Transcript
Will Grant (0:00)
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BBC News Presenter (1:05)
Hello, today we're talking Trump in a Chinese taxi as the government weighs up how to respond to the war in the Middle East. In Lebanon, citizens are counting the days, weeks and years they've spent living amid conflict. This week, Iranians across the world celebrated the New Year festival of Nowruz with fear and uncertainty. And finally, we're in Georgia, where an archaeological dig for fossils sparked a political purge. But first to Cuba, where more than 10 million people were left in the dark after the country's electrical grid collapsed. It's the third major blackout this month after the US imposed a fuel blockade, cutting off the oil imports required to keep power stations running. President Trump is reported to want the removal of Cuba's president, Miguel Diaz Canel, as a condition of lifting the fuel embargo. And he's also suggested there could be a friendly takeover of Cuba. Meanwhile, vital health services such as maternity care are on their knees, finds Will Grant in Havana.
Will Grant (2:15)
Indira Martinez had every right to be foul tempered. Seven months pregnant, hungry and exhausted, all she'd wanted that morning was a warm shower and a hot breakfast. Neither were available. The electricity had been cut off to her home since the previous afternoon, and the fridge was bare of fresh food. Even the classic Cuban morning staple, a milky coffee and a bread roll, wasn't on offer. At least not until the power came back and her husband returned with supplies. Under such trying circumstances, you might expect Indida to be tetchy and terse. Instead, she was impressively good humoured and welcoming as she ushered me into her darkened kitchen and apologized for not being able to offer me the aforementioned coffee. It was early, but Indira had already been up for hours. Being so far into her pregnancy, it was difficult to get comfortable in bed. In my first trimester, I had chikungunya, she explained, a mosquito borne disease which causes severe pain to the joints. I couldn't walk to the bathroom. Now, in these final months, everyone in the house is worried about something without enough protein or vitamins in her diet. Her mother, a retired nurse, worries about her daughter's reduced calorific intake. Indira's husband worries about her stress levels. And as it draws nearer, Indira worries about the birth itself. You have no idea what condition the hospital will be in when you get there, she said with a hollow laugh of trepidation. She pictures going into labour in a pitch black maternity ward with no working emergency facilities and her baby, a girl they're going to name Ainoa, being delivered while illuminated by the flashlight of a mobile phone. One thing Indira isn't worried about anymore, though, is speaking her mind. In recent years, as the island has sunk into its most acute energy and economic crisis since the Cold War, people have noticeably started to lose their ingrained fear of saying the wrong thing to a foreign journalist or deviating from the revolution's well rehearsed scripts. The newfound boldness has only become more pronounced during Washington's near total fuel blockade. When I had a baby 15 years ago, there was more primary health care, explains Indira, whose son now lives in Florida with his father. Resources were limited, but they were there. Not now, she says, her sunny demeanor quickly evaporating. It's one crisis after another. The whole thing is collapsing. One of Indira's neighbours recently showed me how, with no electricity or gas available, he cooks with firewood, sourcing driftwood from the beach. Brainy Hernandez starts the flames using an old lighter. His wife brings out a pot of rice so their nine year old daughter, who also went without breakfast that morning, might at least come home from school to a hot meal. Like Indira, Brainy's days of simply parroting the government's line are gone. And despite the harshness of the fuel lockout, his ire is directed not at Donald Trump but at the Cuban state. I'm not going to lie. I'd like Trump to take this place over. Then let's see if things get better, he says with unnerving honesty. Asked if he might get in trouble for such openly anti government views, he shrugs. What more can they take from me? He retorts motioning at his family's abject living conditions, his home cobbled together from wood and scrap metal. Walking distance away and most people in Havana are reduced to walking these days is the Grand Palacio de las Convenciones, the favoured venue for official gatherings from state run trade fairs to the Communist Party Congress. Inside, the lights blazing as though life outside was normal, the island's beleaguered and increasingly unpopular President Miguel d' Escanel took to the stage last week to rapturous applause. He wasn't unpopular to this particular audience, made up of members of an international Solidarity coalition who carried banners calling for an end to Trump's oil embargo and urging Cubans to resist. The visitors from across the us, South America and Europe brought with them batteries and solar panels as well as donations of basic food and medicines to help Cubans cope with the energy crisis. But two weeks ago, in the central town of Moron, some people's patience, partly at being told to hold on in the face of endless blackouts, snapped. Protesters set fire to the Communist Party headquarters. Unthinkable scenes a few years ago. Things have evolved fast in recent years on an island where generally the speed of change is glacial. It's now 10 years since President Barack Obama made his historic visit to Cuba, a period of thought, optimism and energy. The contrast isn't lost on Indira, who worries most about the Cuba she's bringing baby Ainoa into. How am I going to tell her she has no prospects in life? She asks now, deadly serious. I have no basis to tell her she has a future or can maximize her intellectual potential here, because if I tell her that, I'll be lying.
