While thousands of Cubans cross third countries to reach the United States and thousands others emigrate legally or use work-related trips afforded by the government to “desert,” the island’s official media cover the migratory crisis affecting countries in the Middle East and Europe.
Osmel Almaguer’s Diary
I was nine and my sister was thirteen when we got to know Tanya, or, better said, when she fell in love with Tanya and I followed suit. For me, what our family described as imitation was the most natural way to share a person’s tastes.
Of all the kinds of beggars I’ve seen in Havana, the “sleeping beggar” is doubtless the most peculiar. I saw the man on Reina street in Centro Habana, lying across the entrance to a building, with a sign that read: “I have a heart murmur. Please help me with anything you have.
In December of last year, my father applied for a construction subsidy from the Head Municipal Housing Office in Habana del Este. Zuleidys, the secretary who saw him, told him not to have over realistic expectations, that they had granted very few such subsidies recently.
An elevated bridge connects the area surrounding Havana’s renowned Luis Diaz Soto Hospital (better known as the “Naval Hospital”) with the neighborhood of Camilo Cienfuegos, part of the Monumental highway, which joins the center of the capital with its east-laying suburbs.
When a friend of mine, journalist Ignacio Gonzalez, approached me and invited me to host a press channel he planned on launching, the first thing I thought was that the job was not for me.
I don’t want to say these music videos are evasive. On the contrary, they seem to be a reaction to so much theatrics, so much vanity being divulged by the media. We present one from the band “Qva Libre”.
Some two hundred meters from my house, in Alamar’s Zone 11, there are a group of buildings that, even though recently constructed, are in urgent need of repairs. For bureaucratic reasons, however, the appeals of its tenants have met only with negative replies.
Recently, one of my Facebook friends was complaining on-line about the inconveniences that a US postal service had caused him. The addressee was a person this agency had already made deliveries to and claimed not to be able to find them this last time around.
Four years ago, I published a diary entry titled Holguin: My Father’s Land. In it, I reminisced on my last trip to the east-laying province, in the 80s. I recall having broadly described my impressions from then and how it pained me that I hadn’t visited my family for a long time.