A Cuban ex-prostitute speaks

[Louis Proyect <lnp3@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

(From Margaret Randall's "Cuban Women Now")

The Greatest Change: Those Who Were Prostitutes

Cuba: Vice capital of the Caribbean!
Cuba: Free Territory in America!

The "before" and "after," translated into lives, translated into 20,000
martyrs, a child who runs and sings and who before the Revolution might
have died of polio, a factory worker who knows what it means to work for
himself; the people, a woman who once sold her body to feed her children
and is now a teacher, a nurse, a secretary, cane-cutter or bookstore clerk?
Cuba is all of these. It may not be an exaggeration to say that for the
woman who was a prostitute, 1959 wrought the most dramatic change of all.

With the triumph of the Revolution, thousands of the high class
professional call girls of Havana?s night life followed their pimps and
other gangsters of the international vice ring to Miami, San Juan, New
York. But what of the thousands of women and young girls who did not belong
to this "upper crust"? What of the simple girls from Las Villas, Camaguey,
Matanzas; what of the girls from the villages and towns for whom a life of
prostitution had been their only means of sustenance in a system whose
capitalist economy and distorted social values made it impossible for them
to find work doing anything else?

What kind of opportunities would the Revolution give these women? And how
would it help them change not only their image in society but the image
they had of themselves?

The immediate goal was to set up schools, separate these women from the
population at large and meet their specific needs. Several "farms" were
organized, in different parts of the country. An ideological battle was
begun at the same time as the initial physical and situational needs were
met: special nursery schools connected with the farms cared for the women?s
children; the women themselves were helped to acquire a new attitude
towards themselves and their possibilities, break drug habits, learn new
trades and professions.

Mirna works for the Ministry of the Interior. During the first years of the
Revolution she had been drafted into this exacting work of re-educating
prostitutes. Like many who helped their sisters change their lives, her
prime qualifications were love and a belief in the changes the Revolution
could bring:

Because of these women?s backgrounds, at the beginning of the project it
must have been very hard for you.

MIRNA: It was terrible at the beginning. These women were used to a life
without any purpose. They felt despised by everyone; they were mistreated
and lived in a completely rotten atmosphere of vice and drugs. There were
many who had practically been born into that life?fifteen, twenty years
living like that. Others were younger. You can imagine how they reacted
when they suddenly found they were expected to follow a discipline. A lot
of them understood right away and were rehabilitated very quickly and began
to work and never had any more problems. But there were others who couldn?t
adapt to that. How could we expect them to adapt easily! It was very hard
for them.

And you were prepared for this kind of work?

MIRNA: Prepared? I?ll just speak for myself, but all I had was an enormous
desire to help the Revolution in any way I could; the only thing I had was
a great desire to work and to help. There were some comrades who did have
some sort of training.

What was the result of your work in this area?

MIRNA: Some of the women who worked with me got sick with nervous
disorders. You had to be very strong! You had to be very strong with them
and at the same time you had to understand them and more than anything, be
able to help them. Imagine: the first day I arrived, and as old as I was
I?d never heard the kind of language they used; the first day I got there
one of the women was angry about something, I don?t remember what it was,
and she started fighting right there. Words, blows, kicks.., that was
something! I just froze, but I thought that I shouldn?t do anything right
then, because she was so upset. I thought if I said anything to her then
she?d just turn on me, so I just walked by and left her.

You left her and didn?t say anything at all?

MIRNA: Not then. Two or three days later I called her to my office and we
began to talk and I asked her if she didn?t feel bad that she wasn?t trying
to get people to respect her, now that she had the chance to have another
kind of life? We talked a long time.

How did she react to that?

MIRNA: She didn?t say anything at all then; she just began to cry. But that
was the last time we ever had problems with her. She was one of the best
students after that. But that was the way it was every day, every day.

You called them "students"?

MIRNA: Yes. And they were students. We gave them classes according to each
woman?s educational level; we never called them inmates or anything else
like that.

And the general results?

MIRNA: Well, we had about 400 from around here and most of them were
rehabilitated little by little and they began to work, depending on
individual progress. Actually, the great majority were gradually integrated
into work places and their lives changed and many of these women are among
the most revolutionary cadre we have. The comrade I was telling you about,
she?s president of her CDR, and there are many like her. I wish you could
see how the people love and respect her.

We wanted to visit this woman who is now the president of the Defense
Committee on her block. This could have been anywhere in Cuba, rural Cuba,
on the outskirts of a medium-sized city. The neighbourhood was in shadow;
it was almost ten p.m. Occasional lights outlined families behind curtains;
it was a proletariat neighbourhood of neat wooden houses. The familiar CDR
sign indicated Alicia?s home, but there were no lights on. When we knocked
she came to the door, and as she could hardly see us in the dim light, her
first question was "Is something wrong?"

Mirna introduced us and explained our visit. Alicia was gracious and it
wasn?t hard to encourage her to talk about her life, although the fact that
she sent one of her daughters who was in the house on a long errand
indicated to us that her past was not knowledge shared by her entire
family. We settled into brightly varnished chairs in the spotless living
room. The walls were closely-fitted board painted a pale pink; the floor
was highly polished cement. The predominant sense in that room was one of
many books, books everywhere, piled onto shelves which no longer
accommodated their numbers. There was a photo of Fidel and two plaster of
paris figures on the wall, one of Camilo and one of Che.

Alicia is tall and thin with short black hair and small black eyes. The
calm and serenity of those eyes are a strong contrast to her effusive hands
which move constantly as she talks. As she answered our questions and told
us about her life, those eyes would penetrate ours for a few seconds each
time she spoke, and then move off as if going farther, into memory, other
realities, other times. Each time we asked a new question she would come
back to us, and the process would repeat itself.

Would you tell us something about your life, Alicia?

ALICIA: Well, by the time I was eleven I was washing for others: me, one of
my sisters and my mother. There were six of us, three girls. I was married
at fifteen; I had two children, but I had a hard life. I had to make
charcoal to keep us going.

Your husband didn?t work?

ALICIA: Yes, he worked in the charcoal too, but it was a hard life; I got
to the point where I couldn?t take it anymore. I left him and came back
here. I had to leave the children with my mother and I went to work in a
private house as a maid; they paid me five pesos a month to wash, iron and
cook. That wasn?t enough for anything! Five pesos! After that I began to
work in a cafeteria and there I earned fifteen pesos, but that wasn?t
enough either. I couldn?t support my children and help my mother out on
that. My father was always sick. I worked in that cafeteria for something
like a year.

What was that like? Life in the cafeteria?

ALICIA: I just sold coffee there. But from there I went to work in a bar.

You never studied as a child?

ALICIA: No.

You lived in the country?

ALICIA: Yes, all of us; we were always at home. My father worked in the
fields; my mother washed for others. We were very poor and whatever we
earned it was never enough. Our life during my childhood was really bad.

What did your father do in the countryside?

ALICIA: My father leveled fields, and then he began to cut cane.

Your brothers left school, too?

ALICIA: My brothers were older. I?m the fourth. But imagine, they had to go
to work too to help out at home. One of them just barely learned to sign
his own name and the others got through second grade, more or less.

Go on about the bar.

ALICIA: Well, I began to work at that bar and the fifteen pesos wasn?t
enough either and my father could never spare anything for my children. So
from there I went to the village and I started working in a "house."

What was your life like there?

ALICIA: It was a dog?s life; I had to go to bed with twenty men I didn?t
know to earn enough to raise my children and help my mother out. My other
sister wasn?t married then. My family didn?t know what I was doing. When
I?d bring them ten pesos I?d tell them I?d made it washing, working here,
working there. And that way, I invented twenty stories so they?d never find
out, because it?s a very painful thing. We were very poor, but nobody in
the family had ever been a prostitute. I was twenty-two by then.

Tell me something about how you felt, working like that?

ALICIA: Well, I felt twenty bitternesses, twenty torments, never anything
you could call happiness; if anyone tells you she?s happy doing that, she?s
lying. There were times I went someplace with a man and I?d hang my head,
because anyone who?s got an ounce of shame feels ashamed of doing that ?
going through all kinds of things, and not even knowing the man. But that
was the sacrifice you had to make because there was no other way, because
woman?s life was very hard here before. Now there?s no reason why a woman
has to sell herself for a peso and whoever does it now really does do it
because she likes it, but before you had to.

How did the people in the street treat you?

ALICIA: Well, anyone who knew I was a prostitute wouldn?t even look at me,
because we were worse than dogs. I never went into town; I never went out
in the streets, never, except when I had to go see my parents and then I
took a cab. But I never went out in the streets.

So your life centred around that house, the same people?

ALICIA: Yes, just that house. The house belonged to a woman; we called her
"madam." She didn?t do anything; she was older and she didn?t do anything.
She had liquor there and she sold it and she took 50 percent of what we
earned.

How long were you in that house?

ALICIA: I was there about two years. Because that was when the Revolution
triumphed and they took us and brought us to what they called "The Farm."

Before the triumph of the Revolution, that is, when you working in that
house, who or what did you blame for the life you had to lead? Or didn?t
you ever think about that?

ALICIA: I blamed the government.

You were conscious that it was the government? Even then?

ALICIA: Of course! Because they pushed and shoved us so.

What contact did you have, specifically, with the government?

ALICIA: Well, they made our life impossible. Not me, in particular, because
I?m not going to say I was a saint or anything but I never was used to
making up to people or anything like that. I was in that life because I had
no choice, no choice at all, not because I liked it. But they picked up a
lot of women, arrested them; you could hardly walk in the street.

Were you ever in prison?

ALICIA: No, I was never in prison.

They arrested you on one hand and slept with you on the other, is that what
you?re saying?

ALICIA: Yes. There were a lot of guards who came to see us in uniform and
everything.

Do you know what became of the other women who were in that house with you?

ALICIA: Well, when the Revolution triumphed, when they took us to that
place called "The Farm," it was some distance from the village. The other
women said, "Let?s get out of here, because they?re gonna take us away.
They thought they were going to prison again. So I told them, "Look, I?m
not going anywhere; maybe they?re taking us to prison, like you say, but
there must be some refuge for us somewhere, and they?re not going to kill
us. I won?t be any better off going to another house, and if I get a chance
I?m getting out of this life." They left. I don?t know where they went. And
I stayed. It was a small house. There were only three of us.

This was in 1959?

ALICIA: No, this was in 1960. And from that place, what they called "The
Farm," they brought us here to this province. It wasn?t a farm like they?d
call a farm today. It was a place they just called "The Farm." It was a
place with houses of prostitution and all that.

They kept on functioning as such?

ALICIA: Yes, for a time they kept on functioning as such. But far from the
village. And in 1961 they brought us here to the school. I remember some
comrades who often came to see us there, came one morning like around six
o?clock. That morning they came and they told us we were all coming here. A
lot of the women said they weren?t leaving, others began to scream. You can
imagine the ruckus with all those women! I picked up my clothes and I came.
When we got here they told us that if anyone wanted to go home to their
family or anything, we could, but if we preferred to stay we could stay.
They were going to give us classes and we?d have a different future. I said
right away I wanted to stay, but that I needed to get a job because I
needed money to support my children. I was at the school a little over a
year. That was February 1961 and I began working outside in January of
1962. I started to work but I still lived at the school; we ate and slept
at the school.

And your children? They were still with your mother?

ALICIA: Yes, they stayed with my mother.

What kind of job did you get?

ALICIA: I began doing billing in a book warehouse.

Tell me something about your life at the school, before you started working.

ALICIA: Well, we got up early; we went out to be counted? there were a lot
who ran away?we raised the flag, sang the anthem and then we had breakfast.
We did the cleanup by the groups. At eight we?d finished with all that and
we started classes. At twelve we went to lunch.

What kind of classes?

ALICIA: There were different levels, because there were women who just
didn?t know anything, nothing, who were completely illiterate, and there
were women who already had varying degrees of education. Then there were
classes for dressmaking, hairdressing and typing.

Did you learn a skill while you were there?

ALICIA: Oh yes. I went through sixth grade, I learned typing and I learned
to braid yarey. (Cuban straw). More than anything else I learned a kind of
discipline I?d never had before.

What did you do at night? Did you ever have passes?

ALICIA: Sure, we had passes. At the beginning, when we started they were a
little tough with us because they had to see how we?d react, with the
characters the different women had, and what we were going to do. At night
if we wanted we could study, or talk, and sometimes they took us to the
movies, or just took us out somewhere. Not every night, because there were
a lot of us there, and all different kinds of people! Some they couldn?t
take out at first; others they could. There were some who didn?t want to
change for anything, and others left the first chance they got. But there
were those who really didn?t care about having a future. Once a month they
gave us a pass, or every two months, depending on the person, because if
they gave someone a four-day pass and that person returned two or three
weeks later, and with a story invented to explain it all, they weren?t
going to give that person another pass right away, at least until they had
some indication she wanted to change. But I never had any problems at that
school, and there were many of us who didn?t. Almost every month we had a
pass, and if we had some problem at home in between passes they let us go
then too; and if we didn?t have the money to go home, they gave us what we
needed. The women who worked with us were wonderful, and the men who came
once in a while, too.

When you first got that billing job, how did you feel in the job?

ALICIA: How do you think? Delighted! You know what it means to come to work
in the morning, and feel you?re among comrades. It?s completely different;
a completely different life, calm, happy! I?d work four hours, go back to
the school, bathe, eat lunch, go to work and at six I was through. The
comrades at my work place knew where I came from because the director told
them: "If she has good conduct, she can stay, if not, you have to tell us
about it." But I never had any problems at work. Today, 1971, I?m still
working there.

You?re still in the same job?

ALICIA: Not in the same warehouse, because later I transferred to the
bookstore.

And no one ever treated you badly or disrespectfully?

ALICIA: No, on the contrary. All the comrades there tried to help me.

Did you know anything about the rebel struggle, before 1959?

ALICIA: I was working in Oriente when the war was going on. I didn?t know
very much, because we were really shut off, and not many people spoke to
us. What kind of confidence was anyone going to have in a prostitute? Only
one young man; he came to the house a lot. Like he said, he was a friend of
the house and he did have confidence in me. One day he told me: "I have to
spend all day here today." And I asked him, "Hey, why?s that?" "Well, I?m
going to the mountains," he said. I don?t know if he really went to the
mountains that day or if he didn?t, but he did spend all day at the house.

Did he talk to you about why he was going?

ALICIA: Yes, he told me he was going to the mountains and that he was going
to join up with Fidel?s men. But holed up like we were there, I didn?t
really know much. Nobody ever came and told us anything. But at the end,
when Camilo came through Santa Clara, close to where my parents live, there
was another young man who came a lot where I was working and one day he
told me, "One of these days I?m going with Camilo!" So I told him: "Listen
to what I?m going to tell you. If you go with Camilo, let me know, cause
I?m going with you." When the Revolution triumphed, I saw him again and he
said, "You see? I went!" And I said, "Yes, but you didn?t keep your
promise; you didn?t take me with you!" And he said, "But how do you think I
could have taken a woman with me there?" "Same as you went." I told him,
"O.K., it?s never too late if you really want to do something bad enough.
I?ll find my way!" And that was just before they brought us to the school.
At the school a lot of comrades came and they talked to us and then of
course we understood a lot more. And then one day they asked me, "Do you
want to be in the Militia?" So I became a militia woman.

You were already out of school?

ALICIA: No, I was still at the school. I was already working but I stayed
on at the school another year, because they didn?t have enough houses to be
able to say we?ll give one to everyone.

You also got political instruction there?

ALICIA: Yes, we had political instruction, like Fidel?s speeches, and they
showed us movies about when they were fighting in the Sierra. They also
gave us combat preparation once we were in the Militia; we learned to take
a gun apart and re-assemble it. We stood guard. And it wasn?t long before I
was a member of the Militia?s General Staff.

You?re now the president of your CDR, isn?t that right?

ALICIA: I?m president of my CDR. My husband was the president, but he had
to go and take a course in Havana, so everyone here on the block said I
should be the one to take his place, that I should be the new president.
Before that I had the job of organizer in the CDR.

So the Revolution has made a big change in your life?

ALICIA: Big? No, no, no. It?s been a radical change and I?ve got to thank
the Revolution, because if it hadn?t been for that I don?t know what would
have become of me!

For you the difference between your own childhood and your daughters? lives
must be tremendous.

ALICIA: There?s no comparison at all! When I was as old as this one who?s
here with me now, I was washing for twelve people; when I was her age I had
one pair of shoes that were falling apart to wear on Sundays and the rest
of the week I went barefoot. Her life is completely different from what
mine was, but completely different!

Do you think that women can do the same kind of work as men?

ALICIA: If they can do it, sure. Things have changed a lot. Before, even if
you weren?t in the kind of life I had, you mostly stayed at home,
submissive to the rule of the house; women who worked were few and far
between. Today women can work, they can have a decent life. I?m telling
you, any woman who?d become a prostitute today, it would have to be because
she wanted to. There are all kinds of jobs to be had, and anyone who wants
to study can study.

How did you meet your present husband?

ALICIA: When I began to work at the book store, he worked with us in the
same union; we both belonged to the Graphic Arts Union and he had a
leadership position in the Union. We met and we began to go out. But right
away I told him about my life, what I?d been. He told me he wasn?t
interested in the past; he was interested in the present and in the future.
He said the past was over with, that I?d changed and that I could do
whatever I wanted to do now. So we got married and we have two daughters.

Have you ever been mobilized in agriculture?

ALICIA: Yes, before my last child was born, we went to the country, to cut
cane. We were going to go again, but where I?m working now there?s not
enough help, so I can?t go. They?re going to divide it into two shifts, so
sometimes one can go and sometimes the other, but I do productive work in
the warehouse, wrapping packages and stuff, whenever I can.

If this Revolution were threatened in some way., and you had to take up
arms, would you?

ALICIA: Me? Sure! Before I was married there was an invasion and they came
and asked us if we were willing to go to the barracks and I went; we were
on alert three days. I?m willing to go wherever they need me!

Why do you think you?re willing to give your life, if necessary?

ALICIA: Because I don?t want my daughters to ever have to live what I went
through. We?ve got to fight to defend what we?ve got; if we let it go, the
young ones are going to live even worse than we did!

Louis Proyect
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