filled our table with all their house specialties of beans, avocados, stuffed sweet potatoes, bitter green salads and drizzled with pepper-flavored oil.

And then the show started. We saw ten children come up and they lined up on the stage and started reciting many Martín Fierro stanzas, more than I knew, more than any of us had memorized. They had learned of them that afternoon when news of the visit reached them. And these little voices that told us what was ours and that we did not know, in a few seconds pierced our emotion. We ended up clapping and shaking because this whole party that was theirs was giving it to us.

You had to be grateful. The five of us got together and decided that of course the one who was indicated to go on stage was the one from the newspaper Sud, the one who believed they knew the truth. The other “against” was not so rigid: he had voted the same, dying of laughter, because it was he who knew best the bitterness and the bile that the one from the south had already brought.

Now the southern one is already at the top of the platform. I look at Enrique Sdrech and I look at Ariel Delgado, the members of my group “in favor”. We are tempted because if this love has overwhelmed us, we suspect that it is too, but we know that it is consumed by an intense aversion. We made a small trap for justice by appointing him delegate. Let him speak and be grateful, if we see him surprised, let yourself be embraced and moved by the recitation of the children. He takes the microphone which he attaches.

We see him sweating, his shirt is soaked. He looks at us and we do “let’s go” gestures, and we burst out laughing again. But when he begins to speak, we hear him thank him, and as soon as he has finished with rigor he squeezes the microphone tighter and brings it to his mouth, and he seems on the verge of a fiery harangue. I look at Enrique and Ariel. We are no longer tempted, we wait because we do not know what will come out of his mouth.

She sucks in air and fans her hands before she starts speaking again, but now in a higher tone and without brushing, with bad grammar but with flow. What he says is that the peoples should never separate, that the people of Cuba are wonderful and that they never thought to live a night like this, Cuban brothers, I will always carry them in my heart he said, slapping his chest. Then he starts to cry, and there the children will surround him, hug him, fill him again with kisses.

With Enrique and Ariel we get rid of the happiness between can and can of beer. “It was a contribution,” said one. Then the neighbors invite the three of us to dance. Only the very old remain in their chairs. The rest is a pure party, family, neighborhood, hips and shoulders, bodies and minds ready to have fun in this little corner of the planet where the neighbors of a block celebrate their way of life.