Summary: A brigadista reflects on her recent trip to Cuba at the Julio Antonio Mella International Camp in rural Artemisa. Mornings there arrive not quietly but collectively—through music, memory, and routines shaped by decades of solidarity with Cuba. CIJAM is a place where friendship and comradeship are not abstract ideals but lived practices, expressed through shared labor, communal life, and the enduring bonds of internationalism.
by Carrie Zaremba, GeoRevolt on Substack
The air in Caimito is thick with the scent of damp red earth and the lingering weight of a recent hurricane. At 5:00 AM, the loudspeakers break the morning silence of the Artemisa countryside. There is no alarm clock or snooze button. Instead, what wakes us up is the opening notes of Guantanamera, the Internationale, and Fidel’s archival speeches. I am staying at the Julio Antonio Mella International Camp (CIJAM), a place that feels like a rustic boarding school in a relatively remote, rural area of the island.
Here, you can assess some of the hurricane damage from the state of the trees ^
Thousands of internationalists pass through CIJAM every year as part of brigades organized by the Cuban Institute of Friendship with the Peoples (ICAP). The camp itself is a record of its existence over time. It began as simple wooden barracks housing youth from twenty-eight countries—members of the World Federation of Democratic Youth and the International Students Union—who came to help build schools and training centers in the early decades of the revolution. They named the place after Julio Antonio Mella, founder of the Communist Party and the Federation of University Students, who was murdered in exile in Mexico City in 1929. The name still does work here. Throughout his lifetime, Fidel frequently met with these brigades and understood them as a significant anti-imperialist gesture.
Each brigade inherits the labor of the last and leaves behind a new layer. This year, our contribution is hurricane cleanup. It is a 50+ year ritual of brigades not only staying at the camp, but also maintaining it. Capacity hovers around three hundred, and there are more than two hundred brigadistas from the United States this year. As a result, only the UK, South African, and Australian delegations share the space with us—a leftist mini-Olympic village of settler states. It is said that Palestinian fedayeen used to stay at the camp in the 70s.
The dorms are long, communal barracks with a bathroom at the end of the hall. The water is cold and occasionally absent, reminding us of the reality of the blockade. To manually flush the toilets, you have to fill up a large bucket of water and pour it forcefully into the bowl in one full sweep. For breakfast, we have bread, a boiled egg, and café con leche. For lunch and dinner, we repeat the holy trinity of rice, black beans, and a piece of meat. Over these meals, we discuss prospects for the revolution in our home countries.
The camp is quite well-equipped. There is a cafeteria, a small store, a bar, a currency exchange, sports areas, a library, and even twenty-four-hour medical services. I fell quite ill one of the first nights at camp and was treated at 3:00 am by a lovely Cuban doctor who provided me with medication that allowed me to participate fully in the following day’s activities.
Murals line the walkways. Our delegation adds one marking the fiftieth anniversary of Operation Carlota, when over five percent of the Cuban population traveled to Angola to support its war of independence.
By nightfall, the bar becomes the camp’s social nucleus. There is almost always a line, but nobody minds waiting. Beer, rum, pineapple juice, and small Cuban pizzas are sold to the brigadistas. In line, a Scottish trade unionist debates the merits and failures of the NHS with me as I wait for a mojito. Around me, the atmosphere is filled with the sound of “comrade” spoken in a dozen different accents.
International Night is a highlight. All of the May Day brigades come to CIJAM and transform it into a kind of global bazaar. Delegations cook their own food, and each group performs songs, dances, and skits. The Ghana delegation brings spices from Accra and a large pot of Jollof rice. The dances pull even the most stoic Marxists onto the floor. In line for food, I befriend a woman from Honduras. We traded contact information, and for the rest of the brigade, when we saw each other, we always exchanged hugs and greetings. This was my first time befriending so many leftists from around the world. By the end of the International Night, our shared destiny models a world that refuses to give up on the idea of solidarity.
