I Don’t Sleep Well in Cuba
I woke
up this morning breathless, partially due to the amount of combusted carbon
I’ve inhaled since arriving in Cuba, and partially because I just had a
nightmare. I had just witnessed a vivid and dramatic axe-fight in my dream. I’m
not sure what started the whole incident, but the results were undeniable: a
group of men began fighting with large axes. The dream was extremely graphic,
too. I won’t go into detail here, but just know that I saw a very detailed type
of gore and brutality.
This
dream was significant for a couple of reasons. After seeing a man get the side
of his cheek smashed in with an axe, I immediately felt the urge to run. In the
dream with my mouth open and heart pounding, I began backing away.
Unfortunately, (or perhaps most
fortunately) I didn’t see what followed because I woke up right after this, but
the notion of escaping doom was so real I could taste it. In fact, my jaw is
still sore due to its crocodile-like, vice-tight clench. As I emerged from the
very real sounds of metal meeting flesh and bone, (which can only be described
as having that same wet thud that one might experience if he or she were to
chuck meat-filled-water-balloons from atop the Empire State Building) I started
thinking about the Vikings, the Samurai, Native Americans, the machete wielding
Cubans, and a swath of other groups that would have most assuredly done battle
with such metallic implements. Then I started thinking about modern warfare,
which, of course, includes everything from bayonets to bombs to Bouncing
Betties. And then I started thinking about the countless dead. There are lots,
vast lots.
So,
there I was lying in bed, thinking about axe fights and war while listening to
Havana awake from a very short night. Then, in that special way in which my
pre-morning, pre-coffee, pre-conscious, and precluded mind is wont to operate,
I began to flesh out this idea a bit further. I started thinking of my
detachment from violence. Sure, I’ve seen some documentaries, but I’ve never
experienced soul-raking violence first hand, and for this I am grateful. I started
thinking about the dichotomy which exists between eras of war; between civilian
soldiers and professional soldiers. I started thinking about the concept of
sacrifice. Of course, in war exists a sacrifice much deeper than physical; it’s
spiritual and psychological along with
the physical—but this is a dumb cliché, so I’ll retract.
Regardless
of the sacrifice, we (and I say we as
those who have never experienced this sort of violence) have been taught that
this is the price for freedom, but such a primitive sentiment has morphed over
the years into a sort of motto, a militaristic mantra. Nonetheless, I think
there is a more fundamental truth in this idea of sacrifice. What is the
meaning of sacrifice if not the selflessness of one for the selfishness of others? In other words, one self gives his
or her life so that other selves might have, well, selves. Whether or not my dream was due to something I saw on T.V.,
an idea inculcated, or the result of a stomach full of rich and hard-to-digest
Cuban food I cannot tell. Nevertheless, it was still pretty compelling.
I think
about conversations I’ve had in the past with my friends. We’d puff our chests
while consuming multiple adult beverages and boast about our unflinching
ability to do what was necessary to protect ourselves and our loved ones, when
in all honesty I’m not actually sure
what I would do if I was confronted with such a thing. But, if my dream is any
indication, and if the perpetrator wields an axe, a sword, or a machete, then
you can bet your bright little behind that the only thing anyone will see is my behind making its way fast and
furious in the opposite direction.
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