“What this country really needs
is a good five-cent cigar…”
-- Vice President T.R. Marshall, 1915
“A revolution is not a trail of
roses.… A revolution is a fight to the death between the future and the past.”
-- Fidel Castro, 1961.
No Castor Oil Treatment for Castro. For those of us who either have no connections to fame or
have simply burned too many bridges, this perspective will sound familiar in
its innocence and insignificance. Before we start with an anecdote, it is
important to point out that Castro was a strong-man and his régime often
brutal. Nevertheless, it was nothing like the most brutal days of communist
states of the U.S.S.R., Cambodia and China.
Second, Fidel Castro emerged from the educated upper-middle class, an upbringing that left its imprimatur on the victorious revolutionary. Thus, the communist firebrand transcended the same circles as many Cubans in Miami, who have been whining since 1959 for the revolutionaries doing to them what they had been doing to many of the poor, especially those trapped ‘en el campo’ for centuries.
Third, though Cuba never really took flight as a workers’ paradise, the strongman elevated literacy to nearly 100% -- up by two-thirds – within five years; expanded university education and provided a universal healthcare worth noting. Those accomplishments tell a lot about a man under tremendous pressure by surrounding power(s) trying to subvert the experiment he was leading (https://academicexchange.wordpress.com/2015/01/08/15-facts-on-cuba-and-its-education-system/).
The
embargo by the United States prevented any chance of reconciliation between the
Cubans in the U.S., and elsewhere, along with what capital they might have had,
and the mother-country, much like we have seen develop, slowly, between Formosa
and Red China. Had the embargo been lifted, when it was evident that Castro was
not going anywhere (e.g., after the Bay of Pigs) – ahhh, what might have been.
Summer 1971. My only 'blood-brother' in life, Robbie Rosenbaum, and I decided to make a phoney-call of international
proportions. With Robbie listening in, I got the Ma-Bell operator and requested
a long-distance call to Cuba, “Please make a collect-call to Havana…” This at
the height of the passenger jets being hijacked to Cuba.
“Oh, Havana?”
“Oh, Havana?”
“Yes,
I want to speak with my uncle…”
“Your
uncle?”
“Yes, my Uncle Fidel!” My voice cracked under the strain of stress and wanting to crack up laughing.
“Yes, my Uncle Fidel!” My voice cracked under the strain of stress and wanting to crack up laughing.
“Oh,
please wait a minute while...” The line went dead, ominously. Of course, Rob
and I, the faint-hearted and bland pranksters we were, quickly bailed. Soon,
the phone rang. I got on the listen-only extension this time – a microphone on
the phone channeled through stereo head-speakers – while Rob took the call with
his deeper voice.
“Hello?” Robbie used his most stentorian tone.
“Sir, are you aware that someone from this line just tried to call Fidel Castro?”
“Oh,” Rob said, deepening his voice even more. “That must be my spoiled son…” I was biting on my index finger to contain myself from laughing – still have the teeth marks to prove it!
“I would assume so, Mister Rosenbaum?”
“That’s me,” answered Rosey authoritatively. “That boy is trouble, a regular juvenile delinquent…” My will-power against showing emotion was ebbing fast when disaster struck. (
“Hello?” Oh my God. Stanley Rosenbaum, a truly patrician elder with roots back to the earliest Jewish settlement in New Amsterdam, had an equally commanding voice, though a notch above Robbie’s affected tone.
“That’s alright, Stanley.” Rosey was winging it, now. “Ma’am, that’s my other son…”
“Stanley? Son??” Mr Rosenbaum was later deemed my ‘Uncle Stanley’, after Rosey departed at far too young an age my first December away at school. “Robbie? What is this? Why is your voice so deep?” The operator was confused.
“Oh,
my sons – they can be such trouble…Now, Stanley, get off the phone, please.” The
operator was wising up to Rosey, now.
“Sir, may I speak with you?” Both Robbie and Uncle Stan said yes. Uncle Stanley was not quite angry, but he was stern.
“Rob, get off the phone so I may speak with this lady.”
“Ah, operator, Stanley likes to imitate me…” Uncle Stanley was not quite furious but he was annoyed.
“Robert, get off the phone.”
“No, dad, you get off the phone.” I thought I could hear the operator giggling discreetly. In any case we were done for. Rob nodded at me and hung up. Then I disconnected the ‘bug’ from the phone, took off Rosey’s headphones and sat in a chair to look calm and innocent for the inevitable.
We
waited hours (five-to-ten minutes, puberty standard time) until Mr Rosenbaum
finally appeared at Robbie’s door.
“Neddy, I have spoken with your mother.” Thank God; he had not spoken with dad. I would have been in so much trouble that I might have had to hijack a flight to Havana for self-preservation. “She asked me to handle this with you, too.” Was this discipline or a mission of mercy?
Rob tried to smooth things over in the manner only a big-boy could do. (Rosey was year older at fifteen.) “Well, sorry dad.”
“Rob,
I have told your mother that I would speak with you about this.” Uncle Stanley
looked down briefly, shaking his head. Whew! My dad and his Mom were out of the
picture! No rack and pillory for us. Uncle Stanley continued patiently, “Now,
Rob and Neddy, this was not just a practical joke.” He composed himself, I
assumed, to contain his violated sense of blue-blooded patriotism and consequent rage.
“You
were about to be switched over to the F-B-I.” Robbie and I look exchanged
worried glances, evincing the age-old ‘sacred scheiße’ look. Again, Mr
Rosenbaum composed himself. He had never been this flummoxed; ordinarily so
calm a gentleman.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Rosenbaum!” Okay, so I was a teen-age mutant cringing quisling.
Finally,
Uncle Stanley could contain himself no longer as his giggle quickly cascaded into a
laugh.
May 1975. After defending the greatness of the U.S. to some nasally
effete French teacher who wanted to crush ‘Yanquisme’ (American imperial fascism
or some such hackneyed whimpicism), I decided to prove my point that the U.S. had
done far more good than bad in Viêt Nam compared to the sickly French colonialists.
I researched the French Indo-Chinese War for a presentation in class.
Much
to my surprise, we had not done better; in fact, we had done worse, much worse
and should have known better. The U.S. had made all the same mistakes as France
with ten times the TNT tonnage and two-to-three times the casualties on all
sides. For the first time, after a troubling ambivalence since 1969, I turned against
the war. At least those motley French had sacrificed more troops than we to
hold the stupid colony in the first place.
For what?
For what?
My God, the war had not been noble, not a trace of nobility to it, at all. Ho Chi Minh had fashioned his declaration of
independence after our own. He had pleaded with President Wilson for a
homeland; President Truman had over-ridden President Roosevelt’s implicit
anti-colonialism. President Truman’s shift from F.D.R.’s perspective seeing
all sides to one of pure self-interest had virtually guaranteed the Cuban embargo
thirteen years later.
In
a state of near agitation over a wrenching bout of cognitive dissonance, one
evening I joined a housemaster and a couple of other students as we talked
about the recent fall of Saigon, Phnom Penh and Vientiane. The housemaster
encouraged me to speak up since I was obviously troubled. So I wondered aloud
if communism might be the better way to go, at least at first, for a newly freed colonial
country to get her people fed, read and healthy.
May 1976. My best friend in boarding school and I were chatting one night with some under-classmen when we got into a debate about the Cold War. One of the tykes – now a Wall Street millionaire – had a father highly placed in the Cold War apparatus of Containment. He relished the fact that Cuba’s experiment in communism had manifestly failed. People were poorer than ever. The U.S. had won!
My best friend – a very good man even then – took issue with that assertion pointing out that the embargo had impoverished Cuba over the previous seventeen years. The under-wingie countered that the U.S. faced a global threat and that the embargo had to stop communist expansionism. Besides, the U.S. had succeeded. The argument sounded tired, tinny and trite.
Silently,
I wondered if that victory hadn’t been hollowed out by mass misery at our hand.
Ever since, I have come progressively to view that sanctions – the polite name
now used for embargoes – are not only ineffective but also somehow rotten. The
dictators targeted already have the money and the supplies; they are
unaffected. Yet the common man suffers mightily.
For what?
For what?
















