From our Bureau of Uncomfortable Perspectives
This is just an observation from someone who is obsessed with the mystery of time and the persistence of evil.
Back in 1980, as the Cold War was reaching one of its peak intensifications, the Soviet Union had been in existence for 63 years. It was just as old as Castrogonia is right now. At that point in time, it was still Castrogonia’s colonial master and top Sugar Daddy, and it showed no signs of decline. And with its invasion of Afghanistan and the election of Ronald Reagan as president of the U.S., its aggressiveness increased exponentially, bringing the world closer than ever to the brink of nuclear annihilation.
Just a thought. The Soviet Union — or “Evil Empire”, as Ronald Regan correctly identified it — seemed eternal, immortal.
And there were still Russian exiles all over the world who had fled the Bolshevik takeover of their nation — many of them past the age of 70 — as well as some younger ones who had fled throughout the following decades, such as writer Alexander Solzhenitsyn and Stalin’s daughter, Svetlana Alliluyeva.
A sobering meditation, for sure. At 71, I’m now like one of those Russian dinosaur exiles who had lived through the Bolshevik revolution and lost everything to the monsters who took over. I’m a relic, a fossil. This next April will mark the 60th anniversary of my departure into exile.
63 years is a long chunk of time for mere mortals. It may be naught but a blink of the eye in cosmic time, but it’s a lifetime, really, for any human being. And if I had been unlucky enough to remain in Cuba, my adolescence and my whole adult life would have been absolutely hellish. I thank God and my parents every day — sometimes several times a day — for sending me into exile.
The Soviet Union eventually died at the age of 73, and all of its colonies gained independence. But 30 years later, Russia and many of its former colonies are still far from free of dictators and repression. Too many cretins, too many deeply ingrained bad habits and too many bad ways of thinking have endured. Given this evidence, and given the recent history of Latrine America, any historian with half a brain has to admit that the odds are stacked against Cuba being able to transform itself radically for the better any time soon. And this is a sobering thought for any exiled dinosaur my age.
But miracles do happen every now and then. They do, sometimes. And for fossilized relics such as me — all too conscious of the dying of the light — it helps to pray for miracles and to rage, rage against any evil that seems eternal or invincible.