The memory of a Dictator, by André Bandeira
Seeing his photos causes me cramps. In the eylids, from the edges where some smile or grimace is supposed to begin. But what makes me worse is the number of people interviewed on the streets of Havana, who wish him rule for more fifty years. The obscenity of dicators has no limits. Maybe that's why we invented an after-life. This man has sent to a certain death, thousands of innocent people, who didn't feel the same way about Cubaness, or Democracy, or even Socialism. He orchestrated rallies, which worked as People's Courts where a guy, if he ever had the opportunity of defending himself, was bound to emerge as a target in the backyard's wall. But, at least, this things were held in the open air, under the sunny caribbean sky with a latin bluntness, full of words and saliva.
This man is celebrated as a rebel who managed to implement his own stance, against all odds, against the most powerful neighbour. But it is his is style, with no scruples, celebrating a way of doing Politics, with demagoguery, ruthlessness, death squads and latino-lover steps, a thing very much appreciated among all rebels who presume to have the right, as he had, of shaping the future according to their will. They call it Freedom, and New World, the world of dreams where those who know the nightmares are indians who got silent long, long ago.
It is his macho style the thing that remains and that every fool loves. I hope he'll recover quickly, the way his victims didn't. This time, History won't acquit him.