Humberto Fontova Thursday, July 14, 2011
In the predawn darkness of July 13, 1994, 72 desperate Cubans - old and
young, male and female - sneaked aboard a decrepit but seaworthy tugboat
in Havana harbor and set off for the U.S. and the prospect of freedom.
Let Jimmy Carter hail the "egalitarian society" fashioned by "his old
friend, Fidel Castro," let Jack Nicholson hail their captive homeland "a
paradise!" Let Bonnie Raitt rasp out her ditty calling it a "Happy
Little Island!" Let Ted Turner hail their slavemaster as a "Helluva
guy!" Let Democratic party honcho Frank Mankiewics proclaim Castro "one
of the most charming men I've ever met!" Let Michael Moore hail the
glories of Cuba's healthcare in Sicko. Let Barbara Walters add gravitas
while soft-soaping Castro during an "interview": "you have brought great
health to your country." (In fact pre-Castro Cuba enjoyed lower
infant-mortality rates and higher per-capita income than half of Europe.)
The people boarding that tug knew better. And for a simple reason: the
cruel hand of fate had slated them to live under Fidel Castro and Che
Guevara's handiwork.
The lumbering craft cleared the harbor and five foot waves started
buffeting the tug. The men sprung to action as the impromptu crew while
mothers, sisters and aunts hushed the terrified children, some as young
as one. Turning back was out of the question.
A few miles into the turbulent sea, 30-year-old Maria Garcia felt
someone tugging her sleeve. She looked down and it was her 10-year-old
son, Juan. "Mami, look!" and he pointed behind them toward shore.
"What's those lights?"
"Looks like a boat following us, son," she stuttered while stroking his
hair. "Calm down, mi hijo (my son). Try to sleep. When you wake up,
we'll be with our cousins in a free country. Don't worry." In fact,
Maria suspected the lights belonged to Castro patrol boats coming out to
intercept them.
In seconds the patrol boats were alongside the tug and - WHACK!! - with
its steel prow, the closest patrol boat rammed the back of the tug.
People were knocked around the deck like bowling pins. But it looked
like an accident, right? Rough seas and all. Could happen to anyone, right?
Hey, WATCHIT IT!" a man yelled as he rubbed the lump on his forehead.
"We have women and children aboard!" Women held up their squalling
children to get the point across. If they'd only known.
This gave the gallant Castroites nice targets for their water cannon.
WHOOSH! The water cannon was zeroed and the trigger yanked. The water
blast shot into the tug, swept the deck and mowed the escapees down,
slamming some against bulkheads, blowing others off the deck into the
five-foot waves.
"MI HIJO! MI HIJO!" Maria screamed as the water jet slammed into her,
ripping half the clothes off her body and ripping Juan's arm from her
grasp. "JUANITO! JUANITO!" She fumbled frantically around her, still
blinded by the water blast. Juan had gone spinning across the deck and
now clung desperately to the tug's railing 10 feet behind Maria as huge
waves lapped his legs.
WHACK! Another of the steel patrol boats turned sharply and rammed the
tug from the other side. Then - CRACK! another from the front! WHACK!
The one from behind slammed them again. The tug was surrounded. It was
obvious now: The ramming was NO accident. And in Cuba you don't do
something like this without strict orders from WAY above.
"We have women and children aboard!" The men yelled. "We'll turn around!
OK?!"
WHACK! the Castroites answered the plea by ramming them again. And this
time the blow from the steel prow was followed by a sharp snapping sound
from the wooden tug. In seconds the tug started coming apart and
sinking. Muffled yells and cries came from below. Turns out the women
and children who had scrambled into the hold for safety after the first
whack had in fact scrambled into a watery tomb.
With the boat coming apart and the water rushing in around them, some
got death grips on their children and managed to scramble or swim out.
But not all. The roar from the water cannons and the din from the boat
engines muffled most of the screams, but all around people were
screaming, coughing, gagging and sinking.
Fortunately, a Greek freighter bound for Havana had happened upon the
scene of slaughter and sped to the rescue. NOW one of the Castro boats
threw out some life preservers on ropes and started hauling people in,
pretending they'd been doing it all along.
Maria Garcia lost her son, Juanito, her husband, brother, sister, two
uncles and three cousins in the maritime massacre. In all, 43 people
drowned, 11 of them children. Carlos Anaya was 3 when he drowned, Yisel
Alvarez 4. Helen Martinez was 6 months old.
And all this death and horror to flee from a nation that experienced net
immigration throughout the 20th Century, where boats and planes brought
in many more people than they took out - except on vacation. (Despite
what you saw in The Godfather, actually, in 1950,more Cubans vacationed
in the U.S. than Americans in Cuba, as befit a nation with a bigger
middle class than Switzerland.)
Thirty one people were finally plucked from the seas and hauled back to
Cuba where all were jailed or put under house arrest. They hadn't been
through enough, you see. But a few later escaped Cuba on rafts and
reached Miami. Hence we have Maria Garcia's gut-wrenching testimony
presented to the UN, the OAS and Amnesty International, who all filed
"complaints," reports, "protests."(with the customary results.)
This was obviously a rogue operation by crazed deviants, you say. No
government could possibly condone, much less directly order such a
thing! Right?
Wrong. Nothing is random in Stalinist Cuba. One of the gallant
water-cannon gunners was even decorated (personally) by Castro. Perhaps
for expert marksmanship. A three-year old child presents a pretty small
target. A six-month old baby an even smaller one. "Magnificent job
defending the glorious revolution, companero!"
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