This September 11th marks the 45th anniversary of the assassination of Cuban diplomat Félix García. A chapter in the book “Diplomacy Without a Shadow,” by Dr. Néstor García Iturbe, describes the horrendous crime. Cubadebate reproduces that text below.
That day, September 11th, had unfolded with considerable intensity. We were preparing for the start of the United Nations General Assembly, which involved analyzing resolutions, preparing speeches, and other tasks that often kept us at the Mission until late at night.
We had an invitation to go to Eva’s house for dinner, and we couldn’t turn down that. Eva and Eusebio were my uncles. They both belonged to the group of Cubans who, despite having lived in the United States for many years, ate the revolution for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They were proud of having founded the 26th of July Movement in New York. Their records included all the demonstrations in support of Cuba that were organized in that city after the triumph of the Revolution, and they passionately showed photos of their walks in the snow holding pro-Cuban signs.
Félix had established very good relations with them. He said he was also his nephew, since the coincidence of our last name being García allowed him to proclaim that this was the García family. It was truly difficult for Félix not to establish good relations with anyone who proposed to him. He was a kind person, knew how to squeeze in, always tried to help anyone in any way he could, and, as he said, he liked to be in the “burumba,” that is, where the action was. It’s safe to say he was one of the officials with the most relationships.
Félix often took my wife and my daughters to our house. When I knew I would be leaving the Mission late, I would ask him for this favor, which he gladly agreed to, and my daughters were happy, as Uncle Félix always brought them some candy for the trip and, occasionally, even a small toy.
As on other occasions, Eva’s invitation to dinner at her house included Félix. I had asked him to bring my family so the girls wouldn’t eat too late. The rest of the guests could wait for me, as I estimated I would arrive there around eight at night.
I finished work and when I looked at my watch, I was surprised. It wasn’t yet seven o’clock at night. I could still get to dinner early. I packed all the documents and went down to the Mission lobby, where I found my family sitting on the marble stairs, waiting for Felix. I began to investigate what could have happened. The agreement with Felix was for me to leave early with the family, which he hadn’t done. No one knew why he wasn’t there, or where he was.
Suddenly, the front door opened and Felix appeared. He had gotten stuck in a traffic jam on the other side of town, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t make it on time. Now the situation changed: I could take the family, but he had to attend too, since he was one of the guests. He couldn’t miss that meal. He asked us to go ahead; he would pick up some Bohemia magazines from his apartment, take a shower, change his clothes, and immediately leave for Eva’s house. Since I knew Félix well, I asked him to hurry, knowing he could entertain himself talking with a friend and arrive by 10 p.m.
Eva and Eusebio lived in Queens, near the bridge that connects to Manhattan. Due to the proximity, their house could be reached from the Mission in less than 15 minutes. When we arrived, the girls immediately began eating, and the adults sat down to chat while waiting for Félix. The wait began to drag on, but that didn’t really bother us. We poured a few drinks of the Habana Club I had just given Eusebio and continued the conversation, which was interrupted by a phone call
The call was from the Mission. One of the Spanish-language radio stations was reporting the murder of a Cuban diplomat in the Queens neighborhood. The officer on duty was trying to locate all the friends to make sure they wouldn’t have any problems. Since I had reported that Félix and I would be at Eva’s house, the guard had called the place.
The comrade on duty told me that all the comrades had been located so far. Felix hadn’t arrived yet, so I asked him to check if he was in his apartment, as we had recently left him in the Mission lobby. A few anxious minutes passed. The girls, who had been listening attentively to everything being said, began to cry. They heard that a comrade had been murdered, and since they also realized I had mentioned Felix’s name, they cried and said their uncle Felix had been killed.
While I was trying to calm them down, the phone rang again. The New York police had called. Felix had been murdered at the intersection of Queens Boulevard and 53rd Street. I asked the comrade if the Ambassador had heard about the incident. The answer was yes. Since I was nearby, I told him I was leaving immediately. I had to inform the Ambassador and find someone to pick up my family from Eva’s house.
I traveled to the murder scene in less than ten minutes, not only because it was actually about three kilometers from the scene, but also because of the speed at which I traveled. When I arrived, the police were blocking access to where Felix was. I got out of the car and went straight to a sergeant standing in the middle of the street, pushing aside onlookers. I showed my diplomatic ID and sped past him. The sergeant grabbed me by the arm and tried to block my way. This provoked a barrage of harsh words in English, insisting that he not touch me and reiterating my diplomatic status.
At that moment, a plainclothes police officer approached, introducing himself as a detective. He ordered the officer to let me go and asked to examine my ID. Finding everything in order, he escorted me to the car where Felix’s body was still lying. When I reached him, the first thing I did was touch him. His body was cold. He had been shot four times. One of the bullets had hit him in the shoulder, another in the neck, a third in the head, and a fourth had lodged in the roof of the car. There was no doubt that the murderer was a well-trained and prepared professional.
Within a few minutes, other Mission officials began to arrive at the scene. That cowardly murder had filled us all with indignation, and our first reaction had been to go to the place where our comrade’s body was found to show the killers that their actions were far from frightening.
A few days later, we were able to reconstruct the actions Félix had taken when we left him at the Mission. After we left, he went up to his apartment and picked up the Bohemia magazines. He left in the car for Queens. He went to the dry cleaners owned by some old Cubans, left the magazines there, took a shower, changed his clothes, left the clothes he was wearing to be washed, and left in the car again, this time heading for Eva’s house.
Evidently, at that moment, he realized he was being followed, so he began to take different streets that led him away from where he was headed. He arrived at a gas station. At the station, he filled up his tank and continued on his way. Now, in the direction he was heading, he was trying to get closer to Eva’s house
When he reached Queens Boulevard and 53rd Street, the traffic light turned red, so he stopped his car. At that moment, the motorcycle the assassin was riding on stopped next to his car. The assassin had likely shouted some kind of insult against Cuba or the Revolution. Félix, who had rolled up the driver’s window, rolled it down to respond to the insult. At that moment, the assassin shot him.
It’s impossible to deny the sadness we all feel at the death of Félix García, cowardly murdered on the streets of New York City while worthily representing our Revolution.
Other Félix Garcías took his place. The flag did not fall to the ground; it remained upright and defiant in the hands of the youth.
*** Taken from the book “Diplomacy Without a Shadow,” by Dr. Néstor García Iturbe, who served as Counselor to the Cuban Mission to the United Nations in New York City from September 1974 to December 1988.
[ SOURCE: PRENSA LATINA ]
