Boyeros Voyeur

15 01 2010

MASSACRE IN MAZORRA?
Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

The first image of Mazorra that comes to mind (and the mind if the efficient cause of all mental illness) are the formidable photos from the beginning of the Revolution. January 1959. The Year of Freedom: a freedom assumed to be the end of the colonial-republican folly.

They are photos of the dungeons of Mazorra. Definitive photos. Insulting. Indeed, they make you want to place a bomb. Images like black and white slaps on cheap newsprint. Photos that last in high contract, even to today, half a century after those flashbulbs lit up the mute face of the Cuban capitalist horror.

Time has passed, scathing. Ordaz, the half-saint half-lunatic doctor, has also passed. A certain sanitary sense of the illusion has passed. There was or there is even a symphony orchestra which mislaid part of its lucidity executing music from there, on the edge of the abyss, on the road to Santiago (to Las Vegas). There is or there was a Soviet school of the brain that excluded all the socioanalytical deviations that did not ooze from the sentences of Marx.

Mazorra. January 2010. The year of another anniversary, unnamable. Winters have become increasingly shorter and virulent. Cuba in its entirety seems to have migrated. Or faded into the international stupidity of the rest of the continent. We others, ghosts of citizens on either side of the fence that separates the Rancho Boyeros sidewalk from the athletic field of the Psychiatric Hospital. It is another death in the most humble flesh of Havana.

Dozens of bodies. In a feverish pace of so many bodies a day. Helpless people. Homeless left at the margin not just by society, but by the fatigued Cuban family that cannot tolerate their crazies (nor their old, nor any kind of biological dissidence), and so throws them into the hands of a materialistic psychiatry just as clinical (in fact the clinicians have now been forced to be the guards there, because no physician regularly visited this hospital).

The criminal irresponsibility belongs to everyone, not just the indolent who traffic, perhaps, in a little rice and food and some clothing made from the thin bedspreads. The workers virtually detained now inside Mazorra wonder as much as we do what happened: what stroke of God has put the face of a revolutionary justice that needs atonement more than Pontius Pilate ever did. Some of these people will become literally insane during their long prison sentences and in prison eat worse than their perished patients, and so the illogical cycle of our post-fatherland will continue exerting pressure.

I have been in asylums for the aged. The social or religious security has perhaps reached its maximum scope, but equally are the saddest little niches where everything leaks mortality. The glassy stare of those who survive humiliated recapitulates for me certain theories of Thanatos. There is a limit to the decline. In those places I have known even the gratuitous charity to insult among strangers. I cannot imagine even an acquaintance in a disreputable dive like that. The blame for this catastrophe is our entire society’s with our modern pretensions (sleeping sickness), where so many beings rely on institutional services to overcome death.

Dozens of Cuban bodies. A small indoor holocaust (a Havanan Haiti). A sharp tremor even in the throats of the solemn official news. Surely the police experts probed the theory of exterior sabotage against the medical/media image of Cuba, or will stir up an attack against the security of the State. But the residents of the neighborhood around me have, a priori, another impression. It was chance. The bloody crisis of values. It has been nothing but what occasionally touches the handles of our consciousness, without ever unlocking or awakening our heart.

Then such a tragedy was almost inevitable. Who knows if this has happened before, there or in another circumscribed place. Cuba can no longer take care of itself 100%. It is the price of living in a very selfish country, but absolutely not personal.

I feel sorry for those who died. Imagining myself in their bodies without sanity, I lose the desire to continue being Orlando Luis. I am sorry for the inner circle of this massacre without responsibility (nor responsibles). I am sorry for what we humans do to humans almost inadvertently, because of distraction, economic tedium, evil no less helpless, excess of exile (the best are leaving) and amnesia of love (the reality is so rancid that the soul is reluctant: I only feel that I feel nothing).

For the rest, in this January there will not be photos of Mazorra like that other time, unless a digital flight puts them flying on in the inane Cuban Internet.

Advertisements

Actions

Information

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s




%d bloggers like this: