
My friends and I wanted to tell the story of Cuban life, without interference. Before long, I was being isolated, monitored and interrogated
A version of this essay was previously published in the Dial under the title The Sneeze. Translation by Lily Meyer
One day, in the middle of 2014, my friend Carlos Manuel รlvarez asked me to join him on the newsroomโs balcony. Wind gusted in our eyes. Elbows on the railing, we stared at the sea as we talked. We were killing time because neither of us had a computer to work on. All of them were in use. At OnCuba, the magazine in Havana where we worked, only editors got their own computers. The rest of us had to share, which sometimes meant waiting an hour. Several of my university friends and I had lucked into contributing roles at OnCuba, and even though we werenโt on staff, we were always in the newsroom. It was a way to keep our group together.
Sometimes, over beers, we dreamed aloud about a newsroom coup. We wanted to topple Hugo Cancio, the publisher, and turn his resources โ a giant office with multiple rooms and a balcony with sea views; computers and internet; money; connections โ into the media outlet we wanted. Something with our imprint.
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