The Tears We Don’t Cry

Photo: Leandro Feal

The power to decide about another, about the life of another, about the possessions of another, about the rights of another: that is the sickness of my government. To hope to leave the country, to say what we think, to earn a decent wage, to live without fear: that is the sickness of my people.

I am not a nationalist, I don’t consider myself a patriot or anything like that, but I love my land and I love Havana in the gray and yellow days. I like Cubans who, without even knowing you, call you “my love.” I love hearing the conversations of the people in the street and knowing that if I wanted to I could comment, put in my two cents worth, offer my opinion. I am fascinated by certain places in my city and watching people my age live different lives, unique lives, lives on the edge.

But there are other days when I feel very ashamed of the land of my birth. Times when I look at the faceless people and everyone is the same, everyone is afraid. Days in which I know that no one will be saved, no one will scream, no one will offer a hand and no one will say “my love” because the terror is so great. Days of indolence, shame and impotence, for them and for myself. Days when the waiting seems very long. Days when it seems absolutely critical that a sea of tears must run down 12th Street to the Malecon because our dry eyes no longer lead anywhere.

Since the death of Tamayo, every day is like this.