Daybreak
The sun rises on another blackout
I wake to a series of pictures from Jesus, sent to me across all three of the accounts we use to communicate when we’re apart. It’s the first I’ve heard from him since yesterday afternoon. The power has been out across the island. Again.
The pictures are eerie, otherworldly. The sun’s horizontal beams cutting across the water; the outlines of darkened buildings in the distant background; the sky glowing as if blanketed by the haze of a burning fire. Jesus’s face against the backdrop of the rocky shore, smiling, but as I zoom in I can see tears in his eyes.
I spent last night searching desperately for news about Cuba, any news. Some glimmer of light, something to give me hope that there’s an end to this madness somewhere on the horizon. The arrival of the Nuestra America Flotilla over the past few days brought images of smiling faces from all over the world delivering boxes of humanitarian aid and waving Cuban flags, video after video of people expressing solidarity with Cuba. But of course, not fuel, which is what’s needed most. And then at 6:38 p.m. everything went dark again.
One article suggested a Russian tanker had secretly already unloaded its cargo of diesel fuel in Cuba. Many others said it had not, and that the United States is not going to allow it to. There is another Russian tanker, escorted by a warship, attempting to get to Cuba with 700,000 barrels of crude oil. That one appears to still be en route with a possible arrival in several days. Or in the next two weeks, depending on which news source I’m reading. I don’t know how to continue holding my breath that long without suffocating.
Of course it’s immeasurably worse for those who are in Cuba, doing their best to survive as conditions worsen daily. But the situation also impacts those of us who are far away and mostly helpless, unable to do much more than send cell phone recharges or grocery orders - that is, if the delivery service has vehicles to distribute them - and pray. It feels like slapping a tiny Band-Aid on a gaping, possibly fatal wound.
The cell phone signal is already fading by the time I see the pictures, which Jesus sent almost an hour before I opened my eyes. We stay connected long enough for him to tell me he’s at home now, and I’m relieved. I know he has been walking down to that spot on the coast since long before we met, I know how connected he is to the sea, but there’s something unnerving about the crashing waves and the raw emotions I know brought him there before sunrise, and the fact that I can’t reach him no matter how much I wish I could. I feel more secure when I know he’s not standing at the edge of the world.
Hours later my phone rings as I’m writing this. I jump up and run to my bedroom to take the call before the ringing stops.
As I snap my earbuds in place and swipe my phone’s screen, I realize I’m still crying. Five minutes earlier I saw a Facebook post from a friend in Havana, with a photo showing Cubans lining up to receive buckets of water from a truck. It struck me that I haven’t even thought to ask Jesus about the water supply - a factor over which I have absolutely no control, no ability to help even if I were there. No amount of foreign money will make the water flow when there’s no fuel.
The tears had started as soon as I saw the image. Cubans are some of the most resilient people anywhere, but no human can survive for more than a few days without water.
Jesus sees my face and he knows exactly what has me triggered. He must have seen the message I sent him just before he called. Tranquila, he tells me. Tengo agua, tengo comida, tengo mi rubia. I have water, I have food, I have my blonde.
Look who else I have, he says, laughing, as he turns the phone toward Irene sitting next to him. I hear him stage whisper to her that I’m upset. ¡Ponte fuerte! she tells me, making her determined face, flexing her tiny 74-year-old arm like Popeye.
Jesus turns the phone back toward himself. Tira cinco piedras sin manos, he says, laughing. It’s one of the phrases he frequently uses in reference to both Irene and me: She throws five stones without using her hands. It’s his way of describing someone who is clever, cunning, sneaky. Stronger than she looks. Another favorite is Tú te le escapaste al diablo. You escaped the devil.
I keep telling myself that someday this will all feel far away. Jesus and I will look back on it and laugh: Remember that time the U.S. decided to starve the entire population of Cuba to try to topple the government, and we couldn’t call or message each other because there was no power? Boy that feels weird to think about now. Thank God that’s over.
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The world feels so dark these days. And, Cuba, is literally...dark. There must be some light in the cracks, some sunlight, some change...❤️🙏 Thank you for writing this essay. It humanizes so much of what seems so far away and unreal.
Hey, this one made me cry. I hate that this is happening. I wish I could just snap my fingers and fix everything. I am so sorry. But as you've mentioned, Cubans are strong and resilient. Jesus and his family and friends will survive. They just have to. Damn it.