Yes. Not a single word. I just finished reading Humberto Fontova's "Fidel: Hollywood's favorite tyrant". A masterpiece. When I read something like this book is when I really feel proud of journalism --the real one.
Now there are so many thoughts and feelings in the air that I'm having a hard time to put any idea together.
Ideas along the lines of self-beating such as "coño, how on earth was I at any dark point of my life believing all that crap about the revolution?", "how come didn't I realized the truth when I was there?", "why I never realized my lifetime neighbor commitment to the freedom of Cuba and the respect to human rights?", " how come...?".
Then I try some self-consolation: "how could I know if that was the brain-washing crap I was being fed since I started kindergarten?", "how can anyone appreciate freedom if you don't know what it means?", "how would I know if I was living in a world of secrecy, repression y chivatones?"...
Then I switch to the memory of by uncle Tíototo, in his deathbed, saying "Vayánse de esta mierda mientras sean jóvenes y puedan empezar una vida en otro lugar. Esta mierda no es por lo que yo luché... aquí no hay futuro, largénse de aquí mientras tengan fuerzas para hacerlo". (Get the hell out of this shit while you're young and able to start a new life anywhere else. This crap it is not what I fought for... you've got no future here, get out of here while you can do it)
Then I go back to my father's wasted existence of hard work and to all those close experiences I've seen in my family and friends.
And another thought pops-up: I've got to get the book in Spanish, mami needs to read it, and MDH, and who else can I tell about it? ... and there is the other book waiting for me (Exposing the Real Che Guevara and the Useful Idiots who idolize him)
And there is the list for my self re-education program, that keeps growing; it has 20 books already. "De dónde voy a sacar el tiempo para leer tanto?", I asked myself. It doesn't matter; I've got to do it".
So far, it's the only way I'll be able to reconcile the first twenty years of my life with the real explanation of the lie where I was living; it's the path I must follow to make up for that stolen juventud.