Our Charlie, Hegel

It was 1981, and I had barely survived my first year at the University of Havana, where I was studying chemistry. The leap from high school to university had been a huge adjustment—not just for me, but for many others. In the fall of 1979, about 250 of us began the program together. By the second year, fewer than 50 remained.

That year we were introduced to a new subject: Philosophy. Every subject has to start somewhere, and we began with the classics—their ideas, their conflicts, their strengths and weaknesses. But one question weighed heavily on us: why study philosophy at all? Shouldn’t we be focused on chemistry—the nature of substances, their reactions, the concepts of atoms, molecules, and bonds? That was the very first challenge we posed to our philosophy lecturer, and to us, it seemed perfectly legitimate.

The answer, fittingly, was philosophical. In the Soviet context, philosophy was meant to train us in analytical reasoning and critical thinking—by grappling with big questions about reality, knowledge, values, and existence. It was meant to sharpen our ability to challenge assumptions, build strong arguments, and develop a rigorous understanding of the world and our place in it. But the deeper purpose was political: to give us the intellectual tools to argue that our society was superior—more advanced, more humane, and more just for the poor and the weak—than capitalism.

The Ministry of Higher Education might have copied a good idea from the Soviets, but it contained a fatal flaw: once you teach people to think critically, they start thinking critically.

And so we did. Our knowledge grew, and with it came the exhilarating realization that we were free to think. That freedom became a mirror: it showed us not only the outside world but also ourselves—our flaws, our contradictions, our inconsistencies. With these tools, we could reason beyond ideology and glimpse truths that existed outside of preferences or politics, whether we liked them or not.

Restlessness grew, and it showed in class. Our questions became sharper, more genuine. The lecturers tried to contain us. “Your questions will be answered better when we study the Dictatorship of the Proletariat,” they would say.

But that was not what our Marxist ideologues had in mind.

Soon we reached the great German philosophers of the 18th and 19th centuries. Among them, Hegel stood out. His dialectical method—the idea that history, thought, and society move forward through conflict and resolution—was foundational. Even Marx, we learned, had once been a fervent Hegelian before shaping his own materialist view of the world.

Forgive the long introduction, but I want you to walk with me down memory lane, because it leads to someone unforgettable.

When we finally began studying Marx, we already possessed the very tools to question him—tools given to us in the same lectures. That was the beauty of being at a university: it was not just about chemistry, physics, or math, but about learning to debate, to listen, to challenge one another respectfully, truth against truth, in search of something greater.

And then there was him.

A fellow student who turned our philosophy lectures into electric debates. He was brilliant, fearless, and faithful to his beliefs. He knew chemistry, math, and physics, but he also knew Scripture, and he wielded both with equal mastery. He would argue with the lecturer in the hall and outside of it, surrounded by a crowd of students eager to listen, to laugh, to learn. You could see the frustration on the professor’s face, but he remained respectful—and for that, I still admire him.

But our fellow student was more than just sharp. He was a paladin.

I can no longer recall his name or even his face. But I remember his presence vividly: the courage, the conviction, the quick wit. He became our “Charlie.” One day, after a particularly fiery exchange, someone shouted, “This guy is like Hegel!” The name stuck. From then on, Charlie was Hegel, and he wore the nickname with pride.

He made us look forward to philosophy class. The hall itself felt alive, as if whispering that it had seen debates like these before.

But he was not destined to last.

In 1981, the Cuban government launched the Proceso de profundización—the “Deepening Process.” One of its aims was to purge education of dissent. The slogan was clear: “Universities are for Revolutionaries.”

Suddenly, our university became a hunting ground. Commissions led by the Communist Youth Association (UJC) and the Student Federation (FEU) were formed to expose those considered “unworthy” of a classroom seat, regardless of their merit. We watched as philosophical principles were bent and broken in front of us, all in the name of ideology. The lecture hall that had once echoed with debate fell silent.

These commissions held public hearings in the very place where we had studied philosophy. Every student was put to the test. Our Charlie—our Hegel—was no exception.

His fate was sealed before he spoke. His arguments did not matter. He was expelled from the University of Havana. Worse still, he was barred from attending any university, college, or technical school anywhere in Cuba.

Some of us whispered that it was unfair—I did too. But inside those hearings, we were persuaded that it was “necessary,” that it was for the purity of our institutions. Looking back, it was a tragic self-betrayal. If dissent was a crime, then we all should have been expelled.

Not long after, word spread that Hegel was safe. He had left Cuba for the United States.

And today, after hearing of Charlie Kirk’s assassination—for speaking, for debating—I felt compelled to tell this story. I don’t know what became of our Charlie. Maybe he built a new life, maybe he has a family, maybe he is successful. Wherever he is, I hope he is well.

This is the true story of our Charlie—our Hegel. So help me God.