Posted without comment, because I couldn't say it better.
From the Providence (R.I.) Journal:
My father's killer
By Cynthia Torroella Merrill
'Socialism or death': Castro's only truth 'Fidel Castro is slipping slowly, mysteriously from sight, and will be gone for good," they say. "This time he's really sick," they warn. "The end is very near!" they insist.
"How do you feel about that?" they ask me.
And I, who have had Fidel Castro by my side for decades -- my invincible nemesis, who shadows me like a fatal ailment that no one sees, like anemia of the soul -- am not dancing in the streets or raising mojito toasts.
Fidel Castro, whose very name brings a kind of hollow thud into my heart, plowed into the quiet, shaded streets of my childhood and smacked right into its center. Just as if his triumphant tanks had crashed through our hedges into our small patio, filled with cages of parakeets, all was silenced inside me. I could no longer hear birds sing or even see the flamboyant petals grace the blue Havana skies with orange confetti.
Castro arrived and I had to leave. My five-year-old world was disassembled as completely as a Lincoln Log house tossed into the sea: all the odd bits of wooden structure floating aimlessly, unceremoniously, upon the waves of what they called La Revolucion.
Do children cheer for revolutions? Do they rejoice to see the turbulence of la lucha unleashed upon their home, their playground, their pet alligator (who may very well still live in some Cuban swamp)?
Did I realize that my own father, a Cuban -- passionately, irrevocably in love with Cuba -- had supported this triumph of the Revolution? That he joined those cheering mobs who welcomed the new liberator into town so that real democracy -- the "just" political system he had studied at Dartmouth College -- could begin? That he had even, dare I say, joined in la lucha when Batista still held sway and thus helped usher in this new regime?
What could I have known as I played with my amigos or sat with my abuelos during tropical evenings while my parents danced at la Copa and my madrina made me flan? Children are the last to know.
But when my mother and I were suddenly made to hurry to the Havana airport I began to know. Why did my father stay behind? Why did he insist we must leave? Why did my mother cry out to bearded soldiers that I would not stay with them and be a Cuban citizen?
Where did my grandparents go? My uncles, my foolishly crying godmother, Bebita, who refused to leave?
I began to feel in my childish heart that first thud of fear, of loss. That thud has kept pace with me these 47 years, as if I had a pacemaker marking out my rhythm with the island of my birth and exile.
Wherever I have lived I have been aware of the inevitable, unrelenting Cuba of my family history, and of present reality. The two Cubas. The one of dreams and decadence, of captivity and defiance, of scarcity and patience. I have never left that Cuba of my birth, even though I am here, in the United States, another statistic of exodus.
I am here, but every day it's as if I were in Cuba, too. I have felt the silent tread of combat boots upon my heart. I have felt the invisible spear of sugar cane upon my palms and wiped away the sweat that falls upon my cheek like tears.
For when el jefe -- that god-like Cuban King Kong, Fidel Castro -- began his real Revolution, all of us, those who stayed and those who left, were caught in his colossal grip and made to watch.
We watched him spin the filaments of fear while hearing of libertad. We watched him elaborate the strands of oportunidad while we heard the firing squads. And, even worse, we heard him weave words of fraternidad, which sounded so good, because they included the poor, the sick, the uneducated. And with each year the tapestry of the new Cuba became an intricate fantasy of moral realignment and chest-pounding theatrics.
But I was forced to see something hidden beneath that fantasy. My story was not the Elian Gonzalez story. I did not reunite with my Cuban father and become a heroine. My father stayed in Cuba, because all too soon he saw the truth.
To fight the totalitarian reality in Castro's Cuba required more than a difference of opinion. All disagreement with the real Revolution is disobedience. All disobedience is a mortal battle. He dared contradict the Cuban King Kong, and lost.
His captivity, unlike mine, was tangible. The firing squad came for him, as it has come for thousands like him.
In the "Cuba of the people," there is only one reality: "Socialism or death!" is Castro's only truth. And with the blast of those prison guns, Fidel Castro made certain that I would never leave the place where I lost my father.
Worst of all, I would never live without Castro's image in my mind -- that green-clad, bearded man who now, they say, lies dying.
I do not rejoice. I do not even allow myself to imagine a Cuba without Castro.
But I do know that I will mourn the day when that man no longer lives. For then I will truly know how many, many years I have had to carry both grief and homelessness within my weakened heart.
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