This is one of the stories written by Martí for La Edad de Oro (The Golden Age), a “monthly publication for recreation and instruction” devoted to the children of America which was published in New York from July to October 1889.
Once upon a time, a traveler arrived in Caracas as night was falling and, not pausing to even shake off the dust of the road, asked — no, not where he could eat or sleep, but how to get to the statue of Bolívar. They say that, alone with the tall, fragrant trees of the square, the traveler stood in front of the statue and tears ran down his cheeks, and the statue seemed to move, like a father when his son draws close to him. The traveler was right to do this, because all of us in the Americas should love Bolívar like a father — Bolívar and all the others who fought like he did so the Americas would belong to their own people. We should love them all: from the famous hero down to the very last soldier, the unknown hero. Men who fight to make their homeland free grow handsome in our eyes.
Liberty is every man’s right to be respected and to think and speak without hypocrisy. In the Americas, in the past, nobody was respected or could think or speak. A man who hides what he thinks or does not dare to say it has no honor. A man who obeys a bad government and does not try to change it is not honest. A man who obeys unjust laws and allows those who mistreat his country to remain there has no honor. As soon as a child is big enough to think, he should think about everything he sees and suffer for those who cannot live with honor. He should work to give everyone the chance to live with honor, and he should be honest. A child who thinks about what is going on around him and does not want to do anything, not caring whether he is living with honor or not, is like a man who lives off a scoundrel and is on the way to becoming one. Some men are worse than animals, because animals need to be free to be happy: an elephant that is not free does not want to bear young; the Peruvian llama lies down and dies if an Indian speaks harshly to it or puts too heavy a load on its back. Men should have at least as much self-respect as elephants and llamas. Before the Americas were free, men lived like overloaded llamas. We, too, had to shake off our load or die.
Some men are happy even when they are not respected. Others suffer agonies when they see men around them with no self-respect. There must be a certain amount of honor and respect in the world, just as there must be a certain amount of light. When there are many men without honor, there are always others who embody the honor of many. They are the ones who rebel with a terrible force against those who rob the people of their liberty, which is the same as robbing men of their honor. They represent thousands of men, entire nations, human dignity itself. Such men are sacred. Bolívar, of Venezuela; San Martín, of the Río de la Plata; and Hidalgo, of Mexico, are three of these men. They should be forgiven for their mistakes, because the good they did outweighs their mistakes. Nobody can be more perfect than the sun. The sun burns with the same light that warms. The sun has spots. The ungrateful speak only of the spots. The grateful speak of the light.
Simón Bolívar
Bolívar was a short man. His eyes flashed, and when he spoke, his words were like a torrent. He always seemed to be about to leap on his horse. His country, his oppressed country, weighed on his heart and never let him live in peace. All the Americas were awakening. A single man is never worth more than a nation, but there are some men who never tire when their nation gets tired and who decide that it is necessary to fight before their nation does, because they have to consult nobody but themselves, while nations are composed of many men and cannot come to a decision so quickly. This was Bolívar’s merit, that he did not tire of fighting for Venezuela’s freedom, when it looked like Venezuela was tiring. The Spaniards had defeated him and made him leave his country. He went to an island so he could look at his country and think about it.
A generous Negro helped him when nobody else would; and one day he started fighting again, with 300 heroes, 300 fighters for freedom. He freed Venezuela, Nueva Granada, Ecuador and Peru. He founded a new nation: Bolivia. He and his barefoot, half-naked soldiers won wonderful battles. Everything around him was shaken up and filled with light. Generals fought at his side with supernatural courage. His army was filled with young men. Never before in the world had any one fought so much or better for freedom. Bolívar fought for the Americas’ right to be free, even more than for men’s right to govern themselves. The envious exaggerated his defects. Bolívar died of a broken heart rather than from an illness, in the house of a Spaniard in Santa Marta. He died poor, but he left a family of nations.
Miguel Hidalgo Y Costilla
Mexico did not have many brave men and women, but the few it had were worth a lot. Half a dozen men and women worked to make their country free: a few brave young people, the husband of a liberal woman and a 60-year-old priest who loved the Indians. Ever since he was a child, the priest Hidalgo had been good and wanted to learn. Those who do not want to learn are bad. Hidalgo knew French, which was a thing of merit in those days, because few people knew that language. He read the works of the 18th-century philosophers who stated that man had the right to be respected and to think and speak without hypocrisy. He saw Negro slaves, and the sight filled him with horror. He saw people mistreating the Indians, who are gentle and generous, and he sat down with the Indians like an older brother and taught them the fine arts, which they learned quickly: music, which brings consolation; the breeding of silkworms, that produce silk; and the raising of bees, that give honey. He burned with inspiration, and he liked to build: he made kilns for baking bricks. His green eyes shone with enthusiasm.
Everybody said that he spoke very well, that he knew many new things and that the priest of the village of Dolores was very charitable. They said that he went to the city of Querétaro once in a while to speak with some brave men and with the husband of a good woman. A traitor told a Spanish commander that the friends in Querétaro were trying to free Mexico. The priest got on his horse like the rest of his people, who loved him dearly; the cattle herders and servants on the haciendas joined him, and they were the cavalry; the Indians went on foot, with clubs and bows and arrows or with slings and lances. A regiment joined him and seized a gunpowder train that was supposed to be for the Spaniards. He entered Celaya in triumph, to music and cheers. The next day, the Town Council met and made him a general, and a new nation was born. He made lances and hand grenades. He gave speeches that, as a cattle herder put it, gave off heat and sparks. He freed the Negroes, and he returned the Indian lands to them. He published a newspaper called The American Awakening. He won and lost battles. One day, 7,000 Indians with bows and arrows would join him, and the next day he would be all alone. The bad people wanted to go with him to rob in the towns and to take revenge on the Spaniards. He told the Spanish leaders that, if he defeated them in battle, he would welcome them in his home as friends. That’s how big-hearted he was! He was magnanimous, and he was not afraid that the bad soldiers who wanted him to be cruel would desert him. When his comrade Allende became jealous of him, he gave Allende the command. They were together looking for help when the Spaniards fell on them. The Spaniards took off Hidalgo’s cassock and other religious clothes one by one, to humiliate him. And they took him out behind a wall and shot him in the head. He was wounded and fell down, covered with blood. There, they killed him. They cut off his head and hung it in a cage in the public granary of Granaditas, where he had his government. They buried the headless bodies. But Mexico is free.
José San Martín
San Martín was the liberator of the South, the father of the Argentine Republic and of Chile. His parents were Spaniards, and they sent him to Spain to be a soldier of the King. When Napoleon and his army marched into Spain to take away the Spaniards’ freedom, all the Spaniards fought against Napoleon; even the old people, the women and the children fought. One brave boy from Catalonia made a whole company of Frenchmen run away one night because he kept shooting at them from a hideout in the mountains. Later on, the boy was found dead — killed by hunger and cold — but his face was shining with happiness.
San Martín fought very well in the Battle of Bailén, and they made him a lieutenant-colonel. He never talked much; he was like steel; he had an eagle’s gaze, and nobody disobeyed him. His horse came and went through the battlefield like a thunderbolt through the air. As soon as he heard that the Americas were fighting for their freedom, he came here. He gave up his career to do his duty. When he arrived in Buenos Aires, he made no speeches; instead, he raised a squadron of cavalry. His first battle was at San Lorenzo. Brandishing his saber, San Martín went after the Spaniards, who were very sure of themselves, beating their drums; but they would end up without any drums or cannon or flags. The Spaniards were winning in the other nations in the Americas: the cruel Morrillo of Venezuela had expelled Bolívar, Hidalgo was dead and O’Higgins had to flee from Chile; but San Martín kept free the place where he was. Some men just could not stand slavery. San Martín could not, and he set out to free Chile and Peru. In 18 days, he and his army crossed the high, cold Andes. Hungry and thirsty, the men climbed higher and higher, into the sky. They were so high up, the trees looked like grass and the torrents roared like lions. San Martín found the Spanish army and cut it to pieces in the Battle of Maipú:. He defeated the Spaniards decisively in the Battle of Chacabuco. He freed Chile. Then he and his troops got on ships and went to free Peru. But Bolívar was in Peru, and San Martín let him have all the glory. He went back to Europe sadly and died in the arms of his daughter Mercedes. He wrote his last will on a sheet of paper like the report of a battle. He had been given the flag that Pizarro, the conquistador, had taken with him four centuries before, and in his will, San Martín gave the flag to Peru.
A sculptor is wonderful because he can make a figure come out of a stone, but men who create nations are more than men. Sometimes they wanted what they shouldn’t want, but what would a son not forgive his father for?
Our hearts are filled with tenderness when we think about these great founding fathers. Those who fight to free the people, like those who die in poverty and disgrace for defending a great truth, are heroes. Those who fight because they are ambitious or to enslave other people, to rise in rank or to take away the land that belongs to others are criminals, not heroes.