Journalist José Luis Estrada Betancourt, head of the Culture Section of Juventud Rebelde, has died

August 22, 2021

This Saturday, August 21st, after several days hospitalized due to COVID-19, José Luis Estrada Betancourt, head of the Culture Section of the newspaper Juventud Rebelde, passed away.

There are beings of light that will accompany us forever. That is José Luis Estrada Betancourt who devoted 19 years of his life with total dedication to Juventud Rebelde, and his vast work in pursuit of all culture will remain in its annals.

In an interview less than a year ago, Jose had stated: "I live for journalism since it took firm hold in all my pores. I dedicate 48 hours a day to it. I lose sleep thinking about the interview I'll have tomorrow, about the word with which I'll try to captivate the reader as if it were the irresistible nectar with which carnivorous plants hypnotize insects. I don't want to 'swallow them', but I do want them to look for my name on the newspaper's pages every day, to read me and even decide to write to me, to become my new friends."

The pain that grips us in this hour is profound, as life has played the worst of its tricks on us. Juventud Rebelde will always remember him for his dedication, his joy, his professionalism, his unconditional love for every minute he spent in our newsroom.

He was 53 years old when he passed away.

His last chronicle, already hospitalized, recounting his fight against the disease, he published on FB and there he described:

How ridiculous!!!! That there exists a rare disease, incredibly deadly, striking blows around the world and that I would miss the opportunity to test my supernatural powers, to miss the opportunity to use one of my feline lives?

Nothing, none of that. I've been here in Fajardo hospital since Tuesday, getting hit squarely by COVID. The round of Olympics I went for caused me to get the "bats" of Mijáin López and Julio César la Cruz mounted on me, because I'm like that: when needed, I set aside artistic gymnastics and synchronized swimming, and I get fully into it with my fists, collisions and takedowns.

From the moment this shit started I had a feeling that if I got careless, I was going to have to fight hard, because this heart of mine, which is so good, already had its "flutter", because, although barely visible, Guillain Barré leaves marks on us. And I took care of myself a lot, like a fine rooster, I spent what I had and didn't have to pay for everything "on the outside" and not stand in a single line, while my longtime friends, many of them, threw me countless lifelines...

A year passed, almost another, and suddenly my passion for work, my commitment to good people, those who dream, who don't let themselves be defeated, convinced me that I should return to Santo Domingo, the beautiful town in the Sierra Maestra in Bartolomé Masó. The Turquino was in sight. Why did I think I should go? Because the Hermanos Saíz Association is the organization I would have liked to belong to when I was a boy like these today with my head full of songs, poems, performances, books..., and this is one of its main traditions. An act of faith and brotherhood. To see with your own eyes that kindness, camaraderie, pure smiles, rebel forces, love overflowing..., still exist, it cures all the ugliness in one blow and immunizes you for a time. And because the AHS, which gave me the privilege of making me an Honorary Member, is very close to 35.

But another reason also pushed me hard: the historic Ramón Paz Borroto Explorer Pioneers Camp, the first installation of this type that Fidel inaugurated for the children of the Sierra Maestra, 40 years ago now (July 19, 1981). That is our house, like all the force and truth that expression possesses. I owed it to Jorge's tireless troop that beats with a mountain heart and tall green palms; to Oylet Álvarez's sickly dedication, the best pioneer guide in the universe and the sure hand that will lead you to the highest peak in Cuba; to Ariel, the least Fast and Furious and More Brave and Skillful driver, "who I haven't had even a single scare with" in those hills of "hell"; to Caña and Yuri, those who spoil me the most there...

The last time I went, I came down with a shout that I let out in JR with a bit of anger, denouncing how dreams were being left to die. Sometimes not even the Comandante's are well protected. There were all kinds of reactions, of course, and thanks to that, seven years later one of the camps was managed to be built with its years and showers, the dining room with the kitchen and... and the rest stopped. COVID, besides making us sick, gives many possible justifications.

Seven years ago the children of the Sierra Maestra don't have their camp that they need so much, that teaches them to face life, to love the Homeland from the attachment to nature and history, not from slogans. They wanted to see me again, to finally thank me, to laugh with me, and I needed to do my work again.

I got infected at some point in that long journey where Fred, full of water, accompanied us, that long stretch that gave me the blessing of encountering Doña Juana, the Pharaoh, my absolute owner. I swear by the most sacred, that she was extremely careful, that all measures were taken, maybe it was the kiss of the lizard, what do I know! I've already warned them a thousand times that I'm one to keep friends on edge, eating my nails every so often, to make them cry, to pray, to push, to organize, to move heaven and earth. I'm losing control. I think I might get tired. I'm sorry.

This is a hard fight, but above me are all the eyes, all the doctors, all the medicines, all the attention, all the friends of friends of friends. My treatment is being evaluated the same from Spain and Ecuador, as from the United States, who have made a "commission by WhatsApp" with those on the Island and everyone agrees that nothing is being spared.

If you add to that my warrior lineage, son of Juana, my inexhaustible energy, my unlimited faith, my well-oiled fighting machine, then I can say that this one either won't be "shit that tears your underwear". But… but, it's a hard disease to deal with, I repeat, and right now I'm weak. Urinating, emptying the toilet, bathing, getting up, are costing me. Answering calls leaves me wiped out, as if I were cutting cane under the sun...

That's why I'm making this post, because so far there hasn't been a minute when 10, 20 messages don't arrive. And that's with Facebook just finding out. It's the very same and beautiful madness of the miracle of friendship, but which at this very moment attacks my health. I promise to give a report of my situation every day. You can write whatever you want and I will try little to read, but I won't be able to respond. Not now. My heart needs rest, I must take care of it very well, it's my magic box, I can't put it at risk much more, if it gets tangled on me... I know you'll understand. I'm leaving you the report from this morning, because a promise is a debt. I love you all.

Report I
Yesterday somewhat sluggish. I suppose from the first blow of antibiotics and other medications. Any physical effort makes me cough like a wild colt, and it takes me a while to relax and think that the air will actually reach me to breathe. I wasn't very sure if after my disgust and my insistence on cleanliness I finally found myself mentally ready, with energy to release what I'd accumulated and bathe, but ¡Hallelujah!!!!! Of course, after the bath I was left asking for extra oxygen.

I slept with saturation at 95!! I slept peacefully. Today a new day began, they gave me an injection in the belly that hurt so much I forgot to ask what it was (I later found out it was the lifesaving heparin). First round of antibiotics, 24 hours. Pills all for the pressure which remains controlled. Ready for the fight. Yesterday I didn't feel it much, truth be told, today I'm almost myself again.