… that you have to play the game to the management
that if you’re honest
you are half-voiced
it’s not going to be that some jerk
say you’re counter-re-voclutionary.
Says my ineffable Vicente Feliú in one of his songs that “cholera is a friend of hope.” Because of my profession, I am a journalist, I am not one to encourage kicks in networks. Besides, as my unforgettable teacher Miriam Rodriguez taught me, my right to freedom of expression is neither a license to say stupid things in front of thousands, nor does it allow me to shout fire! in the middle of a crowd. That is why I try, professionally and as now, from personal positions, to exercise it with as much mesur and lucidity as possible. Perhaps, perhaps just by believing in hope, and defending it from in here, is that I decide to drop some written drops of my anger.
By the work and grace of a journalistic work, in a single sack we fit, under the label of mercenary – or in the worst case, ignorant rat and ambushed by the Hamelines of the everlasting peasant flutes against Cuba – all those who request lower prices in the services of ETECSA, in the current circumstances.
In recent days, the Prime Minister himself acknowledged to the media that many of the measures recently taken in the face of the pandemic are, in addition to obvious government analysis, at the request of the people. I didn’t hear any leader say that borders, schools, or any other action was being taken, because some mercenary was asking for it from the outside. It hurts to see, in the very harsh circumstances we live in (harder than ever), that there are still those who hide, in name I do not know of what twisted defense and entrenchment, in the cracked arguments of black and white, all or nothing, of me or against me. To think of as a country is, precisely, to listen to everyone. If some of us are wrong, it is not with accusations, accommodativeness and reaffirming for the accuser, that it is taught and educated.
If every time this country decides to do something, by sovereign decision; if every time the village, that huge dragon of millions of heads and criteria, asks for something (and you already know that vox populi, vox Dei); if every thought that rises in criticism or in request is going to be the fault of the enemy or consequences of the hypnosis of a new campaign, then nothing remains to be done. They’ve already beat us. We’re all stunned lardos with no judgment of our own.
I’m going to summarize my thoughts and feel them in a few verses. For those who accuse their compatriots of mercenaries, arribistas or clowns for issuing their criteria, these stanzas of the older Cuban, José Martí, to which there is still no stain capable of lowering it, sprout in responses:
He lies like a zascandil
Whoever says he heard me,
For not thinking like me
Call a Cuban “vile”.
What did I say about that
Of diverse opinion, if
He’ll call me vile.
For not commenting like him!
I want Cuba lover and one;
I want to come together and win
And I start by offending
The one who was born in my crib?
To my grief brothers
I mustn’t call them vile,
The vile ones are the reptiles
Who live on someone else’s fame.
And when all hands
There are few for the eagerness,
O homeland, they will use them
In hurting the brothers!
Something in the soul decides,
In his indignant anger,
Which is more vile than the one that degrades
A people, the one who divides it.
Who, with insults, convinces?
Who, with epithetes, till?
Love wins. The word
Only when he’s fair, he wins.
If you’re honored, the ways
Several will have to come together:
With everyone it has to be founded,
For the well-being of all!