I can’t stop for a second wondering what I would do if someone blocked the door of my house to take away a piece of my room, but I can’t find an answer. I try to imagine what my friends in Pinar del Rio are feeling, but I can’t.
There are simply moments when the outrage and abuse become indescribable.
Protest of Karina Galvez from Convivencia[Coexistence]:
Today I am remembering the expropriated of Cuba in 1959 and 1960. To see the property you have worked for over years and years fall into the hands of those who have no right, I know it must have been very hard. But it is one thing to know it and quite another to live it.
The words of the school director where I work, brought back memories of my student days: “Karina, get your things and we will go in a minute to the Director.” The true motive never crossed my mind. I was even more surprised when the gentleman who was waiting for me was the Municipal Director for Education in Pinar del Rio and he was going to take me to my house because the Municipal Housing Authority had asked him to bring me for some “formalities.” All completely unusual. I asked, amazed, alarmed, but he told me nothing.
Text message from Dagoberto Valdes:
- Confiscated Karina's patio. They are opening doors to build a Cimex store next door, because they have been awarded the patio.
- The noise starts again. They are laying the foundations to build a block wall. Noise at night, psychological torture.
- Chief tells workers that the block wall has to be finished tonight.
Solidarity in Generation Y
*El Atropello [The Outrage]: The latest disc of The Aldeanos
This is an excerpt to a version of the song, Epitaph for Vladimir Visotski by Karsmarski Jacek (Polish dissident songwriter), which includes Ciro Diaz in his latest album, The Blue Slug, that I listened to compulsively for at least two months, especially on the street with my mp3 inherited from a friend who now has an I-pod. (Download the lyrics here) (Download the recording and album cover here) The song (in summary, which runs about ten minutes) is about a desperate artist going through the circles of hell in search of an answer or death, and at the end of his journey there is only loneliness and the weight of the supreme power above himself. So I found myself at times catching the bus across Havana at 12 noon in August under the perennial sunshine and with the distressing feeling of not going anywhere, or arriving too late, or going for pleasure ... I feel that I have already arrived at the eighth enclosure (this is the finale of the song) where there is nothing, and I feel useless and empty, and I look at people without faith who walk along the street and who have so much fear that they no longer know they're afraid, and who have seen so many Roundtables and so many news broadcasts that they no longer know what belongs to reality or just to the TV screen. They cannot discern that they no longer believe, but cannot disbelieve either, and just move along past me not going anywhere.