A boy approaches me to ask if I am “Yoani.” He extends a sweaty and cold hand to me. I’m afraid that he’s coming to give me the first slap, but he only points, “Hopefully you are real. Because now we’ve seen everything!” He makes me want to follow him and show him my navel. There is no bigger proof that one exists, that one is “real,” than a navel knotted in the abdomen. He’s leaving and with the full weight his doubt and of his faith in me—this last is what frightens me the most. He didn’t give me time to warn him that I don’t intend to found any creed, certainly his uncertainties left me more relieved than his possible convictions.
If the boy with the cold hand and the short sentences reads this post, I want to tell you that I can’t save you. It’s not me whom he should burden with the responsibility that we should take together. I too have seen everything… people who applaud and then betray; hands that slap on the back and in the end push away; cries of “Viva” that are transformed into whispers of hate… However, I don’t have to know who he is to be sure that we share doubts, dreams and guilt.