A Window Glowing in the Middle of the Blackout

By Isabel Gonzalez

HAVANA TIMES – I don’t remember a time when the Internet wasn’t part of my life. I think of it as an open window on a screen through which I look out at a vast world that often seems to be just on the other side of the wall.

Thanks to it, I’ve discovered people who live in places whose names I barely knew, young people who share my tastes and dreams, even though almost everything seems within their reach while for me it becomes more impossible every day.

I can go from a video about drawing to another about video games, music, anime, or anything else that catches my attention. I see illustrations by artists I’ll probably never meet and discover songs that end up staying with me for weeks.

Then there are my friends. Some live here, while others have left. There are friends who one day were forced to say goodbye to Cuba and now exist in my life only through a screen. But someone can be thousands of miles away and at the same time appear on your phone every day. We send each other messages and songs, talk about video games and TV series, and share our latest drawings or photos.

But here, the Internet isn’t always there when you need it. Most of the time, getting connected becomes a problem. Before downloading something, I think twice because just when I least expect it, I lose the signal, the download stops halfway through, and I lose the data I used. To watch a one-minute video, I need ten minutes, and I almost always end up giving up before reaching the end. It gets tiresome watching the loading circle spin around for nothing.

Everything used to be easier, but now, if I have to send a file or a message, I try to do it before something happens and the signal disappears. I make the most of the few hours when we have electricity. When the blackout comes, the phone stops being that window to the world and becomes a battery that must be protected.

There are nights when I want to play a game, read something, listen to music, or lose myself watching videos, but I can’t. The room is dark and suffocating, and outside all I can hear is the countryside. Sometimes I like that silence; it helps me sleep. Other times it weighs so heavily that it keeps me awake until exhaustion finally takes over.

My generation grew up connected to people who live in cities filled with lights, shopping malls, concerts, different kinds of schools, places I know only through photographs. I can see how other young people anywhere in the world live, what they eat, what they study, what video games they play, or what they do on weekends. I watch them grow while I remain here.

I don’t know whether that makes me feel closer to the world or simply more aware of the distance—perhaps a little of both. What I do know is that I’ll keep discovering the world from my little corner, surrounded by trees, damp earth, drawings, and books.

Maybe growing up with the Internet in Cuba means having the whole world at your fingertips while at the same time feeling that you live disconnected, that your reality, your worries, and your dreams are nothing like those of other young people who live outside this island.

These days, being online can feel as far out of reach as any of my other dreams. But it doesn’t matter how dark it is: as long as there is a glowing screen, a song, a drawing, or someone on the other side willing to listen, that window will remain open.

Read more from the diary of Isabel Gonzalez here on Havana Times.