It's June the 29th, 1964.

In Mexico City, a young woman walks nervously into a crowded room.

At the opposite end, several microphones are being placed on a table.

As the woman approaches, all eyes turned towards her. Her name is Hwana, though most people know her as Juanita.

There's something familiar about her. A gently sloping nose, her prominent cheekbones and small chin, her soft brown eyes.

A chair is dragged up to the table.

Juanita takes a seat.

She places a piece of paper on the desk in front of her.

She flattens it with her hand.

Head down, her eyebrows fix into a slight frown.

She silently mouths a few words to herself. She looks up. Directly in front of her is a television camera and several expectant journalists.

She takes a deep breath and begins to speak.

I can no longer remain indifferent to what is happening in my country, she says. Her voice wavering,

her eyes brimming with tears. My brothers have made it an enormous prison surrounded by water. The country she speaks

of is Cuba. Her brothers, Araul and Fidel Castro. Seven years younger than Fidel, Juanita had once

been his staunch supporter.

When he was leading his army of guerrilla rebels, she had traveled to the US to raise funds

for him.

She'd even smuggled weapons up to his mountain hideout.

Now she's fleeing her homeland, never to return. In the USA, just 90 miles from Cuba.

The 1960s is a decade of experimentation and radical change. In its own inimitable way, something similar

is happening in Cuba. There, the creation of Castorland is well underway. The island is in

...