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There is a glaring absence in our daily landscape.  Those calls to march, so frequent two years ago, have become rarer, leaving behind the impression of a city permanently on edge.  It used to be a rare month that Habaneros were not called to a demonstration to shout slogans and applaud passionate speeches.  They regularly administered the spoonful of necessary hysteria to keep us feeling that we were in a permanent state of siege.

On those days of successive marches, public services were closed and the entire city’s transport system was put to work moving people from other provinces who came to swell the number of participants. Days in which the streets were filled with trampled paper banners and water bottles to calm the thirst. The city collapsed and for those of us who were waiting for the parade to pass, we had the sensation of living through a never ending mobilization.  They were days when it was best to stay home and hope that the shouts, the edginess and the loudspeakers were easing off.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t entirely like what the cameras and the press reports showed.  Political rallies—organized by the government itself—also had an enjoyable side.  The high school students were delighted that classes were suspended and they could play in the middle of the crowd.  In the workplace, many preferred the confusion of the demonstration—which allowed them to sneak home—over a day of working under the control of a boss.  Even those who  were brought in by bus found the crush of the demonstration offered an magnificent place for the lewd excesses.  The informal vendors waited for the mob to shout “Vivas” and sold them untold amounts of peanuts, pastries and soda

It’s not that we miss the marches, but my city looks different without these euphoric outbursts, without the leader shouting from the podium, without the thousands of genuine and false enthusiasts who were waving the flags.

Lembram-se daquela pousada conhecida como “las casitas de Ayestarán”? Pelas causas que todos conhecemos, converteu-se um dia num albergue para pessoas sem casa e, por essas mesmas causas que não vamos repetir aqui, veio abaixo a sua construção. Desde meio ou final de 2006 que se planeou construir lá um grupo de casas. O prazo era 30 de Novembro de 2007. Nesse mesmo dia, há já um ano, tirei umas fotografias, uma delas com o cartaz em primeiro plano. Agora, passado outro ano mais, volto a retratar o sítio e o compromisso já não está à vista. Pelas causas que todos conhecemos, a obra ainda está inacabada.

Diplomacy is one of those arts that makes me itch, one of those dances where watching the performance makes me seasick.  However much I try to understand the ambassadors, foreign ministers and that whole stripe of cunning characters, their actions only manage to confuse me more.  They embrace and smile, exchange promises and take pictures holding hands.  They speak in my name, even though it’s been some time since they rode the bus, they don’t have to stand in line, nor do they know the high price of an egg in the black market.

In the past year, the ballet presented by “our” diplomacy has had much of the dance of seduction. They’ve gone dancing with the Red Stockings and their promises of openings have dazzled a few.  However, from the third balcony where we citizens sit, each fouetté seems earthbound and the new turns, so predictable, elicit only yawns.

Bored and disappointed by these choreographers of appearances, I choose to dance to the popular diplomacy.  With so much buffet and champagne wasted, I think it’s better to skip the black tie envoys. There must be more civic ways for the people to meet, connect and help themselves. Let’s leave the farce of protocols of intention and the signed agreements that are not met to the foreign ministers.  We, meanwhile, let’s get together and come to an agreement.

In reference to the jury prize for Best Weblog and the award for Reporters Without Borders in The BOBs contest.

Well yes, but there is still much that I lack.  Not exactly prizes, but rights long neglected, like the ability to be read within my own country.  I must be able to say all this in reality and not just in the virtual world of a blog.  To transform this civic plaza that is Generation Y into a concrete existence where trolls also abound and the consequences are much stronger than a simple hack.  I need something more than kilobytes, I need realities. 

We still lack that which is the most coveted prize: the right to dialogue, dissent and to dye ourselves in the political colors of our choosing within our Island.  We must not let this phenomenon be limited only to the blogosphere, we have to go in search of the ultimate jackpot: free opinion.

Finally the excitement around the BOBs awards comes to an end. We know that Generation Y came in first in the public vote in the Reporters Without Borders category, but we still have to wait for what the jury says. Whatever happens we are going to celebrate it, because we don’t need much of a reason to open a bottle of rum and sprinkle a little over the area for commenting on this blog.  It will be a good time to call a truce between the trolls and the frequent readers, between the Cyber Response Brigades and those who actually come to join in the discussion.

Pull up your chairs in front of the screen, from where we will broadcast the ceremony right here. Grab a handful of peanuts and some caramel corn, and don’t miss even a second when they announce the awards. Those of you who’ve already bitten your nails to the quick, try not to chew on your fingers; we’re going to need them for a lot of typing in the days to come.

Before the merriment begins, I want to congratulate all those who win, people—like myself—who have used their blogs to narrate their lives and pose questions. Without the support of the global blogosphere and without the protection belonging to it has afforded me, I’d have had to hang out a “Blog Closed” sign some time ago. With what has already happened in the BOBs voting, there is no one who can stop this penultimate letter of the alphabet.

Thanks to everyone who voted!

Quando alguém pretende contar a história de Cuba da forma mais breve possível, pode recorrer a uma periodização de carácter geral que se reduziria ao seguinte:

Seis mil anos (aproximadamente), em que a ilha foi habitada por aborígenes; 388 anos debaixo do sistema colonial espanhol; 4 anos de governo de intervenção norte-americano; 56 anos de República e 50 anos de revolução.

Claro que em 35 palavras, que se dizem nuns 15 segundos, é quase desrespeitoso contar a história de um país. Mas, desagrade a quem desagrade, isto é uma periodização de extrema generalização. No terminal de autocarros de Havana, por exemplo, há um mural que pretende contar toda a história em 14 metros. O seu principal defeito é que omite os aborígenes, substituindo-os por uma mata de iúca e outra de tabaco. O rosto de Fidel Castro aparece duas vezes e é a única pessoa viva ali representada.

Quero lançar aos historiadores especializados em Cuba contemporânea a seguinte provocação: fazerem uma periodização dos últimos 50 anos. Eu tentei, mas renunciei à tarefa quando tropecei na terrível dificuldade que é limitar cada uma das etapas e depois nomear esse período. Vamos supor que baptizamos os primeiros anos (de Janeiro de 59 a Abril de 61) como o momento das primeiras transformações revolucionárias (Reforma Agrária, Reforma Urbana, nacionalizações de propriedades, campanha de alfabetização, etc.). A seguir, viria uma parte que começaria com a declaração do carácter socialista e cada oscilação em direcção ao maoísmo, ao euro comunismo, à sovietização ou a procura de uma identidade diferente, e aí teria que ser tratada em separado. Outra, o tempo em que se falava da construção simultânea do socialismo e do comunismo. Uma etapa clara é a da “definitiva” introdução do país no contexto do campo socialista, cujo clímax foi entrarmos no CAME; outra, o início do período especial e, finalmente, a situação actual, que não se parece com nenhuma das anteriores.

Repito que renunciei à realização deste dificílimo trabalho, mas aviso que não renuncio a criticar quem o faça. Assim, deixo aberto o convite que se resume nesta pergunta:

Quais seriam os limites e a forma adequada de denominar os sub-períodos históricos dos últimos 50 anos da história de Cuba?

As respostas mais interessantes serão publicadas no espaço Con todos deste portal desdecuba.com, sempre que o autor o autorize.

For weeks, there are words like “ballot box,” “votes,” and “candidates” that persecute us everywhere.  First there were the elections in the United States and now the issue has been revived with what happened on Sunday in Venezuela.  It’s as if at the end of the year everything conspires to remind us of our condition as non-electors, our limited experience in deciding who leads us.You become accustomed to not being able to choose what to put in your mouth, under which creed they will educate your children, or to whom to open the door, but that resignation shatters when you see someone else vote.  Because of this it has risen up, these days, the desire to fold the ballot, to push it into the slot and to know that with it goes my stentorian shout that demands: “to choose.”

Uma das fantasias recorrentes das pessoas que são muito ocupadas é que existisse um mercado onde cada um pudesse comprar um pouco de tempo. Chegar a um quiosque e dizer a alguém “Hei, sócio! Tu que não tens nada para fazer, por que é que não me vendes duas horas?”. A esse sítio iriam os mais velhos com muitíssimo dinheiro comprar aos mais jovens alguns anos. Haveria uma fila à parte para os condenados à morte pela justiça, outra muito comprida para os desenganados pelos médicos, e um departamento, guardado por muitos guarda-costas, com uma oferta especial de tempo para os políticos que não tenham cumprido as suas promessas.

Eu, que tenho boa memória para essas coisas, recordo-me que me prometeram um futuro luminoso. Asseguraram-me, no meio de uma praça que partilhei com quase um milhão de pessoas, que a riqueza seria obtida por meio da consciência e que não havia força no mundo capaz de impedir esse propósito. É verdade que não me deram uma data certa para isso, tenho de admitir, mas também é certo que ninguém desmentiu os cronistas do triunfalismo, os poetas da utopia que cantavam ao deslumbre que aí viria. “Somos um povo que conhece o nome do futuro”, diziam os jograis; negávamos o pão e o sal aos incrédulos e gastámos a nossa juventude, os tempos de ouro da nossa juventude, numa quimera sem sentido.

Agora, que perdemos a esperança e a paciência, o tempo tornou-se caríssimo e eles delapidaram todo o capital com que o podiam comprar.

Noon Saturday found us on the highway heading to Pinar del Río.   The grass at the side of the road had already grown, but the leafless palms recalled the disaster that happened just two months ago.  Life is slower, as if Ike and Gustav had reimposed the nineteenth century image these fields once had.  If not for an old tractor here or an electrical tower there, you would think you had traveled two centuries back in time.  Some houses had new roofs of asbestos cement, which will be food for the winds of the next hurricane.

The two backpacks of medicine and clothes we’d gathered among friends turn out to be very limited for all the needs facing us.  Food is scarce, especially, and ironically, that which comes from the furrows.  Even the children, who normally pick out the pieces of cucumber from their plates, miss the peculiar flavor of this vegetable.  The land delays its healing.  The small independent farmer has seen increased pressure to sell his crop to the State rather than in the free markets, where he could reap greater profits.  This generates disinterest in production, and empty stalls at the points of sale.  Again, as in those years of adversity in the nineties, it’s necessary to leave the city to buy yucca, onions or a piece of pork.

Between Havana and Pinar del Río there are two police checkpoints choosing cars at random to verify no one is trafficking in milk, cheese or food.  Like the sophisticated medical devices that look inside the human body, people have baptized these checkpoints “CAT scans.”  In the stretches of highway without patrols, illegal vendors show their merchandise and hide themselves whenever a vehicle with official plates passes.

Although for the media the news of disaster is fading from view, in the lives of the victims it’s the lead story of every day.  We have to avoid letting our tendency to forget cover up the situation, letting the triumphalism make us believe that everything’s already over, letting the avalanche of positive reports deceive us about the depths of the catastrophe.  I remind everyone that we have to go to the affected areas, deliver aid directly, and record the testimonies there.  The hurricane-force winds are still blowing in the lives of these people and will not diminish because we cover our ears.

• Until the 27th of this month, each new post will carry a reminder of the online voting for the Bobs awards. Remember that Generation Y is competing in three categories: Best Weblog, Reporters Without Borders Special Award and Best Blog in Spanish. Here is the link:

• The BOBs: CLICK HERE TO VOTE!!

Last week we were talking about ants, people and the small traditions that sustain us day to day.  Well, a few meters from my house I found this billboard with the same metaphor of the insects.  Unlike the anthill imagined by me—where everyone has a place—here there is a creature apart.  It frightens me to think that the lonely little ant represents the intellectual, or people—like me—who are informal workers because we have no licenses to be Spanish teachers or other worthy occupations.  The tiny segregated one could refer to those who receive remittances and see no sense in working for a salary more symbolic than useful.   On the left, below this billboard, you could see a woman who sells coffee at the corner of my house, who gets up at five to brew it and plays hide-and-seek with the police. The young man who left his studies and sews shoes at the workshop of his cousin, though the Sector Head considers him an habitual vagrant, a derelict, who refuses a job commensurate with his qualifications because he’s not politically correct.  Many could be the tiny ant who carries no leaves in his hands… because the others are not only the workers, but also the authorities, the group of those who never get out of line.