Now I Know Who My Comrades Are by Emily Parker

Author:Emily Parker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

“PEOPLE HAVE TO SEARCH FOR THEIR OWN VOICE BECAUSE THEY NEVER HAD ONE”

Reinaldo and I arrived at the Malecón. It was growing dark, and we sat on the wall beside the blackening, boatless sea.

“I want to tell you a story,” said Reinaldo. He and Yoani had recently left Havana and snuck away to Cienfuegos Bay. They just wanted a bit of fun and relaxation, and they soon came upon a boat that offered a tour of the bay. Immediately, an argument ensued. Yoani guessed that such a decadent-looking boat must be off-limits to Cuban nationals, but Reinaldo wanted to get on board. He was reminded of a boat he had taken in 1975, when he was working for the official publication Cuba Internacional. There had been an open bar and an extravagant buffet. But what struck him most was that rare feeling of being one of the chosen ones. For once, he was among the writers and photographers who boarded the boat while everyone else stayed on land. This long-ago boat ride had taken on an almost mystical status, and he wanted Yoani to have a similar experience.

Reinaldo’s will prevailed, and the couple went to the marina office and bought two tickets. They didn’t bother to hide their Havana accents, and they weren’t asked for identification. They boarded the boat, finding themselves surrounded by sunburned French-speaking tourists. They found a choice corner where they could take photos of the expansive bay, and Yoani’s doubts momentarily subsided. Were they really going to get away with this?

Reinaldo and Yoani enjoyed the view for a few short moments until a boat captain approached and asked where they were from. “I am from Camagüey, she’s from Havana,” Reinaldo said proudly. The captain continued to smile and mentioned something about drinks. He left and returned soon after to tell them that no Cubans were allowed on board. Yoani briefly considered clutching the rails in protest, but then she decided, what’s the point? Reinaldo dusted off his French and explained to the bewildered tourists what had just happened. Nobody got off the boat in solidarity. Reinaldo and Yoani disembarked, and the boat pulled away.

Reinaldo finished his story. He was sitting cross-legged on the seawall, still wearing his bulging backpack. He seemed enormously pleased with himself. It all seemed pretty depressing to me.

“We both blogged about the boat, Yoani and I!” he explained. “We have evidence of the apartheid in Cuba for everyone to see!” I must have looked unconvinced. “Okay, imagine this,” he said. “I go into an office and ask to have an Internet connection in my house. Now, I know that I don’t have the right to this connection, only foreigners do. It’s just a fantasy. But I want to put on a performance. So I go to the office and ask for a contract. The employee says, ‘Of course, sir, just show me your passport.’ So I show her my Cuban identity card.”

Unsurprisingly, this hypothetical scenario ends with Reinaldo leaving the office without an Internet connection.

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