An old, broken beggar in Havana tries to survive where even the young and able-bodied struggle to do so. The system, of course, isn’t even remotely interested in the matter, or in the progressive implosion of the whole country, as long as it can hold on to power, which is all it really cares about. This poor man, however, is a symbol, and a powerful one.
Where are all the bright and shining promises which have always been the regime’s stock in trade? Where are the countless grandiose vistas proffered so often and for so long by the late and unlamented Maximum Leader? Where is the glass of milk for every Cuban promised years ago by his appointed heir, who has never lacked for milk himself?
Life in Cuba was never anywhere near this miserable, desperate and hopeless before the “revolution,” not even close. How can the world still look on without at least condemning the perverse poison that pervades the island, let alone continue to enable it as if the glaringly obvious were some impenetrable mystery that defies human understanding?
Perhaps Cubans asked for this, bought into it, set their country and society up to be destroyed. Maybe they deserve it. They certainly need to look long and hard at why and how they got here. But surely such waste, such degeneracy and dissolution cannot be pleasing unto God. Lord, have mercy.