Friday, October 30, 2009

Typing Machine

There is something unquestionable about our life in Cuba: you reach a point when you have no choice.

I was a candidate in the elections for Delegates of my neighbourhood. Honestly, I don't remember how I reached that moment. My recollection about that accident in my life is just a mixture of surprise, consternation and fear.

Surprise, because I wasn't expecting any sort of proposition of that kind.

Consternation, because I didn't have a choice to avoid the unquestionable aceptance. Probably, that choice would have broke any promise of a decent job anywhere.

Fear, because it is just unimaginable what could have happened if I had been elected at that time.

I was suddenly drawn into a nightmare. I just remember that somebody pull me to some place to take a picture, at the same time another one was pulling over my shoulder a wacky huge grey blazer, and the third person took the historic picture.

Meanwhile I Had to write quickly a short list of facts here and there about my life, and in a couple of days, my picture in black and white and my tiny autobiography were hanging around every corner in my neighbourhood (as you can see in the picture).

Fortunately, I didn't win. But I do know for sure what a Candidate turned into Delegate could be done: NOTHING!!!

You are only a person to scribble complaints and send them up there, with no hope for answers and solutions. You don't have any power to change anything, or propose anything, or request anything, or protest for anything. You are just a typing machine for complaints.

You don't tackle any social, political and esential issue in Cuba. You were elected to supply a line with your name, or at least to add one numeral in the official report about elections in Cuba, and that line praise about what it means Socialist's Democracy: You were elected to do NOTHING.

The painful reality in Cuba is that nobody wants to be in the position I was, with my picture around the corner and the orwellian possibility to have my life turned upside down, with the endless line of people asking about whatever, and you hand emptied and desperate to fly to another planet. That is the price for being elected in Cuba.

So, I was glad I lost my bid for Delegate. I was so happy I promised to myself I wouldn't be in that position again, even if I would have to say no and hit my head against the wall.

Luckily, I didn't have to do it.