I keep asking myself what part of the film we missed when the synonym of success and social and professional mobility continues with the GPS pointing to the North.

As I write these lines, I think of the impiety, the distances, the challenges, the heavy burdens that are placed on the backs of people who emigrate.

Race as a social, fantasizing construction, with a clear ideological definition of postponing and inferiorizing, in the Cuban case is subsumed, cornered, and internalized in private, family spaces, in the daily “jokes.”

With an analysis of the Censuses carried out in Cuba in the first half of the 20th century.

You slowly replace the line on your cell phone with one that will keep you connected in your new destination. It seems a simple and mechanical exercise...but you are absorbed in multiple thoughts and beings that accompany you in that insignificant operation. Perhaps it would be simpler, you think, if your old Motorola had two inputs, then you would save yourself that monotonous gesture of exchanging one chip for another, which for you is the harsh reality of moving from one place to another. A gesture that forces you to recognize that your existence starts being mediated by a telephone chip in another language, and whether you want it or not, you make a lot or little effort to be close to your loved ones through an occasional screen or a voice message, you definitely are faraway...and you have no exact idea how much that distance implies. Along with the strength to make you start on the road, comes her voice, of your dear old grandma, clearly saying: “And when are you coming back, my son?” That is when you become speechless, the slight stuttering of your childhood appears, you make excuses, pretexts, your eyes is lost on the ground,...

The constitutional right to peaceful demonstration is not enough, it is necessary to legislate it and understand that the street belongs to all Cubans, who have the right to express themselves and the duty to not use violence.