TRANSLATOR'S NOTE:
Normally I wouldn't bother to translate a "dissident" op-ed. They have people paid to do translations when they are politically convenient - a dog & pony show at Amnesty International, or a Congressional visit perhaps. And they have people to write them as well, to hang over a dissident's signature. Nothing unusual about that - it's business as usual in Washington, where front-groups proliferate. For instance Oswaldo (lights on, nobody home) Paya seems a very unlikely type to be writing the op-eds that are said to emanate from him. I keep waiting for someone to call him on it, but no-one ever does. I haven't seen Manuel Vazquez Portal speak, so I can't guess at his writing skills and whether this was written by him or manufactured for his signature, but it is interesting on so many levels, so I made an exception to the rule, and translated it. It appeared in El Nuevo Herald on Sunday. The Spanish original follows.

1. Note the florid prose, endemic to these pieces. The lurking, sinister, Cuban gestapo. The tragically ill child trapped in a corset. The freezing jail cell. The modest coat. Mostly these op-eds are manufactured for the ex-Cuban community and do not come out in English except, as noted before, when politically convenient. This is aimed and timed as a defense against the bad press suffered by certain Miami groups who were using Nintendo as a democracy tool. 2. The 100% free neurosurgery, and a surgeon who has been managing a patient for years, again without cost. How many US prisoners can say the same for their sick children? 3. The alacrity of the child. Nobody ever said Cubans were stupid.

Two Gameboys for Gabriel
by MANUEL VAZQUEZ PORTAL
A Cuba News Translation

EL NUEVO HERALD

From: "S. Ashdown"
Date: Wed Nov 29, 2006 12:09 pm
Subject: Miami's Gameboy Defense

Normally I wouldn't bother to translate a "dissident" op-ed. They have people paid to do translations when they are politically convenient - a dog & pony show at Amnesty International, or a Congressional visit perhaps. And they have people to write them as well, to hang over a dissident's signature. Nothing unusual about that - it's business as usual in Washington, where front-groups proliferate. For instance Oswaldo (lights on, nobody home) Paya seems a very unlikely type to be writing the op-eds that are said to emanate from him. I keep waiting for someone to call him on it, but no-one ever does. I haven't seen Manuel Vazquez Portal speak, so I can't guess at his writing skills and whether this was written by him or manufactured for his signature, but it is interesting on so many levels, so I made an exception to the rule, and translated it.

It appeared in El Nuevo Herald on Sunday.
http://www.miami.com/mld/elnuevo/news/opinion/16098467.htm 

The Spanish original follows.

1. Note the florid prose, endemic to these pieces. The lurking, sinister, Cuban gestapo. The tragically ill child trapped in a corset. The freezing jail cell. The modest coat. Mostly these op-eds are manufactured for the ex-Cuban community and do not come out in English except, as noted before, when politically convenient. This is aimed and timed as a defense against the bad press suffered by certain Miami groups who were using Nintendo as a democracy tool.

2. The 100% free neurosurgery, and a surgeon who has been managing a patient for years, again without cost. How many US prisoners can say the same for their sick children?

3. The alacrity of the child. Nobody ever said Cubans were stupid.

Two Gameboys for Gabriel
by MANUEL VAZQUEZ PORTAL

A Cuba News Translation

EL NUEVO HERALD
Posted on Sun, Nov. 26, 2006

Dr. Paulina raised her scalpel. With a precise touch. Knowing. Firm. Through the operating room windows, intruders were watching. The Cuban political police. They had arrived right on time. Undisguised. They wanted everyone to know they were there. Yolanda watched them scornfully. Paulina hardly noticed. It might have been the first time that the neurosurgeon would have to operate while being watched by amateurs. Who knew if she remembered the severe, impassive scrutiny of her old teachers when she was a medical student. She didn't think about them. Nothing disturbed her concentration. Serenity. No trembling pulse. A child barely nine years old awaited her removal of a lipoma pressing against his spine. She had attended him for years. She knew everything about the little one. She couldn't fail. She couldn't fail the woman who squeezed her hands and prayed for her only son in the next room. She couldn't fail the man who was suffering in solitary confinement in Boniato prison while the boy called for him, seconds before sinking into the depths of anesthesia. The cut was exact. Large. Deep. They’d be able to count twenty-eight stitches when he was sewn up.

"Papa, your friends sent me a Gameboy," he told me several months later when he came to visit me. He came wearing a crude corset of iron and straps. His moves were cautious. Dr. Paulina had prohibited abrupt movements, physical exercise, the use of force. He no longer moved as easily as when we ran along the coast of Alamar to see who would get to the beach first. He didn't have the elastic agility with which he hugged me before. An invisible corset, a rougher one, settled in my throat. It was the first toy that my son received without me having bought it. It was the first toy he would have to kill the tedium of not being able to play with the other children. He could make Super Mario jump while he lay bored under a silent sheet. It was a toy from uncles he had never known. It was a toy that would make its debut without me being able to bestow it along with a kiss. Without being able to try it out together. A feeling of gratitude and rage imprisoned my soul.

"Who?" I asked Yolanda. The people of Accion Democratica. I thought of Juan Carlos, of Guillermo, of Osvaldo de Cespedes. I smiled.

At the following visit, winter already, still with the corset, still with the Gameboy.

"Papa, Christian and Alejandro also got one," he said, bouncing on my knee.

"Of course. They also deserve one," I replied.

"But they weren’t operated on."

"No, but they have a great wound. Christian is wounded because he can't play with Osvaldo Alfonso, his father; Alejandro is wounded because he can’t play with Hector Maseda, his grandfather."

"That’s true," he said, and remained silent.

Yolanda began with an inventory of whispers, practically inaudible. Three steps away the guards were watching, listening. She told me about the family. She told me about the strength of the Ladies in White. She gave me details of the other prisoners scattered throughout all the island’s prisons. She spoke of the concert that Willy Chirino had offered in order to help us. She told me that the Miami Cubans were giving us plenty of support, that the CANF wasn't holding back either, that certain women would go everywhere dressed in black under the name of an organization called M.A.R. for Cuba, that they were lionesses fighting for us in the whole world, and that Frank Hernandez Trujillo had sent me "these vitamins." "To see if you can recover a bit, and this coat, which isn't pretty, or expensive, but at least will keep you from being cold in that damn cell," she said.

And I thought about the fact that I was not alone, that my family was not abandoned. I thought about the books that I was sent, "Hidden King" among them. I thought of Rolando Cartaya’s efforts to make sure that my voice could continue to be heard on Radio Marti, although I had been condemned to solitude and silence. I thought of the writers and journalists who advocate for us. And that was when Gabriel brought me to my senses.

"Papa, then I deserve two."

"Two what?"

"Two Gameboys."

"Why?"

"One for the operation and the other for my wound because you're a prisoner."

============================
EL NUEVO HERALD Posted on Sun, Nov. 26, 2006

http://www.miami.com/mld/elnuevo/news/opinion/16098467.htm 

Dos Gameboy para Gabriel
MANUEL VAZQUEZ PORTAL

La doctora Paulina alzó el bisturí. La mano precisa. Sabia. Firme. Tras los cristales del quirófano unos ojos intrusos. La policía política cubana acechaba. Habían llegado puntuales. Sin enmascaramiento. Querían que todos supieran que estaban allí. Yolanda los miró con desprecio. Paulina apenas dejó interrumpirse por ellos. Era, quizás, la primera vez que la neurocirujana tendría que operar siendo vigilada por miradas inexpertas. Quién sabe si recordó el severo, impasible escrutinio de sus antiguos profesores cuando era aún una estudiante. No los tuvo en cuenta. Nada perturbaba su concentración. Serena. Su pulso no tembló.

Un niño de apenas nueve años esperaba que ella le extirpara un lipoma que le oprimía la médula espinal. Lo había atendido durante años. Sabía todo acerca del chiquillo. No podía fallar. No podía fallarle a aquella mujer que se estrujaba las manos y rezaba por su único hijo en la sala contigua. No podía fallarle a aquel hombre que sufría en una celda de castigo de la cárcel de Boniato mientras el niño lo llamaba, segundos antes de sumirse en la hondura de la anestesia.

El tajo fue exacto. Largo. Hondo. Veintiocho puntadas pudieron contarse cuando fue suturado.

--Papi, tus amigos me mandaron un Gameboy --me dijo cuando varios meses después fue a visitarme.

Iba arropado por un rudo corset de hierro y correas. Su andar era cauteloso. La doctora Paulina le había prohibido los gestos bruscos, los ejercicios físicos, el empleo de su fuerza. No tenía la soltura de cuando corríamos por la costa de Alamar para ver quién llegaba primero a la playa. No tenía la agilidad elástica con que me abrazaba antes. Un corset invisible, pero más rudo, se instaló en mi garganta.

Era el primer juguete que mi hijo recibiera sin que yo se lo comprara. Era el primer juguete que tendría para matar el tedio de no poder retozar con otros niños. Era poner a saltar a Súper Mario en tanto él se aburría postrado sobre una sábana silente. Era el juguete de unos tíos que él nunca había conocido. Era el juguete que estrenaría sin que yo se lo regalara con un beso. Sin que nos pusiéramos a investigarlo juntos. Un sentimiento de agradecimiento y de rabia me aprisionó el alma.

--¿Quién? --le pregunté a Yolanda.

--La gente de Acción Democrática.

Pensé en Juan Carlos, en Guillermo, en Osvaldo de Céspedes. Sonreí.

En la siguiente visita, ya en invierno, el corset permanecía, permanecía el Gameboy.

--Papi, a Christian y a Alejandro les mandaron uno --me dijo mientras galopaba en mi rodilla.

--Claro. Ellos también se lo merecen.

--Ellos no están operados.

--No. Pero tienen una gran herida. Christian tiene la herida de no poder jugar con Osvaldo Alfonso, su papá; Alejandro tiene la herida de no poder jugar con Héctor Maseda, su abuelo.

--Es verdad --dijo y se quedó en silencio.

Yolanda empezó con el inventario de cuchicheos. Debía hablarme en voz queda, casi inaudible. A tres pasos de nosotros los guardianes vigilaban, escuchaban. Me contó de la familia. Me explicó la fuerza que iban tomando las Damas de Blanco. Me dio detalles de los otros presos que andaban desperdigados por todas las prisiones de la isla. Me detalló el concierto que había brindado Willy Chirino para ayudarnos. Me dijo que los Plantados de Miami estaban apoyando mucho, que la Fundación Cubano Americana no se quedaba atrás, que unas mujeres que iban a todas partes vestidas de negro y que tenían una organización llamada M.A.R por Cuba, eran unas leonas guapeando por nosotros en el mundo entero y que Frank Hernández Trujillo me mandaba ``estas vitaminas''.

--Para ver si te repones un poco, y este abrigo, que no es bonito, ni caro, pero que no te dejará pasar frío en esa maldita celda --me dijo.

Ypensé que no estaba solo, que mi familia no estaba desamparada. Pensé en los libros que me enviaba Re Oculto. Pensé en los esfuerzos que hacía Rolando Cartaya para que mi voz no dejara de escucharse por Radio Martí, aunque me hubieran condenado a la soledad y el mutismo. Pensé en los escritores y periodistas que abogaban por nosotros. Y fue cuando Gabriel me sacó de mis cavilaciones.

--Papi, entonces yo merezco dos --dijo.

--¿Dos qué?

--Dos Gameboy.

--¿Por qué?

--Uno por la operación y otro por la herida de que tú estés preso.