That night I realized that exile doesn’t always hurt because of the distance. Sometimes it hurts because of the simplest things. / 14ymedio

Power outages and a lack of internet turn a family phone call between Berlin and Villa Clara into an ordeal marked by distance and exile.

By Yankiel Gutierrez Faife (14ymedio)

HAVANA TIMES – I finished work in Berlin at five o’clock that afternoon. It had been a long day, but from the moment I left home that morning, my body had been in Germany while my mind remained in Cuba. It was my mother’s birthday, and I could think of only one thing: somehow managing to speak with her before her birthday ended back on the Island.

Throughout the workday, I glanced at the clock several times. Not because I wanted my shift to end, but because I kept calculating the time difference. I knew this wouldn’t be just any phone call. In Cuba, making a call depends on too many things: having electricity, having phones with charged batteries, having cell service and internet access, and having someone available to answer.

When I got home, I didn’t even change out of my work clothes. The first thing I did was buy international calling minutes. I couldn’t call through WhatsApp, and the messages I had sent couldn’t be delivered. Without electricity, there’s no internet, and when blackouts last nearly the entire day, a video call becomes an almost impossible luxury. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice, even if only for a few minutes, to know how she was doing and wish her a happy birthday with my own voice.

I dialed the house phone. It was switched off. I kept waiting until 11:30 that night in Berlin—5:30 in the afternoon in Cuba. I tried calling again. No one answered. I called once more. Nothing.

In Cuba, making a phone call depends on too many things

I wasn’t surprised. I pictured their phones lying discharged on a table, waiting for that single hour of electricity they so often receive during the day. In Cuba, no one assumes anymore that a phone will be turned on.

Then I dialed Yolanda’s number, the neighbor who, fortunately, still has a prepaid landline—though it also depends on a charged battery.

Without ever intending to, she has become the bridge between my family and me whenever blackouts leave my parents’ home cut off from communication. I only have a few minutes available—between three and five—since the phone is reserved for emergencies.

“Hello, Yolanda. How are you?”

“My goodness, my boy! What a joy to hear your voice. How are you?”

I explained that I was calling to wish my mother a happy birthday.

“Could I speak with her for three minutes?”

“Of course. Hold on a moment. I’ll go get her.”

I hung up and called back five minutes later.

As I waited, I thought about everything that had happened that day.

In any other country, traveling just over 250 kilometers would take only a few hours. In Cuba, it can mean waiting for months.

My sister had traveled from Havana to celebrate our mother’s birthday. She hadn’t been able to visit our parents for six months. Not because she didn’t want to or because she was too busy. Simply because there was no fuel and no transportation.

In any other country, traveling just over 250 kilometers would take only a few hours. In Cuba, it can mean waiting for months.

In the end, my sister, an aunt, and several cousins pooled their money to rent a car. Only then were they able to reach Villa Clara. It struck me that, despite living on the same island, my sister had to plan the trip as if she were traveling to another country.

I was more than 8,000 kilometers away. She was just over 250 kilometers away. And yet we both faced almost the same difficulties getting to our mother.

Suddenly I heard a voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Pipo?”

It was my mother.

She tried to speak, but the words became trapped behind her tears

A lump formed in my throat.

“Mom, happy birthday. I wish you good health and many more years of life. I hope we’ll be able to celebrate this day together very soon.”

For a few seconds, she didn’t answer.

I could only hear her crying.

She tried to say something, but the words became trapped behind her tears.

Then my father took the phone, trying to hide my mother’s sobbing and distract me from it, but I know her. My father and I spoke for barely a minute. He asked how I was and how work was going. Then my mother came back on the line.

I told her again that I was doing well, that she shouldn’t worry about me, and that I loved her very much.

I’m certain she was trying to hold back her tears so I wouldn’t worry. She didn’t have to tell me. I’m her son, and I know my mother’s silence. I know when she’s trying to appear strong even though she’s falling apart inside. As I listened to her, I felt the lump in my throat tighten, and I had to struggle to keep my own voice from breaking.

Then the call was cut off.

At least I was able to wish her a happy birthday. It wasn’t a video call, and I couldn’t see her smile. I couldn’t sing “Happy Birthday” to her. I couldn’t hug her. All I could give her was three minutes.

The prepaid phone had run out of battery.

There was no time to say goodbye.

I stared at my phone’s screen for a few seconds, almost as if the call might somehow return, but it didn’t. I imagined the scene on the other end: my mother holding the lifeless phone, tears in her eyes, after hearing her son’s voice for only a few brief minutes.

At least I had been able to wish her a happy birthday. It wasn’t a video call, and I couldn’t see her smile. I couldn’t sing to her. I couldn’t hug her. All I could give her was three minutes.

That night I realized that exile doesn’t always hurt because of the distance. Sometimes it hurts because of the simplest things: not being able to call when you want to; depending on the battery of a borrowed phone; paying for expensive international calling minutes because the internet disappears every time the power goes out.

While Berlin remained brightly lit and the subway continued running as usual, my family in Cuba waited for the next time the electricity would return so they could charge a phone once again.

First published in Spanish by 14ymedio and translated and posted in English by Havana Times.

Read more from Cuba here on Havana Times.