In Mexico City, two icons of Cuban repression are banished
Get The Gavel
A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr.
Enter Email
Sign Up
Yet even after all these years, they are still celebrated as
Advertisement
When Castro and Guevara came to power in Cuba in 1959, they quickly consolidated their control through terror. Political opponents were hauled before kangaroo courts and executed at what became known as 'el paredón,' the wall where executions took place. Those they killed, recounted '
At the Havana fortress of La Cabaña, Guevara personally oversaw mass executions. 'A revolutionary must become a cold killing machine motivated by pure hate,'
Even after the revolution's early days,
This month — July — evokes a particularly
On July 13, 1994, more than 70 Cubans crowded onto an old tugboat, the '13 de Marzo,' and set out from Havana under cover of night, desperate to reach Florida.
Seven miles off the Cuban coast, they were intercepted by government vessels. The security boats rammed the tug repeatedly, smashed its hull, and trained high-pressure hoses on the passengers —
Advertisement
The tugboat massacre is only one entry on the long list of
A row erupted after the sculpture was removed from the park in Cuauhtémoc last week. Among those complaining was Mexico's president, Claudia Sheinbaum, who insisted that the 'historic moment' represented by the statues merited a public tribute of memory. As the Mexican journalist Carlos Bravo Regidor
Symbols matter. Statues and monuments help shape a society's collective memory, and to enshrine Castro and Guevara in bronze was to enshrine the lies they told and the suffering they caused. Their sculptures on a bench in the heart of Mexico's capital was a declaration that their partnership was something admirable and worthy of commemoration, perhaps even something to emulate. In reality, it was a partnership in despotism, and it brought misery to millions.
Rojo de la Vega's order to cart away the monument was an act of moral hygiene. May the removal of the statues in Mexico City be only a prelude to the removal of their dictatorship in Havana — and to the day when the Cuban people can finally breathe free.
Advertisement
Jeff Jacoby can be reached at
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Miami Herald
2 hours ago
- Miami Herald
Self-deportations. Factory layoffs. Military zones. How Trump is transforming the U.S.-Mexico border
Juan Ortíz trudged through 100-degree heat along the U.S.-Mexico border, weighed down by a backpack full of water bottles that he planned to leave for migrants trying to cross this rugged terrain. Only there hadn't been many migrants of late. When Ortíz started water drops in this especially dangerous stretch of desert near El Paso nearly two years ago, he sometimes encountered dozens of people trying to reach the U.S. in a single afternoon. Now he rarely sees any. Border crossings began falling during the final months of President Biden's term, and have plunged to their lowest levels in decades under President Trump. "It's dramatically different," Ortíz said, the desert silent except for the crunch of his footsteps in the sand and the whir of a Border Patrol helicopter overhead. "Migrants no longer have any hope." These borderlands surrounding El Paso were long a place of risk but also opportunity. Migrants chasing the American dream crossed by the tens of thousands annually, sometimes dodging federal agents and often seeking them out to ask for asylum. But Trump's immigration crackdown - a total ban on asylum, a mass deportation campaign and the unprecedented militarization of the border - has altered life here in myriad ways. Across the Rio Grande from El Paso in the Mexican city of Ciudad Juárez, shelters once hummed with life, rich with the smell of cooked stews and the chatter of people plotting their passage to the U.S. Today those shelters are largely empty, populated by migrants stranded in Mexico when Trump took office, and others who were in the United States but decided to leave, spooked by policies designed to instill fear. Maikold Zapata, 22, had been one of the lucky ones. He entered the U.S. last year via CBP One, a government app that helped more than 900,000 migrants make asylum appointments at ports of entry. Zapata worked as a landscaper in El Paso, sending most of his earnings to his family back in Venezuela but occasionally splurging on a steak dinner or a visit to a water park with friends. What kept Zapata up at night was a looming court date for his immigration case. Since Trump took office, Zapata had heard about federal agents showing up even at routine immigration hearings and taking migrants away in handcuffs. He was afraid of being arrested and sent to a detention facility like the so-called Alligator Alcatraz in Florida, or to a far-away country - perhaps El Salvador or South Sudan, where authorities have shipped U.S. deportees in recent months. "Imagine arriving in Africa with no documents and no money," Zapata said. "No." Missing his early July court date was also not an option, since the electronic bracelet on his wrist allowed immigration agents to track his location. So Zapata stuffed his few possessions in a backpack and walked south over the U.S.-Mexico border bridge, abandoning his asylum claim and the dream he had worked his way across two continents to achieve. He plans to return to South America, likely to Colombia, where his mother is living. "I'll go back, working the whole way again." For now he is living at Oasis de Migrante, a small shelter in downtown Juárez, where he has befriended another Venezuelan who made a similar choice. Richard Osorio, 35, decided to leave the U.S. after his husband landed in immigrant detention. Osorio, who worked in home care for the elderly, said it felt like only a matter of time before immigration agents captured him: "I was filled with fear." He hopes that his partner's attorney can persuade the U.S. to deport the man to Mexico, and that he and Osorio can make a life there. The vast majority of migrants languishing along the border never made it to the United States. Eddy Lalvay got close. He was 17 when he and his 5-year-old nephew, Gael, arrived in Juárez last year. Originally from Ecuador, they were trying to reach New Jersey, where Gael's mother lives. But before they could cross, they were detained by Mexican authorities, who sent them to a government shelter for minors. Lalvay was released when he turned 18. But Gael remains in custody, where he recently turned 6, and authorities say they will release him only to a parent or a grandparent. "I'm trying to be strong, but I feel awful," Lalvay said on a recent afternoon as he sat at another shelter in a working-class neighborhood boxed in by sprawling industrial parks. Francisco González Palacios, a Christian pastor who runs the facility and leads a network of faith-based shelters, said the number of migrants housed by the network has dropped from 1,400 to 250 in recent months. "Nobody is coming from the south," he said. Some shelters and nonprofit groups providing legal or humanitarian assistance to migrants may have to close, he said, because many were indirectly funded by the U.S. Agency for International Development, which Trump shuttered. He tells the migrants gathered at his shelter to rethink their goals now that their "plan A" - a life in the U.S. - is out of reach. "Look for a plan B," he says. "Stay awhile, start to work. God will help you." But other Trump policies are hurting the economy in the region, limiting opportunities from migrants. Juárez has long drawn Mexicans from poorer parts of the country who come to work in its factories, which boomed under the North American Free Trade Agreement, churning out auto parts and other goods destined for the U.S. But Trump's on-again, off-again threats of tariffs on goods from Mexico have stunned industry in the Juárez area, with factories laying off thousands of workers. "We're in the middle of tremendous uncertainty," said María Teresa Delgado Zarate, vice president of INDEX Juárez, a trade group. About 308,000 workers are employed in factories today, she said, down from 340,000 a few years ago. Mexican Juan Bustos, 52, recently lost his assembly line job making auto parts. Most days, he lines up at 6 a.m. outside factories that say they are hiring to try to get new work. "It's not easy like it was before," he said. So much of life in Juárez depends on decisions made in Washington, he said. "He changes his mind minute to minute," Bustos said of Trump. "We're at his mercy." On the U.S. side, industry is also reeling from the tariff uncertainty. Jerry Pacheco, who operates an industrial park in Santa Teresa, N.M., a few miles west of El Paso, said several companies that planned new projects there have pulled out since Trump took office. His park abuts a new militarized zone that stretches 200 miles across a vast expanse of New Mexico. Another 63-mile-long zone has been established along the border nearby in Texas. The Pentagon, which made the designations, has deployed some 9,000 active-duty troops to the border as part of Trump's directive to expand the military's role in reducing migrant crossings. Migrants who enter the new "national defense" zones while crossing the border are being detained by U.S. troops, charged with trespassing and turned over to immigration authorities. It's part of a broader militarization of immigration enforcement in this stretch of border. U-2 spy planes have been flying missions in the skies. At the nearby Army base of Ft. Bliss, the U.S. is constructing a new 5,000-bed immigrant detention camp. The U.S. has also pushed Mexico to keep migrants from reaching Juárez and other border cities, and Mexican troops have ramped up enforcement in recent years. Migrant advocates blame those policies on a deadly fire at a detention center in Juárez in 2023 that killed 40 migrants and injured 27. Ortíz, the activist, used to traverse the part of the border that has been turned into a national defense zone, leaving water for the migrants who crossed. But on a recent afternoon, while heading out to check on a water tank, he was stopped by Border Patrol agents who warned him he was trespassing on military land. The buildup of troops at the border and Trump's changes to the asylum system have made it nearly impossible for migrants to cross, Ortíz said. In June, there were fewer Border Patrol encounters with migrants than in any month on record, according to the White House. On the day with fewest encounters, border agents apprehended just 137 people across the entire 2,000-mile long border. But Ortíz is convinced that migration levels can't stay this low forever. There are too many jobs that need filling north of the border, he said, and too much poverty and strife south of it. This region has been a site of migration since pre-colonial times, he said. El Paso, which means "the pass," got its name from Spanish explorers who arrived in the late 16th century and established a trade route here leading from Mexico City to Santa Fe. Movement, he said, is part of our nature. "You will never be able to fully stop human migration," Ortíz said. "You never have and you never will." Those most desperate to cross will find a way, he says. And that will probably mean paying smugglers even larger sums and taking riskier routes. _____ Copyright (C) 2025, Tribune Content Agency, LLC. Portions copyrighted by the respective providers.
Los Angeles Times
4 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
He crossed the border for a better life. He returned to Mexico in a casket
HUAJÚMBARO DE GUADALUPE, Mexico — The cortege wound its way up a dirt path, past well-appointed homes providing a contrast to the rock-strewn lane leading to the hilltop cemetery. This community in the central Mexican state of Michoacán is home to about 1,500 people, many of whom make a living planting corn, plums, peaches and other crops that cut symmetrical rows through the verdant hillsides — now glistening an emerald green, the bounty of recent rains. But the stolid brick-and-concrete residences along the rocky road are the legacy of a generation of immigrants — men such as Jaime Alanis García, who left to toil in the fields, factories and other workplaces of California, dutifully sending money back to their village to build homes and other projects. Among the works financed via immigrant remittances is the chapel of Our Lady of Guadalupe, where a funeral Mass was held Saturday, for Alanis García. He is the first known fatality tied to the Trump administration's work-site enforcement raids — in this case a pair of sweeps on July 10 through Glass House Farms cannabis facilities in California. Alanis García, 56, was fatally injured when he fell 30 feet from atop a greenhouse while fleeing immigration agents at the Glass House site in Camarillo, relatives say. Mexican consular officials arranged for his body to be shipped back from California. 'He was like so many of us, a hardworking person who went to California to earn a living, to help his family,' said Rosa María Zamora, 70, a native of Huajúmbaro de Guadalupe, who was visiting from her home in Houston. 'For us, California represented an opportunity, a chance to improve our horizons.' A quarter of a century ago, Zamora said, she left to join her husband, a field worker in California. The pair later found employment in slaughterhouses in Nebraska, where she suffered a severe leg injury from a cutting blade. 'It's so sad that Señor Jaime came back in this way,' Zamora said. She was among about 200 mourners accompanying Alanis García on his doleful final journey through his hometown. 'Look how many people there are here today,' said Manuel Durán, a brother-in-law of Alanis García. He traveled here with other relatives from Oxnard, where Alanis García lived. 'He was very beloved.' Durán donned a T-shirt emblazoned on the front with stylized angel wings soaring from a photo of Alanis García. 'In Loving Memory,' read the text. The rear of the shirt featured the hashtag #justiceforJaime, in English and Spanish, reflecting relatives' assertion that the July 10 operation was reckless. 'We want justice, please,' Janet Alanis, 32, his daughter, said. 'Tell everyone that all we ask for is justice.' The U.S. Department of Homeland Security defended the raid, which authorities say resulted in the arrests of more 300 people. Authorities say that agents called in medical assistance for Alanis García, who, according to an autopsy, suffered head and neck injuries. Alanis Garcia left Huajúmbaro de Guadalupe as a young man but, according relatives and acquaintances, always provided for his wife and daughter, who remained here, dependent on his earnings as a farmworker. He last visited his hometown 17 years ago, for his daughter's quinceañera, or 15th birthday celebration, residents said. Such protracted separations have become increasingly the norm in the decades since Alanis García first crossed as an undocumented worker into California. Stretches of the U.S.-Mexico border that once featured minimal fencing and policing have now become heavily militarized. For many undocumented immigrants, that has all but eliminated once-routine trips home to visit loved ones in Mexico. Word of the ongoing U.S. immigration raids has seeped back to immigrant communities throughout Mexico, raising deep anxieties. 'My husband lives in Oxnard, but, thank God, he didn't work in the place where the raid was,' said Margarita Cruz, 47, a mother of three who attended the funeral. 'My husband tells me that the situation there is very difficult. There's a lot of fear that people could get arrested.' Her husband departed 15 years ago for California, Cruz said. He last visited four years ago. 'Here we survive thanks to the money that our husbands and sons send back from the United States,' Cruz said. 'Now, everyone's worried that they will deport our relatives. What will we do? There is no work here. Look at what happened to Señor Jaime.' In some ways, things have worsened in many rural stretches of Mexico that have long sent immigrants to the north. The dramatic rise of Mexican organized crime has cast a shadow over much of Michoacán state, where rival gangs battle for control of drug-smuggling, extortion and other rackets. On Friday, shortly after the much-anticipated arrival of Alanis García's body from California, a state police officer who accompanied the remains was clearly agitated. He was anxious to leave — and warned visiting journalists to beat it out of town by sundown. 'Don't be caught here after dark,' said the jittery cop, who brandished an assault rifle as he scanned the environs. 'It's very, very dangerous here. Two groups are fighting for control.' But it was peaceful Saturday, as relatives accompanied Alanis García's body to the church, where the coffin was flanked by candles. Elaborate flower arrangements graced the pews and walls. A 12-piece band of brass, woodwind and percussion instruments provided a musical backdrop in the church patio. The musicians wore white, flower-print jackets and black shirts as they played funereal tunes. After the Mass, men from the town shouldered the wooden casket up the hill about half a mile to the cemetery. The band kept playing as the pallbearers trudged onward. Many in the procession hoisted umbrellas against a searing midday sun. The coffin, bedecked with flowers, was opened at a pavilion in the cemetery. A relative placed a crucifix on the chest of Alanis García. His photo looked down from inside the coffin. Mourners approached for a last look at a man whom many had not seen since he was a teenager. Mourners gathered in praying the rosary. Those praying asked the Virgin Mary, 'Queen of the migrants,' to pray for the soul of the departed. The coffin was closed, and men lowered it into the adjacent grave. Mourners tossed individual roses into Alanis García's final resting place. Men took turns shoveling in the reddish dirt. Relatives say Alanis García, like so many immigrants, always wanted to return home to his family. His distraught widow, Leticia Cruz Vázquez, wailed, 'I didn't want him like this!' before fainting. Relatives and neighbors carried her limp figure away from the crowd. McDonnell is a Times staff writer and Sánchez a special correspondent. Special correspondent Liliana Nieto del Río contributed to this report.
Boston Globe
6 hours ago
- Boston Globe
State's law on sidewalk injuries a relic of the ‘60s
And while Boston's sidewalk issues may be a rather Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up The law is as cruel to victims as it is outdated, but more than that it is simply bad public policy, providing no incentive for public officials to either keep sidewalks in a state of good repair or make repairs in a timely fashion. That loose chunk of cement on East Broadway today remains as it was four years ago when that accident happened. Advertisement Alison Evans, a freelance photographer, broke her arm in a fall on Newbury Street in the summer of 2022, and brought her tale of justice denied to Boston Globe consumer advocacy reporter That low payout cap effectively prevents people from obtaining legal representation. Personal injury lawyers usually get a third of any settlement or jury award, but a third of $5,000 — that's $1,666 — isn't worth their time. 'I went to every lawyer in my building after my fall,' Rosanne Mercer told the editorial board, 'and couldn't find anyone to take the case.' Mercer, who was running a public relations agency on the waterfront when she had her accident, suffered a broken foot and a concussion from a fall over a newly reconfigured curb. When the complaint was filed, it was day 31. There ought to be law, right? Or more properly a better law. And, yes, there could be. Advertisement The legislation, filed by Democratic Representative Jay Livingstone of Boston, would increase the current 30-day limit to two years and the $5,000 limit to $100,000 — essentially treating injuries on public sidewalks like any other injuries caused by a government agency covered by the But for those injured on faulty sidewalks it at least would provide a fairer timeline and far better financial relief. Among those supporting the legislation in written testimony was Bonnie Donohue, who told the committee she was hospitalized and incurred some $30,000 in dental bills from a fall over a corrugated barrier on Summer Street near her apartment (And for clumsy people who think every stumble will lead to an easy payday: Sorry, but filing a claim doesn't mean you'll actually get paid, or that you'll get paid the maximum amount. People seeking compensation still need to demonstrate negligence on the city's part.) This isn't only a Boston problem. Where there are sidewalks and aging infrastructure, there will be accidents. Northampton, now in the process of Advertisement No one wants to see a city or town bankrupted by specious claims or frivolous lawsuits. But a law where the financial penalties haven't been updated in 60 years — even as medical costs have soared for everything from tending to skinned knees to fixing broken bones — does a grave disservice to those injured through no fault of their own. It imposes virtually no penalty for communities to take better care of their infrastructure, from sidewalks to curbs to potholes, and that's plain wrong. Editorials represent the views of the Boston Globe Editorial Board. Follow us
