If I were Fidel

If I were Fidel
by Carlos Alberto Montaner



 I write these papers with one foot in the grave. I guess it's left, but not sure. I have no experience in this uncomfortable process of dying. In any case, I, before such a thing happens, clarify certain aspects of my life that deserve the attention of historians. I will facilitate this.

The first has to do with my beard. Why do I have left? Never used it until I went to the Sierra Maestra, after 30 years and there was up to 32. At the time, I had left a thin mustache evil hunk of Italian cinema, but in the Cuban mountains, in the years 1957 and 1958, I found, finally, my final image, my face elusive, my character, and since then I occupy faithfully.

Journalists and the naive think the beard and olive green uniform are the product of a dogged effort to enshrine the image forever fierce guerrilla epic and triumphant, but not true. They are the product of a double chin and cellulite.

I have a double chin seems natural that designed by the CIA. In Sierra Maestra discovered a hirsute face, in addition to confer character, hiding that nasty thread adipose tissue nimbaba I face as a bib. The disappeared with my beard. It was not heavy, but enough.


The Olive warrior would deal sneak prominent belly. You may have a natural predisposition to store fat in the abdomen, but I suspect it is due to appetite.

The truth is always eaten pantagruélicamente. At least, it was until I rebelled intestines in the summer of 2006 (not shot him because I could.'s The only rebellion that has gone unpunished).

Raul, my brother used to tell me how to eat food that is not consistent with socialism. Socialism is a thing of skinny and skinny. It is a system designed to create scarcity in order not to damage the environment and avoid obesity of the masses. And I had to hide that aesthetic deviation from Marxism-Leninism. The military uniform fulfilled that function sneak my belly, my hips, my butt. I thinned revolutionary.

Revealed this secret, another more important step. Who am I? How do I look to myself? Studied, so to speak, was very little class-law and prepared to be a congressman in the elections that would take place in June 1952, but the fool of Batista staged a military coup and that fact gave me the opportunity to show my role as leader of an insurrection.

But why make a revolution? My enemies insist that all I want is to be in power, to the point of having created a dynasty that has led for over half a century, but not that.

Here is my secret. I made a revolution to spread my skills geneticist.

I wanted to make a new man a new wildlife, new agriculture. I wanted to correct his flat to God, which is usually wrong. No wonder Woody Allen insists that, if God exists, you better have a good excuse to explain the mistakes he makes.

I endeavored to make a creature selfless, willing to work without material rewards vulgar, unequivocally heterosexual, fiercely anti-imperialist, brave in the armed struggle against the bourgeoisie, into destitution frugal, studious and refractory to the banality of dancing and fun.

I failed. The Cubans were determined to make money and live well. Some enjoyed sex for most bizarre openings. Media company wanted to move to the house of the enemy in the United States and the glorious disliked African wars. They insisted also on singing and dancing recklessly. I proposed to them a portrait of Che Guevara. They hung the Celia Cruz. A horror.

As I failed in creating the new man, I retreated to the design and development of new cow. First I imported a glorious Canadian stallion that was given, do not know why, Rosafe name. My purpose was to create a cow that gave rivers of milk and tons of meat.

Rosafe died in the line of duty. He had tuberculizado revolutionary ejaculating with the help of the fraternal socialist party mamporreros. But their emissions of 50,000 sperm were not enough. It never materialized expected stem. Perhaps the CIA sabotaged the project.

Then came White Udder. White Udder, rather than a cow, was a dairy industry. More than white, their udders were inexhaustible streams of milk. But the quadruped, also chose to die. It seems that over the account milked. Died ruminating-pun intended-your pain. We did a huge statue of the scale of his immortal glory. Cuba is the only country that has made a statue of a cow. I've asked Silvio Rodriguez to make her a hymn. It seems you're at it.

In any case, the experience of huge cows took me to the other end of the argument. Finally, I realized that what Cubans needed, and what I tried to procure it was a dwarf cow. A cow may have in their houses, milking familiarly and love her as you want a dog.

In the early nineties I called my geneticists and asked them to design dwarf cows. They laughed. One of them, very insolent, dared to tell me I was making the goat, the goat, and they just ignored me. That left me very sad.

Fortunately, in the twilight of my life, I have found the solution to all the problems of humanity. Moringa is. The Moringa olifeira, because it has name, is a tree that bears more protein, minerals and vitamins than any other vegetable. A wonder of nature originated in India that will solve most of our misfortunes, Washington can not stop it.

Now I can die in peace. I leave the Moringa. Can ingest, injected intravenously or inserting a suppository. You decide freely. I will not be to tell them what to do. However, I guess in the past I have to keep fighting. God has been wrong too. I will fix its mistakes. It is my destiny.