There was once a man who, after spending a whole day and part of the night raising funds for the Movement, arrived at his small apartment to find that his electricity had been cut off and his young son was ill.
He had no money, at least none of his own, so he borrowed five pesos from a comrade to buy medicine and food. In his pocket he carried the hundred pesos he had collected that day.
He was also the one who did not give up after a devastating afternoon when he was denied a coffee, his car was taken away, a newspaper boy prevented him from reading the headlines, ordering him to "move along, move along"; and the sight of the Presidential Palace revealed itself to him as a symbol of the force of power they sought to defeat. After walking from Prado to Vedado and sleeping for a while, he would recount years later, the bitterness disappeared, and the struggle returned.
He was also the one who, after the confrontation with enemy forces at the Moncada Barracks's no. 3 surveillance post, while retreating with several other attackers, crammed into a car, made them stop because he had seen one of his own walking down Garzón Avenue.
Without thinking, and without giving the others time to comment, he got out of the car and gave up his seat. So he remained, in the middle of the street, alone, when just a few seconds more or less meant the difference between life and death. And it was minutes before Reinaldo Santana, at the wheel of another car, recognized the leader from behind: "That's Fidel!" and picked him up.
It was also he who, torn apart by the loss of his friends, his brothers, all those valuable young people, followers of José Martí, full of pure faith in the possible island, repeated to those who persisted that there was only one true slogan for survival: resist, resist, resist.
And so they did, because the path to freedom involved the risk of martyrdom: there was no turning back or stepping aside, there was too much blood to honor.
If Abel Santamaría, hours before he was assassinated—and it was almost certain to him that this would happen—had only one obsession: that those who were with Fidel realized that he had to live; if he told his sister that, even if the action had failed, with a July 26th Fidel could continue and triumph; the future Commander-in-Chief dedicated his life, his time, to keeping the Revolution alive. And it was no small sacrifice.
Standing on a street corner, that was the dream he confessed to Gabriel García Márquez one day. On a street corner, like an ordinary man. But he was not ordinary. He was the Leader. He was and continues to be. Because, just as he accepted the precariousness and rigors of the cause, just as he risked his life for others, just as he said to Sarría: "I'm not jumping. If you want to kill me, kill me standing up," and as he knew how to instill in others the faith in victory in the face of the most verifiable adversity, he had the clarity to see in each one how much of themselves they could give, and how many paths had to be traveled before declaring the impossible.
Che Guevara called him an ardent prophet of the dawn, in the language of poetry, one who does not admit impostures. He was able to convey his enthusiasm and did so convincingly, because he had no shortage of arguments. His multiple legacy, on so many fronts, is also that of leadership that trusts in people, and of each person trusting in themselves and in Cuba; and that, far from being imitated, needs to be continued and enriched.
Shared among the people, Fidel is our heritage. Not otherworldly, but deeply human; both the great statesman, the guerrilla fighter, and the boy that a generation of ethical, humble, brilliant people envisioned as their leader; and who even accepted the probable ingratitude of men.
