Abstract
As dusk fell, the guerrilla patrol halted its march across the mountain. We removed our shoulder packs and put up hammocks. We opened some cans of food, while tortillas were heated over the open fire. A companero tuned in Radio Havana. It was 6 p.m, Maybe there was still daylight beyond the thickly wooded mountain slope where we had pitched our camp, but all we could see were each other's faces in the glow of the fire. After the newscast, as on every other night, there was a political discussion, with participation by the entire patrol.This article can also be found at the Monthly Review website, where most recent articles are published in full. Click here to purchase a PDF version of this article at the Monthly Review website.
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