Fidel Castro R.I.P.

fidel

Castro has passed away.  In the days to come you will hear widely polarised opinions of his legacy.

On the one hand you will hear that he was a brutal dictator.  A manipulative political adventurer who assassinated his ally and friend Che Guevara.  You will hear that he was a low-budget Stalin, a revolutionary in public and a playboy in private living a high life of prostitutes, rum and cigars.  You will hear that he brought the world the brink of destruction in nuclear conflagration, and that it was only the “sensible” voices of Kennedy and Kruschev who averted disaster.  You will be told how he brought his people nothing but poverty, despair, hunger and want.

On the other hand you will hear that he was a great, brave visionary.  A man who took on the might of the American Capitalist and Military Systems and triumphed.  To his exploited people he gave hope, education, opportunity, equality and a quality of life denied to them under US influence.

As always the truth lies somewhere in-between.  As you listen to the opinions make sure you evaluate the speaker.  In Miami there live many Cubans who were expelled by Castro.  They lost (oft times ill gotten) money, property and wealth.  They will celebrate his passing.  The US Media will be spending a lot of time on the streets of Miami speaking to these people and the children and grandchildren of these people.

Before you make up your mind about what kind of man he was I would suggest you listen to some of the people who cannot speak English.  Listen to the Cubans who still live in Cuba.

Good or Ill Castro is a man who leaves an indelible mark on the history of the 20th Century.

 

Gacela of the Dark Death: by Federico García Lorca

I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.

I don’t want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don’t want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent’s mouth
that labors before dawn.

I want to sleep awhile,
awhile, a minute, a century;
but all must know that I have not died;
that there is a stable of gold in my lips;
that I am the small friend of the West wing;
that I am the intense shadows of my tears.

Cover me at dawn with a veil,
because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me,
and wet with hard water my shoes
so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.

For I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to learn a lament that will cleanse me to earth;
for I want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.

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