Bobby Batista Fernández has just died in Madrid to the misfortune of Cuba, family and friends, for his ability to listen, smile in the face of adversity, his honesty and coherence when evaluating his father, Fulgencio Batista, the most influential politician in the former mid-twentieth century on the island, to which his son never returned for democratic coherence.
Chocolate and a salad of lettuce and tomatoes, topped with mint jelly, typical of the southern United States, were his great weaknesses and, even when he ate frugally or with some excess, he always looked for the opportunity to finish the meeting in a nearby chocolate shop. , as he did on Sundays in New York, after leaving mass.
Bobby he was vaccinated against intolerance in December 1958, when he suffered the first act of repudiation of Castroism, about to take power; after his arrival in New York, together with his late brother Carlos Manuel; two boys of 9 and 11 years old harassed and insulted by a vociferous pack that foreshadowed the martyrdom that awaited opponents and indifferent, in the next sixty years; although at that time no one was listening.
With his usual honesty, he said that -from that savage- he avoided Cuba to the point of missing almost a semester of a law course in Madrid, fearing that the professor – known for his leftist militancy – was going to make his last name ugly.
But an honest man cannot run away from his own life and Bobby Not only did he assume his condition as Batista’s son, but he also delved into the figure of his father, in the tragedy of Cuba and illuminated some Memories that – far from settling accounts – illuminated the bloodless and undemocratic quarters of March 10, assumed the doubts about the origin of the family fortune and the deaths of the batistato; without stopping telling the life of a family united in glory and misfortune.
With her death, Cuba loses a son who loved her from the loss imposed and who defended democracy and the law as imperatives to heal the nation; his family to an affectionate lookout and his friends to a fraternal and luxurious companion who, between laughter and smile, inquired about everything Cuban, with the curiosity of the child who ran around Kuquine, snooping in his library: the prudence of a Carvajal Walker forced and the rigor of a jurist with body and jiribilla gestures, who joked in French, English and Spanish.
Bobby, He was not of a fine beak to count things like Juan Candela de Onelio; perhaps out of modesty; But he knew how to listen – a rare quality in a Cuban – and he lived installed in the enjoyment of discrepancy, dreaming of a Cuba, where compatriots would shake hands.
Thanks, Bobby, to prevent resentment from nesting in your cosmopolitan Havana soul; despite everything you suffered; as good men know how to suffer who only look to the future and counteract adversity with a smile.
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