A category 5 hurricane is heading straight for my home. Yes, I know I no longer live in Santiago de Cuba. I'm 900Km away, relatively safe, unless that thing decides to change direction. But my mother and my uncle, the only relatives I have left, are there. Apparently, Melissa intensified to category 5 with winds of 257 km/h and the danger of considerable flooding from rain and storm surges. Furthermore, it's moving slowly, very slowly, which is always bad news when talking about a hurricane.
It is expected to make landfall in Jamaica tomorrow, Tuesday morning, and to be a complete and total disaster. A mandatory evacuation alert has been issued in that country. Haiti is also in danger. Cuba has issued an alert for the entire eastern part of the island, from Las Tunas to Guantánamo. In the middle of all that, Santiago, my city. The cone of probable paths marks my homeland as the most likely point of entry in the early hours of Wednesday. They don't expect it to pass directly through the city, where my family is, but close by. We don't know with what strength it will hit Cuba, as they usually weaken upon making landfall.
The government hadn't taken the correct measures: by the end of the month, almost no one had the regulated food from the basic basket (a socialist invention), nor had they distributed the cooking gas. Without electricity for 17 days, without gas to cook, we all used the remains of the collapsed houses as firewood. The water wasn't potable, the food spoiled. People went hungry.
Now Cuba is even worse. Daily blackouts of 12-16 hours are the norm. How are people supposed to keep their cell phones, flashlights, and radios charged? There is a Chikungunya epidemic that has collapsed our already dust-reduced health system. If the hospitals don't even have plaster casts, what do they intend to do with the injured who will inevitably arrive? The consequences of Melissa could be worse than anyone imagines. I'm afraid.
It's not just for my family, who live in one of those same colonial houses unfit to withstand a hurricane. It's also because my stepfather and my uncle have chikungunya, and my mother has the double duty of caring for them and protecting everyone. She already told me she won't seek shelter anywhere else because they "can barely move." I'm afraid for my dad, who lives in Santa Cruz del Sur, a coastal town in Camagüey that floods if you just look at it. A town with a tradition of thousands of deaths from flooding. The cyclone won't pass through there, but the storm surges will reach it. What will become of him? And my people, my friends, my city, the entire eastern zone... my country.
This post is mostly just to vent. I'll say it: I'm afraid. I'm making arrangements to head to Santiago by any means necessary (sometimes, the cultural institutions I belong to send brigades to help in disasters). I'm contacting the people who usually organize aid, collections, and donations in these types of disasters. And above all, I'm looking at the blue sky of Havana, without a cloud, and biting my nails.
I hate the blue that precedes storms.
Se espera que toque tierra en Jamaica mañana martes en la mañana y que sea un completo y total desastre. En ese país se emitió una alerta de evacuación obligatoria. Haití también está en peligro. Cuba ha emitido una alerta para todo el Oriente de la isla, desde Las Tunas hasta Guantánamo. En el medio de todo eso, Santiago, mi ciudad. El cono de probables rutas da a mi tierra como el punto de entrada más probable el miércoles en la madrugada. No esperan que pase directamente por la ciudad, donde está mi familia, pero sí cerca. No sabemos con qué fuerza llegue a Cuba, pues suelen debilitarse al tocar tierra.
El gobierno no había tomado las medidas correctas: a finales de mes casi nadie tenía la comida reglamentaria de la canasta básica (invento socialista), ni habían repartido el gas. Sin electricidad durante 17 días, sin gas para cocinar, todos usamos los restos de las casas caídas a modo de leña. El agua no era potable, los alimentos se echaron a perder. La gente pasó hambre.
No es solo por mi familia, que vive en una de esas mismas casas coloniales sin condiciones para aguantar un huracán. Es también porque mi padrastro y mi tío están con chikungunya, y mi madre tiene el doble trabajo de cuidarlos y protegerlos a todos. Ya me dijo que no va a buscar asilo en ningún otro sitio porque ellos “casi no se pueden mover”. Tengo miedo por mi papá, que vive en Santa Cruz del Sur, un pueblo costero en Camagüey que se inunda de mirarlo. Un pueblo con tradición de miles de muertes por inundaciones. El ciclón no va a pasar por ahí, pero las marejadas sí llegarán. ¿Qué será de él? Y mi gente, mis amigos, mi ciudad, la zona oriental entera… mi país.
Este post es más que nada para desahogarme. Lo digo: tengo miedo. Estoy preparando condiciones para salir hacia Santiago por cualquier medio (a veces, las instituciones culturales a las que pertenezco mandan brigadas a ayudar en los desastres). Estoy contactando a la gente que normalmente recoge ayudas, colectas y donaciones en este tipo de desastres. Y sobre todo, estoy mirando el cielo azul de La Habana, sin una nube, y mordiéndome las uñas.
Odio el azul que precede las tormentas.
