Havana Cuba. – Sundays have always been days for walks, days to go to the zoo, if you have one nearby; amusement park days, if there are amusement parks. Sundays were always days of ice cream and Coppelias, if there were ice cream and Coppelias. Sundays are days of recreation or rest, with the family, days of great laziness so that Monday is a lot of work. Sundays, in many places, are days of succulent family lunches, laughter and music, even a drink for the elderly. Sundays were made for recreation.
Sundays are Sundays throughout the world, until proven otherwise; but in Cuba Sundays are like any other day, just like its predecessor, analogous to its successor. Our Sundays are like Mondays, full of anguish and like any other day of the week. The only difference that Sunday has with the rest of the days is that there will be no need to go to school or to some jobs.
On Sundays the singers and dancers, the theater actors, the doctor and the nurse work; but Sunday is also a day of work at home, especially for those who “work in the street”, and for the odd unfortunate person who has nothing to do except work and work, until the end of his days. .
Sunday is always full of children in the street: children playing ball, playing ball; children who play to play, even if they don’t play. That’s Sundays in Cuba; but there are other worse ones, like the most recent of our Sundays, that day of false elections, that Sunday in which some Cubans, apparently the majority, attended a kind of ballot box to pretend that they were choosing something, that they were voting for something, that they were leaving take a bitter drink as quickly as possible, as cowardly as possible. But there was something else, and sadder.
And undoubtedly the saddest thing was that farce that is always repeated and that are those elections of delegates that do not represent anything and that do not solve anything either; that they are only a will of the Government, a representation of the Government, a bad habit of the communists in power, who do what they please, what they think, because the world is, for them, their will and their representation; but not that will that Kant saw as the true duty.
For the Cuban communists, representation consists in making people believe that their will is that of the people; hide, and at any cost, that the will is that of the Government, while the representation, guided by the master of ceremonies or by the director of the scene, of all the scenes, is also the people, which is also false. The Island is will, on the one hand, while on the other it is representation. And both, both the will and the representation, are directed and followed in their details by power, which is a stage manager, a director of staging. Everything is will that later becomes representation.
It is appalling, abhorrent, that children lose their Sunday, their day of rest, of games, in an antics that leads them to put their right hand across the stage of their foreheads, to repeat in litany “He voted, he voted, he voted” and so to the last voter, instead of being in the playground, which does not exist; in the neighborhood park, which is destroyed; in the short ball field, which is grassed; in cinemas with children’s programming, which no longer exist; in childhood that escapes them in a heartbeat.
The will of a government should not go above any of that, because then it will be, as has happened in Cuba for the last 60 years, voluntarism, and voluntarism is harmful, especially for children, because it always goes above understanding , of good will, freedom and love. The voluntarism of a government cannot go above the needs of its children, who are the future.
Children have to sing, not take care of urns or be like the Che. Children have to play, and have many toys, many possibilities to have toys that feed their future, and food that feeds their present, that consolidate their health. Children are not puppets, they are not representation, and Cuba has to stop being, once and for all, a tableau. Everything else is detrimental, pure fanfare. The government that uses its youngest children in these sad, horrendous farces is terrifying. And power is nothing more than that lady who breaks the lamppost with her hat, the hopes of children, even her virtues.
OPINION ARTICLE
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