The Cuban Summer That No Longer Exists

By Dany Cesario

HAVANA TIMES – My mother suggested that I write about summer in Cuba. I smiled and thought it would be easy, because talking about summer would bring back my happiest memories. But as I thought about it, I realized that what I would actually be writing about was everything summer had ceased to be.

I grew up believing that July and August smelled of simple happiness—of the sea, improvised snacks, children running around, and families looking for any excuse to get out of the house.

For me, those months were a promise of freedom: getting up late, going out, making plans without schedules, and going to bed with that mixture of exhaustion and happiness after a day filled with adventures.

When my girls were born, summer took on another dimension. It was no longer just about my vacations, but about watching them enjoy theirs.

The zoo was an obligatory stop. Although we always followed the same route, every visit seemed different. Lenin Park, Expocuba, and the Botanical Garden were also on our list. We didn’t need elaborate plans, just the desire to get out of the house and spend the day together.

And then there was the beach. There is no summer in Cuba without trips to the beach. We prepared croquettes, sandwiches, and soft drinks as though we were organizing an expedition. At the end of the day, when the sun began to set, came that moment that was always part of the ritual: filling bottles with seawater to rinse the sand off before heading home. But the sand, mischievously, always found a way to come back with us—in our flip-flops, hidden in the towels, and even in our pockets.

I also remember the trip home, with that salty exhaustion after a day filled with excitement, and the feeling that the waves were still rocking our bodies even after we were in bed.

For a long time, I thought all it took was for July and August to come around again to feel the same way. But growing up also meant discovering that some things don’t last. One day, you simply look around and realize they are no longer there.

Today, I listen to my mother tell me what summer is like in Cuba, and I feel as though she is talking to me about another world.

Not because vacations have disappeared, but because many of the things that made them special have become increasingly out of reach.

And that makes me angry.

My country began losing something of its essence when those small freedoms that once seemed so normal began turning into privileges.

Because summer should never have been reduced to surviving the heat, counting the hours without electricity, or waiting for someone to remember that we, too, have the right to rest, have fun, and simply live.

It should be a sacred time for playing, discovering, getting bored, inventing, singing, dancing, getting dirty, and coming home too tired to think about anything else.

Maybe that was one of the reasons my mother asked me to write about summer. Perhaps she wanted me to talk not only about what we experienced, but also about what we should never forget.

Because those summers existed.

They were ours.

And perhaps that is why I keep thinking about the day when the island will once again have summers that are lived, rather than longed for.

In the meantime, I will keep my summer vacations tucked away in my suitcase of dreams.

Not like someone looking back in order to remain there, but like someone carrying a light, waiting for the moment to turn it on again.

Read more from the diary of Dany Cesario here on Havana Times.