Joel D. Hirst mourns the 57 years stolen from the lives of millions of Cubans by the bandidito tyrant.
I said I would write no more about the death of a tyrant. I lied. Well, perhaps only changed my mind. Because I read something yesterday â€“ something that nobody in Cuba would be able to read. â€œThe greatest evil of the tyrannyâ€ it said â€œwas the theft of six generations of life.â€
Forget the gulags and the concentration camps and the firing squads. Those are the stories that made the papers at least â€“ stories that were told. No â€“ the most important part of this tragedy is not what happened, but what didnâ€™t happen. The novels that were not written, stories of beach and mountain and freedom and loss; the beautiful paintings that did not come to be, which in turn did not inspire abounding love â€“ the love of storybooks. The cuisine that was not refined; the businesses that did not provide for families; inventions that do not help humanity; diseases that were not cured.
The life that was not lived.
This â€“ for me â€“ is the greatest tragedy of all. We have this life at our fingertips, those of us from America. To a greater measure than others; but even those from Panama, or Chile, or Paraguay can see that which they wish to attain. They can uncork the $1000 bottle of wine and dream of the day they will sit in front of the sheer white tablecloth and drink deeply. They can read the novel, and imagine how they would make the stories unfold, improving them. They can look at the girl across their own malecon and imagine how they will win their fortune and then come for her.
None of these things have been imagined â€“ for six generations â€“ in Cuba.
For those of us who are writers, the unwritten story of Cuba is the saddest of all.
Read the whole thing.
Hat tip to Vanderleun.