Latina Experience

One Man's Role in a Revolution
By Erasma Beras
March, 2006

I invite you on a trip with me through the life of a man who fought for the right to exercise those very freedoms that we, as Americans, hold so dear. We often ignore how privileged we are to have a system that allows us to be individuals, to earn a living in a profession of our choice, that entitles us to public education, that concedes to public protests as our inalienable right to freedom of expression and that guarantees us our right to privacy.

It would be hard for Americans to imagine a life without these freedoms. These freedoms are inherent to our history and our culture. Allow yourself to consider what life would have been like if the British would have won the Revolutionary war or if the South had won the Civil War. Perhaps these events are too distant and are therefore relegated to our history books.

The story I share with you now is the account of one man's struggle to establish the same basic freedoms we take for granted. This story is about Roberto,* the son of a sugar cane worker in the hills of Barahona, Dominican Republic.

The year is 1947.

As Roberto tells this story, he narrates: My father was the manager of a sugar-cane plantation in Batey 6 that was initially owned by a Spanish general and later by an American businessman. My father began working on the plantation at the age of nine as a pesador; the person responsible for weighing the sugar cane before it was pressed. He worked hard and had the stains of the sugar cane on his hands and face to prove it. My father never complained; he was honored to have a job.

Every night when we sat for dinner we would always prepare extra plates for anyone that stopped by hungry. Most of the time, it was the Haitian sugar-cane laborers that would come over to the house for food. Many of them had large families and couldn't afford to buy food on their salary. My parents would give them food even if it meant that they themselves would go without eating. My parents believed that it was our responsibility to help those in need. Our home was modest, but it was ours. It was one of the first houses to have a completed floor and pipes with running water. There were four bedrooms. The walls were bare with the exception of an ominous portrait of a man in a military uniform. I was fairly young, but I remember my parents arguing one day over that very picture. My mother insisted that she did not want that portrait in the house. She didn't understand why my father bought it without consulting with her, as she was the lady of the house. He told us that we had no choice. “The picture of the “Jefe” must go on the wall where it is visible to all. If we do not hang his picture in our living room, we will be accused of plotting against General Trujillo and killed.” My mother sat down deflated and quietly handed my father the nails and the hammer. I did not know it then, but this would not be the last time our home would be personally affected by General Rafael Molino Trujillo.

Long before I was born, the Haitians suffered greatly at Trujillo's hand. Trujillo always resented the Haitian occupation of the Dominican Republic and so in 1937 El Jefe ordered the slaughter of 20,000 black Haitians who squatted on Dominican territory or who toiled as sugar cane cutters. My father was very distraught that there was nothing he could do to stop the killings. And so like many other Dominicans, he watched helplessly as the military dragged entire Haitian families away to their death. The death of the 20,000 Haitians tortured my father for many years.

On May 30 th , 1961, four months after my fourteenth birthday, Trujillo and his driver were killed on a deserted patch of highway. Dominicans rejoiced in the streets when they learned of the dictator's fateful death. Our celebration was short lived, as Joaqu í n Balaguer, Trujillo's vice president, entrenched himself as the rightful leader of the Republic. The Dominican Republic held its first “free” election a year and a half after Trujillo's death. The nation elected Juan Bosch, of the Dominican Revolutionary Party (PRD), president.

As a teenager and having been exposed to so much cruelty I was eager to believe that change could happen. I began going to the “movement's” meetings and learned about Juan Bosch's 1963 constitution, which separated church and state, guaranteed civil and individual rights, and endorsed civilian control of the military. I was excited not only because we were finally closer to achieving autonomy as a nation.

Juan Bosch was a man of extraordinary depth. He was a visionary that instinctively understood the struggles of the working class and of the poor. He wanted to create a system that would level the playing field for all Dominicans. Unfortunately, his ideas were juxtaposed to what the military and conservative landowners wanted. The United States saw Bosch as a socialist with ideas strikingly similar to those of Fidel Castro. As is so common with American governments, and I mean no disrespect to you and to my other family born and raised in the United States, they saw our new system as defiant of their own. So, in September 1963 the military, with the support of the elite Dominican class, the Church and the United States, successfully ousted Bosch. I was sixteen and heart broken.

My country was now in chaos. The Dominican working class was angry, hungry and frustrated. After two years of this, the working class took to the streets on April 24, 1965 and seized the National Palace in La Capital. I was now eighteen and ready to play a more active role in the movement. I spoke with my father about my decision. He handed me an envelope with money, hugged me and sent me on off, as I ran to join my friends on the dusty bus that traveled to La Capital. As my mother kissed me she said: “Remember, you are my golden child.” I boarded the bus and waved good-bye. I was on my way to be part of the revolution.

When my friends and I arrived in La Capital, the city was unrecognizable. It was dirty, windows of government buildings were broken, there was broken glass everywhere and the smell of mortar and blood hung heavily in the air. We didn't have any guns, so we walked briskly to find an entry into the zones occupied by the Constitutionalists. The Constitutionalists having gained power of the main governmental buildings named Rafael Molina Ureña provisional president. Since I was young and inexperienced, I would stand guard and watch for the opposition. I felt like I was finally making a difference. Three days after the Palace was taken, the pressure intensified with the arrival of the American forces on the shores of Santo Domingo. We didn't understand why they would get involved in our war. It was our civil war. The people wanted a change; it was our battle not the Americans'.

With renewed determination we continued to fight and by the beginning of May, the Constitucionalistas had established the Cordón Internacional de Seguridad that divided the capital of Santo Domingo and left us in command of the colonial part of the city. We fought hard. The civil war and our stance lasted four months. However, it officially ended when the leaders of the Constitutionalists signed the Acta de Reconciliación. By signing this international accord the leaders, chosen by the people, believed that there would be an end to corruption and oppression -- they were wrong. During my time in La Zona I saw the truth of war, many young people dying or hurt. I wonder if those early days had any influence on my decision to become a doctor. I'm not quite sure. Perhaps.

I will admit now that when I returned to Barahona I was dejected. My friends and I traveled to other cities to join pro-Bosch groups and campaign for whom we hoped would be the next and true president of the Dominican Republic. It therefore came as a terrible shock when Joaquín Balaguer won the 1966 election. It was obvious to the Dominican people and the international community, with the exception of the United States of course, that the election had been rigged.

I was more determined than ever to fight against the Americans and Balaguer's administration. I organized protests and sit-ins. It was at one of these sit-ins that I met Milagros a beautiful and intelligent university student. Together, we visited universities and gave talks on the importance of the youth movement. Milagros and I spent every moment together. It wasn't a surprise to anyone, including our family that we fell in love and married in 1969. It was one of the happiest times of my life.

As the nation prepared to boycott the upcoming election at our behest and political factions refused to nominate candidates in protest, my friends and I at the Movimiento Popular Dominicano (MPD) planned our next move. The event would later be described as the only major leftist attack on a superpower. As I mentioned, Maximiliano, my best friend and who we called El Moreno, leader of the MPD, had been arrested along with 20 other leaders opposed to Balaguer. On March 24, 1970, five of my friends and I dressed in army gear (I will not tell you how we got those uniforms) and kidnapped Lieutenant Colonel Donald J. Crowley, a U.S. air attaché in the Dominican Republic. We never hurt the Colonel, but had every intention of doing so if the Americans did not meet our demands. Our demands were simple; release the 21 political prisoners in exchange for the Colonel. The talks were not going well until Archbishop Monsginor Hugo Polanco Brito got involved and helped us reach a compromise: the 21 prisoners were to board a plane, but would not be allowed to take off until the Colonel's release was verified. We released the Colonel on March 26 and the political prisoners were flown into exile. This is the first time I tell someone this story that was not involved in the kidnapping. There were no arrests.

Balaguer soon organized La Banda Colora, a gang that would set up or kill anyone who opposed El Presidente. For the next few months I lived in constant fear for my life and that of my family. La Banda Colora would visit my house and that of my parents regularly looking for me. I was always on the run and was soon captured en route to Barahona. I was dragged to La Victoria prison without access to an attorney, unable to call my family and without a trial.

My first few days in La Victoria prison were, well, I wish I could forget them. But the mind always remembers. I was tortured in unbelievable ways. I was held in a cell that was approximately 10ft x 10ft. The cell had no windows, so I was in complete darkness. I did not have a bed or a toilet. The floor of my cell was always filled with water, so I was always wet. This made it easier for them to torture me by electrocution. I was never taken outside of my cell to interact with the general prison population. I only left my cell for interrogation and other types of torture sessions.

I remember trying not to cry, but the pain was unbearable. Not just the pain of my many beatings, but of not being able to see my family, my wife, my child. There were many times while I was imprisoned that I wished to end my life, but then I thought about my daughter and my life with Milagros. I had to survive this.

Milagros contacted all of her friends in the press and told them about my torture sessions. She called radio stations and organized rallies. My family contacted international human rights groups and reached out to the church for help. My family also organized protests in front of the prison and publicly challenged Balaguer. Collectively, my family and Milagros saved my life. Had it not been for their public outcries I would have been tortured to death.

Since I was always in solitary confinement I asked Milagros to bring me medical books to read. I read the books and memorized full chapters. I focused all of my energy on my studies and making it out of prison.

In May 1978 Silvestre Antonio Guzmán of the Partido Revolucionario Dominicano (PRD) was elected president of the Dominican Republic in the first openly contested election in the country's history. Guzmán was inaugurated in August and by September he released 200 political prisoners. I was among those 200. I had been in prison 7 years.

I missed my daughter's first seven birthdays. I missed the births of my three spitfire nieces, including my first American born niece. But what I miss most is my mother. She died in 1973.

Upon his release from La Victoria , Roberto enrolled in La Universidad Autónoma de Santo Domingo where he graduated with distinction in Medicine. He dedicated his thesis to his mother and his family. He now is a doctor of medicine in Santo Domingo where he has a private practice and works three days a week at a public hospital.

Please note that this narrative is an excerpt of a longer piece regarding Roberto's life.

*Names have been changed to protect identity of this family.