Cannons

Part 2 of the previous blog post coming soon, but before that, read this short (short) story I wrote for my Beginning Fiction Writing class. Although it is a story, it is closely based on a friend's experience when leaving Cuba.

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The swamp kept trying to swallow our bodies, but this wasn't the kind of freedom we were looking for. When we pulled Miguel out of one of those infernal sinking holes, his left shoe was gone, drowned, forgotten, like many of our dreams and hopes until six months ago when Fernando told us the plan.

Many of us worked on the same fishing boat as Fernando, but his ingenious plan never crossed our minds. Every day we longingly stared at the horizon, daydreaming and imagining what that hamburger on the clandestine American channel tasted like. Freedom, we hoped, but we never thought about actually leaving our lives as fishermen. The plan was to kidnap the captain at knifepoint, since the government had outlawed guns a long time ago, and to gather our families by the shore near the military base. A couple of us would take care of the mutiny, while the rest of us would collect the families and lead them to the beach.

We were close to the beach when we heard a sound that seemed to have come from Thor himself. "Cannons," someone in the back of the group whispered. The military base used this field for their ballistics exercises, which meant that at any moment our heads could be blown up by a cannon ball. For a moment it felt like we had travelled back in time and the Spanish were ready to ransack our island. In a way, they were doing that even today, when they came and spent their euros in places where we the natives weren't allowed to go in. Fortunately, the base was so far away that we would be invisible in the middle of the night, but of course we weren't immune to the constant and loud artillery. Despite this startling event, we kept the same pace and reached the beach at the accorded time. The children in the group were tired and dehydrated, but we kept promising milk, juice and those hamburgers they saw on TV. All that would be ours in a few hours.

Waiting by the beach was definitely the hardest part, since we were more exposed to the military and their cannons and because we were so close to the ocean that the reality of our actions sunk in. By kidnapping a government ship, we were going to be declared as terrorists, but our consciences were clear because we knew that the people, the oppressed millions, would be on our side. Many had already left the island on small vessels or on anything that could possibly float. The horror stories were widely known. There were stories of government helicopters dropping bags of sand onto small boats until there was nothing left. And there were other stories of mothers holding their children, while the national coast guards used their hoses to drown them all. Of course, we also heard about sharks devouring nearly half of those who set out into the sea, into that great blue unknown. We were aware of all this, but our quest for freedom was stronger than our fear of death. As we were waiting by the beach, hoping that the kidnapping went without any bloodshed, or worse, government interference, one person in the group lit a cigarette. Immediately, a bunch of us nearly tackled that person. In such vast darkness, a small light can be seen for miles. We didn't want the cannons aimed at us.

A couple of hours later, a small boat approached the shore and we knew that everything had gone as planned. Silently, we boarded the boat and headed for the main ship, which would be our ticket to a land of opportunities. Once we got on, we noticed that the captain was tied up to a chair but he seemed to be okay, given the circumstances. We promised that once we were near international waters, we would release him in the small boat with provisions so that he could make it back to shore. After ignoring radio contact from the local coast guard, we set sail into that blue horizon that we had daydreamed about for many years. Our fears slowly dissipated and those commercials about cars, homes, and hamburgers kept replaying in our heads. Those dangerous ideas about freedom of speech, assembly, and the press were our beacon in the massive ocean ahead of us. Even the air tasted different. Our lungs and minds expanded and we could sense that we were becoming different people. We didn't have to be fishermen, we could be anything, and our children could gain the whole world.

The island seemed distant now and we knew that our hearts would never forget such an image. We heard the sound of a cannon in the distance and we knew that this was our island saying goodbye, our home telling us that there were no hard feelings. When the American coast guard finally intercepted our rusty ship with their bubble gum and their pristine clothes, our hearts were overjoyed. These gentle soldiers saved our lives, but what's more, they signified hope; they stood for freedom. The smell of gunpowder and cannons was quickly replaced with the alluring smell of a juicy hamburger.

Tales of Being Catholic in Cuba, part 1

Living under a communist regime is not optimal for Catholics. At home, my family would openly criticize the government and even make fun of our leader, but this was done in secret and in whispers.

 My mother would warn me. “Whatever you hear, don’t repeat it at school. Okay?”

“Okay,” I would reply.

“Good, you don’t want me going to jail.”

My father was already living far away; so losing my mother was not an option. Whenever a teacher would ask me something about the Revolution or about Fidel Castro, I would always reply with the schoolbook answer; the Revolution was great, everything was perfect! I knew this was a lie from firsthand experience. One of my classmates, Michael, had a parent who worked with tourists. His father was a scuba instructor and he received tips and gifts from tourists. In the 1990s, the dollar was king. The Cuban peso, and still to this day, was worth nothing. The Revolution had created a caste system where top government employees had an abundance of everything; the few who worked in tourism came next in line and then came the rest of the nation. There weren’t many options available and it was hard to move from one step to another.

One could always join the government, but for that, one would have to betray family, conscience and even belief in God. On top of all this, I would hear my family talk about how awful things were in the country. They didn’t make it a point to talk about it openly in front of us kids, but my two cousins and I would hear their conversations or sometimes a remark would escape their lips because of anger and frustration.

The Lost City

If you want to watch a movie that deals with the Cuban Revolution in a truthful way, then please check out The Lost City. Andy Garcia plays the lead role, but Bill Murray and Dustin Hoffman have also important characters. It's a wonderful movie, one that is beautiful and sad, just like Cuba's history. Please, check it out.

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia