The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,128

a third of the island’s population. The freedom we fought for as women, the blood that was shed so we could be treated as equals with men, so that we could vote or hold political office, is another dream lost to the war.

Where we were once indispensable in the war for Cuba’s independence, we are now forgotten in her future.

I am surrounded by forgotten, abandoned women.

They beg throughout the streets of Havana.

The Evangelinas of the world were feted with parades and cheering crowds, whereas the women who fought on the battlefield, who lived in reconcentration camps, who worked as nurses and couriers, who raised the cry of independence and lost so much, are left without prospects, impoverished and desperate, ill and malnourished. We dreamed of a free Cuba, gave our lives and our families to her cause, and we’re given nothing in return. Perhaps if we’d been younger, prettier, our skin lighter, our virtue untouched, our fortunes would have been different.

It’s not Evangelina’s fault, of course; even in my more bitter moments, I know that. Our lives are not defined by one thing; we are more than the events that happen to us, as Evangelina should be. But it’s hard not to feel like in Evangelina the Americans saw a Cuban who needed to be protected, and after saving her they decided the whole damned island needed saving, too. That America feared this new Cuban identity we are forging. It’s hard not to question my part in the whole affair and wonder what I could have done differently even as I ultimately benefited from my role in her rescue. It’s hard not to feel that if we hadn’t been seen as victims, we would have had a chance to be treated as equals.

It’s impossible to feel victorious when the “victory” leaves your country in ruins. Rather, it’s as though we helped the Americans win a war against Spain. We had no part in the negotiations that ended the war, were relegated to onlooker status when the Spanish flag was finally lowered over Havana.

Many believed that because the United States knew what it was to wage a war for their independence, they would support our right to have the same freedom. But democracy seems to mean different things throughout the world.

Under the Treaty of Paris, Spain has signed the armistice handing over Cuba, Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippines to the United States for the sum of twenty-five million dollars.

Isabella and I walk on, toward a ceremony that’s being held by some of the revolutionaries.

I pray my husband will be there. That he is alive.

I’ve already had to break Isabella’s heart once telling her that her grandmother Luz has passed away. I can’t tell her she’s lost her father, too.

As we near the gathering, it’s clear that we aren’t the only family hoping to be reunited today. There are other women and children who appear as desperate as I feel, searching for loved ones.

Isabella holds on tightly to me as we search the crowd, looking for Mateo.

I don’t see him in any of the men who walk by us. Their expressions are haunted, their bodies gaunt, their clothes in tatters. There is talk that provisions will be made for the men who fought in Cuba’s military, but for now it looks as though they’ve lost everything.

“Do you know Mateo Sandoval?” I ask one of the men.

He shakes his head.

I approach more of the soldiers, asking them if they know of my husband, but no one does.

Am I to be one of the widows of this war?

The sun is nearly setting, and I turn away from the crowd, leaning down so I am eye level with Isabella.

“We should go. It’s getting late. We can keep searching for him. I promise.”

Isabella doesn’t respond, but she takes my hand, and we walk back the way we came, dusk settling over Havana.

The jewelry my mother gave me will go a long way toward giving us a new start, to rebuilding our home. In this, we are luckier than many, at least.

We walk near the water, and I am reminded of the day Isabella and I looked out onto the harbor, when I told her that our memories, our love, our hope is enough to sustain us through these difficult times.

There must be better days ahead.

It’s a beautiful night in the city, others clearly taking advantage of the opportunity to be outside, enjoying the cooler air. In the distance, a man approaches, his silhouette but a