Castroism Doesn’t Exist, My Love
There is hatred in your heart. That is the true story of Cuba. A history of mistrust instigated from power. Of linguistic violence that translates in violence in the bodies. A history of extreme aridity, lack of solidarity as the only guarantee of socialism. A process of de-Cubanization in the key of atrophied nationalism, as the first phase of a dehumanization that makes us fight to the death without freeing ourselves, if not making us greater slaves.
There is the comfort of the survivor. The laziness of looking somewhere else. Of not being the guilty. The cowardice of assuming ourselves to be victims incapable of taking the lead. The hypocrisy of abstractly trusting in God, but never in concrete Truth and Life that he supposedly gave us.
Cuban ugliness exists. That. In a totalitarian theater everything is ugly to the point of ridiculousness. Impossible to feel compassion in the midst of such scenery. Starting with the people,this statistical rudeness of theatric taboos under the materialistic mantle of a humiliating lack of imagination.
Drip and drabs of nothing. Becoming decrepit without a single sense that sustains us. Fear first makes us mediocre and then narrow, virtuosos of vertigo (present that flees its future without even daring to look back), incapable of the least salvation. And there is, of course, the death we dwell in while waiting for Day F that will, however, be the day of our own funeral.
Castroism doesn’t exist, my love.
There is only our indecent lack of affection in so many individual, people, posthumous country or terrible homeland that fortunately is already lost.