Imagine a typical morning in Latin America: in Mexico City, people gathered on bustling sidewalks, checking their smartphones as they look for the closer Uber; in Buenos Aires, traditional taxis and modern ride-hailing apps like inDrive coexist amid the city’s vibrant energy; in Bogotá, the familiar rumble of the TransMilenio adds to the urban symphony as passengers shift between public transit, Cabifys and DiDi Taxis.
The poet T.S. Eliot once wrote, “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” These words capture the essence of my journey between Mexico and the United States, two lands that have shaped my identity and my understanding of home.
For thousands of years, the glaciers that crown the Cordillera Blanca Mountain range in Peru have sustained life in countless downstream settlements, expanding with ice in the winter and releasing meltwater in the dry season.
On the 18th of June 1842, in a doctor’s office on Esplanade Avenue in New Orleans, a French poet and playwright named Auguste Lussan died of a surgical operation meant to relieve yellow fever. The attending physician was Jean François Beugnot, a prominent doctor who had immigrated from France, and who would soon present and publish his approach to treatment of yellow fever in a regional medical journal, research which would later be recognized by Napoleon III with the award of the Legion of Honour.
We believe that education is a means to overcome inequalities and improve the quality of life. However, if you are Black and poor in Brazil, even if you manage to access a good education, you must still be cautious.
Dear reader, I am Winnie Santos, a Black woman from Brazil, and I want to discuss something not particularly pleasant but very important to share, as we can think together about ways to overcome this challenge.
Affirmative action policies in my country have enabled a significant number of Black people to access universities, including the most prestigious ones.
Natalie Navarro, 29, the lead drummer, anchors the circle with precision and grace. Her hands strike the drum rhythmically, summoning the energies of heaven and earth. Her sister Samantha, 26, along with her husband, Eduardo Galarza, 29, join in dancing with dynamic movements embodying the vibrancy of life. Eduardo serves as both lead dancer and instructor. He reflects, “This dance is for the water, fire, wind, spirit, and Mother Earth. Through our steps, we call upon a higher power—with flowers, through songs, and in the sound of the drums’s heartbeat. Flowers symbolize our humanity and the beauty of creation. Yet, we often forget that the earth is our home, and we’re causing its destruction.”
I remember vividly that day in Cali in 2013. I was very new to the world of people with disabilities, their families and caregivers, trying to decipher that language that needs no words. As national director of a research project on “accessible television for deaf people” (INSOR-ANTV, 2013-2014), I met a mother who was a caregiver and whose presence said it all. Her eyes bore the weight of too many sleepless nights, of a tiredness that was not only physical. In a low voice, almost a whisper filled with contained resentment, she told me, “Luis Miguel, the laws are designed to protect our children, but what about us? We are the population abandoned by the legislator.”
have always been a bridge-builder. I may have developed this skill as a middle child, mediating conflicts between my older brother and younger sister, or by negotiating with clients for my father’s business.
I grew up in the southern part of Bogotá, Colombia, where science role models and opportunities to pursue scientific careers are scarce. My parents built a small business in graphic arts, and no one in my family had attended university, let alone pursued a scientific career.
Growing up in a vibrant yet challenging environment in Mexico City, I experienced both the joys of a supportive family and the stark realities of a world that can change in an instant. This is a journey into how those experiences shaped my understanding of neurodiversity and mental health, and why advocating for these issues, particularly in Latin America, is so crucial.
In school, we may have learned that Simón Bolívar proposed expansion into northeastern Colombia in his quest for regional unification. What we may not have learned is that he blithely suggested that “the savages who live there would be civilized and our possessions increased,” using what we call today explicitly settler colonial terms, Indigenous peoples there perceived Colombian intruders as “Spanish” throughout the 19th century, and the return of Catholic missions at the end of the century followed the logic of state-sponsored religious “Hispanicization.”
In 2018, just before Jair Bolsonaro was elected president of Brazil, I wrote about the dire consequences of his presidency for the rainforest and its Indigenous peoples, which I called “environmental fascism.”As we approach the U.S. election and the potential re-election of Donald Trump, we must recognize that a similar threat is now haunting the United States, threatening to set a perilous global agenda.
For three short days this past August, Chicago danced ‘til dawn at the Democratic National Convention, where Kamala Harris and Tim Walz were elected as the party’s 2024 Presidential ticket. It was not the first time that the Windy City had hosted the event, yet it was quite novel in one significant way: the music Democrats put front and center during their festivities.
As an immigrant from Peru, I’ve often found myself dealing with many memories from the home country—as most immigrants do. My years as an undergraduate in Peru. My classes with the poet Giovanna Pollarolo and the scholars and feminists Susana Reisz and Francesca Denegri, and the things that I learned from them: “Literature and academic production made by women used words as a medium of liberation in response to a hetero-patriarchal society that controlled their bodies and voices.”
With his smile and twinkling eye, Rafael Sánchez embraced ideas, debating and tasting them like a connoisseur with fine wines. He would chuckle, too, not letting them take control. It is with his spirit of generous speculation that I wish to put forward some ideas about motorbikes in Global South, drawn from my experience in southwestern Colombia during which I have, in the past ten years, been overwhelmed by the massive increase in motos—and cellphones.
This was not my first time in the Amazon Rainforest. I visited the Ecuadorian Amazon 13 years ago. I had recently finished my last year of Law School at the University of Chile and wanted to enjoy the last summer before preparing for the terrifying examen de grado.
For several years, seeking to renew the meaning of my new stage of life, to continue learning and living with enthusiasm, I recovered a hobby that I´ve been passionate about for a long time: watercolor. Since I rediscovered the magic of water and color, in every free moment, I try to learn a new technique, combine new colors, discover different papers or try a new brush.
I have a memory of a happy childhood playing with my father on the beach and singing and dancing with my mother and sisters at home in San Salvador. That was followed by a confusing adolescence, having to flee abroad with our mother and sisters, due to the fear and terror caused by the civil war in our country, leaving half of the family behind.
The bus glides southward through the Province of Buenos Aires. The cold night air hits the window, and my fingers freeze as I wipe the frosted glass with my hand.
My first time in Bolivia was an experience filled with awe, concern and witnessing a country on the brink of turmoil. As part of the work for my upcoming documentary, I arranged an interview with the country’s three-time president, Evo Morales.
