My body has been back in the United States of Amerikkka for three days, but it’s a shell housing a consciousness forever stuck there and then with them. Perhaps it’s a “blackened” consciousness, forever outside of time and place, which would explain why it feels like I’m out of time; matters are urgent. After being in Cuba, time, itself, passes differently—somehow slower yet faster, a cautious drag and then a rushed pull like a tug of war. Time now skips past me with its tongue stuck out and hands wagging at its ears like a teasing bully. I trace its . . .
For most of my 10 days in Cuba I tried to play it cool, even though with it being my first real time out of the country, I felt overwhelmed the entire time. I kept it together though, for most of the trip, until our visit to the Centro Fidel Castro Ruz. It’s a museum dedicated to Fidel Castro, hero of the Cuban Revolution. And it’s a museum where I bawled my eyes out. . . .
Buenas, if you are reading this and don’t know me, my name is Salifu. I am a member of the AAPRP, the Black Alliance for Peace and the Lowcountry Action Committee in Charleston, SC. This is my diary in Cuba. By the time I publish this, me and 75 other people are boarding a plane headed to Havana. On the flight with us are over two tons of medical supplies to be donated directly to the Cuban government. But the medical supplies are not what is bringing us to Cuba. As Gail Walker, the director of our delegation, has explained . . .