In 1980, the human stampede towards the Peruvian embassy left her stunned.
14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 28 July 2025 — Haydée Santamaría Cuadrado shot herself in the head on July 28, 1980, two days after the 27th anniversary of the Moncada barracks attack. It’s even said that the bullet could have been fired on the 26th itself, but the hairy men of the nomenclatura would never allow a suicide to spoil their celebration.
There were no honors in the Plaza. No national mourning was declared. Nor was there any mention of the weapon, the farewell note, or the most serious wound, that of disillusionment. She was bid farewell with a routine phrase in the official newspaper Granma: “after a prolonged physical and emotional illness.” A small feat for a founder of the Revolution, for one of the few “heroines” of a testosterone-doped process.
She was probably a Fidelista until the last minute of her life. In a sect, nothing is allowed but fanatically and unconditionally worshipping the leader. But there are also no second chances for a first impression. And when Yeyé — as she was called — met Fidel, she saw him as “that tall guy who left his cigarette ashes all over the floor I had cleaned.”
Dozens of women – including 14 mothers – who remain in Cuban prisons today could well remind their jailers of this fact.
It is well known that, after the failure of the Moncada attack, her brother and boyfriend—Abel Santamaría and Boris Luis Santa Coloma—were killed. What the official press doesn’t often repeat is that the cruel dictator Batista only sentenced her and Melba Hernández to seven months in prison. The dozens of women—including 14 mothers—who remain in Cuban prisons today for peacefully protesting against the regime might well remind their jailers of this fact.
When Haydée was released, she was sent to the United States to buy weapons from the mafia. Although she later confessed to feeling “terrified,” she did so without remorse. She also proudly recounted how she entered Cuba with her skirt full of fake pockets… and bullets. With a profound humanist vision, she also recounted her role in organizing attacks: “When someone had to plant a bomb during the struggle, and even in the underground, sometimes I was the one who had to decide who would do it […] I always chose the best, the one with the greatest conscience, the best human qualities, so that whoever it was wouldn’t get used to planting bombs, wouldn’t feel pleasure in planting them, so that it would always hurt them.”
It is fair to recognize that she protected, as far as possible, some Cuban artists that the macho-Leninist sugar mill itself was trying to turn into guarapo
Perhaps it was her semi-illiteracy—she barely completed sixth grade—that allowed her to shine at the head of the Casa de las Américas. There she received Mario Benedetti, Cortázar, and Galeano. She protected those who wrote strangely, those who thought differently, as long as they didn’t challenge dogma too much. It is also fair to recognize that she protected, as much as possible, some Cuban artists whom the same macho-Leninist sugar mill was trying to turn into guarapo [sugarcane juice].
But by the late 1970s, Haydée no longer believed. She had learned to keep quiet inside. The repression was getting tougher; the culture was becoming more and more instrumental. And in April 1980, the human stampede toward the Peruvian embassy left her stunned. Cuba was beating those who left. Repudiation rallies were organized. Mobs shouted insults at the “worms” from the doors of the revolutionary vigilance committees.
Haydée broke down. She sent a letter to Fidel. She asked him to reflect. She denounced the violence in the streets. But she never received a reply.
Those who knew her say that her gaze was already hollow, that she spoke little, that she had lost hope.
She no longer attended meetings. She kept to herself in her home. She had been in a car accident shortly before. Those who knew her say her gaze was already hollow, that she spoke little, that she had lost hope. Until that July morning, she asked her driver to leave her alone. She closed the door. She took out the gun she had kept since her years in hiding. And fired.
Fidel didn’t utter a single public word. Nor did Raúl. Juan Almeida was the only one who dared to say it clearly: “In principle, we revolutionaries do not accept the decision to commit suicide. The lives of revolutionaries belong to the cause and the people. But those of us who knew her… knew that the wounds of Moncada had not healed.” It was an exception to the official silence.
Lamentably, the tragedy continued
Her two children, Celia Hart Santamaría and Abel Hart, died in a mysterious car accident.
Twenty-eight years later, on September 7, 2008, her two children, Celia and Abel Hart Santamaría, died in a mysterious car accident in Havana’s Miramar neighborhood. They were traveling in the same car. The vehicle crashed into a tree, and both died instantly. The official press reported the incident briefly. No in-depth investigation was conducted. Nor was there a memorial service.
After the accident, rumors began to swirl. Was it a real accident? A planned suicide? A desperate act in the face of ideological suffocation? There’s no proof. But the tragedy resonated like the echo of their mother’s gunshot.
The death of Haydée and her children are not isolated episodes. They are chapters in an emotional story that has never been told before. A story that doesn’t fit into school textbooks or official museums. It is the story of the human price of silence, of dogma… and of disillusionment.
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