A Lazy Tuesday Morning

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On the morning of the day that he died, Fidel Castro woke up in a cold sweat. There had been dreams and nightmares before, but those, he knew, were only dreams and night mares. This morning his thoughts were filled with the encroaching American Economic Imperialism. He had dreamed of men in black suits and brief cases storming Havana's beaches Their faces, he noted with disdain, resembled the agents of The Matrix from a recent hollywood film he had watched. the American popculture machine had penetrated so deep into his psyche that even his dreams were filled with Hollywood actors.

He got up, put on a housecout, and opened the French doors of his bedroom which opened onto a balcony. He sat down in his favorite armchair, looked to the small table to his right , where a cup of strong, dark cofee obediantly waited to be drank. He picked up the cup and held it close to his face, letting the rich aromas permiate his nostrils. He looked out across the waking city; crumbling Spanish architexture played backdrop to a lazy tuesday morning. Havana, thought Fidel, was the last of its kind.

There was a time he remembered, on the crest of a wave, when people believed in the Socialist dream. Rock and Roll was real and a counterculture of action, not apathy, roared so loud that it shook the foundations on which the pillars of capitalism were held. Fidel became one of their symbols.

The actions taken against them were explicit, and led by a group of privelidged white men whose goal it was to protect the position of power which they had been given. For their positions of wealth and power, they must have known, were dependant upon a working poor. Communism and the dream of equality became the enemy and the USSR, Laos, Vietnam, China, Cuba, and every other Socialist regime around the world prepared to defend. The US went to work, and in doing so became the most hated nation in world history, at home and abroad. Again, the people roared so loud that those privelidged white men finally pulled troops from Vietnam.

And still, Cuba was there. A thorn in America's foot. And so, America went back to the drawing board. They chose new weapons, and would use them to spread American ideology around the world. Television and Multinational Corporations would fight the fight for them, propped up by policies of free trade and globalization. The war would be long and slow, but the subtly subversive nature of these new tactics would not incite the rebellion and protest that came with military action.

Slowly but surely, America was winning its war; exporting meat heavy American Diets abroad, creating food dependacy with US Food Aid, enlisting puppet regimes in countries that refused to allow in Mcdonalds and Walmart, making heroes out of 50 Cent and Britney Spears. These victories were not labeled as such, but slowly convinced much of the world of the American Dream.

Rock and Roll had died. So too, had the global spirit of action and rebellion. It was low tide. Still Cuba was there, but Fidel knew, that once he died, they too would admit defeat. The tens of thousands of Cubans who sailed illegally to the coasts of Miami each year brought proof that America was winning its war. The people still loved Castro, and so when doctors had discovered that Cancer had taken root in his lungs, it had been paramount that his medical condition be kept a secret.

Fidel stood up and walked back to his bed. He threw his housecout onto a chair, and slowly crawled back under the covers. He was tired again. He was tired a lot these days. His eyes grew heavy as he stared up at the elaborate light fixture above his head. He closed his eyes, and within seconds was asleep.

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Photos

havana
photo taken by mark.ed (flickr)