Rage from Within

Por Nelson

This sensational piece of love and death is totally veridic and shows the cruelty of a slave country by a dictator who without mercy oppress and kill the people from hunger, thirst, and injustice, violating the human rights, taking the Cuban people to suicide through the need and desperation. This book shows the real life of Cuba; it shows how the people is tortured, and without hope that one day they could be free or liberated from the yoke that make them die prematurely through suicide. And each day, the oppression against Cubans’ human rights grow. This book shows the inequality in Cuba compared with other countries that are not slave or ruled by a dictator. This piece is written following the sadness and suffering from Cuba.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 19 jun 2020
• ISBN: 9781643345048

Vista previa del libro

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Rage from Within

Nelson

Copyright © 2020 Nelson

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64334-503-1 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64334-504-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Tabla de contenido

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Oh! Reader and friend, this deals with a part of history, in truth, a very sad yet an important element of life.

One might appreciate its relation, not so pretty in reality. Read on to the end, and in it, you will find one more phase in understanding that which is natural in our life.

—Anonymous

CHAPTER ONE

Cuba, my adorable island, is surrounded by the sea, with its head directed toward Central America in the west and her tail toward Africa in the east. It’s like a sleeping crocodile—alert and sensitive.

My beautiful island stretches gently beneath the Caribbean’s tropical sky. Cuba is a paradise to all who see it. They lust after its beauty—once seen, always remembered.

This story begins in a time of great turmoil and strife—at the threshold of great governmental, socialistic, and revolutionary changes.

In December 1956, Fidel Castro and his companions invaded the Provincia de Oriente to establish a base in the Sierra Maestra near the Pico Turquino. From there, they prepared to fight the Batista government.

Under the pressures of the revolution and hearing that Castro’s revolutionaries were in the city of Oriente, my mother went to visit her parents there, taking my little brother and me. I was five years old, and Alberto was two. We were too young to know what a revolution was. All we knew was that we were going to our grandparents’ farm, where we could run more freely than in the city.

My grandparents were old, hearty, strong people whose ideals came from old Spanish customs and American dreams. To them, all governments, past or present, were equal.

Our homecoming was filled with great festivity, including cookies, candies, and delicious food.

We were there only a few days when we heard a group of soldiers coming from a Batista scouting party. My grandparents immediately gave them food and shelter. The soldiers said they needed to find the shortest way to the mountain range. They thanked my grandparents for their help, then left. My grandparents were pleased to have helped their government.

Those soldiers seemed very nervous, my mother said to Grandma.

That’s the way they are. Every once in a while, one comes who takes the time to sit and talk, Grandma replied. They did seem overly anxious though. Oh well, let’s finish the washing before it gets dark.

Two days later, the soldiers returned. We heard shots in the distance and learned the soldiers were pursuing terrorists. Later, we heard Batista’s men shot and killed more than twenty of Castro’s revolutionaries. That slaughter became known as Batista’s Christmas present, an example of Cuban black humor. Batista also ordered several youths hung from trees along the highway outside Holguin. That began a series of terrorist and counterterrorist strikes.

Soon, traitors learned my grandparents had helped the soldiers. I’d always remember that day. We woke to banging sounds; it was the most horrible day of my life. Soldiers swarmed in, and we were ordered to stand before them for questioning. They accused us of committing crimes, including giving arms to Castro’s enemies, aiding them, and giving Batista’s soldiers secret information. The men demanded to know when the soldiers would be back.

Please, señor, Grandpa said, we are peaceful peasants and have hurt no one.

The captain took out his bayonet and stabbed Grandpa in the stomach.

My god! Grandma screamed. You killed him! You killed him!

"Get back, vieja, or you’ll get the same."

We were too frightened to move. The captain ordered his men to search for anyone else. My mother had gotten up early that day to wash clothes. The soldiers found her and savagely raped her, then left her for dead.

Mamá! Mamá! I shouted. I heard her screaming outside the house.

Grandma was bent over Grandpa. When she heard mother’s cries, she grabbed a machete from the wall and swung at the captain. Another soldier shot her.

Don’t shoot! Grandpa said.

The soldier shot him too.

"Abuelito! Abuelita!" Grandpa and Grandma were dead. I was so terrified my legs wouldn’t move. Everywhere I looked, I saw blood. What crime had my grandparents committed? All they had done was give food and shelter, and they died for it. Even at the age of five, I knew what dead meant. They would never move again.

Suddenly, I ran as fast as I could and hid behind a matojo bush. The soldiers didn’t even notice. They tore the house apart. From where I sat, I could see the garden behind the house. Mamá lay there. I tried to see if anyone was near her, but she was hidden behind some plants. When she finally tried to move, a soldier kicked her.

Habla, puta, dónde están esos malditos? (Speak, bitch, where are those damn rebels?)

Please don’t hurt me, she said. Alberto cried loudly. Where are my sons? Where’s my baby?

She struggled to rise, and I saw blood running between her legs. She staggered toward the sound of Alberto’s voice. His crying grew louder. She fell, then got to her feet again.

"Dios mío!" Mamá began to scream. The sound was so intense I trembled, then I put my fist in my mouth so I wouldn’t scream in fear. Alberto hung by his legs from a metal fence.

"Mi hijo!" (My son!) Mamá ran toward him, but a soldier grabbed her.

"No, señora. He pointed his machine gun at Alberto. Tell us where those bastards are, or we’ll shoot that kid."

The soldier had one arm around her waist, and he squeezed her breast with his hand. Mamá cried out in pain.

Please, I don’t know anything, Mamá said. I don’t live here. My sons and I were visiting my parents. Please let my baby go. He’s only two years old.

Another soldier walked to her and gently touched her face. He pulled open her dress and exposed her breasts. You have five minutes to decide, he said. Where are Batista’s bastards? He caressed her breasts.

Mamá fought like a demon. She dug her fingernails into his face, leaving bloody gashes behind. The soldier slapped her so hard she fell.

"Maldita puta!" (Damn bitch!) he cursed.

Mamá wiped the blood from her face. Tears filled her eyes.

Have mercy, she begged. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t hurt my baby. He’s innocent. Do what you wish to me, but don’t hurt him.

The captain’s face twisted in rage. "Fuego! Disparen al niño!" (Fire! Shoot the child!)

Mamá watched as bullets tear Alberto apart, then she screamed, and fainted. The soldier who held her by the waist pulled out his pistol to shoot her.

Let her live, the captain said. Let her feel the pain I feel, knowing she lost a son. She’ll live to regret her treason. She’ll suffer the agony of his death all the rest of her life.

I didn’t understand everything I saw, but when the soldiers left, I ran to Mamá. She was so still I thought she was dead.

"Mamácita, Mamácita, por favor despiertate! (Mommy! Mommy, please wake up!) I laid my head on her chest and cried. Mamácita, (Mommy), please open your eyes."

I didn’t know how long I was there. Time became meaningless. Everything I loved was gone. I was alone, and I was afraid.

God, where have you gone? I asked. Are you still there? Please give me back my mother. God, don’t let her die. I love you, Mamá.

I thought I heard a sound. Slowly I opened my eyes. I heard it again—a soft moan. It was Mamá.

Mamá! You’re alive! You’re alive! Are you all right? I gently touched her face, but she didn’t look the same. Her face was distorted, and she was almost unrecognizable. Her eyes were swollen, and she strained to open them. She moaned and covered her face with her hands.

Mamá, are you all right?

"Hijo!"

It was hard for her to speak. Her face was covered with blood. Finally, she managed to talk through her swollen lips.

Julio, are you all right? she asked.

Yes, Mamá, I’m fine.

Seeing her hurt and bleeding made me feel weak and faint. She looked like a discarded doll, but I didn’t know what to do to take her pain away. Then I wanted to hurt someone. My anger grew until it made me sick. I became frightened, and I trembled. I turned my head and began to cry, then I saw Alberto hanging from the fence. He looked frightening. The dripping blood had dried. His tongue had turned black and stuck out of his mouth, and his open eyes were gazing right through me. I felt cold, then I threw up. Mamá began to stir. Where is Alberto?

I couldn’t answer. She looked so defenseless and weak. I didn’t know what her reaction would be if I told her the truth.

"Hijo, why isn’t he with you? she asked. You know better than to leave him alone. Go take care of him."

She began to sit up, and I tried to hold her down, so she wouldn’t see Alberto’s body.

Mamá, you know he’s… I couldn’t say it.

Be a good boy, Mamá said quietly. Go get him before someone hurts him.

Mamá, don’t you remember the soldiers? They killed him. You saw it happen.

Mamá placed her hand on mine, and a strange look came over her face. Don’t kid me like that. You know I’m not well. I can’t take that. She looked toward the fence. Look! He’s playing on the fence. Get him down before he hurts himself.

I stared at her. What was wrong with her? She saw him; I knew she did. I walked slowly to the fence. I cried for Alberto, and I cried for Mamá. When she regained her memory, she would know what happened to him. I took a blanket from the clothesline and got a machete. I laid the blanket on the ground, then cut the ropes from Alberto’s legs. I wet a cloth at the well and wiped his face clean. After I finished, I wrapped him in the blanket so Mamá couldn’t see his wounds.

Julio, Mamá said, where are you?

Coming, Mamá. I’m putting Alberto to sleep.

Good boy. Help me up so I can wash myself.

As she limped to the well, we suddenly realized that the house had been burned. Mamá screamed repeatedly, then fainted again. At that moment, my hatred for the soldiers was all I could feel, and I suddenly knew the desire for revenge. They had killed my grandparents whose only crime was kindness and my little brother before he had really known what it meant to live.

Finally, Mamá woke up. She saw me vomiting, and she cleaned me. Then she held me in her arms and sang a song. After what seemed like hours, she went to the well and washed herself. She remained very disoriented. I could see how hard it was for her to walk or sit, and I grieved for her.

Please don’t cry, Mamá, I said. I want to go home. I want to see Papá.

Mamá slowly straightened. She placed her hand on my head. Come, it’s time to go home. Pull those sheets from the clothesline and bring them to me. See if you can find anything we might need for our trip.

I looked at her soft, loving eyes; her battered face was so full of love. Despite her pain, her thoughts were for our welfare.

It didn’t take long to get ready. Mamá walked to Alberto and picked him up to kiss him. Sleep, my son. We’ll be home soon.

My heart skipped a beat.

Come, Julio, Mamá said, let’s hurry before the soldiers return. We must reach the city before dark.

Mamá found two canteens and filled them with water. I gathered fruit from the garden and put it in the sheets. Mamá tied them securely so we could wear them around our shoulders like tunics. We made a sling for Alberto, and Mamá carried him on her back. She had difficulty walking with the extra weight, but she never complained. Only God knew how hard it would be for a young woman, her dead baby, and her other son to cross the desolate countryside.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

Mamá and I were in no condition to travel. We tried to take the easiest road through the marshes and swamps, dragging ourselves along in a pitiful state. What little we ate wasn’t very good. We rested often under bushes trying to escape the burning sun until, finally, we crossed the Jobabo River, which divided Camagüey from Oriente.

Days of trudging through desolate stretches of water and mud followed one after another. We suffered from thirst and hunger with little strength to move. Day after day, our condition deteriorated. We were too terrified to ask for help, fearing betrayal. Mamá didn’t want to stop and lose any time, so we avoided populated areas.

Finally, at the brink of total exhaustion, Mamá fainted. We had just crossed a deserted dirt road. The thought of Mamá dying made me panic, and I began screaming hysterically. Suddenly, an elderly man appeared, followed by a woman. Had my grandparents come back to help us? I ran to them, and they hugged me and soothed me. The old man lifted Mamá and carried her to their home just beyond the trees. We hadn’t even noticed it. They seemed kind and looked so much like my grandparents that I felt at home. I was too exhausted to pay any attention to the strange odor that suddenly filled the little cottage. It had been with us for some time, so the old woman squeezed her nose in disgust.

"Vieja, do you smell something?" the old man asked his wife.

She opened all the doors and windows. "Sí, Viejo, but where is it coming from?" She approached Mamá and realized it was coming from the bundle she was holding. She took Mamá by the arm and asked her to remove her bundle so she could wash before resting. Mamá obeyed. The viejitos knew the smell came from it. I stood in front of the bundle to shelter Alberto’s body.

The old woman helped Mamá to the bedroom, and the old man served me milk and bread. He seemed ready to offer some to Alberto, but I said, He’s asleep. I’ll feed him when he wakes up.

Sure, son, eat. Don’t worry. No one will harm you. He went outside to gather wood for the stove.

I was suddenly all alone and began to cry softly as the old woman came out of the bedroom.

Where’s Mamá? I asked.

The old woman put her arms around me. Don’t worry, son, everything will be all right. She’s resting. That’s what I’d like you to do too.

I was so exhausted I didn’t argue. Still, I didn’t want to leave Alberto alone. The old woman lifted the bundle. Why don’t you lie down while I take care of this?

I left her with Alberto and sank into a couch instantly asleep. Although the light was on in the living room, I found it difficult to sleep soundly. I heard Mamá crying and screaming during the night. She called my name and told me to take care of Alberto. I heard the old woman comforting her.

The next day, Mamá didn’t get up. The old woman told me not to worry. Mamá had a slight fever. I began to cry.

Come, son, don’t cry. She needs a lot of rest. It would help if we knew what happened.

Little by little, I told them.

If Alberto is dead, then why did you bring him with you? the old woman asked.

She doesn’t know he’s dead, I said. I mean, she does and she doesn’t. I tried to tell her. I cried again. The old woman held me close to her breast.

Try to understand. She suffered a great shock.

I nodded.

In her mind, she knows he’s dead, but she doesn’t want to accept it. It will take time. We need to be patient until your Mamá can regain her strength and accept the truth. When she’s ready, you’ll be able to continue your journey.

We buried Alberto that afternoon. Four days later, Mamá’s fever broke. She finally was aware of the reality of what had occurred. When I entered her room, she held her hand out to me.

"Mi hijo, (My son) I’ve practically abandoned you. How you must have suffered. Come to me."

Mamá, I missed you so much. I can take care of you now. I ran to her.

Mamá began to cry. She looked at me through tears. Alberto is dead, isn’t he? You knew it all the time.

Yes, Mamá, I knew. I tried to tell you, but you didn’t seem to hear me.

You’re so little, yet so grown up. You’re no longer a child but a smart young boy. I thank God for you. She held me as if she didn’t want to let me go.

The old woman came to me. Come, your Mamá needs rest. You must be brave and strong now. She’s going to need you. Time will heal the wounds.

True to the old woman’s word, Mamá began to recuperate. Accepting the truth about Alberto gave her the strength to face life again. She realized how much she was needed, not only by me, but by my sister and Papá. She acted as if nothing had happened. She became her old self, and I was happy when she smiled. After a week, she began planning our trip.

Before we left, we thanked the old couple. Mamá went to Alberto’s grave. May you rest in peace, my son were her last words as she kneeled in front of his grave.

With our strength back, the trip home was much easier. When we reached the main road in Camagüey, we accepted a ride from a young man. He was interested in our story, but he admonished us not to mention our encounter due to the seriousness of the revolution. As we parted, he reminded us of the danger of prison if we revealed our encounter. We didn’t understand, but we thanked him.

As we entered Camagüey, we found the city different. People hurried along as if in fear. No one looked up at one another.

When we arrived home, Papá looked haggard. We had been gone so long. He looked like he hadn’t eaten nor bathed in a long time. When he saw us, he rubbed his eyes as if seeing a mirage. Angela! Julio! He ran to us and hugged us. Where have you been? I thought you were dead.

"Negro, it’s so good to see you," Mamá said.

Papá! I shouted. We’re home!

It was a wonderful moment. We were in our home, and we felt safe and protected. Once safely inside, Mamá told Papá our story. She cried, and I saw the pain on her face as she relived every horrible moment. Papá cried, too, then he cursed and damned them all. Could we ever be avenged? Only God knew.

We knew life had to go on, and we would have to forget the horrors of the past. Though I was young, the memories lingered a long time, destroying me and everything in my path. It would be a long time before I would be able to forget the screams and the pain.

Soon after we returned home, the reign of terror began. Castro set up his own government, and Batista fled to the United States with many of his followers. Batista’s fall and Castro’s triumph was an enormously complicated process, greatly oversimplified by pro- and anti-Castro historians.

The revolution began when the insurrection ended on January 1, 1959. It wasn’t just a change of government or an era of drastic reform, it was the transformation of Cuban life and an end to the sixty-year domination of our country by the United States. At first, people believed Castro’s promises. They glorified and exalted him. Their cries of "Viva Castro!" (Long live Castro!) were heard for a long time. They didn’t realize how long he would be in power.

Cubans lived in a dream world. It had been wonderful while it lasted. When Castro took control, he immediately began to carry out the revolution for which he’d been fighting since the attack on the Moncada Barracks in Santiago de Cuba in 1953. Through radio, television, and newspapers, we heard or read Castro’s propaganda. His speeches were often over six hours long.

There was no question in anyone’s mind after a few weeks that he was the Líder Máximo, the Jefe Supremo. Cuba had a dictatorship, and Cubans treated it as a personal relationship, mantoman. They accepted it easily. Castro took them by storm, flooding them with his talk. He reasoned with them, using the phrase government by television, and he spoke to the millions of Cubans day after day, night after night, for hours at a time.

Regardless of what was going on, nothing changed for us government-wise. Nothing was important to us except living with our personal tragedy. Tension mounted in the house, taking its toll on everyone. Papá’s temper was sharper and quicker, while Mamá became moodier, leaving us to live with resentment, hate, and bitterness. Papá mourned the death of his favorite son, his chiquitín, or little one. We didn’t care which government was in control; they were all the same. Each wanted to possess more than the last, taking from the poor to enrich their vanity.

At first, Cuba felt little change, but then it was rumored that a new reform would make many peasants who owned land account for their property. That affected us because we had property in Camagüey, an extensive amount of land in the country, and Mamá’s property, inherited from her parents.

The new reform stated no one could own more than 1,342 hectares. Land in excess of certain specific limits would be reappropriated, even when the owners had less than 1,342 hectares. The reform applied to industrial shops too.

Papá became very upset because he had sacrificed all his savings to buy his house and land. We had a few peasants working for us to help cultivate the land, and Papá repaired radios on the side. In a few years, his business had grown to a large company, dealing with corporations outside Cuba. We were socially and economically well-off. The reform was a terrible blow to Papá, adding to Alberto’s loss. Once again, nightmares entered our lives.

I was too young to grasp what was going on and didn’t know Papá’s health was failing. His doctor advised him to take care of his heart or he would have an attack. Each day, he grew more withdrawn. Little by little, Mamá started her life over. Still, she couldn’t erase her nightmares. I heard her moaning and crying at night. She loved Papá dearly. He had once been robust, tall, and handsome. He was her knight in shining armor. Since Alberto’s death, they had become distant. Papá became moody, and his temper flared quickly. Mamá didn’t question him, knowing the pain he felt. I, too, knew it wasn’t the right time for questions despite the tensions I felt in the house.

CHAPTER THREE

My childhood didn’t last long after Alberto’s death. Somehow, my youthful spirit had been broken, and I felt melancholy. The best in me was gone, leaving in its place a resentment that made me feel uncontrollably nervous. I never played with anyone. The nights were the worst of all. Sometimes, I imagined Mamá was crying, calling me, and telling me to care for Alberto. I’d run to her and ask her what she wanted, but she would look at me in wonder at my strange behavior. When that happened, I felt so afraid I became sick. It tore Mamá’s heart to see me so ill. She took me to the doctor for an examination. Physically I was well, but Mamá was concerned as to why I was so withdrawn. The doctor said I was under a great deal of stress and should be admitted to the hospital where I could receive specialized medical care for my emotional trauma. While there, I saw how much Mamá loved me. She was always with me. She was the last one I saw before bedtime and the first one I saw when I awoke. She attended to my needs more than the nurses. As I recovered, Mamá felt renewed energy and strength and a new meaning to life. By the time I went home two weeks later, Mamá knew she was pregnant.

Within the next few years, I had a new sister named Lilia and a brother named Jaime. When Jaime was born, I slowly began to come out of my shell.

Many things changed with the passing years. Freedom of the press was abolished. Thousands were sent to exile and prison, and most of the American-owned industries were withdrawn to the United States.

Many of our neighbors lost their property because they didn’t have proof of ownership. Papá was called in to show his documents but ended up losing everything too. He had to give up his electronics plant to the state. He also lost some property in the country. Mamá lost her parents’ land. It was uncultivated, and the state confiscated it. To keep up with expenses, Papá had to work in the sugarcane fields for less pay than he was accustomed to. That was a great hardship. He dragged himself along with no desire to live. He’d lost what he’d worked so hard to build, and