These days, I’ve been recalling a two-part post I wrote for Havana Times, titled Cuba’s Horizontal Gravity. I’ve also been thinking about this force that restricts our movement across the world, not unlike the physical force that tethers us to the Earth.
One day, when he was four, my son showered me with questions: “Why does it rain?” “Why don’t planes fall from the sky?” Then there were others, more difficult to answer: “Why are there wars?” As he grew up, he began to notice contradictions I hadn’t paid attention to…
The question in the title of this post was inspired by the Israeli film Haganenet (“The Kindergarten Teacher”). Nina, a teacher at a kind of day care center, discovers the unusual talent of Yoav, one of the children under her care.
On June 21, International Yoga Day was celebrated for the first time around the world. Yoga is an age-old system of thought that, through the school that has been most widely accepted and divulged in the West, Hatha Yoga.
I must admit I am rather put off when someone sees me buy some food from a nearby stand for a stray cat or dog and, while the animal devours the food desperately, compassionately says: “Take it with you, girl!”
A series of works by émigré Cuban painter Tomas Sanchez are currently on display at the third floor of Havana’s National Fine Arts Museum as part of the 12th Havana Arts Biennale.
Thanks to alternative digital channels, I was finally able to see the film “Return to Ithaca,” suggestively censored during the past Havana Film Festival. The stage is the rooftop of a building in Havana.
I do not believe it impossible for teachers here in Cuba to begin advancing exercises in which students are free to choose, on the basis of less restricted and rigid information, who their heroes and heroines are.
Alfredo Fernandez’ post, Cuba and The Price of Being Worthless, took me back to the get-togethers we’d organize at the apartment he used to live in Vedado, Havana. I remembered the reading of literature, invariably sprinkled with political comments – the complaints, speculations and dreams.
I’ve always believed that the simplest things are the hardest to explain – precisely because one feels that they require no explanation, that they are as intrinsic to us as the act of breathing.