Finally, Fidel Castro has died. I had been waiting for this moment since I was a small child, for as long as I’ve had awareness to sense the pain and horror he represented for those around me. It would be, I always knew, one of the memorable moments of my life.

Amid the whirlwind of calls, press requests, booking a flight to Miami, and packing, my daughter called and asked if I was happy. I had been letting personal calls go to voice mail, so she caught me off guard. I had to admit I was not happy. Perhaps, I explained, it was because I had only been on work mode.

As I hung up, I thought it must be that I knew nothing would soon change in Cuba, as Fidel’s 85-year-old brother Raúl has been and is in control and a succession plan is underway for when he exits the scene. I could, however, find contained hope that the stage might have finally be set for changes that could destabilize the system and eventually undo the dictatorship.

Surprisingly, I also shivered thinking of Fidel facing his final judgment and vowed to pray for his wretched soul. But, mostly, I felt a deep sadness thinking of the pain and misery this man and his regime have caused millions, in Cuba and throughout the world, for decades.

My mind turned to the thousands of victims of death and disappearance by the Castro regime recorded by the Cuba Archive Truth and Memory Project, which is my life’s work. It has so far documented 7,000 of the tens of thousands of lives actually lost. Each record on our database is about a real person, about a life lost too soon, loved ones left behind grieving and of a destiny forever changed, a history woven by thousands of incidents together over 57 long years.

Their memories are always with me. How I dread the mental image of sharks eating people escaping the island in flimsy rafts and of so many drowning or dying of dehydration in awful ordeals or of the hundreds of brave young men who faced the firing squad, many crying “Long live a free Cuba” or “Long live Christ the King.”

I thought of the political prisoners who spent decades in Castro´s dungeons and of dozens still there for any ridiculous variation of “economic crime,” such as having a bag of cement to fix their home or simply not having a job (“pre-criminal dangerousness”).

Also I reflected on the Baptist minister who just chose a sorrowful exile to protect his family and of the Catholic priest who might soon have to flee to save his own life, of the Ladies in White beaten each Sunday simply for marching peacefully to advocate for political prisoners, and of the blind lawyer struggling to document atrocities despite so many obstacles.

And I thought of Cubans today, standing in lines to eat whatever is dispensed from an insufficient ration book, of making a salary of less than $25 a month and unable to find aspirin at a clinic, and of so many young people trapped in a life of hopelessness.

I evoked my mother, father, grandparents, uncles, who left us without seeing this moment. Almost every Cuban I know or meet anywhere in the world has a story of loss, deprivation, and travail. The losses and sorrow extend to wherever in the globe the Castros exported violence, terrorism, and subversion. It is no exaggeration to estimate the direct cost in lives of the Castro brand at above half a million.

As I went about packing and fielding calls, CNN was featuring a documentary by Sanjay Gupta on the “wonderful” Cuban medical system, a slap to all the victims of Mr. Castro, dead or alive. Dr. Gupta`s Potemkin tour took him to a freshly painted family clinic, one with actual doctors (most are earning dollars overseas for the regime) and even with a working MRI machine.

I know how much money, effort, and counter-intelligence goes into these displays of propaganda. Therein lies Fidel Castro´s only accomplishment: creating a Stalinist apparatus of internal control to stay in power almost six decades and a gigantic machinery of influence and propaganda to co-opt and confuse the outside world. Herein lies our continued challenge, to tell the truth until Cubans are free, even if it takes 57 more years.

Mrs. Werlau is the co-founder and Executive Director of Cuba Archive Truth and Memory Project, which includes her personal story.