Translator: Unstated, Yoani Sánchez
Today I was going to publish a text about Mother's Day, a brief vignette
where I would tell of my mother, her hands smelling of onions, garlic
and cumin… from all the time she spends in the kitchen. I had the idea
of telling you of the pleasure it gave me to see her come to the door of
my high school in the countryside, bringing the food that had cost her
an entire week–and great effort–to get. But just as I put the finishing
touched on my little material chronicle, Juan Wilfredo Soto died in
Santa Clara and it all became senseless.
The police batons are thirsty for backs in these parts. The growing
violence of those in uniform is something that is whispered about and
many describe it detail without daring to publicly denounce it. Those of
us who have ever been in dungeon know well that the sweetened propaganda
of "Police, police, you are my friend," repeated on TV, is one thing,
and the impunity enjoyed by these individuals with a badge is another
thing entirely. If, on top of that, those arrested have ideas that
differ from the prevailing ideology, then their treatment will be even
harsher. Fists want to convince them where meager arguments can't succeed.
I don't know how the authorities of my country are going to explain it,
but I doubt, this time, they will manage to persuade us it wasn't the
fault of the police. There is no way to understand how an unarmed man
sitting in a downtown park could represent a major threat. What happens
is that when intolerance is given free rein it feeds public disrespect
and gives a green light to the police, and these tragedies occur. As of
today, a mother in Santa Clara is not sitting at the table prepared by
her children, but in a dark room at a funeral home, keeping vigil over
the body of her son.
8 May 2011
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