Freedom Fighters

4. Dissidents

Centro Havana's Saturday morning air buzzed with a stewing hatred and raucous rebellious optimism. Dario stood with his parents at his door, beholding the scene before him. Streams of people marched down the streets in a procession. As expected, members of the youth movement followed at the side of the road, rallying support with loudhailers and defamatory banners.

The column did not seem like it would end as groups upon groups of people were funneled down the narrow streets.

Mariana gazed at the multitudes of people passing by, mouth slightly open in awe. "Wow. This is...just..."

"Look at the number of people!" Sergio said, puffing out his chest. "It's time Batista listened to us. Maybe there will be change after all!"

Dario could not help but to be optimistic as well. There were perhaps hundreds or even a thousand before him, marching together towards the National Capitol Building, the seat of government in the country. Even more were trickling behind, and there were still a few districts left to go through before the procession would reach Batista's seat of government.

The Ruiz family joined the procession, much to the cheers of some nearby students who had been spontaneously beckoning for people to join. Immediately, Dario and his parents were launched into a conversation with a few other protesters. His parents were more than happy to oblige, sharing their own story of injustice with them.

Dario, though, took the time to survey his surroundings. As they moved forward, his little rustic grey house faded into the background behind him, replaced by many others like it. In between stretches of one-storey housing such as the one he lived in, there were the shophouses and the public apartment housings, which generally were in poorer conditions.

Dried paint flaked off the crumbling walls, revealing the grimy stone foundation underneath. Copper wires peeked out of the exposed power cables. Doors and windows looked to be in various states of disrepair. Yet, when he glanced upon this familiar sight, Dario felt a certain queer sense of belonging that made him smile.

This was his home, the place he learned to love. It was certainly not Batista's Havana. Not the glamour and glitter of the entertainment districts, where the neon lights shone brightly, well into the late hours, where the dazzling and luxurious halls of the casinos and hotels were always filled with rich tourists, where the grand streets were ruled by the American Mafia who filled Batista's pockets.

And despite all that glitter and wealth, those monsters wanted even more, desiring his home as well? Their homes? It was too much for the people to bear. Dario looked around to his left and right. Idealistic students, middle class professionals, and the normal folk all banding together in resistance, in hope.

Dario was reminded of an old bible story his Mama had told him when he had still been learning to read and write. There were two farmers, one rich and one poor. The rich farmer owned a large herd of sheep, while the poor one owned a little lamb. One day, the rich farmer had visitors and so had to kill a sheep to prepare for a feast. Yet, instead of killing one of his many sheep, he stole the little lamb of his poor neighbour, because he was greedy. He killed the lamb and served it for dinner for his guests, leaving the poor farmer heartbroken. Dario also remembered his Mama telling him that he cannot be like the rich farmer no matter what. One must be kind and love others, she had said.

Yet, no matter how Dario saw it, Batista, and his cronies were clearly the rich farmer here, driven by pure unadulterated greed. They were supposed to be protecting the country and running it, no? What ever had happened to the very elementary concept of putting the needs of the populace first? Were the masses just tools in their eyes? Meant to be trampled upon, to be exploited for their own gain?