Return to the garden. The path of coral trees is still there, guiding the visitor and, in case they return, helping them find their way.
SANTO DOMINGO. – The structure creaks, the walls whisper, and the soul of this vernacular refuge beats with intense serenity. The Conuco house breathes, simple and austere, as if it had known since 1954 that it was not made for luxury, but for history.
Located in the province named after the Mirabal Sisters, it remains like a tree with deep roots. Today, it is a museum that preserves original details, with the difference that now it reveals what was once a secret.
If Patria, Minerva, María Teresa, and Dedé Mirabal could see how beautiful Jaime David's garden is, they would visit it from time to time, though you never know. The house vibrates, memories bring back their voices, and the echo, the footsteps that marked the rhythm of their days.
If they saw this scene, they would surely be amazed. Patria would observe the pomegranate trees and say, “They’re still bearing fruit.” Minerva would reply with a smile, “They always ripened early. They never waited for the right season.” María Teresa would look toward the terrace: “We used to sit here and plan the impossible.”
The house, made of wood with a block foundation, was built in a rural, functional, and intimate style. Low ceilings, cross ventilation: a design shaped by the warmth of family life and the ideas it housed.
The light accentuates the curves of the furniture, and it seems as if nothing has changed, as if opening a window would be enough for Patria to appear and say, “The air still smells of us,” a phrase that Minerva would finish: “And of everything we built here.” María Teresa would reply: “What we continue to dream about.”.
Everything is there, even them: the energy, the drive, the conviction that integrity was well worth a sacrifice. Or three.
The geography of those days: dresses for celebrations and farewells, photographs that don't age, the typewriter where ideas, letters, and decisions were forged; underlined books that shaped thought. Each room is a frozen scene. Every corner has a story. Every object is an unfinished chapter.
The garden, designed by Rodolfo Pou, is the heart of the house. The mausoleum where the three sisters and Manolo Tavárez rest, with that fountain that every November 25th shouts louder than any speech or pamphlet: “Life and dignity go on.”
It's as if the house joyfully listens to their laughter, their weightless footsteps. No tragedy, no sorrow, only permanence.
Patria, with the serenity of one who knew fear and yet chose tenderness, would say: Here we prayed and dreamed. Minerva would look toward the gallery: Freedom always begins in a whisper. Behind that door we hid many things, and on that table I wrote many others.
María Teresa would turn and say with a smile: and I used to write in my diary under that window. Dedé, who has no memories of that time, will always be its guardian. She would say, closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of the garden her son so carefully tends: as long as this house stands, so will you.
This house is not a museum: it is a body, an altar where memory germinates. It is a moral beacon, a living place where entire generations learn that justice, equality, and dignity always prevail.
Patria would smile happily and say : we will be here as long as there is a girl who asks.
It's not just memory. The garden, the house, and the life embodied by the Mirabal Sisters remain intact, and there, they flourish.
We are still alive, Minerva would say , not as martyrs, but as seeds.
