History will absolve them: The Cuban revolutionary epic
By Saul Molobi
This was inspired by and it’s an adaptation of Amb Phatse Justice Piitso’s article, “Canons Across Revolutions: Honouring the spirit of July 26 Movement and Cuba’s global solidarity – A letter to commander Raul Castro Ruiz”, which was published last week Friday in www.jamboafrica.online news portal.
sing, oh revolutionary wordsmith, of the isle where the sun meets flame,/ of Cuba – cradle of the rebel name./ sing of a people, though humble in size,/ Whose spirits soared where tyrants fall and empires die./ they called upon the ancient gods of fire,/ and rose with stars to freedom’s choir.
in days of chain and empire’s reign,/ a cry was born in Cuba’s plain. / céspedes, planter turned flame of dawn,/ unfurled the banner, the yoke withdrawn./ the Grito de Yara pierced the sky, / a decade burned where none would die/ unheard, unclaimed, without a stand – / thus, Cuba forged her rebel land.
though the fire waned, its embers shone./ Martí, the poet, made it his own./ “with all and for all”, he vowed aloud,/ uniting poor and proud, black and bowed./ he fell with pen and sword in hand,/ a martyr’s blood upon the land./ but just as Spain’s grip bent to end,/ the eagle from the North did descend.
the imperial talon, cloaked and near,/ stole Cuba’s dawn with veiled veneer./ the dream of Martí was set aside,/ as foreign rule and tyrants vied./ and so the island wore disguise – / a republic hollow in freedom’s eyes.
for sixty years, she played the pawn,/ as shadowed thrones stole every dawn./ Batista rose with bloodied hand,/ a despot ruling cursed land./ while few dined fat on gilded lies,/ the many starved beneath gray skies./ but through the dark, a voice arose – / Fidel, with fire the tyrant knows.
at Moncada’s gates, they dared to fight,/ on July’s morn, defying night./ though beaten, jailed, and bathed in loss,/ Fidel stood tall before the cross. / “condemn me,” said he, “i do not flee – / a history shall absolve me.”/ these words, smuggled past the cell,/ would one day sound a tyrant’s knell.
from exile’s shore, in secret gloom,/ the Granma sailed through fate and doom./ twelve survived that storm-swept night,/ to climb the Maestra’s mountain height./ there in fog, the rebel swore,/ to fight till chains would bind no more./ peasants, students, workers came – / all drawn by hope, all touched by flame.
their olive ranks began to grow,/ while Batista’s pride fell blow by blow./ on new year’s dawn, the despot fled,/ and Havana rose from among the dead./ the bearded ones in triumph came, / but knew ahead would burn new flame: /“for now begins the hardest test – / to make the freedom truly rest.”
yet empires do not yield with grace, / and soon the north turned face to face./ at Playa Girón, they cast their might,/ to snuff the Revolution’s light./ but Cuba stood, and in three days, / they turned Goliath from the fray./ upon that beach of blood and pride,/ imperial myth was cast aside.
but Cuba’s flame would not stand still – / it crossed all borders, peaks, and hills./ to Latin lands, to Asian coasts,/ she gave not boasts, but healing hosts./ doctors, teachers, justice sent,/ not for gain, but sacrament./ and Che, the star-born son of war,/ sowed seeds from Congo to Bolivian shore.
the revolution declared a creed:/ that homeland’s love is every need./ for those oppressed in every land/ are brothers of the Cuban stand./ they trained, they fed, they armed the weak,/ for dignity the poor still seek./ thus, Cuba’s flag became the sign – / of solidarity’s sacred line.
yet nowhere shone their heart so bright/ as in Africa’s long, bloodied night./ Fidel declared what truths reveal – / “Latin we are, but African still.”/ when Angola cried in ’75,/ Cuba’s call kept her alive./ through storm and siege, they stood with grace,/ in battle’s dirge, in history’s face.
at Cuito’s banks, the oppressor came,/ go drown the land in ash and flame./ but Cuban steel and African soul/ held the line and claimed the goal./ apartheid’s myth was shattered wide,/ as freedom danced on tyrant’s pride./ Mandela, caged, still felt the spark – / and hailed the Cubans in the dark.
no oil, no diamonds did they claim,/ only honour, blood, and name./ they bore their fallen home in tears,/ and left behind remembered years./ a nation small in might and land,/ but vast in soul and outstretched hand.
do now the epic, bold and vast,/ finds place in every freedom’s past./ from Yara’s cry to Cuito’s stand,/ from Martí’s dream to Fidel’s hand – / from voices whisper in the breeze,/ like hymns sung through the olive trees./ history has absolved them true,/ and justice dawns in crimson hue./ and flame they lit shall never die – / it marches still beneath the sky.
In my 2010 photo, I’m with Jorge Risquet Valdés-Saldaña (6 May 1930 – 28 September 2015), a Cuban revolutionary and commander of the Cuban internationalist forces that were stationed in Angola, and he served in the negotiations between Angola, South Africa and SWAPO that led to the freedom of Namibia. This was at the state banquet during our state visit when I served as DIRCO’s head of public diplomacyand