Wednesday, February 3, 2010

From my TV.

From my TV, statistics and numbers announce surplus, happiness and futures plans, the grocery stores are full and people are happy even when sometimes they don’t travel and get holidays in Venice. HmmmFrom my TV

The slums around the corner are vanished, the boulevard two blocks north still smell the new paint and we are twittering with our friends around the world. Hmmm

From my TV, the monthly ration book never existed, blackouts are history and children have their milk even when they are 7 year older than the old official plan. Hmmm

We can buy cars, rent a room in Varadero beach and play cards in the nearby casino. There are no policemen stopping black skinny guys with estranger faces, you can invite your Canadian friend at home without having the neighbour henchman informing the estate police and your business is rolling great three blocks ahead. Hmmm

From my TV, Celia Cruz is singing Guantanamera, Gloria Estefan is having an interview and Willy Chirino is making a new duet with Julio Iglesias. Hmmm

My neighbour bring me The New York Times, the newspaper talks about the new opposition government and I change to CNN to know the new report about the crisis in Sudan. Hmmm

From my TV, somebody is in front of the government offices protesting without any violence and anybody call him with an ugly epithet or a dirty gesture. No more acts of repudiations, no more throwing eggs against emigrants, no more especial permission to travel or come back: always a door open to Cuba. Hmmm

I think I already changed the channel before time.

From that TV nothing has changed. The long lists of achievement are the same even when everybody knows there are none. Ration books of any kind, milk and groceries are casualties of this war against humanity whose name is Communism. Cars, good and decent houses are only in payment of loyalty and partisanship and the voice from that screen is only the voice of the entitled leader.

From that TV there is no artist with free will and free opinion to speak: they hide, they quiet and they repeat, but never express their honest opinion that could hurt his seat in the next plane to Heaven. Celia is singing properly concealed at home, and the picture of the eternal leader is still on the wall to keep up the appearances in case the neighbour henchman knocks the door.

From that TV, journalists, reporters and politicians repeat the same words yesterday pronounced by the only man allowed to speak and to denounce. The prisons are still full of political prisoners, and twitter is a dream in a night of freedom: it vanished as soon dawn falls.

From that TV, freedom is the word most repeated and the less achieved. Cuba is dying from that TV and its gravediggers are enjoying their show meanwhile our country is leaving.

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