La gimnasia retórica que está pasando alrededor de esta conversación se merece su propio evento olímpico.

Nadie le está pidiendo a Bad Bunny que salve el mundo.

Nadie está diciendo que él personalmente tiene que resolver la crisis de agua de Puerto Rico, acabar con el colonialismo, tumbar el capitalismo o cargar con la isla completa en la espalda como si fuera un Atlas tatuado de seis pies.

Le estamos pidiendo a un artista puertorriqueño con una influencia cultural enorme, que ya ha utilizado su plataforma, su dinero, su arte y su visibilidad para hablar de asuntos sociales y políticos, que considere volver a utilizar esa influencia.

Eso es todo.

Y de alguna manera, eso ha provocado que algunas personas reaccionen como si hubiéramos entrado a su casa, insultado a su abuela y tirado sus Crocs favoritos al mar.

El nivel de ofensa personal es extraordinario.

Tú dices: “Yo creo que Bad Bunny debería pronunciarse sobre esto” y de momento aparece alguien a explicarte que eres envidioso, delirante, antipatriótico, que estás obsesionado con él, que lo quieres controlar, que estás esperando demasiado de él y que, aparentemente, no sabes que una sola persona no puede salvar al mundo entero.

Wow. Gracias.

Ya lo sabemos.

Ese no es el argumento.

Pero fíjate en el truco: en vez de responder la pregunta real ¿qué debería hacer una persona con este nivel de riqueza, visibilidad y poder cultural con ese poder?… la conversación se desvía hacia una pregunta filosófica absurda sobre si un artista puede resolver personalmente todos los problemas del planeta.

Eso no es un argumento.

Eso es prestidigitación retórica.

Y entonces viene el clásico:

“Pero mira todo lo que él ya ha hecho.”

Okay.

Entonces, ¿por qué hablan como si le estuviéramos pidiendo que de repente se convierta en otra persona?

De hecho, esa respuesta lo que hace es probar aún más nuestro punto.

Él ya ha sido político.

Ya se ha pronunciado.

Ya ha utilizado su plataforma para hablar de asuntos sociales y políticos.

Entonces, ¿por qué de repente es imposible que vuelva a hacerlo ahora?

La gente evita la contradicción obvia de su propio argumento: utilizan su activismo pasado como evidencia de que le importa Puerto Rico, pero cuando le pedimos que vuelva a utilizar su plataforma, entonces resulta que estamos pidiendo demasiado.

Si lo que ha hecho antes demuestra que le importa Puerto Rico, entonces pedirle que continúe utilizando su plataforma por Puerto Rico no es una expectativa descabellada.

Es, de hecho, bastante consistente.

Y vamos a dejar algo claro:

Exigir responsabilidad no es traición.

Pedirle a alguien que haga más no borra lo que ya ha hecho.

Puedes reconocer las aportaciones de Bad Bunny y, al mismo tiempo, pensar que debería pronunciarse con más fuerza sobre un asunto.

Puedes amar su música y criticar su política.

Puedes agradecer lo que ha dado y aun así pedirle que dé más.

Estas cosas no son mutuamente excluyentes.

Pero aparentemente eso requiere un nivel de madurez emocional bastante avanzado.

Porque algunas personas han confundido apoyar a una persona con protegerla de cualquier crítica.

Y no son lo mismo.

Bad Bunny no es tu abuela.

Es un adulto con una riqueza extraordinaria, una influencia extraordinaria y una plataforma extraordinaria.

Y si la gente que vive aquí está diciendo:

“Necesitamos que uses parte de ese poder ahora mismo,”

la respuesta no debería ser a clutching of pearls en su nombre.

Puedes estar en desacuerdo con la petición.

Puedes pensar que no debería hablar.

Puedes argumentar que su responsabilidad está en otro lugar.

Perfecto.

Pero actuar como si el simple hecho de pedirle que se pronuncie fuera una locura…

Eso es lo verdaderamente impresionante.

Porque aparentemente hemos creado un nuevo estándar de responsabilidad para las celebridades:

Si habla, lo celebramos.
Si dona, lo aplaudimos.
Si aboga, lo llamamos valiente.
Pero si le pedimos que vuelva a hacerlo cuando nos importa a nosotros, de repente estamos “esperando demasiado”.

Eso no es consistencia.

Eso es culto a la celebridad disfrazado de análisis político.

Y para que quede claro: esto no se trata solamente de Bad Bunny.

Queremos que todos los artistas puertorriqueños, y todos los artistas que tengan una conexión con Puerto Rico, se pronuncien cuando nuestras comunidades estén bajo amenaza.

Ningún artista tiene que cargar el movimiento completo sobre sus hombros.

Pero cada artista puede aportar algo:

Una declaración. Una canción. Una donación.

Un concierto benéfico. Un post.

O simplemente la disposición de pararse al lado del pueblo.

Ya hemos visto el poder que tienen los artistas cuando deciden utilizar su voz.

Durante la lucha para sacar a la Marina de Guerra de Estados Unidos de Vieques, artistas puertorriqueños ayudaron a llevar la situación de la isla a la atención nacional e internacional. Músicos, actores y otras figuras públicas participaron en protestas, eventos y actividades, amplificaron el movimiento y ayudaron a que fuera cada vez más difícil para el mundo ignorar lo que estaba pasando.

Sus voces no resolvieron el problema por sí solas.

Pero ayudaron a generar presión, solidaridad y visibilidad.

Y en 2003, la Marina finalmente se fue de Vieques.

Ese es el punto.

Los artistas no tienen que salvar a Puerto Rico ellos solos.

Pero pueden ayudar a mover la opinión pública, inspirar a la gente a organizarse, recaudar dinero, denunciar injusticias y recordarle al mundo que nuestras luchas importan.

Así que sí.

Estamos pidiendo que Bad Bunny hable.

Y estamos pidiendo que todos los artistas hablen.

No porque pensemos que las celebridades son salvadores.

Sino porque el silencio de personas con plataformas enormes tiene consecuencias… y la solidaridad de esas mismas personas puede hacer una diferencia.

The rhetorical gymnastics happening around this conversation deserve their own Olympic event.

Nobody is asking Bad Bunny to save the world.

Nobody is arguing that he personally needs to solve Puerto Rico’s water crisis, fix colonialism, dismantle capitalism, or personally carry the entire island on his back like some kind of six-foot-tall, tattooed Atlas.

We’re asking a wildly influential Puerto Rican artist… who has already used his platform, money, art, and cultural influence to speak about social and political issues, to consider using that influence again.

That’s it.

And somehow, this has caused people to react as though we broke into their house, insulted their abuela, and kicked their favorite pair of Crocs into the ocean.

The level of personal offense is extraordinary.

You say, “I think Bad Bunny should speak up about this,” and suddenly someone appears to explain that you are jealous, delusional, unpatriotic, obsessed with him, trying to control him, expecting too much from him, and apparently unaware that one human being cannot save the entire world.

Wow. Thank you.

We know.

That is not the argument.

But notice the trick: instead of engaging with the actual question: what should someone with this much wealth, visibility, and cultural power do with it? …. the conversation gets rerouted into an absurd philosophical question about whether one pop star can personally solve every problem on Earth.

That is not an argument.

That is rhetorical sleight of hand.

And then there’s the classic:

“But look at everything he’s already done.”

Okay.

Then why are you acting like we’re asking him to suddenly become a different person?

In fact, that response only proves the point further. He has already been political. He has already spoken out. He has already used his platform to address social and political issues. So why is it suddenly impossible for him to do that now?

People avoid the obvious contradiction in their own argument: they cite his past advocacy as proof that he cares, then act as though asking him to advocate again is somehow unreasonable.

If his previous advocacy is evidence that he cares about Puerto Rico, then asking him to continue using his platform for Puerto Rico is not some outrageous expectation.

It’s actually remarkably consistent.

And let’s be clear about something else:

Accountability is not betrayal.

Calling on someone to do more does not erase what they have already done.

You can appreciate Bad Bunny’s contributions and still believe he should speak more forcefully about an issue.

You can love his music and criticize his politics.

You can be grateful for what he has given and still ask him to give more.

These things are not mutually exclusive.

That apparently requires a shocking amount of emotional maturity.

Because some fans seem to have confused supporting a person with protecting them from criticism.

Those are not the same thing.

Bad Bunny is not your abuela.

He is a powerful adult with extraordinary wealth, extraordinary influence, and an extraordinary platform.

And if people who live here are saying, “We need you to use some of that power right now,” the appropriate response isn’t to clutch your pearls on his behalf.

You can disagree with the demand.

You can argue that he shouldn’t speak.

You can argue that his responsibility lies elsewhere.

But pretending the mere act of asking him is somehow unreasonable?

That’s the impressive part.

Because apparently we have created a new standard of celebrity accountability where:

If he speaks, we praise him.
If he donates, we celebrate him.
If he advocates, we call him courageous.
But if we ask him to do it again when it matters to us, suddenly we are “expecting too much.”

That isn’t consistency.

That’s celebrity worship dressed up as political analysis.

And to be clear, this is not only about Bad Bunny. We want all Puerto Rican artists, and all artists with a connection to Puerto Rico, to speak up when our communities are under threat. No single artist has to carry the entire movement, but every artist can contribute something: a statement, a song, a donation, a benefit concert, a social media post, or simply a willingness to stand beside the people.

We have seen the power of artists speaking up before. During the struggle to remove the U.S. Navy from Vieques, Puerto Rican artists helped bring national and international attention to the island’s suffering. Musicians, actors, and other public figures joined protests, performed at events, amplified the movement, and helped make it impossible for the world to ignore what was happening. Their voices did not solve the problem by themselves, but they helped build pressure, solidarity, and visibility, and in 2003, the Navy finally left Vieques.

That is the point.

Artists do not have to save Puerto Rico alone. But they can help move public opinion, inspire people to organize, raise money, expose injustice, and remind the world that our struggles matter.

So yes, we are asking Bad Bunny to speak.

And we are asking all artists to speak.

Not because we believe celebrities are saviors, but because silence from people with enormous platforms has consequences, and solidarity from them can make a difference.

Los apagones en San Juan hacen que sea más fácil ver las estrellas por la noche.

También hacen que sea más fácil ver muchas otras cosas.

Como un gobierno que ha convertido los servicios más básicos en un privilegio que solo unos pocos pueden disfrutar sin interrupciones en pleno 2026.

Desde el agua. Hasta la luz. Hasta la tierra.

Los apagones en San Juan dejan al descubierto lo que los que están en el poder creen que nos merecemos.

Así que déjame decirte qué pasa ahora.

Cuando vi la noticia de que aprobaron otra etapa del Proyecto Esencia, lo primero que pensé fue: no existe un mundo donde podamos razonar con la oscuridad.

En las últimas semanas viví dos apagones, mientras al mismo tiempo la comunidad de Cabo Rojo exigía vistas públicas ante la Oficina de Gerencia de Permisos. Los multimillonarios detrás de Proyecto Esencia habían sometido lo que llaman una Consulta de Ubicación. Para quienes no estamos familiarizados con el robo de tierras, eso simplemente significa que estos inversionistas siguen avanzando en su plan para desplazar a los puertorriqueños y reemplazarnos por sus cómplices adinerados.

Como ha quedado claro desde el principio, al gobierno de Puerto Rico no le interesan los hechos ni la evidencia científica. Tampoco parece preocuparle de dónde saldrá el agua para un desarrollo de esta magnitud, aun cuando la propia gobernadora Jenniffer González declaró una emergencia por sequía que ha dejado a comunidades enteras sin agua por más de tres meses.

Con esta traición descarada, el gobierno nos está dejando algo muy claro: ellos no nos representan.

Sus acciones demuestran que mientras tengas un cheque lo suficientemente grande, puedes venir a faltarle el respeto a nuestro pueblo, ignorar nuestro patrimonio cultural y destruir nuestros recursos naturales, porque para ellos el dinero vale más que proteger lo que es finito.

Así es como sabemos que el desplazamiento de las comunidades alrededor de este megaproyecto de lujo les importa poco o nada a quienes construyeron una narrativa donde el supuesto “progreso” vale más que el futuro de las familias que vivimos en Puerto Rico.

Por eso mi rabia y mi tristeza duraron poco.

¿Qué hemos aprendido?

Que la desesperanza es su objetivo.

Que la impotencia es su estrategia.

Que todos y cada uno de estos parásitos inflados se alimentan de nuestro miedo.

Pero yo les pregunto: ¿qué es lo que ellos temen?

Le temen a nuestro coraje.

Le temen a un pueblo unido contra un enemigo común.

Porque un enemigo común ya no nos puede dividir.

Le temen a nuestra negativa a aceptar.

Le temen a nuestra negativa a desaparecer.

Cada vez que aparecemos. Cada vez que alzamos la voz. Cada vez que nos organizamos, empujamos contra la oscuridad.

Y para quienes entendemos que esta lucha no es solamente física, sino también espiritual, es indispensable comprender que organizarnos contra la injusticia es apenas una parte del trabajo.

Quienes organizan comunidades saben que hay muchísimas cosas que la gente nunca llega a ver.

Cuando nos preguntan qué podemos hacer, la respuesta no son solamente las llamadas, los correos electrónicos, los piquetes o los documentos legales que hay que radicar.

El verdadero trabajo consiste en ayudar a la gente a imaginar otro futuro.

Consiste en creer que otra realidad es posible.

Muchos de nosotros tenemos talentos, plataformas o redes que podemos poner al servicio de esta lucha.

La pregunta no es qué podemos hacer.

Lo que podemos hacer es infinito, si tenemos el valor de creer en nuestra propia capacidad.

La solución es organizarnos para construir un futuro distinto.

El día que los multimillonarios decidieron construir Esencia, ya habían imaginado un Puerto Rico sin nosotros.

Así que cuando escuché que la Oficina de Gerencia de Permisos aprobó su Consulta de Ubicación, no me quedé mucho tiempo en la desesperanza.

En cambio, hice espacio para un futuro sin Esencia.

Hice espacio para un mundo sin multimillonarios.

Un mundo donde los puertorriqueños tengamos agua corriendo por nuestras tuberías y un sistema eléctrico que funcione.

Para nosotros.

Yo veo ese futuro. Y es hermoso.

Es un futuro sin multimillonarios.

Es un futuro donde generaciones de boricuas florecen en su tierra.

Porque Puerto Rico no se vende.

Se defiende.

The blackouts in San Juan make it easier to see the stars at night. Makes it easier to see a lot of things.

Like a government that has made basic services something only a privileged few can enjoy without interruption in 2026.

From water, to electricity, to land.

The blackouts in San Juan make it easier to see what those in power believe we deserve.

So let me tell you what happens now.

When I saw the news about the approval of a new stage for Project Esencia, my first thought was: there is no world in which we can reason with the darkness.

In the past couple of weeks I experienced two blackouts, while at the same time the community of Cabo Rojo was making a call to demand public hearings from the Office of permits. You see, the billionnaires behind project Esencia had submitted what is called the Locations Consultation. For those of us unversed in land theft - this simply means the investors are continuing their efforts to displace Puerto Ricans so that their rich accomplices can replace us.

As has been evident from the start, the government of Puerto Rico isn’t particularly concerned with facts or scientifically backed evidence, nor are they worried about the water supply for such a large development, despite the fact that the disingenuous Governor Jenniffer Gonzalez declaring a Water Emergency due to a drought that has left some without water for over 3 months.

The government is making sure that all of Puerto Rico understands one thing clearly with this bald-faced betrayal: they do not represent us. Their actions show that as long as you can write a fat check, you can come and disrespect us, disregard our cultural heritage and disregard the damage to our natural environment because money means more to them than protecting finite resources.

This is how we know that the displacement of the communities surrounding this megaluxury project means little to nothing to the political figures that built a narrative here favoring unmitigated “progress” even if it comes at the cost of the future of the families that live in Puerto Rico.

Which is why my immediate feelings of rage and sadness swiftly fell away.

What have we learned? That despair is their goal. That helplessness is their strategy.

That every single one of these bloated parasites feed on our fear. But I ask you: what is it they fear?

They fear our courage. They fear a people united against a common enemy. A common enemy can no longer divide us.

They fear our refusal to accept.

They fear our refusal to disappear.

When we show up and when we speak out we push back against the darkness. For those of us who understand that this is not just a physical fight but a spiritual one, it is imperative that we understand that our organizing against injustice is only a part of the work. Organizers understand that there are so many elements people do not see. When we are asked what we can do, the real answer is not simply the calls, emails, the protest signs or the legal documents that need to be filed. The real work is helping people understand that it takes a shift in our thinking. It takes believing a different reality is possible.

Many of us have skills, or platforms, or networks that we can tap into. The question isn’t what we can do. What we can do is infinite if we have the courage to believe in our abilities.

The solution is to organize for a different future.

The day the billionaires decided to build Esencia they had already built a future without us.

So when I heard that the Office of Permitting in Puerto Rico had approved their locations consultation l did not despair for long.

Instead I made room for a future without Esencia.

I made room for a world without billionaires.

A world where Puerto Ricans have running water and an electrical grid that works. For them.

I see the future and it is beautiful.

It has no billionaires.

Our future has generations or Boricuas thriving in their motherland.

Porque Puerto Rico no se vende.

Se defiende.

Querida Denise,

Quería escribir un artículo sobre tu vida: sobre los movimientos que ayudaste a construir, las comunidades que transformaste y el impacto inconmensurable que tuviste en generaciones de organizadores, artistas y luchadores por la libertad.

Pero en vez de eso… decidí escribirte esta carta.

Esta noche lloré bajo una noche caliente e inmóvil desde el corazón de una colonia estadounidense. Una de las pocas que todavía permanecen en la periferia del imperio. El colonialismo sigue determinando qué vidas tienen valor y qué historias terminan en el olvido. Hace apenas una hora apenas podía respirar mientras las lágrimas no dejaban de caer y pensaba en tu partida. No existen palabras para expresar cuán agradecida estoy de que hayas caminado esta tierra junto a nosotros. Y no lo digo en un sentido poético ni dramático.

Estamos viviendo un momento de profunda crisis. Fascismo, genocidio, colapso ambiental. Ataques contra las comunidades negras e indígenas. El mundo enfrenta algunas de las mayores amenazas a nuestra existencia, y tú hiciste todo lo que estuvo a tu alcance para proteger a nuestras comunidades de ellas.

Fue en el verano de 2018 cuando empecé a sumergirme en una historia que no sabía que me habían robado, una historia que alguna vez estuvo prohibida y que fue cuidadosamente arrancada de la “Historia Americana”. Entonces vi tu rostro. Tu mirada orgullosa y desafiante frente a la cámara fue como un bálsamo sobre una herida. Se sintió como medicina ancestral. Sé que muchísimas mujeres te vieron y sintieron esa misma inspiración, ese mismo orgullo, esa misma sanación.

Nos recordaste que también pertenecíamos a nuestra propia historia.

Cuando leí sobre los Young Lords acababa de regresar del funeral de mi padrastro en Puerto Rico. Su muerte fue el resultado del abandono intencional por parte de los gobiernos de Estados Unidos y Puerto Rico. Como la de miles de personas, su muerte pudo haberse evitado. Él era un Afroboricua orgulloso. Vivía su negritud con la misma intensidad con la que amaba la salsa y con la que amaba a mi mamá. Todavía recuerdo cuando una vez me dijo que Puerto Rico merecía ser LIBRE. Él también creía en la independencia de Puerto Rico. Recuerdo haber sonreído porque yo ya lo sabía:

La cultura negra siempre nos ha recordado que la liberación es nuestro derecho de nacimiento.

En ese momento estaba estudiando en Boston University. Terminando una maestría en Salud Pública cuando leí sobre cómo los Young Lords diseñaban políticas de salud pública y cómo respondían a las necesidades de su comunidad mediante acciones que muchos llamaban “radicales”, pero que nosotros entendíamos como simples actos de empatía y actos cotidianos de amor y responsabilidad hacia la comunidad. La salud era vivienda, comida, dignidad y libertad.

Entonces conocí la historia de las mujeres dentro del movimiento, mujeres como tú, que se negaron a guardar silencio y se negaron a aceptar los papeles que la sociedad les quería imponer. Eso fue lo que me atrapó. Eso fue lo que me transformó.

Decir que tu trabajo, tu mensaje y tu sola presencia tuvieron un impacto profundo en mí y en mi trabajo sería quedarse corta. Toda joven negra o afrocaribeña que se haya encontrado con tu imagen ha tenido que detenerse por un momento. Ya sea en un libro de historia o mientras hacía scroll por las redes sociales, hay algo profundamente sanador en verte reflejada en alguien que se negó a hacerse pequeña, se negó a ser borrada y jamás pidió permiso por ocupar espacio.

Cuando me enteré de tu partida hubo un detalle que me sobrecogió por completo. Las lágrimas comenzaron a salir otra vez. Fue darme cuenta de que nunca iba a poder darte las gracias en persona. Siempre esperé que algún día nos conociéramos. Esperaba que pudieras ver el cortometraje que produje sobre Pedro Albizu Campos y Laura Meneses.

Ese mismo cortometraje cuya campaña compartiste con tanta generosidad. Todavía recuerdo haber gritado cuando vi tu nombre compartiendo nuestra publicación en las redes. Soñaba con acercarme a ti algún día en una función y decirte: “Lo logramos, Denise. ¡De verdad lo logramos!” Y darte las gracias por compartir nuestro trabajo, por creer en nosotros, por todo lo que hiciste para inspirar a las próximas generaciones. Por inspirarme a mí.

Pero ya no tendré esa oportunidad.

Así que, en vez de eso, te escribo esta carta para decirte esto: gracias por todo lo que hiciste, por negarte a guardar silencio. Gracias por enseñarnos el significado de la liberación. Gracias por recordarnos a tantos de nosotros que nuestra negritud, nuestra puertorriqueñidad, nuestra identidad como mujeres y nuestra resistencia nunca fueron contradicciones. Siempre fueron la fuente de nuestro poder.

Gracias por ayudar a tantos de nosotros a sanar simplemente existiendo de una manera tan profundamente libre y sin pedir disculpas.

Ha sido uno de los mayores privilegios de mi vida aprender de tu trabajo, ser testigo de tu ejemplo y, aunque fuera por un instante, haber cruzado caminos contigo, aunque solo haya sido a través de una pantalla.

Hay algo que tengo muy claro. Tu legado no termina aquí. Vive en cada organizador que alimenta a su comunidad.

En cada cineasta que recupera las historias que intentaron borrar.

En cada joven afroboricua que por fin logra verse reflejada.

En cada persona que todavía cree que otro mundo es posible. Nosotros seguiremos llevándolo hacia adelante.

Con un amor infinito, una gratitud inmensa y todo mi RESPETO.

Descansa en PODER.

Debbie Perez

Dear Denise,

I wanted to write an article about your life: the movements you helped build, communities you transformed, and the immeasurable impact you had on generations of organizers, artists, and freedom fighters.

But instead… I decided to write you this letter.

Tonight I cried into a hot, still night from within a US colony. One of a few kept at the periphery of empire. Colonialism still shapes what lives are valued and whose histories are forgotten. Just an hour ago I could barely catch my breath as the tears poured out of me and I reflected on your passing. There are no words that can express how grateful I am that you walked this earth with us. I don’t mean that in a poetic or dramatic sense. 

We are living through a time of great crisis. Facism, genocide, environmental collapse. Attacks on black and indigenous communities. The world is experiencing the greatest threats to our existence and you did everything possible to protect communities from them. 

It was in the summer of 2018 that I started diving into a history that I didn’t know was stolen from me, once forbidden, and which had been carefully cut out of “American” History. Then I saw your face, your proud and fierce stare into the camera was like a balm on a wound. It felt like ancestral medicine. I know many women saw you and were equally inspired, filled with pride and healed in some way. 

You reminded us that we belonged in our own history.

When I read about the Young Lords I had returned from my stepfather’s funeral in Puerto Rico. His death was the result of intentional neglect by the US and Puerto Rican governments. Like so many thousands of deaths, his was preventable. He was a proud AfroBoricua. He expressed his blackness and his love of salsa music and love for my mother with equal passion. I still remember him telling me once that Puerto Rico deserved to be FREE. He was also for Puerto Rican independence. I remember smiling at him because I already knew:

Black culture has always reminded us that liberation is our birthright. 

I was studying at Boston University at that time. Working to finish a masters in public health when I read about how the Young Lords crafted Public Health Policy and how they moved to meet the needs of their community with what was considered “radical” action but which we saw and understood as simple acts of empathy, and ordinary acts of love and responsibility for community. Health was housing, food, dignity and freedom.

Then I learned about the women in the movement, like yourself, who refused to be quiet and refused to accept the roles society wanted to assign. That is what drew me, what changed me. 

To say that your work, your message and your very presence had a profound effect on me and my work would be an understatement. Every young Black or Afro-Caribbean woman who has come across your image has had to stop for a moment. Whether in a history book or on a social media feed, there is something profoundly healing about seeing yourself reflected in someone who refused to shrink, refused to be erased, and refused to apologize for taking up space.

When I heard the news of your passing one detail overwhelmed me. The tears start to flow. It was the realization that I wouldn’t get to thank you in person. I had always hoped we would meet. I had hoped you would get a chance to see the film I had produced about Pedro Albizu Campos and Laura Meneses.

The same film whose campaign you had so generously shared. I still remember screaming when I saw your name on socials resharing the post. I had hoped I would walk up to you at a screening someday and say “we did it, Denise, we really did it!” And thank you for sharing it, for believing in us, for everything you did to inspire the next generations. For inspiring me.

But I won't get a chance now.

So instead I will write you this letter and say this: thank you for everything you did, for refusing to be silent. Thank you for teaching us about liberation. Thank you for reminding so many of us that our Blackness, our Puerto Ricanness, our womanhood, and our resistance were never contradictions. They were the source of our power.

Thank you for helping so many of us heal simply by existing so unapologetically.

It has been one of the greatest privileges of my life to learn from your work, to witness your example, and however briefly, to have crossed paths with you, even just on a screen.

One thing is clear. Your legacy is not ending. It lives in every organizer feeding their neighborhood.

Every filmmaker reclaiming erased histories. Every young Afro-Boricua who finally sees herself reflected.

Every person who believes another world is possible. We will carry it forward.

With endless love, gratitude, and RESPECT. Rest in POWER.

Debbie Perez

El 29 de junio, día del natalicio de Don Pedro Albizu Campos, entré por primera vez a The People’s Church, en El Barrio de Nueva York. Para quien no conozca su historia, esa fecha y ese lugar podrían parecer una simple coincidencia. Pero la historia rara vez se mueve por casualidad.

En ese momento no era productora ni cineasta. Era simplemente una puertorriqueña cargando una historia hacia un espacio donde tantas vidas también habían sido marcadas por el legado de ese patriota.

Nos habíamos reunido para presentar Mataron a Pedro, nuestro cortometraje sobre Pedro Albizu Campos y Laura Meneses. Pero antes de que bajaran las luces, antes de que alguien dijera una sola palabra y antes de que apareciera el primer fotograma en la pantalla, el edificio ya estaba contando su propia historia.

The People’s Church siempre ha sido mucho más que una iglesia, especialmente para la comunidad puertorriqueña de El Barrio. Yo lo sabía. Viví varios años en Nueva York y pasé incontables veces frente a ese edificio, siempre con la esperanza de algún día entrar. Nunca imaginé que lo haría llevando una película y un propósito.

La iglesia es un monumento a lo que ocurre cuando la gente común decide organizarse. Después de pasar el último año organizándome junto a comunidades en Puerto Rico, estar allí se sintió como mucho más que una coincidencia. Fue como si la historia se doblara sobre sí misma. Como si ese momento hubiera estado esperándonos desde hacía décadas.

Una iglesia ocupada

El 28 de diciembre de 1969, integrantes de los Young Lords entraron a la First Spanish United Methodist Church en East Harlem.

Durante meses habían pedido que la iglesia abriera sus puertas a la comunidad puertorriqueña y afroamericana del vecindario. Soñaban con ofrecer desayunos gratuitos, cuido para niños, servicios de salud, educación política y espacios para reunirse. Ante las constantes negativas, decidieron ocupar el edificio.

Durante once días transformaron aquel templo. El santuario se convirtió en un comedor comunitario.

Los salones se transformaron en centros de cuido. Se ofrecieron servicios médicos.

Hubo clases de educación política. Vecinos cocinaron juntos. Niños jugaron.

Artistas compartieron su arte. Organizadores planificaron el futuro.

La iglesia finalmente se convirtió en lo que ellos entendían que siempre debió ser: un lugar al servicio del pueblo.

La rebautizaron como The People’s Church.

Aquella ocupación no nació de la nada.

Los Young Lords estaban profundamente influenciados por los movimientos de liberación puertorriqueños que les precedieron, particularmente por Pedro Albizu Campos y el Partido Nacionalista.

Quince años antes, el 1 de marzo de 1954, Lolita Lebrón, Rafael Cancel Miranda, Andrés Figueroa Cordero e Irving Flores Rodríguez entraron al Congreso de Estados Unidos, desplegaron una bandera puertorriqueña y gritaron: «¡Viva Puerto Rico Libre!»

Su acción buscaba obligar al mundo a mirar la realidad colonial de Puerto Rico.

Fueron encarcelados durante décadas.

Cada generación heredó una parte de esa lucha y la transformó según las necesidades de su tiempo.

Los Young Lords no solo admiraban esa historia.

La continuaron.

Traer a Pedro y a Laura de vuelta al salón

Mientras caminaba por The People’s Church, no dejaba de pensar en lo poderoso que es encontrarnos para mirar nuestra historia juntos.

Como productora puertorriqueña llevando la historia de Pedro Albizu Campos y Laura Meneses a un edificio cuya propia historia fue moldeada por personas inspiradas por esa generación, sentí que la historia dejaba de pertenecer al pasado.

No estaba encerrada en un museo.

Estaba viva.

Se sentía en los organizadores recibiendo a la gente. En los voluntarios acomodando las sillas. En las conversaciones que comenzaron mucho antes de que iniciara la película. La sala estaba llena de personas que siguen haciendo el trabajo todos los días.

Personas alimentando a sus comunidades. Organizando redes de apoyo mutuo. Creando espacios de educación política. Protegiendo nuestra memoria.

Recordándole a la próxima generación que nuestra historia no empezó con nosotros.

Y precisamente para ellos fue que hicimos esta película.

Las conversaciones que siguieron

Cuando terminó Mataron a Pedro, hubo un silencio profundo. Después llegaron los aplausos. Le pedimos a cada persona que compartiera una palabra.

Escuchamos rabia. Amor. COINTELPRO. Vigilancia. Presos políticos.

Memoria. Familia. Libertad.

Cada quien encontró algo distinto dentro de los mismos dieciséis minutos.

Y entendí que la fuerza de un movimiento no se mide por el tamaño de los obstáculos que enfrenta. Se mide por la disposición de la gente a organizarse para enfrentarlos.

La educación política siempre ha sido una de nuestras herramientas más poderosas.

Porque cuando entendemos cómo funcionan los sistemas, también empezamos a imaginar que pueden cambiar.

Las películas no crean movimientos. Tampoco los libros. Ni los podcasts. Ni los discursos.

Pero sí pueden abrir las conversaciones de donde nacen los movimientos.

Nuestra cultura no está en venta. Nuestra patria tampoco.

Uno de los momentos más especiales de la noche fue escuchar a la poeta nuyorican Elisabet Velásquez. Con una sola línea logró que todo el salón guardara silencio.

Nos recordó que mientras la cultura puertorriqueña se convierte cada vez más en mercancía, nuestro pueblo no lo es.

Puerto Rico no es una marca. No es un paraíso contributivo. No es un desarrollo de lujo para unos pocos mientras el resto sobrevive sin agua o tiene que abandonar su tierra.

Puerto Rico no está en venta.

Nuestra gente merece un futuro en las mismas costas que nuestros ancestros llamaron hogar. Y escuchar esas palabras precisamente dentro de The People’s Church fue un recordatorio de que las comunidades pueden reclamar espacios y redefinir su propósito.

Ese legado sigue vivo.

En Puerto Rico hay personas defendiendo playas, bosques, ríos, acuíferos, comunidades y escuelas públicas.

Y en la diáspora hay puertorriqueños construyendo espacios de educación política, redes de apoyo mutuo, organizaciones culturales y conversaciones que fortalecen nuestra memoria colectiva.

El océano nunca ha separado nuestra lucha.

Solo ha multiplicado los lugares donde vive.

No somos pequeños...

«No somos pequeños; es que estamos de rodillas.» Las palabras de Albizu siguen resonando mientras cada día trae una nueva crisis.

Puerto Rico. Palestina. Sudán. Venezuela.

En todas partes hay pueblos organizándose frente a sistemas que les exigen aceptar la injusticia. Diez años después de PROMESA seguimos viendo los mismos patrones de colonialismo económico. Pero también estamos viendo algo distinto.

Comunidades que responden organizándose. Nada de lo que vi esa noche reflejaba impotencia.

Reflejaba generaciones enteras escogiendo cuidarse unas a otras.

Los Nacionalistas. Los Young Lords.

Los organizadores comunitarios. Los maestros. Los estudiantes. Los artistas. Los defensores ambientales. Los periodistas. Los cineastas. Los vecinos.

Cada generación hereda trabajo inconcluso.

Y cada generación deja nuevas herramientas para la siguiente.

La pregunta es:

¿Qué vamos a dejar nosotros?

Las conversaciones continúan

Cuando salí de The People’s Church, seguía pensando en una joven que se me acercó llena de entusiasmo. Su energía me sacó una sonrisa enorme, de esas que nacen sin darte cuenta, y sentí el corazón lleno. Pensaba en la juventud que continuará este trabajo.

Pensaba en cada puertorriqueño de la diáspora que poco a poco descubre la historia que nunca le enseñaron. En cómo un huracán también puede arrancar símbolos y obligarnos a mirar debajo de ellos.

Ese camino fue el que me llevó a producir películas como esta.

Y me siento profundamente agradecida de que Mataron a Pedro haya podido formar parte de esa conversación, aunque fuera por una sola noche.

Porque cuando terminan los créditos... es ahí donde comienza el verdadero trabajo.

El legado no se mide por la cantidad de libros escritos sobre un movimiento. Se mide en cada reunión comunitaria. En cada taller de educación política. En cada protesta.

En cada comida compartida. En cada joven que decide hacer una pregunta más.

Y en cada persona mayor que se queda para contestarla. La historia nunca ha avanzado porque unas pocas personas extraordinarias la cargaron solas.

Ha avanzado porque la gente común siguió escogiéndose una y otra vez. Sigamos organizándonos.

Sigamos creando espacios donde nuestras historias puedan contarse, cuestionarse, expandirse y heredarse. Porque la solidaridad no es un sentimiento.

Es una práctica.

Y cada vez que nos reunimos, cada vez que aprendemos juntos y cada vez que nos negamos a dejar que nuestra historia desaparezca, esa práctica se fortalece.

Las conversaciones continúan. Y también continúa el movimiento puertorriqueño por la liberación.

Un movimiento que ni el imperio más poderoso del mundo ha logrado borrar.

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On June 29th, the birth date of Pedro Albizu Campos, I walked into The People’s Church in Spanish Harlem for the first time. For most who don't know who he was, this date and this place may seem like little more than happenstance. But history rarely deals in coincidence.

In that moment I wasn’t a filmmaker or producer, but a Puerto Rican girl carrying a story into a space filled with people whose lives had also been shaped by this patriot.

We had gathered that night to screen Mataron a Pedro, our short film about Pedro Albizu Campos and Laura Meneses. Before the lights dimmed inside this sanctuary on a hot New York day, before anyone presented the film, before the first frame even appeared on the screen, the building itself was already telling a story.

The People’s Church has always been more than a church, especially to the Puerto Rican Community that lived there. We knew that. I had spent some years in NYC and I had passed by that church many times, always hoping I’d find a reason or a chance to go inside. Fate had decided that I’d come in with a film, and a purpose.

The Church stands as a monument to what becomes possible when ordinary people choose to organize. After spending the past year organizing in Puerto Rico myself, being there felt like more than coincidence. It felt like history quietly folding in on itself. Like one of those rare moments that wasn't simply happening, but had been waiting to happen all along.

A Church Occupied.

On December 28, 1969, members of the Young Lords walked into the First Spanish United Methodist Church in East Harlem.

They had spent months asking church leadership to open its doors to the surrounding Puerto Rican and Black community. They envisioned childcare programs, free breakfasts, health services, political education, and meeting spaces. When those requests were denied, repeatedly… they occupied the building.

For eleven days, they transformed the church. The sanctuary became a free breakfast program. Rooms became childcare centers.

Medical services were offered. Political education classes were held. Neighbors cooked together. Children played. Organizers planned. Artists performed.

The building became what they believed it should have always been: a place that served the people.

They renamed it The People’s Church. That occupation didn’t emerge from nowhere.

The Young Lords were deeply influenced by Puerto Rican liberation movements that came before them, particularly the work of Pedro Albizu Campos and the Puerto Rican Nationalist Party.

Fifteen years earlier, on March 1, 1954, four Puerto Rican Nationalists walked into the visitors’ gallery of the United States Capitol. Lolita Lebrón. Rafael Cancel Miranda. Andrés Figueroa Cordero. Irving Flores Rodríguez.

They brought out a Puerto Rican flag. And they declared, “¡Viva Puerto Rico Libre!”

Then they opened fire, because they wanted to force the world to confront Puerto Rico’s colonial reality. Members of Congress were wounded. The four Nationalists were arrested and would spend decades in prison before eventually receiving clemency.

Whether through direct action, community organizing, or political education, each generation inherited pieces of the struggle and reshaped them for its own moment.

The Young Lords didn’t simply admire that history.

They built upon it.

Bringing Pedro and Laura Back Into the Room

What stayed with me as I walked into The People's Church last night was the quiet realization that there is something so powerful about seeing our history together.

As a Puerto Rican producer bringing the story of Pedro Albizu Campos and Laura Meneses into a building whose own history was shaped by people inspired by their generation, it was a profoundly moving moment.

History wasn’t sitting quietly inside a museum. It was alive, right before our eyes.

You could feel it in the organizers greeting people at the door. In the volunteers setting up chairs. In the conversations happening before the screening even began.

The room was filled with people who continue doing the work every single day.

People feeding their communities. People organizing mutual aid. People creating political education programs. People preserving Puerto Rican history.

People making sure the next generation understands that our story did not begin with us. That is exactly who this film was made for.

The Conversations That Followed

After Mataron a Pedro ended, the room was quiet - everyone deep in thought... and emotion. Then the room erupted in applause.

We asked everyone to choose a word if they could. Some spoke about rage. Others spoke about love. About COINTELPRO. About surveillance.

About political prisoners. About memory. About family. About freedom.

Every person found something different inside the same sixteen-minute film.

And I realized something while listening. The measure of a movement isn’t how overwhelming its challenges appear. It’s how willing people are to organize in response.

Political education has always been one of our most powerful tools. Because once people understand how systems work, they begin imagining that those systems can change.

Films can’t create movements. Neither can books. Or podcasts. Or speeches.

But they can create the conversations that movements grow from. They are necessary pieces of a larger work.

Our Culture is Not for Sale, Our homeland is Not for Sale.

One of my favorite moments of the evening had to be the powerful moments Nuyorican poet and writer Elisabet Velásquez shared her poem. She said one line and the room immediately leaned in to listen to the rest.

She reminded us that while Puerto Rican culture is increasingly commodified, our people are not commodities.

Puerto Rico is not a brand, nor is it a tax shelter - despite a government that continues to advertise that. It’s certainly not going to be a luxury development for the powerful few to enjoy while the rest of the community leaves or survives without water. This is the island they want to put up for sale but we are not for sale. Our people deserve a future within coasts that our ancestors called their home and which many of us now experience through glowing screens. It doesn’t have to be this way. And hearing Elisabet reminded us that there is power in sharing our art.

Hearing her words inside The People’s Church felt especially significant. The building itself stands as proof that communities can reclaim spaces and redefine their purpose. That legacy continues today.

Across Puerto Rico, organizers are defending beaches, forests, rivers, aquifers, neighborhoods, and public education. They are fighting for reliable water, affordable housing, environmental justice, labor rights, and the dignity of communities too often treated as disposable.

Across the diaspora, Puerto Ricans continue creating political education spaces, mutual aid networks, cultural organizations, community screenings, and conversations that strengthen our collective memory.

So today it feels especially important to remind you all that the ocean has never separated our struggle. It has simply expanded the places where it lives.

We Are Not Small, it’s just that we are on Our Knees.

“No Somos pequeños, es que estamos de rodillas” - Pedro Albizu Campos. His words echo into the present as every day brings another headline, another crisis.

Puerto Rico. Palestine. Sudan. Venezuela.

Across the world, ordinary people continue organizing against systems that ask them to accept injustice. Artists like Arcangel are proof of what happens when we become so disconnected from struggle that we prefer to join the oppressor.

Too often decisions are made for us instead of by us. 10 years after Ley Promesa was passed we are seeing the same patterns but we are also seeing a change in how community reacts.

Nothing I witnessed inside The People’s Church reflected powerlessness. It reflects generations of people choosing one another. Again and Again.

The Nationalists. The Young Lords. Community organizers. Artists. Teachers. Students. Environmental defenders. Journalists. Filmmakers. Neighbors.

Each generation inherits unfinished work. Each generation leaves behind new tools for the next. What will we leave behind?

The Conversations Continue

When I walked out of The People’s Church last night, I was thinking of the young woman who approached me with so much excitement and energy. Her enthusiasm brought a huge smile to my face and my heart felt so full.

I was thinking about how the youth will carry this work forward. I was thinking of every kid in the diaspora that is uncovering the dirt under the perfectly embroidered US flag, which had always lived in my memory as untouchable until a Hurricane pulled it off it’s hook. That day marked a journey for me. One that led to producing films that I hope will inspire others to do the same.

I’m deeply honored that Mataron a Pedro became part of that ongoing conversation, even if only for one evening. After the credits roll - that’s when the real work begins.

Legacy isn’t measured by how many books are written about a movement. They are measured in every community meeting. Every neighborhood assembly.

Every political education workshop, every protest. Every shared meal.

Every young person who decides to ask another question. Every elder who stays long enough to answer it.

History has never moved forward because a handful of extraordinary people carried it alone. It has moved forward because ordinary people kept choosing each other.

Let’s continue organizing.

Let’s continue building spaces where our stories can be told, challenged, expanded, and passed on. Because solidarity is a practice.

And every time we gather, every time we learn together, every time we refuse to let our stories disappear, we strengthen that practice.

The conversations continue.

And so does a Puerto Rican movement for liberation that not even the most powerful Empire in the world has been able to erase.

Liberation is a verb.

It is something we practice. Something we defend. Something we build every day, even within systems designed to limit our humanity.

We practice liberation when we organize. We practice liberation when we care for one another. We practice liberation when we refuse to believe that our struggles exist in isolation. And we move closer to freedom when we stand in solidarity with other people fighting for their dignity.

That is why we cannot celebrate liberation in one place while ignoring oppression in another.

From Gaza to Puerto Rico. From the struggles of Black communities in the United States to the struggles of Indigenous and colonized peoples around the world.

We cannot oppose colonialism while remaining silent about racial injustice. Nor can we speak about racial justice while ignoring the realities faced by people living under colonial domination. We cannot talk about dignity while accepting systems that deny entire communities access to basic necessities like water, housing, healthcare, and safety.

Today, Juneteenth is celebrated across the United States.

Juneteenth commemorates June 19, 1865, when enslaved Black people in Texas were finally informed that they were free. But the story runs deeper than that. More than two years after the Emancipation Proclamation, Texas continued to deny rights that already belonged to Black people. It took federal intervention to enforce those rights.

Juneteenth reminds us of something important:

Freedom does not exist simply because it is declared. Freedom is fought for, exercised and defended.

And while Juneteenth is often discussed as an American holiday, the systems that made it necessary were never confined to a single place. Certainly not within a US colony.

Slavery, colonialism, and empire were never separate projects. They were built together through extraction, exploitation, and racial hierarchy. The wealth of empires was built on stolen labor, stolen land, and the belief that some lives were worth more than others.

Those structures did not disappear. They continue to shape the world we live in today.

Here in Puerto Rico, we are living through crisis after crisis.

A water crisis. An energy crisis. A housing crisis. A healthcare crisis. An environmental crisis.

Too often these are presented as separate problems. But they are not.

They all force us to confront the same questions:

Who holds power? Who controls resources? Who bears the burden when systems fail?

And who is considered expendable?

For more than a century, Puerto Rico has been denied even the most basic acknowledgment of what it is: a colony.

A place where too many decisions are made elsewhere. A place where land and natural resources are treated as commodities. A place where billionaires are welcomed while working families struggle to remain.

A place where people are expected to endure conditions that would be considered unacceptable elsewhere.

As we organize and respond to these crises in our communities, I have also been thinking about a figure I recently had the honor of helping bring to the screen through the short film Mataron a Pedro.

Pedro Albizu Campos.

Pedro and his legacy cannot be reduced to a chapter in a history book.

The life he lived was extraordinary.

Born in Ponce, Pedro Albizu Campos went on to study at Harvard, where he completed studies in literature, philosophy, military science, and law. He became one of the most accomplished Puerto Rican students of his generation.

While living in the United States, he also witnessed racism firsthand. He served in the U.S. military during World War I and experienced the reality of a segregated institution. As a Black Puerto Rican man, he saw how racial hierarchy operated within an empire that spoke of democracy while practicing discrimination.

He also faced racial prejudice during his years at Harvard.

And perhaps one of the lesser-known aspects of Pedro’s life is that he understood struggles for liberation as interconnected. During his years in the United States, he supported the Irish struggle for independence and developed relationships with Irish nationalist leaders. He believed that colonized peoples could learn from one another’s movements and victories.

That international vision feels especially relevant today. Because while Pedro’s story belongs to Puerto Rico, the questions he asked belong to all of us.

What does freedom actually mean? What does self-determination look like? Who gets to decide the future of a people?

And what responsibility do we have when those rights are denied to others?

Juneteenth invites us to sit with those questions. Not because every struggle is identical.

They are not.

But because solidarity asks us to recognize that liberation is connected. The struggle for Black freedom did not end in 1865. The struggle against colonialism did not end in 1898.

The struggle for dignity continues today. From Texas to Puerto Rico.

And it continues anywhere people are told they must accept less than their full humanity.

If we are serious about liberation, then we must learn to recognize those connections. Because freedom that belongs only to some people is not freedom at all.

And because when communities struggle together, they stand a better chance of winning together.

Governor Blanton Winship

The U.S. appointed colonial governor of Puerto Rico whose administration oversaw some of the most repressive years in the island’s modern history, including the persecution of independence activists and the events that culminated in the 1937 Ponce Massacre.

La liberación no es simplemente una palabra. Es un verbo.

No es algo que simplemente ocurre un día y permanece para siempre. Es algo que se practica. Algo que se defiende. Algo que construimos todos los días, incluso dentro de sistemas diseñados para limitar nuestra humanidad.

Nos liberamos cuando nos organizamos. Nos liberamos cuando cuidamos unos de otros. Nos liberamos cuando rechazamos la idea de que nuestras luchas existen aisladas. Y nos acercamos a la libertad cuando actuamos en solidaridad con otros pueblos que también están luchando por su dignidad.

Por eso no podemos celebrar la liberación en un lugar mientras ignoramos la opresión en otro.

Desde Gaza hasta Puerto Rico. Desde las luchas de las comunidades negras en Estados Unidos hasta las luchas de los pueblos indígenas y colonizados alrededor del mundo.

No podemos denunciar el colonialismo mientras guardamos silencio ante el racismo. Tampoco podemos hablar de justicia racial mientras ignoramos a los pueblos que viven bajo dominación colonial. Y no podemos hablar de dignidad mientras aceptamos sistemas que le niegan a comunidades enteras acceso a necesidades tan básicas como el agua, la vivienda o la salud.

Hoy se celebra Juneteenth en Estados Unidos.

Juneteenth conmemora el 19 de junio de 1865, cuando las personas negras esclavizadas en Texas finalmente fueron informadas de que eran libres. Pero la historia es aún más profunda que eso. Más de dos años después de la Proclamación de Emancipación, el estado de Texas seguía negándoles derechos que ya les pertenecían. Fue necesaria la intervención del gobierno federal para hacer cumplir esos derechos.

Juneteenth nos recuerda algo importante: la libertad no existe simplemente porque alguien la declare. La libertad se lucha. Se ejerce. Se defiende.

Y aunque Juneteenth suele discutirse como una conmemoración estadounidense, los sistemas que hicieron necesaria esa lucha nunca estuvieron limitados a un solo territorio.

La esclavitud, el colonialismo y el imperio nunca fueron proyectos separados. Fueron construidos juntos a través de la extracción, la explotación y las jerarquías raciales. La riqueza de los imperios se levantó sobre trabajo robado, tierras robadas y la idea de que algunas vidas valían más que otras.

Y esas estructuras no desaparecieron. Todavía moldean el mundo en que vivimos.

Aquí en Puerto Rico estamos viviendo crisis tras crisis.

Una crisis de agua. Una crisis energética. Una crisis de vivienda. Una crisis de salud. Una crisis ambiental.

Y muchas veces se nos presentan como problemas separados. Pero no lo son.

Todas nos obligan a hacernos las mismas preguntas: ¿Quién tiene el poder? ¿Quién controla los recursos? ¿Quién carga con las consecuencias cuando los sistemas fallan?

¿Y quiénes son considerados sacrificables?

Por más de un siglo, a Puerto Rico se le ha negado incluso el reconocimiento más básico de lo que es: una colonia. Un lugar donde demasiadas decisiones se toman desde afuera.

Un lugar donde la tierra y los recursos naturales son tratados como mercancía. Un lugar donde se les abren las puertas a multimillonarios mientras miles de familias luchan por permanecer en sus comunidades.

Un lugar donde se espera que la gente soporte condiciones que serían inaceptables en muchos otros lugares.

Mientras organizamos y trabajamos para responder a estas crisis en nuestras comunidades, he estado pensando mucho en una figura que recientemente tuve el honor de ayudar a llevar a la pantalla a través del cortometraje Mataron a Pedro.

Pedro Albizu Campos.

Con demasiada frecuencia, Pedro queda reducido a un símbolo, una consigna o un capítulo en un libro de historia.

Pero la vida que vivió fue extraordinaria. Nació en Ponce y llegó a estudiar en Harvard, donde cursó estudios en literatura, filosofía, ciencias militares y derecho. Fue uno de los estudiantes puertorriqueños más destacados de su generación.

Mientras estudiaba en Estados Unidos, también fue testigo del racismo de primera mano. Sirvió en el ejército estadounidense durante la Primera Guerra Mundial, donde experimentó la realidad de una institución segregada racialmente. Como hombre negro puertorriqueño, vio cómo operaban las jerarquías raciales dentro de un imperio que hablaba de democracia mientras practicaba la discriminación.

También enfrentó prejuicio racial durante sus años en Harvard.

Y quizás una de las cosas menos conocidas sobre Pedro es que entendía que las luchas de los pueblos colonizados estaban conectadas. Durante su tiempo en Estados Unidos apoyó activamente la lucha por la independencia de Irlanda y desarrolló relaciones con líderes independentistas irlandeses. Entendía que los pueblos sometidos por imperios podían aprender unos de otros.

Por eso, aunque la historia de Pedro pertenece a Puerto Rico, las preguntas que planteó siguen resonando mucho más allá de nuestras costas.

¿Qué significa realmente la libertad? ¿Qué significa la autodeterminación?

¿Quién tiene el derecho de decidir el futuro de un pueblo? ¿Y qué responsabilidad tenemos cuando vemos que esos derechos les son negados a otros?

Juneteenth nos invita a reflexionar sobre esas preguntas.

No porque todas las luchas sean iguales. No lo son.

Pero sí porque la solidaridad nos exige reconocer que la liberación está conectada. La lucha por la libertad de las personas negras no terminó en 1865. La lucha contra el colonialismo no terminó en 1898.

La lucha por la dignidad continúa hoy.

Continúa en Texas. Continúa en Puerto Rico.

Y continúa en cualquier lugar donde se le diga a una comunidad que debe aceptar menos que su plena humanidad.

Si hablamos en serio de la liberación, tenemos que aprender a ver esas conexiones.

Porque una libertad que no es compartida nunca será una libertad completa.

Y porque cuando los pueblos luchan juntos, también tienen una mejor oportunidad de ganar juntos.

Gobernador colonial nombrado por Estados Unidos para administrar Puerto Rico durante uno de los períodos más represivos de la historia moderna del archipiélago.

“Estamos agotados”, dijo Marcia Soler París, líder comunitaria de 61 años. “No deberíamos estar viviendo así. No nos merecemos esto.”

Y la verdad es que esas palabras se sienten flotando en el aire húmedo de cualquier tarde puertorriqueña.

Hoy caminé al supermercado y regresé a pie porque, como de costumbre, algo en Puerto Rico decidió dañarse. El carro va para el mecánico el lunes. Mientras tanto, estoy metida en un apartamento sin agua.

Y antes de que alguien lo diga, sí, ya sé.

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Sé que esto no es nada nuevo para quienes nacieron y crecieron aquí. Sé que a la diáspora muchas veces nos señalan cuando empezamos a quejarnos de cosas que apenas estamos viviendo. Después de todo, siempre existe el argumento de que podemos montarnos en un avión e irnos.

Pero esa conversación muchas veces deja fuera algo importante. Puerto Rico no es una sola realidad. Aquí hay una diferencia brutal entre clases sociales.

Hay familias con cisternas, plantas eléctricas, placas solares, tanques de reserva y suficiente dinero para convertir cualquier crisis de infraestructura en un inconveniente pasajero.

Y después está el resto del país.

La gente se olvida de que el clasismo existe porque es más fácil pelear entre nosotros que tener conversaciones incómodas sobre colonialismo, desigualdad y extracción.

Pero nada. Aquí estamos.

Esperando noticias sobre cuándo se resolverá esta crisis de agua. Y entonces, en cuestión de tres horas, llegaron dos actualizaciones.

Había una segunda rotura.

Después una tercera.

Llega un punto en que uno no sabe si está siguiendo una emergencia de infraestructura o un episodio particularmente malo de comedia política.

Mientras escribo esto todavía queda una rayita azul en el horizonte.

La noche cae suave en Puerto Rico. Siempre cae así.

Esta será mi tercera noche sin agua. Tengo amistades que llevan dos semanas. Otras personas llevan meses.

En algunos pueblos la gente ni siquiera depende del sistema. Simplemente se preparan para cuando falle. Tener agua almacenada ya no es un plan B.

Es el plan.

Mientras tanto, el gobierno hace yoga olímpica tratando de señalar a todas las administraciones anteriores para echarles la culpa.

Nadie quiere ser dueño del desastre.

La gobernadora parecía un poquito preocupada de que esto eventualmente le explotara en la cara. Hace apenas unas semanas estaba en Vivo Beach Club haciendo campaña y riéndose de unos manifestantes que, según ella, nunca aparecieron, aunque aparentemente tenía asiento VIP reservado por si acaso.

Hay que admirar la audacia. No porque sea admirable. Sino porque impresiona de la misma forma que impresiona ver a alguien caminar directo contra una puerta de cristal.

Estamos hablando de una persona que lleva décadas codeándose con las élites políticas de Puerto Rico y Washington.

Escucharla hablar a veces se siente como quedarse encerrado en un ascensor con un anuncio de campaña que se quedó pegado en loop.

Pero uno tiene que pensar que en algún rincón de ese corazón frío existe aunque sea un poquito de preocupación por cómo la gente va a reaccionar a todo esto.

O quizás no.

Llevo años escuchando la misma frase.

• “Los puertorriqueños siempre votan por partido.”

• “Los puertorriqueños nunca despiertan.”

• “Los puertorriqueños están acostumbrados.”

Y es verdad que a veces parece que el colonialismo se volvió tan normal como la humedad.

Tan normal como los hoyos en las carreteras. Tan normal como los apagones.

Tan normal como abrir una llave y preguntarse si saldrá agua.

Y cuando uno señala esas cosas, algunos reaccionan exactamente igual que los fanáticos MAGA en Estados Unidos.

Empiezan a salir excusas por todos lados. Se molestan. Se indignan. Se inventan teorías. Se aferran a cualquier explicación menos a la que tienen de frente.

Me recuerdan a los villanos de las caricaturas que veía los sábados por la mañana.

La diferencia es que aquellos por lo menos daban gracia.

Pero volvamos al agua.

Si eres una persona un poco cínica, probablemente estás pensando lo mismo que mucha gente.

Que este gobierno es un chiste. Y que nada va a cambiar.

Algunos días entiendo perfectamente ese sentimiento. La tensión se siente en el ambiente. El cansancio está escrito en la cara de la gente con marcador permanente.

A veces hasta me da miedo mirarme en el espejo porque sospecho que voy a encontrar la misma expresión.

Yo no soy una persona que suele quedarse atrapada en pensamientos negativos. Pero últimamente me encuentro triste. Y me encuentro deseando algo que se siente casi como un lujo.

Descansar.

Simplemente descansar.

Pienso en los suicidios. Pienso en la depresión. Pienso en la ansiedad. Pienso en el agotamiento constante.

Y pienso en lo poco que conectamos todo eso con la crisis de salud pública que vivimos. Porque la infraestructura es salud pública.

La vivienda es salud pública. El acceso al agua es salud pública.

Y la esperanza también es salud pública.

Hoy compartí un video sobre La Junta.

La Junta de Control Fiscal creada bajo PROMESA.

Una ley impuesta sobre Puerto Rico durante la administración Obama.

Una junta que lleva casi una década tomando decisiones que afectan cada rincón de nuestras vidas mientras permanece protegida de las consecuencias.

Pero quién soy yo para quejarme.

Estamos hablando de personas que ganan salarios capaces de escandalizar hasta al mismo Papa.

La pregunta es sencilla.

¿Cómo se tarda una década en “resolver” una deuda? Quizás lo averigüemos.

Pronto habrá un evento organizado por 9 Millones junto a varias organizaciones para discutir precisamente eso. Te puedes registrar aquí: https://luma.com/3z988hm8

Mi opinión personal es bastante clara: La deuda es ilegal.

Wall Street vio una oportunidad en la condición colonial de Puerto Rico e hizo lo que Wall Street siempre hace: Sacarle dinero al sufrimiento humano.

No tengo todas las pruebas frente a mí.

Pero recuerdo suficientes conversaciones de 2018 y 2019 como para reconocer un patrón cuando lo veo.

Privatizar. Extraer. Posponer la rendición de cuentas. Repetir. Cambian los mecanismos.

Los beneficiarios casi siempre son los mismos. La avaricia es una criatura extraordinaria.

Se alimenta del sufrimiento humano y todavía se queja de hambre. Sigue consumiendo y consumiendo hasta que su cuerpo hinchado amenaza con tapar el sol.

Quizás suene dramático. Pero honestamente, la realidad también lo es.

Lo absurdo de estos esquemas es que a veces terminan pareciendo chistes.

Casi.

Porque la parte que siempre subestiman es la gente. Las comunidades. Los puertorriqueños.

Boricuas han sobrevivido huracanes. Terremotos.Crisis económicas. Corrupción. Migración masiva. Pandemias. Y cada tormenta que la historia ha decidido lanzarnos encima.

Vamos a sobrevivir esta también.La pregunta nunca ha sido cuánto podemos aguantar.

Eso ya lo sabemos.

La verdadera pregunta es otra.

¿Qué tan seguros están estos políticos de que no vamos a reemplazarlos a todos cuando vuelvan a abrir las urnas?

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“We are exhausted,” said Marcia Soler París, a 61-year-old community leader. “We shouldn’t be living this way. We don’t deserve this.”

Those words feel suspended in the humid air of a Puerto Rican afternoon.

Today I walked to the grocery store and back because, as usual, something in Puerto Rico decided to break. The car is headed to the shop on Monday. In the meantime, I’m stuck in an apartment with no water.

And before anyone says it, yes, I know this isn’t new.

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I am painfully aware that this is not some groundbreaking revelation to people who were born and raised here. I know diaspora Puerto Ricans often get called out for making a fuss about things the moment we experience them. The argument usually goes something like: you can always leave. You have options.

But that conversation often ignores another reality.

Puerto Rico is not one thing. It contains staggering differences in wealth. There are families with cisterns, generators, solar panels, backup systems, and enough resources to turn every infrastructure collapse into a minor inconvenience. Then there are everyone else.

People forget class exists because it’s easier to punch sideways than to have complicated conversations about colonialism, extraction, and inequality.

Still.

Here we are.

Waiting for news about when this water crisis might end. Then within the span of three hours, we got two updates.

There was a second rupture in the main pipe.

Then a third.

At some point it starts sounding less like a public utility and more like a sketch comedy routine written by someone who deeply hates the audience.

As I write this, a sliver of pale blue still hangs over the horizon. Night arrives softly in Puerto Rico. It always has.

This will be my third night without water.

My friends have spent two weeks without it. Others are counting months.

In some towns, people no longer depend on the water system. They simply prepare for its failure. Water storage isn’t a backup plan. It’s the plan.

Meanwhile the government twists itself into a pretzel trying to point fingers at every administration that came before it.

Nobody wants to own the disaster.

The governor seemed at least mildly concerned that this crisis might eventually boomerang back toward her. Just a few weeks ago she was campaigning at Vivo Beach Club, laughing about protesters she claimed never showed up, despite apparently securing herself a VIP seat in case they did.

You have to admire the audacity.

Not because it’s admirable.

Because it’s impressive in the way watching someone confidently walk into a glass door is impressive.

This is someone who has spent decades rubbing elbows with political elites on the island and in Washington. Listening to her can feel like being trapped inside an elevator with a malfunctioning campaign commercial.

But somewhere, buried deep beneath the layers of talking points, handlers, donors, and political theater, there has to be at least a flicker of concern about how Puerto Ricans are going to react to this.

Or maybe not.

For years people have told me the same thing: Puerto Ricans vote by party line. Puerto Ricans won’t wake up. Puerto Ricans have become so accustomed to colonialism that extraction feels normal.

Like humidity. Like potholes. Like the occasional government collapse.

Point it out and some people react exactly like MAGA FANATICS in the United States.

A frenzy of anger and excuses bursts out of them. Every explanation sounds more ridiculous than the last.

They remind me of the villains from my favorite Saturday morning cartoons.

The difference is that cartoon villains were usually more self-aware. And funnier.

But back to the water crisis.

If you’re feeling cynical, you probably look at all this and conclude that the government is a joke and nothing will ever change.

Some days I understand that feeling.

The stress is palpable.

The exhaustion is written across people’s faces in permanent marker.

I’m almost afraid to look in the mirror because I suspect I might find the same expression staring back at me.

I don’t usually dwell in negative thoughts. But lately I find myself getting sad. I find myself wanting something that feels almost luxurious.

Rest.

Just a little bit of rest.

I think about the suicides on the island. I think about depression. The burnout. The chronic stress. And how rarely we connect any of it to the public health crisis unfolding around us every day.

• Infrastructure is public health.

• Housing is public health.

• Water is public health.

• Hope is public health.

Today I shared a video about La Junta.

The Fiscal Control Board created through PROMESA, a law pushed onto Puerto Rico during the Obama administration.

A board that has spent nearly a decade making decisions that profoundly affect our communities while remaining largely insulated from the consequences of those decisions.

But far be it from me to complain.

These are people collecting salaries that would probably make the Pope spit out his coffee.

How exactly does it take a decade to “resolve” a debt?

Maybe we’ll find out.

An event hosted by 9 Millones and several organizations is set to explore that very question. REGISTER HERE: https://luma.com/3z988hm8

My opinion? The debt is illegal.

Wall Street saw an opportunity inside Puerto Rico’s colonial condition and did what Wall Street has always done: It monetized the suffering.

I don’t have every receipt sitting in front of me. But I remember enough conversations from 2018 and 2019 to recognize a familiar pattern.

Privatize. Extract. Delay accountability. Repeat. The mechanism changes. The beneficiaries rarely do.

Greed is an extraordinary creature. It takes great gulps of human suffering and still finds itself hungry. It consumes and consumes and consumes until its bloated body threatens to block out the sun. Maybe that’s a dramatic metaphor.

But honestly, so is reality.

The schemes are so absurd they almost become funny. Almost.

The thing the architects of these systems consistently underestimate is the resilience of ordinary people.

Puerto Ricans have survived hurricanes. Colonialism. Economic collapse. Political corruption. Mass migration. Earthquakes. Pandemics.

And every other storm that history has thrown at us. We’ll survive this too.

The question has never been how much Puerto Ricans can endure. We know the answer to that already.

The real question is this:

Just how confident are these politicians that we won’t replace every single one of them the next time the polls open?

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There is a farmer walking across the island right now, and with each passing mile, more people are joining him. At first, he walked alone. Then others began to step onto the road beside him. He wears a straw hat that shields him from the relentless Caribbean sun. He’s making his way to El Capitolio in San Juan, carrying not only his own struggle, but the concerns of many who see themselves reflected in his journey.

Pedro “Pellito” Santiago, a farmer and roadside vendor from Cayey, is walking to San Juan after more than 20 vendors received an eviction notice from the Department of Transportation. These vendors received notices this year ordering them to leave the spaces where many have worked for years. On paper, the dispute is about permits, regulations, and the use of public land. But like so many stories in Puerto Rico, what is written on paper and what people are actually experiencing are two very different things.

For many Puerto Ricans, roadside vendors are not simply businesses. They are part of the landscape of memory itself. They are the fruit stands you stop at on the way to Cabo Rojo. The pinchos after a day at the beach in Piñones. The truck parked along a winding mountain road selling quenepas, pana, or aguacates. They are part of the Puerto Rico many of us grew up knowing. They represent generations of people supporting their families through long days of work, through economic crises, through hurricanes, through recessions, and through all the uncertainty that has become so familiar to life on this archipelago.

As I watched Pellito begin his walk, I kept returning to a question that seems to connect so many of the stories unfolding across Puerto Rico right now.

Who gets protected?

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If you can become a paid subscriber here on substack or patreon that will help us tell more stories with depth, context and care. Thank you for supporting this work.

This week, I will be attending the public hearing regarding proposed entrance fees for El Yunque. I shared a post about the issue over the weekend and the response went viral. Which makes sense. There are few places in Puerto Rico that carry the emotional, ecological, and cultural significance of El Yunque. It’s not simply a rainforest. It is one of the last places where many Puerto Ricans still feel an unbroken connection to something older than politics, older than governments, older than colonial borders. For generations, families have gone there to cool off in the rivers, to learn the names of trees, to hear the coquí at night, and to remember that despite everything, there are still places that belong to all of us.

My position is simple. No one should be denied access to one of Puerto Rico’s most important natural treasures because they cannot afford an entrance fee. That includes families living on the island. That includes working-class Puerto Ricans. And it includes members of our diaspora who return home looking for a way to reconnect with the land and with themselves.

That does not mean conservation should not be funded. It should. Protected spaces require maintenance. Trails need repairs. Ecosystems need monitoring. Staff deserve support. Those are real needs. But before asking the public to support a proposal, the public deserves transparency. What exactly would the fees fund? How would the money be managed? What improvements would communities see in return? Those are not radical questions. They are basic questions of accountability.

Because El Yunque belongs to all of us. And conversations about its future should happen with the people, not around them.

The question of who gets protected also sits at the center of another story that continues to shape conversations across Puerto Rico: Project Esencia.

Over the last several days, images of protests in Albania have spread through international news outlets. As I watched that coverage, I found myself thinking about the tens of thousands of Puerto Ricans who marched against Project Esencia. By many estimates, more than 50,000 people participated in demonstrations opposing the luxury development proposed for Cabo Rojo. It was one of the largest environmental mobilizations Puerto Rico has seen in years. Yet much of the international media barely acknowledged it.

This is not about diminishing what is happening elsewhere. The people protesting in Albania deserve to have their stories told. The question is why some movements capture the world’s attention while others remain largely invisible. Why do some communities break through the noise while others struggle to be seen? Why do some stories become international stories and others remain local concerns?

Those questions matter because visibility shapes power. Visibility influences policy. Visibility affects whether people feel supported, whether they feel alone, and whether decision-makers believe anyone is watching.

What happened in Cabo Rojo wasn’t small at all. What continues to happen in Cabo Rojo is up to the people. The people organizing, educating, researching, cleaning beaches, attending hearings, and showing up month after month.

We are participating in one of the most significant environmental movements in Puerto Rico today. Whether or not international media chooses to recognize that, doesn’t change that reality.

June is also Pride Month, and it feels impossible not to think about another person who spent her life refusing invisibility: Sylvia Rivera.

Rivera, a Puerto Rican and Venezuelan activist born in New York City, became one of the most important figures in the struggle for LGBTQ+ liberation. She fought for transgender people long before it was popular. Long before there were corporate Pride campaigns. Long before many organizations were willing to stand beside the people she was advocating for.

One of her most enduring statements was simple: “Go out and fight for your rights.”

In recent days I also encountered an interview of hers where she responded to the question Is it real inclusiveness? “This movement has become so capitalist… that only believes in that almighty dollar. This is no longer my pride. I gave them their pride, but they have not given me mine. But what is the purpose of them celebrating their pride, and giving straight people who still really don’t accept the community for who they are , but they want their almighty dollar of ours.

Her words are powerful and poignant at this moment in history. And they also say a lot about Puerto Rican culture and how ours is used in capitalist campaigns. Her words come from someone who understood that rights are never given freely. They are won because ordinary people decide they are worth fighting for, and corporate led campaigns will never free us.

And perhaps that is another thread connecting these stories. The farmer walking to San Juan. The communities organizing to protect Cabo Rojo. The people showing up to defend access to El Yunque. Sylvia Rivera demanding dignity for people society often ignores, while policies repress them.

Again and again, the story is about people refusing to disappear.

Meanwhile, Puerto Rico continues to face another crisis that receives nowhere near the attention it deserves.

The femicide crisis continues.

There are still no significant updates in the case of Karianis Vega Rodríguez. Another woman was recently laid to rest after being murdered by her former partner. Images of grieving family members circulated across social media and local news outlets. They were heartbreaking, but they were also familiar. Too familiar.

And that familiarity should frighten us.

Because there is a danger when a society becomes accustomed to tragedy. There is a danger when each new case is treated as another unfortunate headline rather than part of an ongoing emergency.

Behind every statistic is a family and a future that was stolen.

How many more women have to die before this is treated with the urgency it deserves by this government?

We demand Justice for Karianis. Justice for Gemilies. Justice for all of them.

At the same time, water access remains a struggle for many communities across Puerto Rico. This week, tensions became visible during a confrontation involving the Executive Director of the Aqueduct and Sewer Authority. For some observers, it looked like a heated exchange. For many Puerto Ricans, it looked like accumulated frustration finally spilling into public view.

Because access to water should not be a privilege. Lack of water shouldn’t be normalized either. And certainly should not be something families spend years worrying about.

But yet here we are.

When I look across all of these stories, I don’t see separate headlines. I see a pattern. I know you do too.

Communities are demanding accountability. Puerto Ricans are defending the things that make life possible: water, land, forests, safety, dignity, memory, and the right to remain.

The question is whether we are willing to do get uncomfortable and do something. Because ultimately every one of these stories is asking the same thing:

Who gets protected? Who will be there to defend our people?

And what kind of Puerto Rico are we building if the answer is not all of us?

Debbie
Borikén Podcast

News Sources:

• Farmer Walking to El Capitolio: https://www.elnuevodia.com/noticias/locales/notas/la-isla-a-pie-por-su-sustento-vendedor-ambulante-camina-para-evitar-que-los-saquen-de-las-carreteras/

• El Yunque seeks Public Comments: https://www.fs.usda.gov/r08/elyunque/newsroom/releases/el-yunque-proposes-recreation-fees-el-portal-rainforest-center-la?utm_source=chatgpt.com

• Water Access: https://www.elnuevodia.com/noticias/locales/notas/esto-es-un-abuso-falta-de-agua-potable-altera-las-vidas-de-los-residentes-en-guaynabo/

• Femicide case still a mystery: https://wapa.tv/noticias/locales/investigan-muerte-sospechosa-de-joven-hallada-cerca-de-una-piscina-en-cabo-rojo/article_917639ce-44c7-4ce6-b42d-3d60f28ee7c4.html

Part 1 of our series on La Cueva del Indio is out now on Youtube.

For many Puerto Ricans, La Cueva del Indio is a beautiful place to visit. But it’s also much more than that. It’s a sacred archaeological site, a piece of our Indigenous history, and part of the karst landscape that helps sustain life across Puerto Rico.

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As debate continues around PC 1079, it’s more important than ever that we understand what the karst is, why places like La Cueva del Indio matter, and what could be at risk if protections are weakened.

This series is an invitation to learn more, ask questions, and connect with the people who have spent years defending these lands and public access to them.

A huge thank you to everyone who supports Borikén Podcast. Your subscriptions, shares, donations, and encouragement help us continue covering stories that often don’t receive the attention they deserve.

Please also follow Murciélago Beach Defenders on social media and support their incredible work protecting Cueva del Indio and Puerto Rico’s coastline. If you’re planning a visit, consider booking a tour with them and learning directly from the people who know this history best.

The more we understand these places, the better equipped we are to protect them.

🇵🇷 WATCH Part 1 now on Youtube and share it with a few friends and family!

La Cueva Del Indio Part One

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The U.S. Forest Service is considering a proposal that would introduce new fees for visitors to El Yunque National Forest, including daily, multi-day, and annual passes. Supporters argue the fees are needed to help fund maintenance and conservation efforts, while many Puerto Ricans have raised concerns about public access to one of the island’s most important natural and cultural treasures. El Yunque is more than a tourist destination. It is part of our history, our identity, and a place that generations of Puerto Ricans, both on the island and in the diaspora, have considered their own.

Public hearings on the proposal are being held today at 6:30 PM and again on June 10. If you believe access to El Yunque should remain affordable and accessible, now is the time to make your voice heard.

Public participation matters.

Decisions like these should reflect the voices of the communities most connected to this rainforest. We encourage everyone concerned about the proposal to attend, ask questions, share testimony, and advocate for alternatives that protect both El Yunque and public access to it.

Check out the press release here and how to submit your comments (also copied below):

https://www.fs.usda.gov/r08/elyunque/newsroom/releases/el-yunque-proposes-recreation-fees-el-portal-rainforest-center-la

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Full Press release

El Yunque proposes recreation fees for El Portal Rainforest Center, La Mina Recreation Area

Release Date: May 6, 2026
Contact Information: Brenda Peña López 787-888-5616 brenda.penalopez@usda.gov
Secondary Contact: Mattew Nourmohamadian 787-888-5611 matthew.nourmohamadian@usda.gov

The El Yunque National Forest is proposing new recreation fees at the El Portal De El Yunque Rainforest Center and La Mina Recreation Area, the main recreation areas on the forest.

“We have seen an explosion in visitation and can no longer sustainably manage the PR-191 recreational area without considering fees, similar to those at El Morro, the ‘balnearios’, and the Luis Muñoz Marín Park. Maintaining visitation is expensive, including the upkeep of recreational facilities and trails, that welcome a million visitors annually across our 360-acres special recreation area,” said Keenan Adams, forest supervisor for the El Yunque National Forest.

The proposed fees by site are listed in the below table:

Site NameCurrent FeeProposed Fee

El Portal De El Yunque Rainforest Center

Day Pass Fee; $8 per person

3-Day Pass Fee: $0 per person

Season/Year Pass Fee: $0 per person

Family Annual Pass Fee: $0 per group
Group Size: 4

Day Pass Fee: $4 per person

3-Day Pass Fee: $10 per person

Season/Year Pass Fee: $20 per person

Family Annual Pass Fee: $30 per group
Group Size: 4

La Mina Recreation

Area Permit

Day Fee: $0 per person

3-Day Pass Fee: $0 per person

Season/Year Pass Fee: $0 per person

Family Annual Pass Fee: $0 per group
Group Size: 4

Day Fee: $4 per person

3-Day Pass Fee: $10 per person

Season/Year Pass Fee: $20 per person

Family Annual Pass Fee: $30 per group
Group Size: 4

The proposed recreation fees would help ensure visitors have clean drinking water, more frequent restroom cleanings, up‑to‑date information through interpretive signs and staff, and much‑needed maintenance delivered through partners and contracts. Fees also support ongoing hurricane recovery efforts at recreation sites.

About 2% of the national forest has a proposed fee, meaning 98% does not. Additionally, the El Yunque National Forest waives all recreation fees to visitors on Puerto Rican holidays and the identified 2026 Fee Free Days, listed at https://www.fs.usda.gov/visit/passes-permits

In 2004, Congress passed the Federal Lands Recreation Enhancement Act, which allows the Forest Service to retain at least 80% of the money collected at recreation sites and use these funds locally to operate, maintain and improve these sites. Revenue collected through recreation fees would help the forest improve infrastructure at recreation sites and fund additional staff and partners. Recreation fees help provide quality recreation opportunities that meet the modern expectations of visitors and creates a more financially sustainable recreation program for future generations.

The public is invited to comment on the proposed recreation fee changes. The 90-day comment period is set to end by close of business on August 4th, 2026. To ensure that your comments are considered, please send your comments no later than the above date to El Yunque National Forest, Attention: Fee Proposal Coordinator, HC-01, Box 13490, Rio Grande, PR 00745-9625 or by email at sm.fs.r8elyunsocom@usda.gov. Comments can also be provided online.

Oral comments must be provided in person at the El Yunque National Forest Headquarters to Forest Fee Proposal Coordinator during normal business hours (Monday – Friday, 9 a.m. – 4:00 p.m.) or by calling 787-888-5611 and indicating you would like to provide comments on the proposed recreation fee changes. For more information, visit our website at https://www.fs.usda.gov/r08/elyunque.

Once public involvement is complete, these recreation fee changes will be reviewed by a citizen’s advisory committee. Committee members represent a broad array of recreation interest groups to help ensure that the Forest Service is proposing reasonable and publicly acceptable recreation fees. The committee will submit their recommendation to the regional forester for a final decision.

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Estos updates llegan con un día de atraso. Y honestamente, lo agradezco.

Vivir en Puerto Rico es aprender a sentarse con la incomodidad. Hay momentos donde la realidad del colonialismo se vuelve imposible de ignorar. No como un concepto político abstracto, sino como algo que se siente y se vive todos los días. Lo ves en las carreteras. En los apagones. En los cortes de agua. En el costo de vida. En quién recibe protección y quién se queda atrás.

De eso trata el episodio de esta semana.

Trata sobre la rabia que nace cuando vemos sistemas fallarle a nuestra gente una y otra vez. Trata sobre cómo se siguen debilitando protecciones ambientales, cómo las comunidades llenan los vacíos que deja el gobierno, y sobre la pregunta que muchos puertorriqueños nos estamos haciendo ahora mismo: ¿qué hacemos cuando quienes están en el poder no están trabajando para el bienestar del pueblo?

Y más importante aún: ¿qué hacemos con esa rabia?

Porque la rabia sola cambia muy poco. Pero las comunidades organizadas, la ayuda mutua, el voluntariado, la educación política y la acción colectiva pueden cambiarlo todo.

Vamos a hablar de eso.

Uno pasa por carreteras destruidas. Escucha a los vecinos hablando de otro corte de agua. Otro apagón. Otra familia obligada a irse porque ya no puede costear quedarse. Y después prende la televisión y escucha a funcionarios insistiendo que todo está bien. No solo bien. Hasta se burlan de quienes se atreven a decir la verdad.

Esta semana, la gobernadora Jenniffer González Colón se rió de la creciente frustración del pueblo. Pero para muchos puertorriqueños esa frustración no es teórica. Es nuestra realidad diaria.

Se ve por todos lados. En la infraestructura. En el costo de vida. En esa sensación cada vez más fuerte de que las prioridades del gobierno están completamente desconectadas de las necesidades de la gente común.

El costo del silencio

Esta semana también nos recordó otra crisis que demasiadas veces solo recibe atención después de una tragedia.

En Carolina, una mujer fue asesinada luego de que presuntamente le negaran una orden de protección. En Cabo Rojo, Karianis Vega Rodríguez, de apenas 25 años, fue encontrada asesinada en circunstancias horribles.

No son casos aislados. Son parte de un patrón de violencia de género que sigue exigiendo acción urgente.

Puerto Rico tiene la fortuna de contar con organizaciones que intervienen donde muchas veces las instituciones fallan. Colectiva Feminista en Construcción, Observatorio de Equidad de Género y Taller Salud continúan realizando trabajo que literalmente salva vidas.

Pero las organizaciones comunitarias no pueden cargar solas con este peso. El silencio gubernamental no es neutral. Cuando quienes lideran el país no responden con la urgencia necesaria, envían un mensaje. Y ese mensaje tiene consecuencias devastadoras para nuestras familias.

Amar a Puerto Rico es defender a Puerto Rico

Mientras tanto, seguimos enfrentando ataques coordinados contra nuestras protecciones ambientales. El debate sobre la Ley 82 es solo un ejemplo de algo más grande. En toda la isla continúan surgiendo propuestas que debilitan salvaguardas ambientales y dificultan que las comunidades puedan impugnar proyectos que amenazan terrenos públicos y recursos naturales.

Lo que más me frustra es cómo muchas veces celebramos la cultura puertorriqueña mientras evitamos hablar de proteger las condiciones que hacen posible esa cultura.

Compartimos canciones. Compartimos banderas. Compartimos nostalgia.

Pero, ¿estamos compartiendo las historias de las comunidades que están luchando para mantener a Puerto Rico habitable?

¿Estamos amplificando las voces de quienes defienden nuestras playas, nuestros bosques, nuestra agua y nuestros barrios?

Porque una cultura sin protección termina convirtiéndose en mercadeo.

Y lo digo sin juzgar a nadie. Lo digo para invitarnos a mirar más profundo.

Cuatro mil libras de esperanza

Este fin de semana manejé hasta Cabo Rojo para participar en una limpieza de playa organizada por líderes comunitarios y grupos ambientales.

Gracias a Gabo Ramos, SinPlásticoPR, Fango Sunscreen, Pura Vida Brewery y a todas las personas que hicieron posible este esfuerzo.

El viaje hacia Cabo Rojo ya era un recordatorio de lo que está en juego.

Durante dos horas miré las montañas de Borikén y pensé en lo hermosa que sigue siendo esta isla, a pesar de todo lo que trabaja en su contra.

Quizás por eso tantos intereses poderosos quieren apropiarse de pedazos de ella.

Ellos ven una oportunidad. Nosotros vemos hogar.

Cuando llegué me encontré con organizadores, escritores, activistas y voluntarios que llevan años apareciendo por sus comunidades. Personas como la poeta Sarinette. Personas como Andrea, de Hiking Valiente.

Gente que entiende que amar a Puerto Rico no se mide por lo que publicas en redes sociales, sino por lo que estás dispuesto a construir junto a otros.

Juntos logramos remover cerca de 4,000 libras de basura de nuestras costas.

Cuatro mil libras.

No porque el gobierno lo exigiera. Porque el pueblo decidió actuar.

La pregunta del agua

Durante años la pregunta era sencilla: “¿Saldrá agua de la pluma?”

Hoy la pregunta cambió. “¿Podemos confiar en el sistema de agua?”

Las conversaciones sobre calidad del agua, contaminación, infraestructura deteriorada, alertas bacterianas, contaminación industrial, químicos PFAS y cambio climático son cada vez más urgentes.

El agua ya no es solo un asunto de infraestructura.

Es un asunto de salud pública, un asunto de justicia ambiental. Y también es un asunto político.

Entonces, ¿qué hacemos?

Es una pregunta que escucho constantemente: ¿Qué hacemos cuando las instituciones parecen más interesadas en atraer inversionistas que en resolver los apagones, los cortes de agua, los feminicidios, la crisis de vivienda o la degradación ambiental?

La respuesta es clara. Nos organizamos. Hacemos voluntariado. Aprendemos nuevas destrezas. Construimos comunidad. Apoyamos organizaciones locales.

Creamos redes de cuidado que no desaparecen cuando se apagan los titulares.

Y para quienes están en la diáspora, ese trabajo comienza escuchando. Aprendan español si no lo hablan.

Estudien la historia de Puerto Rico. Únanse a una organización. Entiendan cómo se vive realmente en la isla hoy. No la versión de postal turística. La versión real.

Porque el futuro de Puerto Rico va a requerir que la isla y la diáspora trabajen juntas.

El futuro se está decidiendo ahora

Mucha gente piensa que las fuerzas que están transformando Puerto Rico son exclusivamente locales. No lo son.

Los cambios políticos, económicos y tecnológicos que ocurren en Estados Unidos inevitablemente terminan afectándonos. Seguimos siendo una colonia.

Y eso significa que muchas decisiones tomadas lejos de aquí llegan a nuestras costas con consecuencias aún mayores. Por eso la vigilancia importa. Por eso la organización importa. Por eso la comunidad importa.

El futuro de Puerto Rico no lo decidirán únicamente políticos, desarrolladores o inversionistas.

También lo decidirá nuestra capacidad de seguir apareciendo los unos para los otros.

Este fin de semana, parado en una playa de Cabo Rojo rodeado de voluntarios sacando basura de la costa, recordé algo importante:

Lo más esperanzador que está ocurriendo en Puerto Rico ahora mismo no viene del gobierno.

Viene de su gente.

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These updates are coming in a day late. And I’m grateful for that.

Living in Puerto Rico requires sitting with discomfort often. Moments when the reality of colonialism becomes impossible to ignore. Not as an abstract political concept, but as something tangible. Something you see in the roads, in the outages, in the cost of living, in who gets protected and who gets left behind.

This week’s episode is about those moments.

It’s about the anger that comes from watching systems fail people over and over again. It’s about environmental protections being dismantled, communities stepping up where government falls short, and the difficult question many Puerto Ricans are asking themselves right now: What do we do when the people in power aren’t working in our interests?

More importantly, what do we do with that anger?

Because anger by itself changes very little. But organized communities, mutual aid, volunteerism, political education, and collective action can change everything.

Let’s talk about it.

You drive past crumbling roads. You hear neighbors talking about another water outage. Another power outage. Another family forced to leave because they can no longer afford to stay. And then you turn on the television and hear government officials insist everything is fine. And not just “fine” - they laugh at those who speak truth to power.

This week, Governor Jenniffer González Colón stood on her little stage and laughed away the growing public frustration over conditions on the island. Yet for many Puerto Ricans, the frustration is not theoretical. It is our daily life.

Objectively it is visible everywhere. It is visible in the infrastructure, in the cost of living. It is visible in the growing sense that government priorities are completely disconnected from the needs of ordinary people.

The Cost of Silence

This week also brought devastating reminders of another crisis that too often receives attention only after tragedy strikes.

In Carolina, a woman was killed after reportedly seeking a protective order that was denied. In Cabo Rojo, another young woman, Karianis Vega Rodríguez, 25 years old, was found murdered under horrifying circumstances.

They’re not isolated incidents, but a broader pattern of gender violence that continues to demand urgent action.

Puerto Rico is fortunate to have organizations stepping in where institutions often fail. Groups like the Observatorio de Equidad de Género, Colectiva Feminista en Construcción, and Taller Salud continue doing lifesaving work.

But community organizations cannot carry this burden alone. Government silence is not neutral and when leaders fail to address violence with urgency, it sends a message. And it’s a message that has devastating consequences for families here.

Loving Puerto Rico Means Defending Puerto Rico

At the same time, Puerto Rico continues to face a coordinated assault on environmental protections. The debate surrounding Law 82 is only one example of a larger trend. Across the island, proposals continue emerging that weaken environmental safeguards while making it harder for communities to challenge development projects that threaten public lands and natural resources.

What frustrates me is how often we celebrate Puerto Rican culture while avoiding conversations about protecting the conditions that make that culture possible.

We share songs. We share flags. We share nostalgia. But are we sharing the stories of the communities fighting to keep Puerto Rico livable?

Are we amplifying the people defending our beaches, our forests, our water, and our neighborhoods? Because culture without protection becomes branding.

And I say this without judgement - simply to inspire you to reach out, and dig deeper.

Four Thousand Pounds of Hope

This weekend, I drove to Cabo Rojo to participate in a large beach cleanup organized by local environmental groups and community leaders. Thank you Gabo Ramos, SinPlasticoPR, FangoSunscreen, PuraVida Brewery and all who organized this incredible community to action.

The drive to Cabo Rojo itself felt like a reminder of what is at stake.

For two hours, I stared out at the mountains of Borikén and thought about how beautiful this island remains despite everything working against it. The beauty explains why so many powerful interests want to acquire pieces of it. They see opportunity. We see home.

When I arrived, I was greeted by organizers, writers, activists, and volunteers who have spent years showing up for their communities.

People like poet and writer Sarinette. People like Andrea from Hiking Valiente.

People who understand that love for Puerto Rico is not measured by what you post online but by what you are willing to build alongside others.

Together, volunteers removed nearly 4,000 pounds of trash from our coastlines.

Four thousand pounds.

Not because the government demanded it. Because ordinary people decided to act.

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The Water Question

For years, the question in Puerto Rico was simple: “Will the water come out of the faucet?” Today the question has changed. “Can we trust the water system itself?”

Conversations about water quality, contamination, aging infrastructure, bacterial alerts, industrial pollution, PFAS chemicals, and climate change are becoming increasingly urgent. Water is no longer merely an infrastructure issue.

It is a public health issue, an environmental justice issue. And it is a political issue.

So What Do We Do?

This is the question I hear often: What do we do when government institutions appear more interested in attracting investors than solving water outages, power outages, housing insecurity, or environmental degradation?

The answer is clear. We organize. We volunteer. We learn new skills. We build community. We support local organizations. We create networks of care that do not disappear after the headlines fade.

For those in the diaspora, that work begins with listening. Learn Spanish if you don’t speak it. Study Puerto Rican history. Join an organization.

Spend time understanding what life on the island actually looks like today. Not the vacation brochure version. The real version.

Because Puerto Rico’s future will require both the island and the diaspora working together.

The Future Is Being Decided Now

Many people assume that the forces reshaping Puerto Rico are local. They are not.

The political, economic, and technological changes unfolding in the United States will inevitably affect Puerto Rico. We remain a colony.

That reality means decisions made elsewhere often arrive here first or arrive with greater consequences. Which is why vigilance matters. Why organizing matters.

Why community matters.

The future of Puerto Rico will not be determined solely by politicians, developers, or investors. It will also be determined by whether ordinary people continue showing up for one another.

This weekend, standing on a beach in Cabo Rojo surrounded by volunteers hauling trash from the shoreline, I was reminded:

The most hopeful thing happening in Puerto Rico right now is not coming from government. It’s coming from the people.

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We also explore the symbolic return of the sapo concho, Puerto Rico’s only native toad, as thousands are released back into protected ecosystems in an extraordinary conservation effort.

From El Yunque to Río Piedras, this episode examines what it means to fight for memory, land, and the right of Puerto Ricans to remain connected to their natural world.

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