Every morning, you decide what clothes to wear. Whether plain or elaborate, your choice of apparel reflects a quiet act of self-definition. Through her exhibit, Addressing the Dress, Mexican artist Angeles Salinas reclaims the dress as a site of transformation, threading together themes of personal struggle, cultural inheritance and feminine agency to assert control over her evolving identity.
As a little girl, I was always afraid to cross bridges over turbulent waters. This irrational fear complicated things for my parents since I grew up in Valladolid, a small city in northeastern Spain with a river passing through it. Every time we crossed the Pisuerga River with its abundant current, I asked them to grip my hand and not let go.
As I prepared my speech for the graduation ceremony —my first as President of INCAE, an institution that, from Latin America, has cultivated leadership with purpose in more than 20,000 graduates over six decades—I found myself reflecting in silence on a few uncomfortable questions: Do we truly lead for the longstanding future or merely for today— perhaps for tomorrow at best?
Lurigancho Prison in Lima, Peru, is the largest and most overcrowded prison in the country. With a prison overpopulation and overcrowding of 9,735 inmates (August 2024 Statistical Report from the National Penitentiary Institute, INPE), despite having an actual capacity for only 3,204, and with a ratio of more than 100 inmates per security officer (compared to six inmates per officer in the United States, it stands as a grim giant.
Growing up in Latin America can be quite tough, especially when it comes to mental health
Students at the Chan Santa Cruz program in Mexico are getting their degrees in Bilingual Education (Maya/Spanish) and Historical and Cultural Heritage in Mexico.
The world has lost one of the most charismatic pontiffs of the last century with the passing of Pope Francis, the first Latin American prelate of the church’s 1.3 billion Catholics. Francis was a reformer who made himself available to the faithful, and traveled to 66 countries, including eleven in Latin America.
In May 2024, Argentine Security Minister Patricia Bullrich wrote on X, “We are going to lock them all up” after criminals in Rosario threatened to kill her. She issued the statement in response to random attacks by criminal organizations causing the deaths of civilians in the Argentine city of Rosario where two taxi drivers, a gas station employee and a bus driver with no apparent ties to organized crime had been murdered by hitmen.
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.
