There was a loud knocking and banging on the door. She looked up at her children and could see terror come over their faces just by the nature of the sound. She forced a smile, “I’ll get it.” As she unlocked the door it flew open sending her stumbling backwards into the wall nearby. “Mommy!” her daughter yelled running to her mother as the man walked in wearing a soldier’s uniform and a beretta on his hip.

“By order of the Communist Party and Fidel Castro, this house is now property of the Revolution. Get out.” She was now holding her daughter who was sobbing loudly, “Where is my husband,” she asked. “He’s being reeducated,” the soldier stated staring at her lasciviously, pausing at her breasts before meeting her eyes, “you have five minutes to pack one suitcase.”

The woman sprung to action, heading towards her bedroom. “Mommy, I don’t want to leave, I like this house.” She comforted her daughter by squeezing tighter, but the words didn’t come. She sat the little girl on the bed and began to pick out clothes. “Go get your favorite toy ok sweetie,” she gave the instructions as tears welled up in her eyes, seeing the little girl made her want to break down and cry.

As they walked out of the house, she held onto the suitcase in one hand and the little girl in her arms. It was her first glance at the madness in her neighborhood. A caravan of soldiers had pulled up and were kicking people out of their homes. A soldier walked up to them and stared at the little girl who clutched tightly to her favorite doll as she continued to cry. He stood blocking their way, “I need to search you, to make sure you aren’t stealing anything of value from the revolution.” She put down the girl and the soldier began to run his hands all over her body. She was standing with her legs spread facing her house as they placed a sign on the door, “property of the communist party.” She flinched and shut her eyes tightly as his hand slid into her pants and his fingers went inside her. “We gotta be thorough you know,” he whispered into her ear as tears began to roll down her cheek.

“Alright you’re good, need to search her now.” He pointed at the little girl, “No please, she’s just a child!” The soldier raised his voice, “She’s a fucking worm!” He reached out and ripped the doll out of the little girl’s hand, “You hiding diamonds in here?” “No, please, that’s my favorite toy,” the little girl’s voice screeched as she reached helplessly for her doll. “Please don’t,” the mother’s voice was low and defeated. The soldier smiled as he ripped the toy apart, sending doll stuffing floating into the wind. She grabbed her daughter tightly and could barely hear the soldier laughing over the screams of the little girl.

As she made her way down the street, she was stopped by a commotion as a neighbor’s door flew open and a man was thrown down the stairs. She pressed her daughter’s head into her shoulder so the little girl wouldn’t see. The man got up to his hands and knees attempting to stand, when a soldier reared back and kicked him hard in the mouth. The sound of the boot cracking the man’s face made the little girl flinch in her mother’s arms, but the sight was much worse. The force of the boot sent the man’s head flying backwards shooting a stream of blood onto the soldier’s uniform. It flipped him completely onto his back, and he struggled to get air as shots of blood flew into the air with each exasperated breath.

“Now you got blood on me,” the soldier exclaimed as he kicked the man again in the side. “What’s the problem faggot? You like to take it in the ass, but you don’t like it when Fidel fucks you?” He looked over to the crowd that was forming and stepped quickly towards a man who was visibly angry at the scene, “You got a problem with what you see, Nigger?” The man stayed silent as the soldier drew his sidearm and leaned in closer. Just then, the man on the ground let out an intelligible sentence.

The soldier spun around, “What’s that faggot?” He bent down next to the naked man’s head. The man sat up, leaning on his arm, “I said, Viva Cuba Libre!” He defiantly yelled it loud enough for everyone to hear as he stared at the soldier, their faces were not more than an inch apart. The soldier stood up, pressing the barrel of the pistol right into the man’s head, “Viva Fidel, Maricon.” The shot rang out loudly in the street.

– – –

Although this story is fictional, every event did indeed transpire, just not in the same moment. In Fidel Castro’s Cuba political dissidents were routinely murdered, homosexuals were persecuted, and blacks were treated as an inferior race.

My grandmother was evicted from her own home with only one suitcase for her and her children. My mother had her only toy ripped apart in front of her. Without any legal source of income, my uncle sold croquettes on the street at age 7 because his mother, a teacher, wasn’t allowed to work, and his father was placed in a concentration camp. My grandfather entered the concentration camp at 6 foot and over 180 lbs. He was forced to work as a slave in the fields and when he got sick, he was given no medical attention and left to die. He survived and when he was finally released, he had dropped to a sickly 120 lbs.

This is the legacy of Fidel Castro: slavery and torture.

My father’s father was a doctor and a Major in the revolutionary army, but when he refused to join the communist party, he was stripped of his rank and degree and also forced into a labor camp. He eventually escaped via a raft, but left behind my grandmother and my father, a 14 year old boy at the time. When my father was jailed for arguing with a teacher about the perils of communism, he too escaped and was alone in Mexico for a year as a teenage boy before he was able to earn enough money to fly to the US.

This is the legacy of Fidel Castro: fear and oppression.

My uncle Tony was a star athlete, but was ousted from the Cuban National Baseball team because his views were “too American”. He was forced to escape and leave his family behind. He would routinely send back items so his family could survive like fishing hooks.

His brother was jailed for stealing a government cow (the irony isn’t lost on me), and died in prison. His father’s fishing boat was confiscated, and when he died, my uncle wasn’t able to visit him. It would be 25 years before my uncle saw his sister again.

This is the legacy of Fidel Castro: broken families.

These are just some of the stories of pain and suffering Fidel Castro left in his wake. His legacy is a Cuba in ruins while he lived in palaces. A people in fear of their government, while he operated with complete impunity. A place where ideas and thoughts can get you tortured, imprisoned, or killed. A place where blacks and gays are considered inferior.

This is why when people like Jesse Jackson, Jill Stein, Barack Obama, Justin Trudeau, and Jesse Ventura praise or whitewash the sadistic, evil, son of a bitch that Fidel Castro was it pisses me off so much. It is an affront to all those who suffered under his brutal reign of terror that still continues today even after his death. It shows a great ignorance and moral bankruptcy to praise or even diminish the evil that was Fidel Castro.

It is a sort of beautiful irony that I have this medium, as a child of Cuban immigrants, with which to reach thousands of people and say…

Fidel Castro was a coward and a piece of shit.

It’s also why I proudly wore a uniform and placed myself in harm’s way for the USA. Folks, the United States is the last stand for freedom in the world. Although my parents and grandparents had a place to run to, me and my children don’t. This is it, and I will ferociously fight to protect it.

God Bless the United States of America!

Airborne all the Way!

Viva Cuba Libre!

-LJF