Water Thieves
A Petty Crime in Havana
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When I was 9 years old my mom got me a brand new water gun. If you live in the United States, you can easily get one of those at the dollar store, but there’s no such thing in Cuba. A shiny, neon-green water gun meant months of saving and sacrifice. Toys were hard to come by. Most of the adults spent their money, time and energy on putting food on the table.
The government rationed our food, but the supplies were sporadic and never enough. A bread the size of a typical Hawaiian roll would turn green just mere hours after being handed out. You either ate it that day or you didn’t. There was one year when there were no eggs in the entire city of Havana.
For a period of time owning dollars was illegal. Only tourists, extranjeros, were allowed to carry them. A friend of my mom was arrested and sentenced to over two years in prison for owning a hundred dollars that he had saved up over time from serving extranjeros at a restaurant. The tips were supposed to be turned in to management, but he secretly kept some until someone turned him in. While in prison, he was arbitrarily beaten and tortured by being strapped down to a table for hours with a single drop of water continuously dripping on his forehead. Not long after his release, the Cuban government needed cash and dollars became legal tender for Cubans to own and water outages were a daily thing.
The day I got my water gun I had just come back from my Taekwondo lesson. I was still wearing my kimono and white belt when my mom gave me the precious toy and told me to have fun. It was another scorching summer in Havana and a water gun similar to one I had clandestinely seen in American television was finally mine. My step dad had built an antenna that reached the American television signal that was broadcast for tourists at the local hotels. This lasted about a year before he was ordered to take it down or go to jail. It was a good year, during which time I memorized jingles, coveted juicy hamburgers and shiny toys. Watching commercials and imagining living the “American dream” was a common fantasy amongst me and my friends. There were so many toy commercials; from Ninja Turtles, to remote control cars, to nerf and water guns, all pointing to a life that I never thought would be mine.
“Don’t use it in the house because I just finished cleaning,” my mom said and handed me the water gun.
“Thanks!” I beamed.
“Take good care of it,” she said with a smile.
With that, I filled my water gun and carefully went downstairs to the common area and park underneath our building. It was a 10-story descent, which I carefully maneuvered around chipped steps and people coming up.
It was an overcast day, so the heavy cloth of my kimono didn’t bother me too much. I stood beneath the windows, ready to shout and ask my mom to watch me water the plants when a group of six kids I had never seen before came up to me. I was too busy playing that I only realized they were there once they encircled me. I swiveled my head and quickly realized that I was surrounded. I had been playing with my brand new water gun for less than five minutes. The leader of the group spoke.
“That’s a really nice water gun,” he said. “It’s a cool color.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Let me see it,” he said, extending an open hand.
I suspected his intentions were not that of a connoisseur. Growing up, I was always the shortest one in my classroom, so I learned to literally fight my battles, but that was usually one bully at a time. Now, there were too many of them.
“You can see it from here,” I answered.
They encroached even closer.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he said. “I just want to look at it. I promise.”
I did some quick calculations and appraised that I had practiced enough Taekwondo to perhaps take out two of them, but the rest would gang up on me before I could even cry out for help. And maybe, just maybe, he really wanted to look at it and that’s it?
“You’ll give it back?” I asked.
“Promise,” he said with an easy smile.
I handed him the water gun, my mom’s months of sacrifice slipping away from my grasp. The leader took it in his hand, looked around at his pack, and gave them a signal. One kid from behind me pulled hard on my kimono. I lost my balance for a second and they took off running. They crossed the four-lane intersection in a flash, my stolen property in hand. They howled like wolves and laughed like hyenas.
I chased them part of the way, but they were too fast and they were quickly leaving my neighborhood. What would they do if I was isolated in their territory? I grabbed a big piece of rock and threw it at the leader. It him right on his heel. He yelled an expletive, grabbed his foot for a second, but he kept running, squirting water as he shouted with joy and pain.
I went back to the park by my building, out of breath and with my kimono torn. I was upset at myself. I should have done more. I knew my dad and my grandfather would have expected me to fight, even if I was outnumbered.
The clouds were darker now and the smell of summer rain began to fill the air. A neighbor approached me and said he saw the whole thing unfold, but that it happened too fast for him to intervene. He told me not to worry though; they had just shut off the water to the building.
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What a great story, I was right there with you, wishing I had your back, and maybe thinking 3 each was still too many. A tough time to grow up in.
Love this piece. Such vivid imagery... and the double meaning throughout is quite impactful. Definitely a save for your future memoir! ;)