Today as yesterday, Cubans continue to fight against a state monopoly that stifles the natural growth of their own land

14ymedio, Madrid, Rolando Gallardo, September 20, 2026 / On February 23, 1723, eleven bodies hung from the trees on the hill of Jesús del Monte, on the outskirts of Havana. They were not thieves or murderers. They were tobacco farmers of Canary Island descent who grew tobacco in the fertile fields surrounding the capital, defeated three days earlier in an armed clash in Santiago de las Vegas. Their crime had been refusing to keep selling their harvest at a price that was not enough to live on. The Crown left them hanging for several days, as a warning, so that no one else would dare defy the State.
That scene, almost forgotten, is the origin of one of the oldest and most enduring struggles in Cuban history: that of the peasant against the state apparatus that seizes the fruit of his own labor.
The tobacco farmers were not rich, nor did they aspire to be. Many had come from the Canary Islands fleeing an island where the land was concentrated in a few hands, with no assets other than their willingness to work. Unlike the great sugar planters, they settled in the rural areas around Havana to grow tobacco and minor crops. In Cuba they found something they had not had in their homeland: a plot of their own, a piece of land where they could sow and live off what they sowed. They were not asking for privileges. They were simply asking to live and let live.
That balance was broken on April 11, 1717, when Felipe V decreed the tobacco monopoly in Cuba and created the Havana Factoría, an institution with a single purpose: to buy the entire harvest at a price fixed by the Crown itself, prohibiting any sale that did not go through it. The tobacco farmer ceased to be the owner of what he grew. continue reading
They achieved something that would never happen again in the entire history of Spanish Cuba: they forced the resignation of the governor and Captain General, Vicente de Rajá, and put him on a ship back to Spain
The response was not long in coming. That same August, hundreds of tobacco farmers armed with their farming tools marched on Havana. They achieved something that would never happen again in the entire history of Spanish Cuba: they forced the resignation of the governor and Captain General, Vicente de Rajá, and put him on a ship back to Spain along with the Factoría’s officials. It was an act of extraordinary boldness, proof that an organized people can stand up to an authority that has lost all legitimacy.
But for history to be useful, it must be told in full. The victory was short-lived. The Crown sent Gregorio Guazo Calderón as the new governor, who arrived on the island in 1718 with regular troops brought from Spain and the express order to restore the monopoly by force and punish those responsible. In 1720 there was a second uprising, fueled by continuing discontent and the governor’s pressure to enforce the monopoly; this time it was quelled through the mediation of the clergy itself, led by Bishop Jerónimo Valdés. And in 1723 came the third, the most desperate: the insurgent tobacco farmers began destroying the fields of those farmers who had complied with the Factoría’s orders, which unleashed the military repression that ended in the massacre of Jesús del Monte.
The lesson of that 1717 expulsion is not that it is enough to drive out one man to change a system. It is that a people can have the courage to stand firm, but if it fails to transform the structure that produces that governor, those in power simply send another, with more soldiers. It is worth remembering before turning a gesture into a fable.
That is what the tobacco farmers were denouncing before the word existed to explain it: that the fruit of the land belongs to whoever works it, not to the apparatus that stands between the furrow and the market
The most revealing thing about this story is that the enemy of the tobacco farmers was not Spain as a nation, nor Cuba as a subjugated territory. It was mercantilism, a system that squeezed the Cuban peasant, the Canary Islander, and the Castilian alike. That same year, 1720, the people of Santa Cruz de Tenerife rose up and killed the intendant Bartolomé de Ceballos, who was trying to impose on the Canary Islands the same kind of fiscal control over tobacco that the Cuban tobacco farmers suffered. On the mainland, monopolies on salt, brandy, playing cards, and gunpowder had existed for centuries. The tobacco monopoly was not a punishment designed against Cuba: it was the revenue-collection method of an entire empire, applied without distinction to any producer without political power of his own.
And here something remarkable happens: without knowing it, without even being able to name it, the tobacco farmers were defending almost to the letter what the Frenchman François Quesnay would formulate as economic doctrine forty years later. In his Tableau Économique of 1758, Quesnay argued that land was the only real source of wealth, and that trade, when it becomes a forced intermediary, is a sterile activity that merely appropriates what others produce. That, exactly, is what the tobacco farmers were denouncing through their actions before the word existed to explain it: that the fruit of the land belongs to whoever works it, not to the apparatus that stands between the furrow and the market.
Today as yesterday, Cubans continue to fight against a state monopoly that stifles the natural growth of their own land
Today as yesterday, Cubans continue to fight against a state monopoly that stifles the natural growth of their own land. Sugar production has fallen to levels not seen since the Ten Years’ War in the 19th century. Rice and pork production have plummeted by more than half in just a few years. And meanwhile, official data show that the real-estate and hotel sector – led by the military conglomerate that runs tourism – absorbs as much as 40 percent of state investment, compared to less than 3 percent received by agriculture. Tourists may not arrive. The potatoes and malanga have to arrive, because the daily subsistence of every Cuban depends on the land, not on tourism run by those who control power.
Three hundred years after Jesús del Monte, the question remains the same one those peasants armed with their farming tools asked themselves: who has the right to decide the price of another man’s sweat. The tobacco farmers did not win that war. But they left a lesson that Cuba’s future cannot afford to forget: no country prospers by squeezing those who sow their own bread. Live and let live was never a slogan. It was, and remains, a condition for the survival of the nation.
Translated by GH.
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