Los carnavales de San Juan began as planned on the twenty-forth of June and ran until the 29th, el día de San Pedro, with its requisite street fairs with cheap food and beer. The first round of paseos, congas, and comparsas strutted down Avenida de la Libertad on the 25th, albeit three hours late due to a late afternoon typhoon-like thunderstorm. When they finally rolled, a little before eleven on that Thursday night, a decently-sized crowd awaited their arrival. Groups representing neighborhoods and institutions approached house #108, where we stood, wearing their homemade costumes made of sequins and brilliant, satiny material, performing uniform dance moves, and playing traditional conga music with horns and drums. Interspersed with the revelers on foot towered mildly decorated and illuminated floats transporting young camagüeyanas bumping and grinding to the latest reggaetón hits. Despite this, those in attendance were rather subdued. It was late, of course, they were tired of waiting and most would have to rise early the following morning for work. Some complained that the energy in the dancing groups was not like it was in previous years. Others reminisced about the parades of the past and scoffed at the music blaring from the lackluster floats. Perhaps, however, their staid attitude was due to something else.
In the weeks preceding this celebration, there was some doubt that the carnavales would even occur. The murder of Mandy Junco Torres on May 16th shocked the community not only for its incredible violence (according to the autopsy the young rockero was stabbed more than thirty times) but more so for the arbitrary nature of the murder and the indifference of the culprits. Mandy was not attacked for money or to settle a score, but simply because this group of young men decided they would kill the next person they encountered. Rumor has it that two other young men were assaulted that very evening by similar groups, or the exact same one, roaming the crooked streets of this landlocked city but, since the official press does not report on these events, it’s impossible to know with any accuracy.
Shaken by the unfamiliar nature of this violence, Camagüey does not know what to do. In Cuba, unlike many countries in the world where this act would barely warrant a tilt of the head, these are still rare occurrences. And while not even registering in the official media, word gets around, radio bemba still does its magic, and before long everyone just knows. The word “pandilla” circulates the city, neighborhoods and comes out of my cousin’s mouth. Just like that, a new word in her vocabulary. Mandy’s father, the writer Pedro Armando Junco has called for justice for the accused on his blog La furia de los vientos; because of his grief, for him, justice in this case is the death penalty. This incomprehensible incident coupled with the general uncertainty of this unique historical moment in terms of what is going on politically, socially, and economically on the island, seems to have unsettled this normally confident and proud community. Unmoored, on the first night of the paseos of carnavales they could barely be bothered to follow the congas as they went by.
— Carolina Caballero
Carolina Caballero, Ph.D, is a senior Lecturer in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese, at Tulane University, as well as Associate Director of Tulane’s Institute of Cuban and Caribbean Studies.
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