her go. So did Ileana. And you should have heard all the other girls crying when their parents left, too. The weeping was like the wind whistling through the wooden walls of our dormitory.
Tuesday, 16th of May
I have no energy left. We have been given a quota of work, but it has changed so many times in the past week that I cannot remember it. Besides, it is alreadyobvious that nobody will be able to meet these figures. We are all city girls, unaccustomed to the labor of the fields. This fact does not seem to matter, however, and the labor supervisors have organized marathon workdays starting at dawn and lasting until 10 P.M. I am so tired I can barely pick up a pen.
Some of the girls want to strike. They say if we all stop at once, we can demand better food, fewer hours, and maybe even early release home. After all, we should not be treated as prisoners. We are supposed to be volunteers, these girls say. I agree with them, but I do not trust them. I think they are what my father calls infiltrados, spies. They are trying to trick us, trying to test our commitment to the revolution, before ratting on us. I will not fall for it.
Yet, I wish I could scream out how I really feel. Rub it in the face of Comrade Nilsa and Comrade Marta, who make us read Fidelâs speeches aloud when we are exhausted, who taunt us if our parents are not members of the Party, who give us extra duties if we even smile at a counterrevolutionary joke. Right now I feel like a pressure cooker, ready to burst.
Friday, 19th of May
Is this hell? Surely it is, and somebody has forgotten to tell me. More later, when my arms do not hurt so much.
Saturday, 20th of May
Happy birthday to me! I am thirteen years old. Happy birthday to my country, too! Today is also Cuban Independence Day, which is why my parents named me Yara, for the Grito de Yara, though that happened not in May but on the tenth of October in 1868. On that day, we Cubans made a proclamation of independence from Spain. A ten-year war soon followed, but it was not successful. We truly did not break away from the Spanish until the turn of the century, and now we celebrate both in May and in October.
We had a program in the afternoon, parading around some flags and listening to speeches by the older students. One girl who looks like a donkey talked about our responsibilities to the revolution. Another spoke about how we are the New Man and the New Woman, the generation Cuban Independence hero José Martà dreamed about. Blah, blah,blah. I was miserable. Nobody remembered my birthday. Not even Ileana. Well, maybe she did, but we were unable to talk.
Sunday, 21st of May
Though we were exhausted to the point of collapse, the teachers called a meeting tonight because they found antirevolutionary material among our possessions. Of course I immediately thought of you, my little book, my only consolation. My legs shook and my head pounded. But no, thank God, it had nothing to do with me or with anything I own.
One girl was discovered to have a Bible, and another had a gold-edged prayer card of Our Lady of Charity. Both things were confiscated, and the girls were given extra duties. After all those hours in the fields, they must now help clean the bathrooms. Outhouses, really. God save me from that. Those bathrooms smell putrid and at night they are full of toads and frogs.
I do not understand how this kind of punishment can be allowed. Who gave these comrades power? Agovernment that made promises of democracy and freedom only to go back on them?
Tuesday, 23rd of May
I miss everything: my mother, my father, the tiled porch at my abuelosâ, the fresh watermelon batidos on hot summer afternoons. I miss clean bathrooms. I miss my own clothes. I miss warm baths. I miss ice water. I miss having time by myself. I miss the feel of my palms when they were soft.
Sunday, 28th of May
Three more days. Three, three, three. A magical number. I am counting them down with such joy. Then again, three has
Tuesday, 16th of May
I have no energy left. We have been given a quota of work, but it has changed so many times in the past week that I cannot remember it. Besides, it is alreadyobvious that nobody will be able to meet these figures. We are all city girls, unaccustomed to the labor of the fields. This fact does not seem to matter, however, and the labor supervisors have organized marathon workdays starting at dawn and lasting until 10 P.M. I am so tired I can barely pick up a pen.
Some of the girls want to strike. They say if we all stop at once, we can demand better food, fewer hours, and maybe even early release home. After all, we should not be treated as prisoners. We are supposed to be volunteers, these girls say. I agree with them, but I do not trust them. I think they are what my father calls infiltrados, spies. They are trying to trick us, trying to test our commitment to the revolution, before ratting on us. I will not fall for it.
Yet, I wish I could scream out how I really feel. Rub it in the face of Comrade Nilsa and Comrade Marta, who make us read Fidelâs speeches aloud when we are exhausted, who taunt us if our parents are not members of the Party, who give us extra duties if we even smile at a counterrevolutionary joke. Right now I feel like a pressure cooker, ready to burst.
Friday, 19th of May
Is this hell? Surely it is, and somebody has forgotten to tell me. More later, when my arms do not hurt so much.
Saturday, 20th of May
Happy birthday to me! I am thirteen years old. Happy birthday to my country, too! Today is also Cuban Independence Day, which is why my parents named me Yara, for the Grito de Yara, though that happened not in May but on the tenth of October in 1868. On that day, we Cubans made a proclamation of independence from Spain. A ten-year war soon followed, but it was not successful. We truly did not break away from the Spanish until the turn of the century, and now we celebrate both in May and in October.
We had a program in the afternoon, parading around some flags and listening to speeches by the older students. One girl who looks like a donkey talked about our responsibilities to the revolution. Another spoke about how we are the New Man and the New Woman, the generation Cuban Independence hero José Martà dreamed about. Blah, blah,blah. I was miserable. Nobody remembered my birthday. Not even Ileana. Well, maybe she did, but we were unable to talk.
Sunday, 21st of May
Though we were exhausted to the point of collapse, the teachers called a meeting tonight because they found antirevolutionary material among our possessions. Of course I immediately thought of you, my little book, my only consolation. My legs shook and my head pounded. But no, thank God, it had nothing to do with me or with anything I own.
One girl was discovered to have a Bible, and another had a gold-edged prayer card of Our Lady of Charity. Both things were confiscated, and the girls were given extra duties. After all those hours in the fields, they must now help clean the bathrooms. Outhouses, really. God save me from that. Those bathrooms smell putrid and at night they are full of toads and frogs.
I do not understand how this kind of punishment can be allowed. Who gave these comrades power? Agovernment that made promises of democracy and freedom only to go back on them?
Tuesday, 23rd of May
I miss everything: my mother, my father, the tiled porch at my abuelosâ, the fresh watermelon batidos on hot summer afternoons. I miss clean bathrooms. I miss my own clothes. I miss warm baths. I miss ice water. I miss having time by myself. I miss the feel of my palms when they were soft.
Sunday, 28th of May
Three more days. Three, three, three. A magical number. I am counting them down with such joy. Then again, three has
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