Veronica Vega’s diary

A friend suggested I write about a comment one of his acquaintances made: “Black and shit is the same; may the good black people excuse me.” If I had been the other person in that conversation, I would have turned my back on him, because with such a precedent, the likelihood of having a reasonable debate would be zero.

As well as dengue fever or Zica, Cuba is suffering the scourge of another unknown virus that has become a plague: reggaeton. You mustn’t underestimate the power of noise. It travels through space like an overwhelming invasion and it doesn’t need to ask for any bureaucratic red tape or permits.

Alternative art projects on the island has been treated worse than a bastard child. And not exactly by Cuba. People embrace them and are thankful. For every natural event, there is also a natural audience that identifies with it.

I’m sure that Cuba’s experience is already enough to find a path that can make Marti’s dream (“for all and for the well-being of all”) a reality without committing itself to any “-ism” and only using what works, ignoring parts of the world that only check minds and maps.

A friend told me about an ethical conflict: he had managed to get a medical appointment for his wife who has problems with her thyroid. He was even given the “gift” he’d have to hand over to the specialist.

A bridge manages to unite something that has been divided by geography, politics or prejudice. In the case of the United States and Cuba, it’s a pressing need rather than a symbol. (10 photos)

Why then is the information that the Cuban people are receiving on the matter the worn-out rhetoric of imperialism-related lies, manipulation and reprisals? Why isn’t there a single and coherent argument?

On October 10th, under the slogan “Trees aren’t the problem”, artists, environmentalists and lovers of life on the whole came together and participated in the performance piece “Human Connection for Forest Revitalization.” (23 photos)

Hurricane Irma ripped a coconut palm out from the roots in front of my building. It was a blow to see it the next day, taken down lying on the grass, but it was worse to see another that had managed to survive being cut down.

I vividly remember the vision that they used to give me at school about the excessive poverty that ate away at the island before 1959 and that feeling of pride when faced with a dream of accomplished justice: “that’s all in the past now.”