13 August 2020 ~ 10 Comentarios

Caída en picado

Por Alonso Correa

En 2008, ocurrió la peor crisis económica que sufrió España. Crisis de la cual aún, a día de hoy, casi 12 años después, se siguen viendo retazos de esta catástrofe. Un derrumbe del 2.6% del producto interno bruto (PIB) español que le costó el empleo a más de 6 millones de personas, alrededor del 26% de la población en ese momento, y causó más de un millón de desahucios.

En 2020, luego de la crisis sanitaria en España se ha visto un desplome del 18.5% del PIB. Esta bajada es 7.11 veces mayor que la que sufrió el país hace 12 años. Lo que esto podría significar es 7.11 veces más desempleados, 7.11 veces más desahucios y 7.11 veces más trabajo para salir de ella.

¿Qué está haciendo el glorioso gobierno social-comunista de progreso para contrarrestar la hecatombe en la que han metido al país? Negarlo. Negarlo todo como hace 12 años. Mentir acerca de los datos. Desviar el odio hacia sus opositores, que llevan casi 5 años fuera del poder. Y crear cortinas de humo para seguir gobernando.

La última de estas cortinas es la supuesta huida del rey emérito Juan Carlos I. El viaje del monarca a República Dominicana ha sido más mediático que los nuevos casos de irregularidades financieras y posible corrupción de uno de los partidos en el poder, Unidas Podemos, y de su líder Pablo Iglesias o que el caso ERE del actual partido en el gobierno, PSOE, donde funcionarios socialistas utilizaron más de 680 millones de euros de ayudas a los desempleados para pagar drogas, almuerzos y cuentas en prostíbulos.

Pero, ¿por qué digo “supuesta huida”? Porque Juan Carlos I no ha sido condenado por ningún delito. Porque su salida del país fue debida a las grandes presiones antimonárquicas de los partidos al poder. Porque esto es un intento de ayudar a su hijo, el actual rey Felipe VI. Porque así se evitará una mayor crispación social en un país ya dividido por la ideología marxista.

Y, ¿por qué quieren tumbar la monarquía? Porque es el último bastión que les queda por tomar. Porque la realeza es la última cadena que los contiene para el poder absoluto, el control del ejército y la depuración de disidentes. Porque el rey es la imagen viva de una España unida. Porque demostró su valía durante el estado de alarma consiguiendo numerosas donaciones para el país. Porque saben que la Casa Real es una institución capaz de opacar con grandes aciertos su ineptitud en el gobierno.

Son por estas razones que los aliados de Chávez, los apadrinados de Castro y los colaboradores de la dictadura iraní desean tumbar esta institución. Porque odian todo lo que representa. Porque en los aciertos de la monarquía se encuentran las debilidades de sus ponzoñosas ideas.

Claro está que el exmonarca no es un ejemplo a seguir. Su adicción por las mujeres, su lujoso estilo de vida y sus múltiples escándalos han sido los agravantes de esta persecución. Pero fueron más sus aciertos, su gran carisma, sus inolvidables anécdotas, su liderazgo y su recordado “¿Por qué no te callas!” contra Chávez.

Hasta que los infiltrados de Maduro no se vean encerrados en sus propias mentiras, la Casa Real no estará libre de embestidas contra su jurisprudencia. Por eso utilizan todos los medios que tengan a su disposición para arremeter contra esa imagen que tanto aborrecen. Es por eso que desde hace días solo se habla del exmandatario en los noticieros. Pero su persecución ha fallado y seguirá fallando. El pueblo sigue vitoreando a la monarquía, mientras que ellos solo reciben caceroladas a domicilio. Es por eso que se grita ¡Viva el rey!

10 Responses to “Caída en picado”

  1. razón vs instinto 13 August 2020 at 3:03 pm Permalink

    Lo más certero que he leído sobre el tema Juan Carlos I.
    Se agradece.
    La izquierda “no revolucionaria” ataca las bases de la libertad: las instituciones.
    Las abordan y las hacen suyas cuando les es posible o las destruyen cuando no.

  2. Manuel 13 August 2020 at 8:29 pm Permalink

    a teen who made a daring escape from Cuba—in the frigid belly of a transatlantic DC-8 jet
    BY ARMANDO SOCARRAS RAMIREZ,

    AS TOLD TO DENIS FODOR AND JOHN REDDY

    • Manuel 13 August 2020 at 8:30 pm Permalink

      The jet engines of the Iberia Airlines DC-8 thundered in an earsplitting crescendo as the big plane taxied toward where we huddled in the tall grass just off the end of the runway at Havana’s José Martí Airport. For months, my friend Jorge Pérez Blanco and I had been planning to stow away in a wheel well on this flight, No. 904, Iberia’s weekly nonstop run from Havana to Madrid. Now, in the late afternoon of June 3, 1969, our moment had come.
      We realized that we were pretty young to be taking such a big gamble; I was 17, Jorge 16. But we were both determined to escape from Cuba, and our plans had been made carefully. We knew that departing airliners taxied to the end of the 11,500-foot runway, stopped momentarily after turning around, and then roared at full throttle down the runway to take off. We wore rubber-soled shoes to aid us in crawling up the wheels and carried ropes to secure ourselves inside the wheel well. We had also stuffed cotton in our ears as protection against the shriek of the four jet engines. Now we lay sweating with fear as the massive craft swung into its about-face, the jet blast flattening the grass all around us. “Let’s run!’’ I shouted to Jorge.
      We dashed onto the runway and sprinted toward the left-hand wheels of the momentarily stationary plane. As Jorge began to scramble up the 42-inch-high tires, I saw there was not room for us both in the single well. “I’ll try the other side!” I shouted. I climbed quickly onto the right wheels, grabbed a strut, and, twisting and wriggling, pulled myself into the semidark well. The plane began rolling immediately, and I grabbed some machinery to keep from falling out. The roar of the engines nearly deafened me.
      As we became airborne, the huge double wheels, scorching hot from takeoff, began folding into the compartment. I tried to flatten myself against the overhead as they came closer and closer; then, in desperation, I pushed at them with my feet. But they pressed powerfully upward, squeezing me against the roof of the well. Just when I felt that I would be crushed, the wheels locked in place and the bay doors beneath them closed, plunging me into darkness. So there I was, my five-foot-four, 140-pound frame literally wedged in amid a spaghetti-like maze of conduits and machinery. I could not move enough to tie myself to anything.
      THE DOORS DROPPED OPEN. I HELD ON FOR DEAR LIFE, SWINGING OVER THE ABYSS.
      Then, before I had time to catch my breath, the bay doors suddenly dropped open again and the wheels stretched out into their landing position. I held on for dear life, swinging over the abyss, wondering whether I had been spotted, whether even now the plane was turning back to hand me over to Castro’s police.
      By the time the wheels began retracting again, I had seen a bit of extra space among all the machinery where I could safely squeeze. Now I knew there was room for me, even though I could scarcely breathe. After a few minutes, I touched one of the tires and found that it had cooled off. I swallowed some aspirin tablets against the head-splitting noise and began to wish that I had worn something warmer than my light sport shirt and green fatigues.
      Up in the cockpit of the DC-8, Captain Valentin Vara del Rey, 44, had settled into the routine of the overnight flight, which would last eight hours and 20 minutes. Takeoff had been normal, with the aircraft and its 147 passengers, plus a crew of ten, lifting off at 170 mph. But right after liftoff something unusual had happened. A light on the instrument panel had remained on, indicating improper retraction of the landing gear.
      I LAY IN FREEZING DARKNESS MORE THAN FIVE MILES ABOVE THE ATLANTIC OCEAN.
      Are you having difficulty? the control tower asked.
      “Yes,” replied Vara del Rey. “There is an indication that the right wheel hasn’t closed properly. I’ll repeat the procedure.”
      The captain lowered the landing gear, then raised it again. This time, the red light blinked out.
      Dismissing the incident as a minor malfunction, the captain turned his attention to climbing to assigned cruising altitude. On leveling out, he observed that the temperature outside was 41 degrees below zero.
      SHIVERING UNCONTROLLABLY FROM the bitter cold, I wondered if Jorge had made it into the other wheel well, and I began thinking about what had brought me to this desperate situation. I thought about my parents and my girlfriend, María Esther, and wondered what they would think when they learned what I had done.
      My father is a plumber, and I have four brothers and a sister. We are poor, like most Cubans. Our house in Havana has just one large room. Food was scarce and strictly rationed. About the only fun I had was playing baseball and walking with María Esther along the seawall. When I turned 16, the government shipped me off to vocational school in Betancourt, a sugarcane village in Matanzas Province. There, I was supposed to learn welding, but classes were often interrupted to send us off to plant cane.
      Young as I was, I was tired of living in a state that controlled everyone’s life. I dreamed of freedom. I wanted to become an artist and live in the United States, where I had an uncle. I knew that thousands of Cubans had gotten to America and done well there. As the time approached when I would be drafted, I thought more and more of trying to get away. But how? I knew that two planeloads of people were allowed to leave Havana for Miami each day, but there was a waiting list of 800,000 for these flights. Also, if you signed up to leave, the government looked at you as a gusano—a worm— and life became even less bearable.
      f087-01
      My hopes seemed futile. Then I met Jorge at a Havana baseball game. We got to talking. I found out that Jorge, like me, was disillusioned with Cuba. “The system takes away your freedom—forever,” he complained.
      Jorge told me about the weekly flight to Madrid. Twice we went to the airport to reconnoiter. Once, a DC-8 took off and flew directly over us; the wheels were still down, and we could see into the well compartments. “There’s enough room in there for me,” I remember saying.
      These were my thoughts as I lay in the freezing darkness more than five miles above the Atlantic Ocean. By now we had been in the air about an hour, and I was getting light-headed. Was it really only a few hours earlier that I had bicycled through the rain with Jorge and hidden in the grass? Was Jorge safe? My parents? Maria Esther? I drifted into unconsciousness.
      The sun rose over the Atlantic like a great golden globe, its rays glinting off the silver-and-red fuselage of Iberia’s DC-8 as it crossed the European coast high over Portugal. With the end of the 5,563-mile flight in sight, Captain Vara del Rey began his descent toward Madrid’s Barajas Airport. Arrival would be at 8 a.m. local time, he told his passengers over the intercom, and the weather in Madrid was sunny and pleasant.
      f088-01
      Socarras Ramirez in 1969, in his hospital bed in Madrid (BETTMANN/GETTY IMAGES)
      Shortly after passing over Toledo, Vara del Rey let down his landing gear. As always, the maneuver was accompanied by a buffeting as the wheels hit the slipstream and a 200 mph turbulence swirled through the wheel wells. Now the plane went into its final approach; now, a spurt of flame and smoke from the tires as the DC-8 touched down at about 140 mph. It was a perfect landing—no bumps. After a brief postflight check, Vara del Rey walked down the ramp steps and stood by the nose of the plane waiting for a car to pick him up, along with his crew.
      Nearby, there was a sudden, soft plop as the frozen body of Armando Socarras Ramirez fell to the concrete apron beneath the plane. José Rocha Lorenzana, a security guard, was the first to reach the crumpled figure. “When I touched his clothes, they were frozen as stiff as wood,” Rocha Lorenzana said. “All he did was make a strange sound, a kind of moan.”
      “I couldn’t believe it at first,” Vara del Rey said. “But then I went over to see him. He had ice over his nose and mouth. And his color …” As he watched the unconscious boy being bundled into a truck, the captain kept exclaiming to himself, “Impossible! Impossible!”
      THE FIRST THING I remember after losing consciousness was hitting the ground at the Madrid airport. Then I blacked out again and woke up later at the Gran Hospital de la Beneficencia in downtown Madrid, more dead than alive. When they took my temperature, it was so low that it did not even register on the thermometer. “Am I in Spain?” was my first question. And then, “Where’s Jorge?” (Jorge is believed to have been knocked down by the jet blast while trying to climb into the other wheel well, and to have been put in prison in Cuba.)
      Doctors said later that my condition was comparable to that of a patient undergoing “deep freeze” surgery—a delicate process performed only under carefully controlled conditions. Dr. José María Pajares, who cared for me, called my survival a medical miracle, and, in truth, I feel lucky to be alive. (Editor’s note: Experts cited at the time of Socarras Ramirez’s flight estimated that at an altitude of 29,000 feet and a temperature of 41 degrees below zero—the approximate conditions in the wheel bed that day—a person would be expected to live only a few minutes. An engineer said the chances of not being crushed by the retracting double wheels were “one in a million.”)
      A few days after my escape, I was up and around the hospital, playing cards with my police guard and reading stacks of letters from all over the world. I especially liked one from a girl in California. “You are a hero,” she wrote, “but not very wise.”
      My uncle, who lives in New Jersey, telephoned and invited me to come live with him. The International Rescue Committee arranged my passage and has continued to help me.
      I am fine now. I live with my uncle and go to school to learn English. I still hope to study to be an artist. I want to be a good citizen and contribute something to this country, for I love it here. You can smell freedom in the air.
      I often think of my friend Jorge. We both knew the risk we were taking and that we might be killed in our attempt to escape Cuba. But it seemed worth the chance. Even knowing the risks, I would try to escape again if I had to.
      Armando Socarras Ramirez is now 69 and lives in Virginia. He retired from the transportation industry. He and his wife have four children and 12 grandchildren.
      THIS STORY originally appeared in the January 1970 issue of Reader’s Digest. ■

  3. Manuel 14 August 2020 at 9:35 pm Permalink

    opinion polls taken in the 1960s and ’70s found that everyday Americans were far from universally enamored of the space race. Shortly after the Apollo 11 mission was completed, in July 1969, only 53 percent of Americans believed that the moon landing was worth the tax dollars invested. (According to Forbes, the Apollo program cost about $25 billion, or about $150 billion adjusted for inflation.) Ten years later, another poll found that only 41 percent of Americans felt the benefits of the space program ultimately outweighed its costs.

    • Manuel 14 August 2020 at 9:38 pm Permalink

      On July 3, 1776, John Adams sent his wife exciting news: The Second Continental Congress had approved a resolution for American independence. It was such a historic moment that Adams wrote, “The second day of July, 1776 … will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival,” complete with “pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other.”

      • Manuel 14 August 2020 at 9:39 pm Permalink

        The adoption of what we call the Lee Resolution on July 2, 1776, marked the moment the 13 colonies were effectively independent from Great Britain. After a short wait while the Declaration of Independence was written on parchment by Timothy Matlack, a Pennsylvania clerk renowned for his good handwriting, John Hancock and his colleagues signed it on August 2, 1776—a full month after John Adams inaccurately predicted July 2 would be as celebrated as the Fourth of July is today.
        So what’s July 4 got to recommend it? It was actually the day that the Continental Congress finally agreed on and approved the famous language in the declaration. In other words, the Fourth of July is really a celebration of unity.

  4. Atanasio Estévez 15 August 2020 at 7:43 am Permalink

    No soy español ni mucho menos monárquico.Tampoco comulgo con la idea de que la agenda de la izquierda española esté redactada por Caracas o La Habana. La fuentes del marxismo en España son propias, más antiguas que las americanas y en cualquier caso tienen un fuerte componente de resentimiento y victimismo en conexión con los sucesos de la guerra civil. En honor a la verdad, sin embargo, ha de admitirse que la institución monarquica fue el actor fundamental de la tres excepciones políticas en la construcción de los modernos estados nación en Europa: Inglaterra, España y Francia. Sólo si se mira bien, caso por caso, se puede apreciar el valor de este logro que, en el ejemplo español, fue consumado en el siglo XV con el matrimonio de los Reyes Católicos. Una solución más que salomónica que no conoció disputas sucesorias al estilo de la Guerra de las dos Rosas o las agitaciones posteriores a la extinción de los Valois y el ascenso de la Casa de Borbón al trono de Francia. Alemanes e italianos hubieron de esperar hasta el siglo XIX para poder practicar, por dolorosísimos caminos, lo que en España era una realidad desde hacía siglos. Otras naciones del Centro y Este de Europa lo consiguieron apenas en el siglo pasado. Hoy Francia es republicana, mientras que Reino Unido y España son monarquías limitadas; naciones todas ejemplarmente democráticas. Entonces, ¿dónde reside la raíz del debate, en este siglo XXI, entre las virtudes del republicanismo vs. la monarquía? En las sutilizas de la teoría. Emplazar a una nación como España a una decisión tan pueril como esa no puede ser tomado más que como una discusión bizantina. La monarquía es una institución fuertemente arraigada en la historia y el derecho hispanos y su posición en la llamada transición española no puede ser pasada por alto. El ex monarca Juan Carlos no es más que un hombre. Dejemos que perviva la institución allí donde los hombres fallan, puesto que estos últimos son prescindibles. Medio milenio de unidad nacional demuestran con vehemencia que España es Una Nación. Una nación que en cuanto a los derechos otorgados a las regiones podría poner en serios aprietos a la República Francesa, que desde 1789 aplica una política de represión y desconocimiento de las identidades regionales (a propósito de lo cual desarrolló una división político administrativa por departamentos que pretende ignorar las realidades históricas). Quizás el independentismo republicano de ciertos políticos catalanes no ha tomado nota de esto, o bien no desean hacerlo. ¿Por qué el catalán no es lengua oficial en el Rosellón? En realidad ya ni siquiera se puede afirmar que el catalán sea una lengua vernácula allí. Tomen nota. Tampoco son cooficiales con el francés el gascón, el vasco, el provenzal, el occitano, el bretón o el alsaciano y ni soñar con gobiernos y parlamentos autonómicos. Tomen nota. ¿Qué sería Cataluña desgajada de España? Una republiqueta arrinconada entre el Mediterráneo y dos naciones más grandes, que defiende una concepción tribal y habla una lengua que nadie más entiende, ni interesa entender. Esto es exactamente lo que sucedería si la Monarquía fuese amputada por cualquier medio de la institucionalidad española. La escición de Cataluña abriría las puertas para que otras regiones reclamasen “soluciones” similares. Así retrocedería España a la época de los Reinos de Taifas, en el nombre de la democracia. Ninguna nación puede sostener un progreso razonable aplicando cambios radicales a su ordenamiento jurídico cada quince o veinte años; más bien se debe perseverar en el perfeccionamiento y expresión práctica de las leyes, que al fin y al cabo, es la razón por las que éstas existen en primer lugar. Los españoles deben decidir con responsabilidad, puesto que gozan de amplias libertades. No me considero con derecho a emitir juicios al respecto, solo puedo redundar en lo obvio: si juntos no lo consiguieron, separados no llegarán más lejos. En este aspecto son similares los destinos de España y Reino Unido. Toda su potencial influencia y, por consiguiente, liderazgo, descansa en los lazos espirituales, culturales, idiomáticos, históricos e institucionales con las naciones hispanas y anglosajonas de ultramar. Las naciones hispanas son un Bloque Natural tanto como de hecho lo son las anglosajonas. Nos faltaría el andamiaje institucional sobre el cual ampararnos, al estilo de la Commonwealth, puesto que nuestra historia sociológica ha sido menos eficiente que la británica. El espejismo de la unidad europea, una consecuencia de la Pax Americana, se difumina al compás de la creciente debilidad de Washington y la pugna entre las indentidades tribales del interior de Europa. La buena noticia es que, de las tres unidades tradicionales de la Europa Occidental, dos (Reino Unido y España) son los ejes espirituales de sus respectivos mundos, hacia los cuales pueden volcarse nuevamente ante la evidencia del desastroso matrimonio europeo. Francia, sin colonias de poblamiento devenidas en repúblicas en las que verse reflejada, está llamada a encabezar la unidad europea, lo cual resucitará el viejo conflicto franco alemán y con él, probablemente todos los fantasmas que Europa creía superados.El individuo tal vez más trascendental en la Civilización Occidental dijo una vez: “una casa dividida contra sí misma no prevalece”. ¿Podrá España ser un actor global, más o menos como en los tiempos de sabiduría política de Isabel y Fernando? Mucho dependerá de los españoles. Le roi est mort…

  5. Julian Perez 15 August 2020 at 2:17 pm Permalink

    “Jexit”: movimiento de judíos que abandonan el partido demócrata. No se pierdan el discurso.

    https://israelunwired.com/jews-democrats-are-finally-leaving-the-party-of-fdr/

  6. manuel 17 August 2020 at 3:23 pm Permalink

    posiblemente estos últimos 6 meses

    sean los que más logren transformar la cosa humana, relativo al ser humano, desde la caía de la URSS, y este auge de las tecnologías informáticas con toda la revolución que ha causado en los flujos de información, democratizacion de las fuentes, y modo de relacionarnos; pués en este encierro la gente ha aprendido muchas cosas buenas, y ha abierto los ojos hacia realidades que antes no les resultaban tan relevantes.

    En este contexto es imposible saber como la masa de ciudadanos estadounidense va a votar dentro de 11 semanas. El que diga que sabe, está mintiendo.

  7. Manuel 17 August 2020 at 11:25 pm Permalink

    Spain is averaging some 5,000 new cases a day, partly because a lack of qualified contact tracers is allowing the disease to spread unseen. Spain’s total case count is now above 323,000, compared with about 312,000 for the U.K. The Spanish government defended its reopening, saying most new cases are asymptomatic and hospitals are far from being overwhelmed. Cases are spiking elsewhere in Europe: France is registering some 1,640 infections a day, up from 272 in May, and has made masks mandatory in crowded outdoor areas in Paris.


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