them.
Inside, the noise died rapidly, and all eyes turned towards the watchtower. One guard was still on the phone, but the others were spread out so that they had full rifle coverage of the interior. The guard on the telephone replaced the receiver, and picked up a bullhorn. “Go back to your cells!” His voice was half authoritative and half wavering. “Go back to your cells! Now!”
The crowd began dispersing, each individual headed toward his few square feet of space. Atcho nudged one of the men in his underwear. “Where do I go?” he asked. “I just got here.” The man looked at him through sagging eyes. He did not respond, nor did he start walking. He seemed lost in thought. Then, he turned, faced the tower, and called up.
“Oye me! Listen to me!” he yelled. At first, no one seemed to hear him, so he called again. “Guardia! Oye me!” Movement stopped, and one of the guards peered down.
“What do you want? More trouble?”
“You tell your jefe that we will not be governed by criminals. We are educated men who never broke the law, and we will govern ourselves, or you will have to shoot us all!” He paused, and then yelled again, “And we won’t wear the uniforms of criminals!”
Around him, other prisoners looked at him in awe and fear. “You go too far,” one said quietly.
“No!” he responded vehemently. “They’ve already taken everything away from us. I will either keep my dignity or die with it!” He set his jaw firmly. Around him, a small group gathered. It grew until every man in the Circular 4 had descended to the first floor and stood packed together in their underwear, facing the watchtower defiantly. Atcho had also stripped down, but he moved further into the shadows.
The guard with the bullhorn spoke into the phone again. A moment later, he lifted the bullhorn, and called down, “The warden will meet with your representatives tonight. Now, go back to your cells!” He lowered the bullhorn and picked up his weapon.
A few minutes later, with help from other prisoners, Atcho located his assigned cell, and lay down on the canvas stretched over a steel frame that served as his bed. The walls were rough-hewn and coated with worn-through, grimy whitewash. The bars had also been painted white at some point in its old history, but that had also worn through to shiny steel by thousands of hands that had gripped them over many decades. The cells had doors, but they were left unlocked, and inmates were free to move about. Twice each day, there was a head count, and prisoners then had to be in their cells where they could be seen and counted by the guards in the watchtower.
Atcho said little to anyone that night. One of his cellmates, Domingo, had been an engineer prior to the revolution, and had also been captured at the Bay of Pigs. “What will happen now?” Atcho asked, referring to the commotion.
Domingo was small, in his mid-thirties, and appeared to be a thoughtful man. “I don’t know,” he responded. “You can tell by how quiet it is now that people are worried. But they can’t kill us all! There are famous people in here. If they massacre us, the world will know.”
The next morning before breakfast, Atcho milled with his work group on the ground floor of the cellblock waiting to go for breakfast, and was surprised to see that the cadre of criminals was not present. Instead, a fellow prisoner stood at the base of the watchtower and called for quiet.
“The warden brought me and some others to his office last night,” he announced in a loud, serious tone. “We govern ourselves!” As the crowd began to voice its approval, he raised his right hand for quiet. “We don’t celebrate,” he said. “We are still prisoners. But here,” he tapped his head, “and here,” he put his hand over his heart, “we are still freemen – and they will never take that away.” The crowd raised its collective voice again, and again he raised his hand. “To celebrate is to invite
Inside, the noise died rapidly, and all eyes turned towards the watchtower. One guard was still on the phone, but the others were spread out so that they had full rifle coverage of the interior. The guard on the telephone replaced the receiver, and picked up a bullhorn. “Go back to your cells!” His voice was half authoritative and half wavering. “Go back to your cells! Now!”
The crowd began dispersing, each individual headed toward his few square feet of space. Atcho nudged one of the men in his underwear. “Where do I go?” he asked. “I just got here.” The man looked at him through sagging eyes. He did not respond, nor did he start walking. He seemed lost in thought. Then, he turned, faced the tower, and called up.
“Oye me! Listen to me!” he yelled. At first, no one seemed to hear him, so he called again. “Guardia! Oye me!” Movement stopped, and one of the guards peered down.
“What do you want? More trouble?”
“You tell your jefe that we will not be governed by criminals. We are educated men who never broke the law, and we will govern ourselves, or you will have to shoot us all!” He paused, and then yelled again, “And we won’t wear the uniforms of criminals!”
Around him, other prisoners looked at him in awe and fear. “You go too far,” one said quietly.
“No!” he responded vehemently. “They’ve already taken everything away from us. I will either keep my dignity or die with it!” He set his jaw firmly. Around him, a small group gathered. It grew until every man in the Circular 4 had descended to the first floor and stood packed together in their underwear, facing the watchtower defiantly. Atcho had also stripped down, but he moved further into the shadows.
The guard with the bullhorn spoke into the phone again. A moment later, he lifted the bullhorn, and called down, “The warden will meet with your representatives tonight. Now, go back to your cells!” He lowered the bullhorn and picked up his weapon.
A few minutes later, with help from other prisoners, Atcho located his assigned cell, and lay down on the canvas stretched over a steel frame that served as his bed. The walls were rough-hewn and coated with worn-through, grimy whitewash. The bars had also been painted white at some point in its old history, but that had also worn through to shiny steel by thousands of hands that had gripped them over many decades. The cells had doors, but they were left unlocked, and inmates were free to move about. Twice each day, there was a head count, and prisoners then had to be in their cells where they could be seen and counted by the guards in the watchtower.
Atcho said little to anyone that night. One of his cellmates, Domingo, had been an engineer prior to the revolution, and had also been captured at the Bay of Pigs. “What will happen now?” Atcho asked, referring to the commotion.
Domingo was small, in his mid-thirties, and appeared to be a thoughtful man. “I don’t know,” he responded. “You can tell by how quiet it is now that people are worried. But they can’t kill us all! There are famous people in here. If they massacre us, the world will know.”
The next morning before breakfast, Atcho milled with his work group on the ground floor of the cellblock waiting to go for breakfast, and was surprised to see that the cadre of criminals was not present. Instead, a fellow prisoner stood at the base of the watchtower and called for quiet.
“The warden brought me and some others to his office last night,” he announced in a loud, serious tone. “We govern ourselves!” As the crowd began to voice its approval, he raised his right hand for quiet. “We don’t celebrate,” he said. “We are still prisoners. But here,” he tapped his head, “and here,” he put his hand over his heart, “we are still freemen – and they will never take that away.” The crowd raised its collective voice again, and again he raised his hand. “To celebrate is to invite
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