In contrast, here’s President-elect Trump’s written statement from ZeroHedge:
Today, the world marks the passing of a brutal dictator who oppressed his own people for nearly six decades. Fidel Castro’s legacy is one of firing squads, theft, unimaginable suffering, poverty and the denial of fundamental human rights.
While Cuba remains a totalitarian island, it is my hope that today marks a move away from the horrors endured for too long, and toward a future in which the wonderful Cuban people finally live in the freedom they so richly deserve.
Though the tragedies, deaths and pain caused by Fidel Castro cannot be erased, our administration will do all it can to ensure the Cuban people can finally begin their journey toward prosperity and liberty. I join the many Cuban Americans who supported me so greatly in the presidential campaign, including the Brigade 2506 Veterans Association that endorsed me, with the hope of one day soon seeing a free Cuba.”
PJ Media writer Roger Simon, a contemporary of Stein, aptly refers to Castro’s death in a post titled:
Fidel Castro: My Generation’s Disgrace Finally Died
That allure, although somewhat diminished, had continued for me up until 1979 when I visited Cuba as a delegate to the First Festival of the New Latin American Cinema and got to hobnob with the likes of Nobelist Gabriel Garcia Márquez—himself a pal of Fidel’s, able to drive a swanky new Mercedes on an island filled with aging DeSotos and live in a posh finca while the proles, under surveillance by the secret police, subsisted in decaying coldwater flats with no plumbing. And with Régis Debray—the French “philosopher” who chronicled Ché’s exploits in the Bolivian mountains and became the most famous journalist of “the revolution.”
I should have been impressed. And maybe I was in a way, but not for long, because the truth was there in front of me—the reality of Cuba itself. It was—you could find no other words—a communist shithole.
After a week, I was desperate to get out, as were the mostly leftist filmmakers who were with me, one of them even a member of the sainted “Hollywood Ten.” The problem was, getting out wasn’t so easy. We were stuck for ten hours at Havana Airport waiting for our semi-illegal charter flight from Miami to be allowed to land. I don’t have to tell you that I and the rest of the group were sweating—and not just from the humid weather. Suppose we had to spend the rest of our lives in the “Marxist paradise”?
Stein, along with creepy elite journalists like Geraldo Rivera, romanticize this savage butcher within a clueless, blind vacuum of moral equivalence which excuses away the cruelty he imposed on his own people. Rivera, I imagine, remains seduced as was Simon. Stein, though, presumes to lead an effort in fair democracy in her recount efforts. Only in the twisted world of the elite-left does this seem ok.