The feeling of constant supervision has come to affect the way we speak, filling it with whispers, gestures and metaphors, to avoid saying those words that could get us into trouble.
Six years ago Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone came through the front door to Cuba. This December, however, he has returned on a private visit which is evidence of the discrete recognition of failure.
Havana is a surface city, with very little underground. However, on the roofs of the houses, on the most unthinkable rooftops, little houses have been erected, baths, pig pens and pigeon coops. As if above the ceilings everything were possible, unreachable.
Despite the multitudes and the numerous digital screens shining in the Hong Kong night, memory persists in taking us back to one man. An individual who was returning from the market and decided that the treads of a tank were not going to crush his remaining civility. Twenty-five years later, reality is echoing his gesture.
Nearly two decades have passed and they are still imposing limits and prohibitions incompatible with development and with life. As if in this social laboratory they want to test what they can do to get the guinea pigs -- which are us -- to keep breathing, clapping, accepting.
The original sin of the official press is not the press, but propaganda. It emerged to sustain the ideological political-economic model and it can't shed that genesis.
My mother has to pay out three days worth of her pension to buy a pound of onions. I no longer have to say anything, she just concludes, "This country has to change."
When the Maleconazo broke out he joined in the shouting and escaped when the arrests started. He didn't want to go home because he knew the police were looking for him.