Of Gods and Men

Before meeting Al, I had never thought much about Cuba. It just wasn’t on my radar. I guess I naively assumed that if the good people of Cuba wanted Mr. Castro as president, who was I to judge? I’ve grown up since then. Fair and free elections are a privilege that not all people have.

College forced me to rethink my assumptions. It’s not that I was a poli-sci major, or anything like that. It’s just that my teammate and roommate during the first two years of college was a guy named Alvaro Fernandez. He and his family spoke Spanish at home. And on special occasions Al’s mom would bring us homemade tamales.

His tastes in music (Bruce Springsteen and Rush) were annoying. I preferred Jerry Jeff Walker and Merle Haggard. He was a business major and I was studying for a teacher’s certificate. He played defense, while I played offense. But we got along well.

The more I came to know him, the more he opened up about his life and family. He had not always lived in America. He came with his father and mother from Cuba. I suppose they actually fled. But I never learned the circumstances. 

People who openly resisted Castro’s confiscation of their farms and businesses were typically hauled in front of a firing squad. But you didn’t have to be rich to stand against the wall. Black and white, young and old, men and women, rich and poor — all received the same treatment. Socialism doesn’t discriminate. 

The names of many, but by no means all, of the victims are inscribed on 14,000 white crosses at the Cuban Memorial in Miami. Under their names a single word marks their fate, fusilado. Those who were only suspected of opposing the regime were thrown in squalid prisons where many still rot, waiting for a trial that will never come. 

Records are hard to come by. Only grieving families are left to recount the disappearance of loved ones. Estimates place the dead at nearly 100,000, and those who passed through Castro’s prisons numbered about 500,000. Let that sink in. Out of a population of 6.5 million, 1 in 13 people went to prison.

Just to put that into local perspective, imagine a town the size of Evanston. Then imagine 200 of us being killed by firing squad, 1,000 more imprisoned without trial and 2,000 fleeing with only the clothes on their back. To make it a bit more realistic, imagine those fleeing having to cobble together their own boat and row a distance from Evanston all the way to Salt Lake City, with a good number of them drowning, starving or otherwise dying along the way.

The up side is that for the 9,000 of us that remain, going to the hospital is free. But remember to bring your own bedding. And if the doctor gives you a prescription for Aspirin or common antibiotics, good luck finding a pharmacy that can fill it. Oh, and don’t even think about going to the top floor of the hospital where the best care is given. That’s reserved for high government officials and Michael Moore’s visiting film crew. After all, some are more equal than others.

As for the Church in Cuba, the 1959 revolution did not restrict religious practice. It only prohibited religious people from joining the Party. Remember that the next time you hear someone argue that you can worship any way you like, you just can’t act like a Christian in your place of business or if you hold any government job. 

Oh, and there’s another catch. Only those churches registered by the regime are allowed. Non-registered churches are demolished while their pastors are imprisoned. I am sure that their registration process is every bit as fair and unbiased as the IRS’s treatment of organizations registering for 501c(3) status.

But, back on the island, the Fernandez family were one of those who emigrated. They were allowed to keep their lives in exchange for giving all of their possessions to the government. In fact, the regime was so generous that it even gave them $5 for travel expenses.

So, while I was running barefoot through pastures in rural Texas, Little Alvaro was starting over with only the clothes on his back. He didn’t talk much about his childhood in Cuba. But one thing he told me has stayed with me ever since. 

He was in the third grade when his teacher told everybody to put their heads down on the desk and to pray to God for a piece of candy. So Al, together with his classmates did so. Then they were told to hold open their hands. You can imagine the wonder and the eager expectation that filled their hearts. But nothing filled their hands. 

Minutes passed. Then the teacher gave another command. “Pray to Fidel Castro for a piece of candy.” Again, they complied. Again, they waited. But this time, each and every child felt a piece of candy being pressed into his or her hand as the teacher walked from desk to desk teaching the regime’s object lesson for the day.

What kind of a mind would dream up such a lesson? What did Fidel Castro’s regime want the children to learn from it? I know what I learned from it. Communism is not just a political theory. It is a religion. God is the government, the source of all good. And he’s a jealous god. By means of firing squad and prison, he teaches: you shall have no other gods before him.

The Communistic deity, wherever he has seized the reins of power, has left a trail of misery and bloodshed. From the former Soviet Union to the island prison called Cuba, the story always plays out the same. As a result, the last century has seen more bloodshed than any other century in the history of the world. It has also seen more persecution of Christians than the early Christians ever contemplated.

Castro acted like a god in life. But death brings all men down to earth. I do not rejoice in his death any more than in the thousands that he killed. I only hope that the people of Cuba may be spared from another rising in his place. Freedom is a privilege that none of us deserve, but it’s a privilege that I wish all men to have.