There has been much said about the death of Fidel Castro.

There was jubilation in the streets of Miami, where exiled Cubans celebrated the passing of a monster - a man who crushed them of any hope, silenced dissent and dictated a lifetime of poverty for its people.

And endless platitudes from liberals and the left, elevating Castro to an icon, a 'legendary orator and revolutionary' (Justin Trudeau), a 'champion of social justice' (Corbyn) who would 'remain forever in the hearts of progressive mankind' (Kim Jung Un).

I came expecting to uncover the truth behind the monster.

Katie Hopkins poses in front of a shrine to Che Guevara and Fidel Castro in Havana, where thousands are mourning the latter's death

To mock the liberal press sat in Islington and Brooklyn, shopping at Whole Foods, cheering a man who even in death still has his people fed from ration books, searching about for milk.

To scorn the commie b*stard mentality where everyone is equal. If you are given equal share of virtually nothing, what exactly is there to celebrate?

To give voice to a people obliged into silence by a regime which has dictated a ten day period of mourning, just as it dictates every aspect of their lives.

But I have not found what I came for. I found something quite different.

It is not all pretty. The legacy of Castro on the daily lives of his people is a ruinous mess. Buildings searching for something to hold them upright, cars limping between one repair and the next, men openly offering their bodies for foreign cash, an exchange mechanism of sorts offered just as willingly by the women too - to earn the money to get by.

People queuing endlessly with their ration books, hoping for meat or milk, filling in the spaces with bread, patiently waiting by empty shelves.

I realise there are no shopping bags here, no people laden down with stuff.

Here the women carry one loaf, one bag of meat, one lime, one piece of fruit. Pieces of a difficult and time-consuming puzzle that is meal-time for a family.

And I wonder how they feel about squirrelling away through crumbling corridors to tiny rooms they share, hanging washing on their balconies barely clinging buildings. Falling, in slow motion over decades. Disconnected from the world - no internet, no cable tv, no power.

It is a country frozen in time. As if it has been hit by a nuclear blast - then repopulated with the hardy and determined. Finding a way to make things work amongst the rubble and ruin, a weird Orwellian nightmare.

But this is not a sad story either.

Katie signs a book of condolences dedicated to Castro. Locals are treating it as an oath to the Revolution in which they pledge to carry on the late dictator's regime

'I found the Cuban people to be strong, and fiercely proud of their way of life': Katie in front of another shrine to the late leader and with locals in Havana after signing the book of condolences

Because I found the Cuban people to be strong, and fiercely proud of their way of life.

Queuing in their thousands at the Revolution Square, I stood with them through the night as they waited in line. Queuing without complaint. Young and very old. Tiny babies in their Sunday best. Politely joining the back of the line, without hint of wanting to put themselves before others.

Many appeared to shed genuine tears.

'I'm devastated because it's as if my own father had died, he was like my second father. Everything we have, my education as a doctor, it's thanks to him,' said Maria del Carmen, 57, who had been standing in line since before dawn.

I went back early the next day. And again they were there. Fresh faces, prepared to stand endlessly in the heat to walk past his memorial in a square that has been central to Cuba's recent history, a place where Castro gave many of his lengthy speeches.

Mourners were bused in to Revolution Square to stand for hours to pay homage to Castro

Among the mourners was Belkis Meireles, a 65-year-old civil engineer who arrived two hours before the start.

'I am very sad. I came to pay homage to our father, friend, commander,' Meireles said. 'He was a man who freed us and sent doctors and teachers everywhere around the world.'

Some quietly confirm there is a pressure to attend the government's many staged events. A elderly man reflects on the buses which used to bring people to this same square to hear Castro speak. Buses which a local representative of the regime was expected to fill. Or be accountable for the consequences.

There are many quiet mutterings like this. Of farmers given cows to tend for milk by Castro's government - but acutely aware of their fate if one should be stolen or die.

Of drivers, who failed to pull over at speed for the Castro cavalcade - gunned down out of the road.

Of the curious disconnect between the ability to access rudimentary healthcare and education but not a toilet roll or milk.

And of a country so dependent on the foreign currency, that tourists remain first class citizens, locals forbidden from crossing the threshold of hotels or tourist spots. A glaring inequality which makes me feel uncomfortable.

It is an awkward take on social justice. A perverse notion of 'progressive mankind', frozen in time, buildings falling to ruin, all equally poor beneath the upper echelon of military, government and foreign cash.

And yet, these people do seem to truly love the leader they lost - however flawed. A father figure, who abandoned their kind ways often, but whose love was constant none-the-less. An unfaithful husband, whose love was true all the same.

And for every chapter of history which proves him to be monster, there is another page which lives on. Enduring values which you can find in the people today;

A woman cries while waiting in line at Revolution Square to pay tribute to Castro

Students of Havana University pay tribute to the late leader with a march. They carried signs to thank him for what he done for the country

Young children were among those who waited through the night in central Havana to pay their respects. Above, a girl in the town of Guanabacoa, on the city's outskirts, leaves a kiss for him at another shrine

Patriotism - manifest in their flag draped around shoulders, and precious currency - young women selling cakes, keen I take the notes home with me, to remind me of their country when I leave.

Pride - in a small island, the David to America's Goliath - who fearlessly prevails, against the odds.

And a strong sense of family, where people stand together, stay together, keep strong for each other to make things better.

A group of young men, appearing out of nowhere to make sure I received the correct change at a food stall, a woman offering me her umbrella as I queue in the sun.

I love what they have built here. I admire the invisible scaffolding in their society which keeps things calm amidst the chaos.

I find the freedom from things of our world to be as welcome as the endless freedom we are indulged with at home.

We have freedom to protest about everything, endless tolerance for multiculturalism which has translated to us living in Ghetto Kingdoms, systems of healthcare so sophisticated they will inevitably bankrupt themselves through our over-indulgence. Education systems so determined to support the stupid at the expense of the brightest, they are left to fail.

I wonder about it all.

We may believe we live in a sophisticated society enjoying more freedom than at any other time in history.