During this unit, we learned about the Cuban Revolution and constructed a journal using our learned knowledge. Here is my book!
https://sway.office.com/8HJPBRmh2Kk5pAm1?ref=Link&loc=play
SEMINAR REVOLUTION JOURNAL
December 3rd, 1953
Dear Diary,
Times are hard for my family and I. Ever since mother’s death our family has been crippled to one worker, father being too old for the fields. Being a cane cutter does not pay well, most workers and I were subjects of torment and the harsh conditions of the fields. Especially after Batista’s coup cane prices have dropped to dirt cheap, making income almost impossible. Father has suggested me to find a job in the factories, hoping for a bit more income. It was a couple months ago that I decided to take a visit to the factories, hoping for a better job. As I arrived, I could see a mob of men, women, and children hoarding the steel gates of the factory. Large billows of black smoke poured from the crooked chimneys as men shoveled coal into the furnaces. I tried my best to weave through the thick crowd as a plump man selected the workers needed. His finger pointed rapidly, dodging women, children, and the crippled. I doubted that I was getting selected, as my body was feeble and rather thin. But however small the odds were, the man’s finger pointed towards me, causing relief to spread through my body like wildfire, I had gained a job. The pay from working in the factory is substantially higher than the meager pay given for being a Zafra, however, factory work takes its toll. Ten or more hours of grueling work is expected for a salary, those who cannot stand the work were fired and new recruits were brought in. After my recruitment, I was immediately assigned a role in the factories which was manufacturing the tank engines sent to us by the United States. It involved putting various elements together, forming an engine which was later brought to the next station for assembly.
I continued my job for a long span of time however, my father and I were still not able to escape the grasping hand of poverty. Ever since Batista took over, Cuba has been different, the people and I felt used, our pleas were ignored and the rich feasted on delicacies whilst us, the people stood in the shadows. Cuba need change, real change. Yet however hard and low paying factory work was, there was no other option, income was impossible as the cost of many necessities skyrocketed as well as our pay getting lower and lower, leaving no space for financial improvements. During work however, I met a newcomer whose name is Pedro. Pedro tells me that his family was once rich and powerful, thriving in the sugarcane business. However, with Batista’s uprising, sugarcane prices have plummeted to an all-time low and his family’s business was seized by the government. I could tell that Pedro was from a privileged family as his hands were silky smooth and he wore his work clothes in such a fashion.
As I’m writing this, our financial conditions are in shambles, we barely have enough to buy clothes yet alone eat. Cuba’s poverty was masked with the flashy casinos and luxury yachts owned by the rich. Batista who is a puppet for the U.S. seems to be making Cuba into a tropical hideout for the rich and a hell hole for the poor. During my walk to work I can’t help but notice the hordes of homeless people and men, women, and children crowded at the gates of the factory. After a while, I have concluded that if Batista stands, there won’t be any change for Cuba’s people. I must act.
March 14th, 1956
Dear Diary,
It has been a three and a half since Batista’s election—at least they say it’s an election—. Since I last wrote, Cuba’s conditions have worsened and worsened. Many teenagers and workers are now facing unemployment and extreme poverty. The factory has closed due to many workers going on strike, leaving my dad and I with no form of income. I’m told of peaceful marches and protests held by students, workers, and the ones in poverty. However, their plan yields no fruit. It was a couple months ago when a group of revolutionaries launched a full-scale attack on Batista. However, their revolution was short lived as they were soon overcome by the enemy fire and eventually captured. However, miraculously, the rebels were let out of prison by an amnesty of Batista. Since the election, Pedro and I have become better friends as the times are hard and an extra pair of hands always comes in handy. Unfortunately, our joy was short lived as we still had no source of income. Pedro has told me his plan to revolt against the corrupt government, he wants to travel to Mexico where he would meet the revolutionaries and join them in their revolution. This thought is frightening to me. Even though the majority of Cuban citizens dislike Batista’s dictatorship, only a meager amount is brave enough to lash out. We would have no financial support at all, as the rich only desire for Batista’s regime to continue. The odds were too small, a group of untrained citizens versus Batista’s crushing government and the army. However, if we do not fight back, the people’s message would not be seen, and Cuba’s dictatorship would be cloaked with its unaffordable luxuries.
Pedro and I have planned a route. We would travel to Cayo Largo on motorbike—given by Pedro’s family—, where we would find a job to eventually afford the boat tickets. Once we arrived in Mexico, we would search for the rebels. Our plan sounded smooth, but lacked procedure and alternatives. If we failed, we would end up in jail, or worse. I told Father that we were going on a trip and would come back soon.
The day of our departure was chaotic to say the least. Pedro and met at the factory gates where he was waiting on his bright red motorbike. We rode the bike for a long stretch of cobble road until we reached the outskirts of Havana. We then transitioned onto the dirt road, the rigid dirt causing our motorcycle to bump around here and there. After what seemed to be hours, we had finally arrived in Cayo Largo, we could see a city in the distance, with crooked buildings whose windows chattered in the wind. We felt unwelcomed as we walked in, the gloominess and loneliness of the city reminded me of an old western film I used to watch.
Pedro and I managed to find a job at the local factories. We were already exposed to the harsh conditions before, so the grueling work did not surprise us. After a week or so, we managed to scrap up enough money for the boat fares. Blisters were forming on our hands and scabs from injuries and the work we did in the factories. Time passed quickly and we were ready for our departure.
Dear Diary,
Pedro and I trekked a couple miles to the boat location. We passed beautiful wildlife and smells of ripe mango lingered in the air. The sand crunched beneath out boots as we arrived at the destination. We were greeted by a stout man with a limp stand who smelled like anchovies. The man introduced himself as Diego. He gave us some life vests and we paid him the money. Diego slowly counted the money while hymning a song. Pedro and I was led to the boat, a battered-up steel boat, which looked as if it would break apart any second. Along the hull, in chipped red paint, read “La Valiente”, the name of the boat. We joined a hoard of men, women, and children who were on the boat. The sound of the engine starting was covered by the chattering emitted from the passengers.
The trip was rough, the tides and weather making it even worse. We had finally arrived in Mexico, a shining country with beautiful architecture and landscapes. The city we arrived in, Mexico City, was dotted in festival lights and grand buildings. We were told news of the revolutionaries and how they were recruiting new members at a local restaurant. Pedro was elated at the news, and we hoped to join the revolutionaries as soon as possible. We planned to find the revolutionaries at dawn.
The sun was peaking over the mountains, and we started towards the festive center of the city. We reached the restaurant that housed the revolutionaries. The horns of a beast of some sorts were mounted on the sign. As we entered the eerie interior of the restaurant, we were greeted by two men, one was muscular and large, the other was thin and tall.
“You looking to join the revolution?”, the large man asked.
“Y-yes”, Pedro answered, clearly intimidating.
“Follow us.”
We followed the two men into a room at the back, where we were greeted by a small huddle of men. Most were injured or looked glum, and there was one at the back, with a large black beard.
“That’s Castro”, Pedro had told me.
Castro greeted us with in a welcoming tone, saying that he respected us for our contributions.
As I’m writing this, the revolutionaries and I are hiding in the Sierra Maestro where we had done most of our attacks. Since I last wrote, Batista has become weaker and weaker, and we have gained more and more followers. The lengthy revolution was at its climax, and Batista’s defeat was approaching. We had lost some of our comrades, however, this did not stop us. Using our Molotovs and mortars scavenged and made from scraps of defeated military barracks, we spread our message throughout Cuba and the world. A couple of reporters from foreign countries had traveled with us, asking us questions, and broadcasting our message worldwide.
I’m more than glad that I had joined the revolutionaries. Cuba was changing by the minute, more and more people joined in on our message, spreading the revolution like wildfire in a vast woodland. I hope that Cuba may rise, and a peaceful leader would take the place of Batista, giving Cubans a country of harmony and peace. May God Bless Cuba!
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