As the presidential palace rocked and shuddered under the impact of artillery fire and exchanges of gunfire and agonized screams echoed in the distance, President Raúl Ibárruri Guzmán thought: It's all over. Everything I have worked for...everything I have fought for...the cause to which I dedicated my life...it's all gone.
He should have sensed this coming months ago. Now, it was too late. The realization dawned on him that this would be the last day of his life. Yet it was not fear that gripped him, but a world-weary resignation. He sat quietly in his study, his expression pensive, as he nervously fiddled with an unlit cigarette. His hands were shaking badly. He could feel the tears coming on, threatening to burst forth, but he held them back, like a dam preventing a flood. He was an intensely emotional man, as anyone who had heard one of his public speeches could attest to. Yet no one had ever seen him cry. He hated to cry, even when he was alone...and he was not about to start now, even though he wanted to. He would not give his enemies the satisfaction.
His election to the presidency four years ago had been the happiest moment of his life. After nearly half a century of tireless advocacy — on the streets, in jail, in exile, in Congress — on behalf of the downtrodden, he had finally sought that most coveted office: President of the Republic. It was a day that many people - including him - never dreamed would come, but it had. He was the first left-of-center President the country had in over thirty years, and certainly the first one who openly proclaimed himself a Marxist.
The honeymoon did not last. Just weeks after his inauguration, wildcat strikes paralyzed the country; street fights between communist and anticommunist paramilitary groups broke out daily; the conservative-dominated Congress and courts stonewalled most of his legislation; and the economy went into a tailspin. As unemployment and inflation skyrocketed to stratospheric levels, the government blamed hoarders, speculators, economic saboteurs, and greedy capitalists; the opposition blamed the government's statist economic policies; others blamed it on bad luck. At any rate, he had watched in horror as the country became mired in a severe recession. Shortages of basic consumer goods were acute; rationing was introduced; stringent price controls produced a vibrant black market.
He became public enemy number one for both the far-left and the far-right, albeit for entirely different reasons.
Thwarted by a hostile legislature, he was forced to rule by decree; he issued hundreds over a four year period, many of them of dubious legality. The courts invalidated most of them, yet he dismissed the courts as "bourgeoise relics of a bygone era" and ignored their rulings. Meanwhile, the country's economy continued to fall like a rock; society became increasingly polarized, to such an extent that even long time friendships were ruined by political differences; the crime rate steadily escalated; the President's approval rating plummeted. As the nation became mired deeper and deeper into crisis, more and more voices clamored for somebody to "do something" about the President. The Chamber of Deputies issued resolutions condemning the President for his "flagrant violations of the rule of law"; the courts, too, condemned the President, but he ignored them both.
Emboldened by the President's increasingly radical rhetoric, his supporters began illegally squatting on rural properties and evicting the owners at gunpoint. The President began to nationalize industries, both big and small, left and right. Most of them went bankrupt almost immediately due to incompetence, mismanagement, bureaucratic inertia, and corruption. The unemployment rate hovered at almost 30%.
Discontent swelled in the armed forces. Rumors of an impending coup d'état spread like wildfire. To placate the military, President Ibárruri stacked his cabinet with military officers.
But it was too little, too late.
The day of reckoning had come.
And so, here he sat, listening to the city become a battlefield. Fighter jets strafed the palace, blasting open the entrance and shaking the whole building. The power went out, and Ibárruri fought panic as he was plunged in darkness. The sound of gunfire became closer.
"President Ibárruri! On behalf of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Tevego, I, General Agustín Scherer Uribe, order your immediate and unconditional surrender. Surrender peacefully and you will be spared. You have five minutes to respond."
It was an empty warning, though, because there was no cessation in the sound of gunfire; indeed, it grew louder still. Soon the sounds were right outside his office, as he heard his loyal aides being gunned down.
He thought: This is it. Long live the working people. Long live Tevego.
He planted the barrel of his revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
That evening, graphic footage of the late President's body was displayed, followed by a terse message: "People of Tevego, on behalf of our Republic, we, the Armed Forces, have liberated our fatherland from the scourge of Marxism and assumed full command of the government. The courts will remain in session. Both chambers of Congress are hereby dissolved until further notice. Thank you."
