Dear Spain:
Oh, Spain! You have
disappointed me so many times I have lost count. I have tried—God knows
I have tried—to forgive the country where my ancestors were born. The
only country in this world, outside of my own, that I have visited and
felt as if I were home. You speak my language, you are the basis of my
culture, and yet you break my heart time and time again. You were the
birthplace of my great-grandparents: Asturias, Galicia, Tenerife. Yet to
you, we are nothing more than insolent children not worthy of respect or
dignity. The island where my grandparents and my parents were born
ceased to be your colony over 100 years ago, but in your eyes, we are
still that treasonous outpost of the new world that you found deserving
of so much pain and death.
But still… I tried
to forgive you. How can I deny my heritage? You gave us so many
wonderful things: Jamón Serrano and mazapán, Flamenco, Picasso,
Tempranillo, a spirit of adventure, the language of Cervantes. When I
walk your streets, I see so many things that remind me of my own
culture, my own heritage. The faces all seem familiar—their smiles and
their laughter—it reminds me of my own. You showed us so many good
things, but you also showed us some things we would have preferred not to have seen.
We inherited the
model of bureaucratic corruption through which your own government has
suffered through for so many centuries. For hundreds of years as your
colony, you painstakingly taught us how to laugh and sing and dance—but
you also taught us how to oppress, subjugate, and stifle free
expression. You exiled and killed our people without remorse. You
persecuted the fathers and architects of our freedom—our Martis, our
Maceos. And, when we finally broke free of your villainous grasp, you
sulked and waited for your next opportunity to once again impose your
will upon us.
Sixty years—we did
reasonably well for almost 60 years. During that time, you hid in the
shadows, occasionally feigning approval of our success in public, but
deep down inside it bothered you. We had defied you; we had dared to be
free of your corrupting influence and every step forward we managed was
yet another thorn in your side. Of course, we had our share of corrupt
leaders and governments; you had taught us well. Nevertheless, we were
the masters of our own destiny. If we wanted to ruin our own country, we
did not need to have someone thousands of miles away do it for us. All
things considered, we did not do too badly—especially when compared to
your rule—until we approached our 57th anniversary of independence. That
is when the disease of communism infected our fledgling nation, a nation
composed of your children.
You found little to
be concerned about; we had brought it upon ourselves, you told yourself.
Most parents would temper their disapproval of a child’s injurious
mishap with a caring embrace, if only to let the child know that
although they did not approve of their choices, they still loved them
and cared about them. However, you—our originator, our parent, our
heritage—you reveled in our demise.
Forty-eight years,
that is how long it has been. For 48 years, you have watched us suffer,
die, and cry out for help. Apathy can be so vile, but not vile enough
for you, my beloved Spain. Standing by and watching your emancipated
offspring languish in oppression is not sufficient for you. No, you must
help it along, you must turn the screws a little tighter, plunge the
dagger a little deeper. We deserve it, you say. We deserve to reap the
bounty of our insubordination.
The role of passive
spectator does not suit you. You like to be in on the kill. You sharpen
the matador’s swords so that they will enter the bull’s hide with
minimal resistance. You cheer each thrust of a blade into the bull. It
is nothing but sport for you, a necessary past time to exact a price for
our defiance. We are seeking freedom—you are seeking revenge.
One day, my dear
Spain, we will free ourselves once again from tyranny and oppression and
we will not forget who our tormentors were. As you count the billions of
dollars you are profiting from the blood of my Cuban brothers, you
should also count the days, for our liberation is at hand. You may think
that Cuba is still your colony, to plunder at your fancy, but the day
draws near where once again you will feel the sting of defeat and you
will realize that Cuba belongs to the Cubans—to the men, the women, and
the children that gave their lives to make it free.
I have tried—God
knows I have tried—to forgive you, Spain, the motherland of our
ancestors. But, I cannot. Nor will I forget, nor will my children
forget, and nor will my children’s children forget. Our blood is on your
hands, and it is now between you and the Almighty to seek forgiveness
and redemption. Good-bye my dear Spain: Say what you will of me, you can
never say I did not try.
Sincerely,
Alberto de la Cruz |
