Fidel Castro was interested in only one thing: staying in power.
If he had to kill some men who had served him loyally so he could keep his crown, he simply ordered other sycophants to pull the trigger.
Anyone who came close to attaining popularity, anyone who showed the slightest admiration for someone else, anyone who looked at him the wrong way, anyone who disagreed with him was a threat.
And what better way is there of instilling fear than to kill those close to you, just to teach a lesson to those who remained close to you?
This essay by the daughter of a loyal Castronoid who was killed by Fidel lays out the brutal simplicity of Fidel’s ruthlessness.
Keep in mind as you read this essay that the man in question was a loyal Castronoid, a colonel in the dreaded Ministry of the Interior who dedicated his life to oppressing his fellow Cubans.
This man was no dissident. He was a rabid Castronoid who simply rubbed Fidel the wrong way.
Good luck finding any mention of this story in any of Nosferatu’s obituaries, or in the messages of condolence penned by world leaders.
Justin Trudeau should be forced to read this essay over and over, a million times over, day after day, as fitting punishment for the “sorrow” he displayed for the monster Nosferatu.
From Translating Cuba
Fidel Castro Sent My Father to the Firing Squad; I Do Not Regret the Tyrant’s Death
14ymedio, Ileana de la Guardia,
Paris, 5 December 2016 – Dawn comes to Paris, this 26 November, the sun barely over the horizon. From the depths of my dreams I hear the phone ring. I don’t want to answer it. It is my husband who does so. His voice tells me:
“He died, he died, wake up! Fidel died!”
“Him again… he comes again to wake me from my dreams.”
Thus it was 27 years ago, when they announced the arrest of my father. And so, this call pursues me like a ghost. No, I don’t want to wake up, he doesn’t have that right.
Some hours later I get out of bed and from my window I can see the Eiffel Tower on the horizon, my symbol of freedom, of my freedom. Then the horrible memories return: the murder of my father, of course, and of all the others who paid with their lives for the blindness of the tyrant.
Is he really dead this time? There is no doubt. I feel relieved, as if freed from the persecution of a maleficent shadow.
The monster died in his bed, without even being bothered by his crimes. The funeral rites are already prepared. Nothing is left to chance. No one is going to spit on his ashes. And yet…
My father, Tony de la Guardia, departed at dawn on 13 July 1989. He didn’t have the luck to grow old, to know his grandchildren, he was a confidant of the tyrant. He had served in difficult military missions, at times secret ones.
On 12 June 1989 he was arrested by the political police. A month later, after a summary trial, which I will allow myself to call Stalinist, Fidel Castro ordered him shot without mercy. He had not betrayed anyone, nor cheated, nor stolen. He had only carried out the orders of Castro himself: “Find hard currency, by any means, to save Cuba from disaster.”
That day the world collapsed around me. I was young, not political, convinced that Fidel Castro — who at that time, like so many of my generation, I nicknamed El Congrejo, The Crab because with him everything was always backwards — taking into account the missions my father had served on, would pardon his life. It wasn’t like that.
At the same time as my father, Arnaldo Ochoa was shot. The great general of the Cuban Army, The Lion of Ethiopia as the Africans called him when he served on missions over there. Another two officials, Amado Padrón and Jorge Martínez, were also sent to the firing squad. My uncle, General Patricio de la Guardia, my father’s twin brother, was sentenced to 20 years in prison, “for failing to promptly denounce his brother,” as the text of the sentence prepared by the prosecutor states. Today he is in Cuba under house arrest.
All these men fell under suspicion because they felt a certain weakness for Gorbachev’s perestroika. Castro had no real proof, just doubts, from statements of discontent made somewhere, in some meeting of officers, at some family gathering. He had to make an example. Stop this wave from spreading. Be ruthless. Exercise terror to perpetuate his kingdom… Forever.
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