Born into a bourgeois family of Portuguese origin, Marília Guimarães was born in 1945 in Ouro Preto, Minas Gerais, in southeastern Brazil. Marked by the injustices and social inequalities affecting her compatriots, she became aware of the reality of the class struggle at an early age.

Following the military coup that overthrew the democratically elected government of João Goulart in 1964, Marília Guimarães became Miriam, her “nom de guerre”, and joined the armed struggle against the putschist junta within the Vanguardia Popular Revolucionaria organization. She opened a school as a cover for her militant activities. Unmasked by the regime, she went underground to escape the fate usually reserved for political opponents.

After a year in hiding, in January 1970, she decided to hijack an airliner, accompanied by her two children, Marcello and Eduardo, aged three and two respectively, and seek asylum in Cuba. While preparing the operation, she entrusted her children for two weeks to a young activist named Dilma Roussef, who was to become Brazil’s first President. After a long journey of several days through Uruguay, Argentina, Chile, Peru and Panama, Marília Guimarães finally arrives on the island where she will spend ten years of her life.

In the course of these conversations, Marília Guimarães recounts her history and her militant commitment against the putschist regime in Brazil, and details the odyssey that led her to Havana. She describes her new life in a society marked by revolutionary fervor, and her encounters with the country’s main political leaders, such as Fidel Castro, Raúl Castro and Ramiro Valdés. She also met such emblematic figures of anti-colonialism as Almicar Cabral, the historic leader of Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde, and his brother Luís Cabral, the first President of Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde. Above all, she forged lasting friendships with leading Nueva Trova artists such as Silvio Rodríguez, Pablo Milanés, Augusto Blanca, Vicente Feliú and many others. After spending a decade in Cuba, she returned to Brazil following the passage of an amnesty law, but did not abandon her commitment to a fairer world. It was there that she met Lula da Silva, who became her friend, and whom she actively supported in his political career, particularly during the last presidential campaign that crowned his victory.

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Salim Lamrani: Who is Marília Guimarães? What do you remember about your childhood? What was your upbringing like?

Marília Guimarães: I was born in a historic town called Ouro Preto, in the state of Minas Gerais, in southeastern Brazil. It was here that the Portuguese, who had colonized the country, began to exploit our continent’s first riches. The town got its name because the gold mined in this area had a dark color. It’s a beautiful city, and a World Heritage Site.

It was here that the Inconfidênza Mineira revolt took place in 1789, when pro-independence Brazilian militants expressed their desire to separate from Portugal. Among these militants was a poet named Tomás Antonio Gonzaga. He had fallen in love with a girl, but could not reveal his identity, as he was living in hiding due to his political commitment. It was a small town at the time. The girl’s name was Marília, which would become Marília de Dirceu in his poems. Arrested and imprisoned, Gonzaga was deported to Africa, to Mozambique, where he would end his days, breaking his love affair with Marília and temporarily ending the struggle for independence.

My father, who was passionate about history and freedom, decided to call me Marília. I’m very proud to be called Marília. My ancestors were Portuguese, as were my grandparents. I was brought up with the nostalgia of the Fado and the characteristic joy of the black Africans who were deported to America as slaves. So, my personality is characterized by this mixture of nostalgia and joy. I’m originally from Portugal and Africa. From an early age, we inherited the tradition of struggle of the Africans who, even though they were subjected to slavery, always rose up against oppression. They were the ones who built Brazil.

My grandmother owned a hacienda. Her employees were former slaves. She was very aware of social realities and the plight of the poorest of the poor. They often went to her house to look for work or food. During my vacations at her home, I would witness this and realize that we occupied very different spaces within society. While I had everything I needed, others came begging for a piece of bread. It’s something that really affected me and has stayed with me ever since.

SL: What do you remember about your schooling?

MG: I went to an international school run by French people. There were Belgians, Portuguese and English. The French influence has always been very important in Brazil. Many schools were run by French nuns, and French was spoken as a first language. It was only in the 1950s that a law was passed banning schools where Portuguese was taught as a second language. The Brazilian language is full of French neologisms. We say abat-jour, for example. Portuguese spoken in Africa has Portuguese phonetics, whereas Brazilian is closer to French phonetics. In Angola and Mozambique, for example, the language has a different musicality to ours.

You have to remember that, at the time, the whole world was in rebellion against colonialism and the rise of capitalism, which was taking hold everywhere. So, I grew up in this context of unrest that permeated universities and high schools the world over. As teenagers, we were rebels by nature. We wanted to conquer and change the world. Nothing was more beautiful than fighting the oppressor. Like all the other young people of my generation, I was caught up in this wave.

Political commitment

SL: What were your main sources of inspiration?

MG: The Russian Revolution of October 1917 and the birth of the Soviet Union left their mark on the world. We read Marx, Lenin and Stalin. Initially, we were Stalinists because it was easier to study Leninism through Stalin. Lenin was a great intellectual and his writings were not accessible to everyone. Stalin’s prose, on the other hand, was more accessible to most people, and it was easier for us to gain followers through his texts. Eventually, we evolved and returned to Lenin.

SL: In 1964, a military junta orchestrated a coup against the democratically elected president João Goulart, with the support of the United States. What was the reaction of Brazilian youth?

MG: João Goulart was in favor of agrarian reform and wanted to bring about structural change in Brazil. He was forced into exile by the putschists, who threatened to take his life if he persisted in staying in the country. Almost 90% of Brazilian Communist Party (PCB) militants were also forced into exile, following the arrest of several of their comrades by military forces.

The young activists in the universities, of whom I was one, were looking for a way to put an end to the dictatorship. Carlos Marighela, a former member of the PCB, created the revolutionary organization Action for National Liberation in 1968, with the aim of uniting all the country’s opposition forces. He is an emblematic figure of the Brazilian resistance. Clemente was his nom de guerre.

SL: Were you part of this group?

MG: No, I joined another organization called the Vanguardia Popular Revolucionaria. We had decided to fight the dictatorship and we were trying to find the best way to confront the army. We were few in number and had no weapons, but we were driven by a strong desire to change the world. The PCB had been decimated, so we created parallel organizations with a new idea: armed struggle. Our aim was to confront the military dictatorship.

The balance of power was unequal. We were very young, we had no money and we didn’t have the necessary knowledge to lead an armed struggle project, even though we had read everything available on the subject. There was a small island in the Caribbean that had waged a guerrilla war, and we had Cuba as a model. But Brazil is a huge country. How do you create guerrilla cells in a similar way to Cuba? It took a lot of people, a lot of money and a lot of training. Also, although the Brazilian army was never a big army, it was much better structured than our organizations.

SL: What were your first missions?

MG: Our first job was to raise awareness. Later, we took on more daring actions, attacking barracks to seize weapons. We also learned how to survive in the forest. There’s a big difference between Brazil and Cuba. On the island, animals are not venomous, whereas here it’s exactly the opposite, as snakes are extremely poisonous and bites can be fatal. In Cuba, the armed struggle took place in the Sierra Maestra, which is a small forest compared to the Amazon. It was therefore necessary to adapt the Cuban experience to the geographical realities of Brazil.

The military junta launched a campaign of heavy repression and began arresting militants, as was the case in other countries on the continent where dictatorships of the same type were in power. Torture was systematically applied to opponents in order to extract information. The acts of torture were unspeakably atrocious and inhuman. Prisoners were slashed with razor blades and subjected to electric shocks. Then, in the early hours of the morning, they would put these people into helicopters and throw them alive into the open sea.

SL: Revolutionary activists who fell into the hands of the army had little chance of survival. What decision did you take to try and save some of them?

MG: We came up with the idea of kidnapping the US ambassador to Brazil and exchanging him for the prisoners who were in the worst shape as a result of the abuse. We received information on their state of health on a fairly regular basis. We also took into account the size and representativeness of the prisoners. For example, we included José Ibrahim, a labor leader who had organized the first strike by Sao Paulo’s steelworkers at the age of 19, in the list of fifteen people to be released. He succeeded in paralyzing all the factories.  It was a great success, achieved by a very young man, just out of his teens. Also, on the list was the leader of the Brazilian Students’ Union. We had so little experience that our demand was limited to fifteen militants, whereas we could have demanded a much higher number given the importance of our hostage. It was an extremely reckless action.

SL: How did the kidnapping go?

MG: I wasn’t directly involved in the action. Carlos Marighela’s Movimento Revolucionário 8 de Outubro carried out the operation. We supported the project. On September 4, 1969, we seized Charles Burke Elbrick. José Dirceu was part of the commando. We treated him with the utmost respect. We were neither executioners nor assassins. We explained our motives to him, then told him about our struggle and our aspiration to build a different Brazil, a fairer, more sovereign one, without the military in power. Given the circumstances, our relations with the ambassador during his detention were quite good. In fact, he made a statement to the press to this effect after his release.

The exchange took place after a week of negotiations, and the fifteen activists were granted safe-conduct to Mexico, before travelling to Cuba.

SL: How were you able to kidnap such an important figure?

MG: We had the surprise factor on our side. Nowadays, ambassadors take more security measures when they travel, with the presence of several bodyguards. That wasn’t the case back then. The ambassador would leave his office with his chauffeur and return home.

So, we had meticulously drawn up his schedule, noting his times of entry and exit, the route he took to get to the embassy, and we went into action. The operation went off without a hitch, and we took the ambassador to a house in the Santa Teresa district in the hills above Rio de Janeiro. This was the English Quarter, home to the British community.   

However, the locals discovered the presence of the commando, as the house, which had been empty until then, was suddenly populated by a dozen or so people. Although precautions were taken, they weren’t enough, which illustrated our inexperience. The group had to be fed, and when one activist went out to buy pizzas, he returned with a quantity that attracted the attention of the neighborhood. The authorities were alerted and most of the members of the commando were arrested, while the ambassador was released. Fortunately, the negotiation had already taken place and the imprisoned militants were safe in Mexico.

The dictatorship was left speechless and imagined that, in order to successfully kidnap the representative of the world’s leading power, the operation had been carried out with the support of a very large military apparatus. In reality, our organizations were modest and lacking in resources. But we had the will, and that was the most important thing.

SL: How did the guerrilla operations go?

MG: We had planned to open guerrilla pockets in forested areas close to towns, while continuing our armed combat operations in urban areas. Our actions were easier to carry out in town. We robbed banks to obtain financial resources and attacked barracks to obtain weapons. The next objective was indeed to establish a solid guerrilla front to fight the army. That was our main idea.

SL: On a personal level, what were your activities?

MG: First of all, I was in charge of investigating the people we recruited for our cause. Then, when we planned to rob a bank, I’d go to the location to do the necessary scouting. I would count the number of minutes it would take to get there. I’d enter the bank to count the number of armed guards present and memorize the layout. Finally, I reported back to the members of the commando team.

In our group, where machismo reigned despite the progressive ideas that animated us, women were entrusted with the secondary tasks in this type of action. For example, I could drive the car, but I had to stay outside and carry out surveillance during the armed raid. I couldn’t take part because it was considered too dangerous for a woman. The fight against machismo is a long-term battle that continues to this day. Women are strong, and men need to accept this reality and see us as their equals. Society will come to understand this, even if we can’t put an end to centuries of male domination overnight.

SL: You then decided to open a school. What were your motivations?

MG: Well, I trained as a teacher. I’d worked a lot with Paulo Freire and I’d set up a different teaching method. I’ve always liked new pedagogies to facilitate learning. I bought a school in Rio de Janeiro which was an experimental establishment and I trained my teachers there. It was also the ideal location for our activities. There’s always a lot of movement in a school, and the regular visits of activists didn’t attract the attention of the authorities. Parents came to drop off their children, and there were plenty of staff. This provided excellent cover for our activities.

The school also served as a refuge for comrades from other parts of the country whose activities had been discovered by the dictatorship and who had to go underground. I welcomed them and offered them asylum and protection. They would then join our Rio de Janeiro action group. The school was a fundamental infrastructure for the guerrilla movement.

We also had to do information and propaganda work, distributing revolutionary literature to make people aware of the cause of freedom. We couldn’t buy books. With other comrades, we bought a large mimeograph – the forerunner of the printer, so to speak – that belonged to the Malaria Institute, which had gone bankrupt. We cleaned it as meticulously as possible so that it couldn’t be identified, but it wasn’t enough.

SL: What happened?

MG: We printed documents that we distributed among the militants. One of the books I distributed was Che Guevara’s Guerrilla Warfare. It was published at a fundamental period in the history of Latin America.

In December 1968, the school was about to close for the school vacations. Naturally, we couldn’t put our activities and militant actions, particularly guerrilla warfare, on hold. So, we decided to move the mimeograph to a comrade’s place of residence. We could then continue our printing work. The idea was then to bring the machine back to the school when classes reopened.

But there was an incident. In February 1969, the comrade’s girlfriend was arrested at her home, and the authorities discovered the mimeograph and the printed material – Marxist literature, considered subversive.

We had cleaned the device when we bought it, but we hadn’t realized that there was a small plate with the initials of the Malaria Institute on it. The police investigated, traced the seller and discovered that the mimeograph had been bought by a school. And I was the headmistress and owner of the school.

SL: Were you arrested?

MG: When I heard that the comrade had been arrested and that the mimeograph had been discovered, I told a member of our group, Carlos, that we were going to make a false invoice stating that we had sold the device and that we would archive it as proof.

Carlos was a nom de guerre, because we all used nom de guerre for security reasons and didn’t know the real identities of the militants, although in this case I knew who he was. My nom de guerre was Miriam and I was always called that. It’s a name I like very much. Many people still call me by my nom de guerre.

In March 1969, just before school started again – in Brazil, the school vacations begin in December and end after Carnival – I was in the middle of a meeting with my teachers when, suddenly, the army burst into the school. I’ll never forget that moment. The soldiers arrived at the front door with a green and yellow document that was a warrant for my arrest. I expressed my surprise to the officer. “You’re a subversive and a communist”, he replied. I told him he had the wrong person. He told me about the mimeograph and the Marxist documents. I denied categorically and stuck to my story: I had sold the camera a few months earlier and showed him the receipt.

They wanted to take the invoice with them, but I objected, explaining that I had no other copy. The officer wanted me to accompany them immediately to the War Ministry. I objected, saying that I couldn’t appear before such an authority without being properly dressed. I was trying to gain time. They finally accepted my request and left.

SL: What did you do next?

MG: I left the school and tried to cover my tracks. I was afraid of being followed. I finally returned home, took my two children, Marcello and Eduardo, aged three and two respectively, and went into hiding.

My organization needed money, and many of us were already living underground. After careful consideration, our leader, Juarez, the commander of the VPR – the man who gave me my nom de guerre, Miriam – advised me to go to the authorities and tell them I had nothing to do with revolutionary movements. There was a risk, but he knew my personality well and was convinced I could be persuasive. The other comrades were fiercely opposed to the idea, as there was the danger of being arrested, tortured or even murdered. But in the end, Juarez succeeded in imposing his point of view. It’s true that many of our comrades were in hiding and we didn’t have enough money to support them. It takes a lot of money to live underground.

About a month later, I went to the War Ministry.

SL: How were you received?

MG: The army didn’t expect my visit at all. Several weeks later, I turned up and said I had nothing to do with it. I had a good excuse for my absence: the father of my children was ill and I had to look after my family. In fact, as a precautionary measure, my children were no longer in Rio. I had taken them elsewhere, to Minas, to stay with my sister.

I was interrogated for 72 hours in very difficult conditions. They took it in turns to ask me the same questions and try to find a loophole in my story.

During my interrogation, I was shown photos of my dead comrades, who had been brutally tortured, and my reactions were carefully observed. One of the photos I was shown was of the comrade who had bought the mimeograph with me and who had been detained and murdered by the dictatorship. I was shown a photo of his strangled and mutilated body. The image was unbearable. It was extremely difficult for me to remain in control of my emotions. To be able to resist detention psychologically, I thought of Che and tried to draw the necessary strength from his example. But inside I was completely destroyed.

SL: Were you subjected to physical violence?

MG: One of the soldiers, armed with a knife, approached me with the intention of slashing my chest. Fortunately, one of his colleagues intervened and managed to dissuade him, reminding him that they had no proof that I was an agent of subversion. They didn’t know whether I was a bourgeois school principal and owner, which was true, or a revolutionary activist, which was also the case.

Luckily, I was able to sow doubt in their minds and eventually withstood the ordeal without flinching. But one of the soldiers present didn’t believe in my version of events and my innocence. He kept repeating that I was talking nonsense and that I wasn’t telling the truth. So, they decided to incarcerate me in a prison in La Pedrera. But they didn’t have any concrete proof, so they decided to release me in the early hours of the morning, and I was taken back to Rio on a small boat.

I went around Rio to make sure I wasn’t being followed, and spent many long hours on the beach, pondering my future actions. Finally, I made my way to a hideout we had set up in case of an emergency and found Juarez, who had been waiting for me for several days. He was euphoric and kept telling me that he knew the military would fall for the trap and believe my story. My children’s father told me to go home, but I refused.

SL: What were your reasons?

MG: I knew the military wouldn’t buy my story. I’d only managed to instill enough doubt for them to release me, but they were still very suspicious of me. So, it was too dangerous for me to return to my home.

So, I decided to go to his sister’s house, but the army was already there, looking for me. The day after my release, the military arrested the person who had sold us the mimeograph, who had positively identified me in one of the photos. He had also identified the comrade who had accompanied me and who had been murdered by the army. They now had concrete proof with this testimony. I was very lucky because my fate was decided within 24 hours.

SL: That’s when you went underground for good.

MG: Yes, for almost a year I lived in hiding. It was a very difficult time. I left home in a hurry, without taking anything with me, without any money. I had to stay on my own, communicate with no one, and be as discreet as possible, because my portrait was posted everywhere on wanted posters. I had to go out in disguise. Sometimes my only meal of the day was a piece of bread. I lived in the favela. I spent whole nights sleeping in my car on the side of the road. Sometimes I slept with friends, in the cellar, but I couldn’t stay with the same person for more than a day for security reasons. It was an unbearable life.

What’s more, I had two small children, which further complicated the situation. My children were hungry and needed to get out and play. Life in the underground is not for children. Marcello fell ill and I couldn’t take him to the doctor. The year 1969 went by like that, and I couldn’t find a solution that would keep the children safe. I was constantly changing cities and states. I was at a dead end, on the brink of the abyss, and I knew that sooner or later, if I didn’t make a radical decision, I would fall into the clutches of the dictatorship. Not a week went by without my comrades being captured and murdered.

The hostage-taking and the plane hijacking

SL: So, you decided to hijack a commercial airliner and leave the country. Why did you choose to go into exile in Cuba and not in France, for example?

MG: Despite my situation as a married woman with two children, after a year of clandestine life where every day could be my last, I couldn’t see myself leaving for Europe. If I was prepared to give my life for the revolution in Brazil, I couldn’t go to a Western country and abandon the cause of the struggle for emancipation.

Cuba was in the midst of a revolutionary process, and I thought I could make my modest contribution to the people’s struggle for human dignity. I was a teacher with experience in education. Brazilian music and literature are extremely rich, and I was lucky enough to have received an excellent education. What would I have done in Paris? I wanted to be useful in Cuba. I wanted to give my children stability, and I knew I’d find that on the island, where children’s welfare is a national priority. In no capitalist country could my children have enjoyed such emotional stability.

SL: How did the operation develop?

MG: After careful consideration, we all came to the conclusion that the only solution was to leave Brazil. So, I travelled by bus to Porto Alegre in the south of the country, stopping overnight in each state to cover my tracks. Once there, my comrades and I got down to the strategic preparations for this risky operation. But to be able to carry out this mission, I had to entrust my children Marcello and Eduardo to someone so that I could work in good conditions.

SL: It was at this point that you met a young activist called Dilma Roussef, who would go on to become Brazil’s first female president.

MG: Dilma was barely 22 and I’d never met her before. She came to pick up the children one evening and looked after Marcello and Eduardo, who were very young, for almost two weeks.

Allow me to comment on her as a person. Some people who have worked with Dilma say that she has a very strong personality and is sometimes difficult to talk to. I have a completely opposite opinion of her. Dilma is infinitely tender. Just imagine the situation. My children were constantly with me for almost a year while we were in hiding. From one day to the next, they were separated from their mother and left to spend a fortnight with a young stranger. When I found them again after two weeks, they were over the moon, despite my long absence, which they weren’t used to. Two weeks is a very long time for two children separated from their mother. It’s proof that Dilma is a special person, with great kindness and generosity, because children are never wrong about people. Dilma was such a good surrogate mother, taking such good care of my children that they were able to accept my absence without much difficulty. A mother’s presence is very important, especially for young children. Marcello and Eduardo, who are now adults, still adore Dilma, not the Dilma who is President, but the 22-year-old Dilma who took care of them when they were vulnerable children, marked by clandestinity and separated from their mother. For them, Dilma will always be the young girl who gave them love and protection during a difficult period of their childhood.

SL: How many people were involved in the hijacking?

MG: We crossed the border into Montevideo, Uruguay. There were four of us at the start, then six, because the commando leader, Andrada, decided to integrate two other comrades, who weren’t part of our organization and whose presence wasn’t planned. In all, with my two children, there were eight of us. The Tupamaros put us up in a house for a while, then moved us to a hotel until the big day.

As I had two children and a lot of luggage, I was in charge of getting the weapons on board the plane. In those days, there weren’t the security measures you find in airports today. I was very thin and had bought a very large dress to hide the arsenal in. I moved to the back of the plane with Marcello and Eduardo, to protect them and prevent a passenger from grabbing them in a moment of panic.

Once on board, Andrada went to see the captain to tell him to divert the route to Cuba. The captain, who was very experienced, was very professional and cooperative. He informed the passengers of the situation and asked them to remain calm.

But once we had boarded the aircraft, he told us that it was not possible to fly to Cuba, as the flight range was no more than two hours. Added to this was the fact that none of us had the slightest knowledge of aviation. They could have taken us to Antarctica and we wouldn’t have known a thing about it.

SL: How did you manage to get to Cuba in those conditions?

MG: Our great good fortune was that we came across a captain who had already been through a similar experience. He had already been taken hostage by a group who wanted to get to Cuba. So, he was very cooperative and cool-headed, which made our job easier.

We reassured him that the plane would get to Cuba one way or another. It was a long journey. First, we went to Buenos Aires, Argentina. Then we headed for Antofagasta. From Chile, we took off for Peru. The situation in Peru has become very complicated. The Peruvian Minister of Foreign Affairs came all the way to the airport tarmac to try and convince us to get off the plane. At the time, Juan Velasco Alvarado’s revolutionary military government was in power. The minister offered me political asylum for myself and my two children.

I reassured my comrades that I would not abandon them, despite the insistence of the minister, who came to see me no less than three times. In the end, we were allowed to leave, after repairing a problem with our propellers. We then took off for Panama. The situation there was tense, as the authorities had secretly given a gun to the commander who had come down, so that he could use it against us, create panic and then encourage an assault on the plane. But, fortunately, even if he had accepted the weapon, he had refused to use it against us, as this would have led to a tragedy.

I discovered all this 30 years later, when I saw the commander again at the presentation of my book in Rio de Janeiro. He had made a key-ring out of a revolver bullet and told me the whole story.

Exile in Cuba

SL: How were you received when you arrived in Cuba?

MG: I have to say that I owe my life to the journalists who publicized this affair all over the world and who followed our journey to Cuba, not least because of the presence of my children. It became impossible for the armed forces of the various countries we passed through to storm the aircraft. No one wanted to take responsibility for any tragedy that might arise from the presence of my children. So, I owe a debt of gratitude to journalists in general.

We had no knowledge of aviation. The only thing I knew was that Havana airport was named after José Martí. Three uniformed soldiers armed with machine guns boarded the plane and asked where “the woman with the two children” was. I spoke very little Spanish at the time.

I was in a critical physical and psychological state as we had gone three days without eating or drinking. We feared that the food might be contaminated by some substance. My children had been able to eat thanks to the food I had taken with me. We were all very weak. Looking back, I believe that when you’re determined to do something vital for yourself and your family – in this case, to save our lives, and especially those of my children – you find the energy you need to get the job done.

When I arrived at the gangway to get off the plane, I remember seeing a green immensity. All around the aircraft were soldiers in military fatigues. I was carrying my children in my arms, and as I passed a soldier, he stroked Eduardo’s head. It was at that precise moment that I knew I was really in Cuba. I was able to release all the pressure I’d built up since the start of the operation, because I finally felt safe.

SL: What happened next?

MG: We were separated and the authorities informed us that Cuba did not accept hostage-takers. It was a big surprise for us. What was I going to do with my two children? We were told that the Mexican government would be contacted to take us in. I was resolutely opposed. After lengthy exchanges, the Cubans finally told me that I could stay on the island with my children, but that my comrades would have to leave for Mexico. I once again expressed my firm opposition to such an idea, stressing that I was not abandoning my comrades along the way. I believe they recognized themselves in these principles, because Cubans never abandon their own on the battlefield. There was a state meeting, with Fidel present, and they agreed to give us political asylum.

SL: What were your first months in Cuba like?

MG: The first few months were quite difficult, as we had to adapt to a new society, but they were spent in a rather serene atmosphere. I lived at the Hotel Capri with my children for a whole year. Even though we stayed in the presidential suite, which was very large, life wasn’t easy, as the place wasn’t designed to accommodate small children for such a long time. Later, we moved to an apartment in the Miramar district.

SL: What were your first encounters on the island?

MG: The first person I met was Luís Travassos, who had been freed in the exchange with the American ambassador.

Then I met Roque Dalton, the Salvadoran poet and revolutionary. We became fast friends. He also had two children, and I remember he brought a bag full of toys for Marcello and Eduardo.

Marta Solís, a Mexican journalist who worked for Revista Siempre, was another great encounter. Two weeks after my arrival, she invited me to her home. She lived in an apartment near the Capri. When I arrived, a huge black man opened the door with a big smile. He didn’t speak Portuguese and I didn’t speak Spanish. He knew I was the “woman on the plane with the two small children”. He told me he loved the Brazilian singer Elis Regina. That was Pablo Milanés.

SL: Tell us about Pablo Milanés.

MG: We talked a lot about music when we first met. As we were saying goodbye, Pablo said to me: “I’m the first to sign up for the Brazilian guerrilla movement. Put me on the list”. From that moment on, a great friendship was born between us that lasted until his recent death.

I always called him Pablito. He helped me a lot with the children. He’d pick them up from school. He prepared their bottles. He looked after them when they were sick. He was a member of the family. We were together all the time.

He wasn’t a rebellious person, but he was aware of the realities of the world. He was critical of Cuba’s cultural policy, and he didn’t hesitate to make that known in person. He wrote some of the most beautiful songs of the Nueva Trova. He spread Cuban song throughout the world and made the Revolution shine. Yolanda is now an international anthem. He played a fundamental role in opening up his country. He had a great love for Cuba.

SL: You also knew Silvio Rodríguez, who even dedicated a song to you.

MG: Silvio has a totally different personality to Pablito. He’s very shy. He writes wonderful songs. His devotion to the Cuban Revolution is unparalleled. I’m very fond of Silvio. He’s like a brother to me.

As for the song, here’s the story: Silvio and Vicente Feliú needed to compose in a quiet place because, given their fame, they were constantly besieged by fans asking for autographs. So, I regularly lent them my apartment. When they came to work at my place, I would go with my children to the house of another Mexican friend called Bertha, where I had a room at my disposal.

One evening, when I had left them my apartment, I came to pick up some clothes. I was feeling nostalgic and missed Brazil a lot. Silvio asked me what was going on and I explained how I felt. Even though I was happy in Cuba and had many friends there, I missed my homeland. I remember saying to Silvio: “Your moon is different from mine. It’s not the same. Mine is bigger”. Silvio, taken aback, retorted: “What do you mean, your moon is bigger? The moon is the same everywhere!” I couldn’t argue. It’s a question of latitude. This difference in latitude has an impact on the body. The smell of the sea was different too. Silvio kept saying to me: “But Miriam, what are you talking about?”

My singer friends did everything in their power to make me happy. For example, the group Manguaré learned dozens of Brazilian songs, and every time I went to one of their concerts, they sang in Portuguese. The Chilean exiles in Cuba couldn’t believe their eyes.

So, I chatted for a while with Silvio and the singers in my apartment, then he asked me to go and get some rest: “Go to sleep, because if you don’t, you’ll spend all night talking to us about the moon and the sea”. The next day, I was still asleep when I felt someone touch my foot. It was Silvio: “Wake up, I’m going to sing something for you”. It was Pequeña serenata diurna, a beautiful song with a samba-canção rhythm.

I also remember that a few years ago Silvio organized a concert in San Antonio de los Baños, the town where he was born, and I was there. He sang all my favorite songs. I remember it was raining heavily and it was an open-air concert. The last song he sang was Pequeña serenata diurna, and he brought me up on stage to sing it with him. It was magnificent.

Augusto Blanca also dedicated a beautiful song to me entitled No olvides que una vez tú fuiste sol. To tell the truth, I don’t think I deserve such an honor.

SL: You’ve met other Cuban singers.

MG: I met Noel Nicola and fell in love with him. Well, I didn’t fall in love with Pablito, who was very handsome, but with Noel Nicola, who wasn’t very handsome, to say the least. In fact, people nicknamed him “Dracula”. But he played guitar like no one else, and we were in love for a long time.

Later, I got to know all the Nueva Trova singers, either at Marta’s or at ICAIC. I got to know Sara Gonzalez, Sergio Vitier and Leo Brower because they were all part of a sound experimentation group. I entered the world of Nueva Trova even though I don’t play any instruments and sing off-key. I’m very proud of that.

 These young people have played a fundamental role in Cuba. As you know, the island suffers from a brutal, inhuman blockade that affects all sectors of society, including culture. From the 1970s onwards, trovadores began to be invited all over the world, in France, Italy and the Soviet Union, and this helped to open Cuba up.

In the 1960s, Fidel had said that Cuba would necessarily be a country of knowledge, thought and culture. That’s why we created the Cuban Institute of the Arts and Film Industry, the Casa de las Américas, the National Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba, the Union of Journalists of Cuba, while building a new society.

SL: What was life like in Cuba?

MG: Compared with capitalist countries, Cuba was a little behind in material terms. But in the field of education, for example, Cuba was a very advanced nation. I discovered a totally different society, with the voluntary work created by Che. Voluntary work took place at weekends, after a whole week of ordinary work. I remember people singing as they piled into trucks on Sundays to cut sugar cane. It was the time of the “10 million” harvest. The goal was to produce 10 million tons of sugar.

I enjoyed total freedom in Cuba. For example, I wanted children in nurseries to be able to listen to classical music at mealtimes and just before their siesta. That was my great aspiration. I wanted kindergarten, primary and secondary school children to have access to music. So, I went to the Ministry of Education and asked for an audience with the Minister, who was José Ramón Fernández, the Gallego, as he was known. He received me and I explained my project. He replied that Cuba didn’t have the resources to offer classical music in all the country’s nurseries. I suggested that he try an experiment in the nursery where Marcello and Eduardo were staying. It was a great success. Subsequently, Silvio, Pablito, Nicola, Sara and the other singers gave music lessons in schools.

SL: In those days, Cuba was a safe haven for revolutionaries and political exiles from all over the world. Who did you meet on the island?

MG: I met a lot of comrades from all over the world. My meeting with Amílcar Cabral and Luís Cabral, the revolutionary leaders of Guinea Bissau and Cape Verde, left a deep impression on me. I met Amílcar Cabral in the cafeteria of the Hotel Capri during my first year in Cuba. I didn’t know who he was. He stared at me so hard that I got scared. I’d just arrived on the island, still scarred by my year in hiding, and I wondered if he was an undercover agent. I saw enemies everywhere.

So, I quickly left the cafeteria to take the elevator up to my room. But he followed me and took the elevator too! He asked me in Portuguese: “Where are you from? I replied, “From Portugal”, in my Brazilian accent! He continued: “Do you know Santa María Hospital?” I started to panic inside. I didn’t have a Portuguese accent, and I didn’t know Portugal. So, I replied, “No, I’ve lived in Brazil since I was a little girl”. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I quickly escaped to my room. But he stopped on the same floor as me! And he went into the room right next to mine! I thought to myself: “My God, this guy is out to get us, and he’s going to hurt my children. We’re lost.

I was pacing back and forth in my room, thinking about what to do, when suddenly the phone rang. It was José Ibrahim. He asked me to come downstairs because he wanted to introduce me to someone. I went into the hotel lounge and found him with… Amílcar Cabral!

Once the introductions were made, I told them the whole story and Amílcar laughed heartily. Imagine mistaking this revolutionary leader for a CIA agent! It was really funny. We embraced and became great friends. I remember he gave me a piece of advice: “Never say again that you come from a place you don’t know”.

He then returned to Angola and we kept in regular contact until his assassination by the Portuguese secret service in 1973. We spent whole nights together talking about revolution, anti-colonialism, African liberation and how we could change the world. I learned to speak Cape Verdean. I learned a lot of songs from his homeland. It was an unforgettable encounter.

SL: Tell us about Luís Cabral, the first President of Guinea Bissau and Cape Verde.

MG: Luís was a journalist working for UPEC. He then joined the guerrilla movement in Guinea-Bissau. One day, during one of our meetings, I told him that he would be President of the Republic. He laughed a lot and retorted: “You Brazilians have this habit of always trying to predict the future”. And he went on to say that, should that ever be the case, he would call me just before taking possession and come and see me in Cuba. The anti-colonial struggle against Portugal was in full swing at the time, and the prospects for liberation were not obvious.

One day, in 1973, the phone rang and it was Luís. I immediately recognized him by his accent. I thought he was in Havana and wanted to see me. But he told me he was at home and that he was about to be appointed President. “I kept my word”, he said.

About two years later, he came to Havana. I was in my apartment when Marcello and Eduardo came up to me, announcing the presence of many black cars in front of the building. It was Luís. We spent several hours chatting and laughing. It was an extraordinary moment.

SL: In Cuba you also met Rogério Paulo, the great director and founder of the Portuguese Communist Party.

MG: Rogério Paulo was exiled to Cuba because he was persecuted by the Salazar dictatorship in Portugal. He stayed in the same hotel as me. He had two sons. Seven or eight years later, I married one of his sons, Rui Ferreira. I remember my mother was opposed to our union. But we’ve remained close friends to this day.

SL: You were a member of the Revolutionary Defense Committees. Could you tell us about your activities within this organization?

MG: The CDRs are organized in every neighborhood in Cuba. They came into being in the early 1960s as a response to the terrorist attacks orchestrated by opponents backed by the CIA. Within this structure, there is a president, a health coordinator and an ideological coordinator, elected each year.

For many years, I was the health coordinator for my local CDR. My role was to check that all residents were properly vaccinated, that pregnant women were properly monitored and that vulnerable people were receiving the attention and care they needed. My role was also to launch prevention campaigns on health issues and protect the most vulnerable groups. I was also a social worker and psychologist. When a local resident discovered that he or she was suffering from a serious illness, we referred them to specialized services and provided moral support.

Cuba has achieved excellence in the field of health, with exceptional results for a Third World country under economic sanctions. The model based on prevention is the best in the world.

I was also very involved in all aspects of education. We also made sure that all children attended school properly, and we paid close attention to the issue of absenteeism. In fact, I founded the School for Parents to raise adult awareness of new forms of education. For example, some parents were violent with their children, thinking that corporal punishment was part of education. They themselves had been brought up that way. So, we had to work hard to convince them that violence was traumatic and counter-productive. Children are born to be happy, as José Marti said, and childhood must be a sanctuary. It wasn’t an easy task. It was a long-term task. Today, Cuba has solved this problem, and education is also of a very high standard in every respect.

SL: You also created the Chair of Portuguese at the University of Havana.

MG: Since I was a Portuguese teacher, I created this chair, which didn’t exist in Cuba. There were professors from France, Italy and other countries who were doing the same with their respective languages.

I have an amusing anecdote on this subject. The official translator of the Central Committee of the Cuban Communist Party was my pupil. Every time I run into Pulgaron, he gives me a hard time. Pulgaron is huge. He’s even taller than Fidel. Today, he is President Miguel Diaz-Canel’s interpreter. He’s a polyglot and speaks six languages. I saw him on my last visit to Cuba. There were several of us, and Pulgaron exclaimed: “Miriam is the best teacher I’ve ever had. I’ll never forget her. You know why I never missed any of her classes? If you’d seen her legs!” Being Brazilian, I often wore miniskirts. It was a very funny moment.

SL: You also worked at Radio Havana as a speaker.

MG: The Portuguese speaker at Radio Havana, who was married to a Cuban diplomat, had a health problem and had to convalesce for six months. So, I was called in to replace her. I had no experience in this field, but I was told it was a revolutionary task. So, I took the job, and fortunately, despite my voice not being suited to radio, everything worked out for the best. So, I was a journalist for three months, and then I was replaced. Radio Havana was very popular in northern Brazil.

SL: After a few years on the island, some of your comrades decided to leave for Europe, Paris in particular, and asked you to follow them. Why did you choose to stay in Cuba?

MG: It didn’t make sense for me to go to Paris. In fact, I had a very good friend, Sergio Lara, whom I knew from Brazil, who lived in the French capital. He was an advisor to César Lattes, one of Brazil’s leading nuclear physicists. Following the coup d’état, he had gone to live in Paris, where he had a very comfortable professional situation. He contacted me to ask me to join him. He undertook to pay for the children’s school and told me that I would be able to study under excellent conditions. It was a very generous offer on his part, but I turned it down because I still had a lot to do in Cuba.

Looking back, it was one of the best decisions I ever made. I was able to do a lot of things on the island to give back some of what Cuba had given me. I spent the best years of my life in Cuba. I was really happy there. My children were also happy in Cuba. There was no reason to leave the island for Paris.

SL: In your neighborhood lived a young girl called Hilda Guevara, who was Che’s daughter. Tell us about your meeting.

MG: My son Marcello was five years old. I went to pick him up from school and found him sitting on the legs of a girl who must have been 17 at the time. He said to me: “This is my girlfriend”. We became friends and I had no idea who she was. To me, she was a neighbor. She came to the house regularly. She’d spend the night from time to time. We dated, but she never revealed her true identity to me.

Six months later, she invited me to her home and asked me to forgive her: “I lied to you and I’d like you to forgive me”. She told me she was Che’s daughter. It was a shock for me, but I hid my emotions at the time. We were all passionate about Che. She wanted people to love her for herself, not as Che’s daughter.

Our friendship grew stronger and she introduced me to her mother, Hilda Gadea. I then understood why Che had married her, because she was a fantastic woman. Hildita had shown me all the letters her father had written to her. One day, she said to us: “Let’s go and sleep on my father’s bed”. We went with Marcello and Eduardo. They all fell asleep in Che’s bed, but I couldn’t sleep a wink all night. The emotion was too strong.

I’ve met some wonderful people in Cuba, because people are accessible. The Revolution has brought people closer together. There’s a solidarity, a humanity, that unites the people.

SL: When did you first meet Fidel Castro?

MG: I met Fidel shortly after I arrived in Cuba. I had a health problem with my thyroid. I was hospitalized for a while. One day, after my remission, I went to the hospital with the head of the endocrinology department. I was with him waiting for the elevator. There were people behind us, but I didn’t pay much attention. Once in the elevator, I was astonished to discover that it was Fidel. People who meet Fidel for the first time are always very impressed, because he’s such a great figure.

Fidel recognized me and asked the person accompanying me: “That’s the girl from the plane, right? I couldn’t speak because the emotion was too strong. He ran his hand over my head and asked: “Why are you dying your hair? All I could say was: “Commander, I don’t dye my hair. It’s my natural color”. Meeting Fidel is a very special experience. Imagine finding yourself in an elevator with him.

Afterwards, I met him on several occasions, and we had time to talk at greater length. We talked about Cuba, Brazil and the international situation. As you know, Fidel could talk about anything. He had a superior intelligence and a vast knowledge of many issues. You could discuss any subject with him and he would always have an answer.

One day, I was at the Mexican embassy when President Luis Echeverría visited the island in 1975. Fidel put his arm around my shoulder and asked me a question: “Let’s see, the Russians drink vodka. The Japanese drink saqué. The Mexicans drink tequila. What do Brazilians drink?’. I replied, “I can’t tell you, Commander”. Ulises Estrada, a member of the Central Committee who was present, laughed and whispered to me: “Tell him”. In Brazil, we drink an alcoholic beverage called “pinga”. But in Cuba, this term refers to the male sex in popular parlance. It’s a rather vulgar swear word. Finally, faced with Ulises’ insistence, I resolved to tell him the name of our drink. He was very amused.

SL: Speaking of Fidel Castro, there’s a sculpture by Brazilian architect Oscar Niemeyer that graces a square at Havana’s University of Computer Science. Tell us about the genesis of this work of art.

MG: Oscar Niemeyer had given Fidel a small sculpture. It represented a huge dragon fighting against a tiny man carrying a Cuban flag. It was intended to decorate a piece of furniture. Fidel liked it very much. One day, Niemeyer asked me if Fidel would agree to install the sculpture in a square. Fidel was very enthusiastic. So, for weeks, I acted as intermediary between Fidel and Niemeyer, with the help of Abel Prieto, who was Minister of Culture.

What’s more, Niemeyer had decided that I would be the chief engineer on the site, even though I had no knowledge of architecture. Imagine being the intermediary between Niemeyer and Fidel! Niemeyer thought that an eight-meter sculpture would be sufficient, but Fidel wanted something bigger. It ended up being 16 meters. At the time, Niemeyer was 90 and Fidel 80. The square is magnificent.

The last time I saw Fidel was at the meeting with intellectuals at the Palais des Conventions in 2012.

Returning to Brazil

SL: In August 1979, President Figueiredo signed an amnesty law allowing political exiles to return to Brazil. After ten years living in Cuba, you finally had the chance to return to your homeland.

MG: It was Rui, my husband at the time, who discovered in the newspaper my name on the list of people amnestied by decree and authorized to return to Brazil. It was a great moment of joy. We could finally return home and see Corcovado, the sea and the mountains again.

But when we arrived at the airport in Brazil, after a stopover in Panama, the three of us were separated from Marcello and Eduardo for several hours for questioning, as we had just come from Cuba. They wanted to know if my children had received military training, even though they were barely teenagers. A fellow passenger on the same flight alerted the press to my presence. This somewhat forced the authorities to release us. We were able to return to our homeland.

SL: Lula is once again President of Brazil. When did you meet him and what is your relationship today?

MG: I met him the year I returned to Brazil, in 1979. Ibrahim, my ex-husband, is one of the founders of the Workers’ Party. I myself was a member of the PT. I was the PT’s national cultural coordinator. So, I went to meet Ibrahim in Sao Paulo and got to know Lula. We’ve been friends ever since.

I was very involved in the battle for Lula’s freedom when he was unjustly imprisoned. We launched the “Lula Livre” campaign. I’m one of the founders of the “Lava Jato” Museum, which brings together jurists, journalists and historians to preserve the historical memory of the injustice that led to the imprisonment of an innocent President of the Republic for political reasons, in order to prevent him from standing in the presidential election. What was done to Lula is unspeakable. It’s a scandal beyond all comprehension.

But Lula came out of it stronger. He’s back and he’s going to do a lot of good for Brazil. The Brazilian people suffered a lot under Bolsonaro. Thanks to a grand coalition, we were able to win the electorate’s vote. Lula is a great charismatic leader who wants to put the people, the poor, those who suffer, at the center of his project.

SL: What is your relationship with Cuba today?

MG: I still have a very strong relationship with Cuba, and I visit there very regularly with the same renewed pleasure. I publish my works there. The space given over to culture is as important as ever, despite the economic and material difficulties. I have many friends there. I have an infinite passion for the Cuban people, and I’ll never forget that they opened their arms to me and welcomed me during a critical period in my revolutionary life.

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