CAMAGÜEY.— Let’s begin by asking questions. About the families living with autism—or any other condition—beyond a single day, beyond a designated month. What do they truly need? What support do they actually have? How heavy does everyday life become when resources, specialists, and guidance are lacking?
At Camagüey’s House of Cultural Diversity—the “blue house”—those questions were not abstract. They had faces, names, and stories. What moved me most was the essential: children simply being themselves; families holding on, tirelessly; and the dedication of those who, through projects and institutions, strive to ensure that inclusion is more than just a word.
And yet, what is missing was also present. The Héroes del Moncada School, which supports these children, currently lacks a psychopedagogue and needs more speech therapists. Naming that reality does not diminish the beauty of the day—it completes it, because there is no true sensitivity without awareness of what is lacking.
Amid so many emotions, one gesture captured it all: using pipe cleaners, they built a blue heart. A simple, handmade symbol—like everything born from everyday care. It made me think that this heart is also a question: what do we, as a society, do to sustain it once April is over?
The morning of April 1st also became a weaving of voices and shared commitment. It opened with a reflection by special education specialist Mayelín Hernández Noguerol from Cáritas Camagüey, who noted that at least 500 families with members with disabilities receive support through the project Aprendiendo a crecer. She was the one who proposed the blue pipe-cleaner heart—and more than a craft, it became an invitation: to engage, to understand, to not look from the outside.
Then the space filled with life. Performances came from Miguel de Jesús Alfonso (“El Charro”), Yocelyn Quevedo Cabrera, and Yasmany Fernández Pérez, members of the project Mis Manos Pueden. There is something deeply hopeful in their stories: people with intellectual disabilities training through the Office of the Historian of the City of Camagüey to work in services, to enter the workforce, and to ease the burden on their families. Yasmany has already graduated and is employed; Yocelyn and Miguel are advancing through the program’s second edition. It’s not just training—it’s dignity in progress.
Two other projects arrived from the Casa de Cultura Ignacio Agramonte, living proof of what sustained effort can achieve. The Andarín choir, led by Cecilia Riverón, just one year old but already rehearsing three times a week at the Biblioteca Provincial Julio Antonio Mella—as if belief itself were a discipline. And Construyendo Sueños, led by Melissa Álvarez, which for six years has championed inclusion through dance, bringing together children with Down syndrome, learning difficulties, and others from general education in one shared space where everyone belongs.
Even play had its place, thanks to Reinier Elizarde as the clown Chocolatiqui, who broke down barriers and brought mothers and teachers into the moment—reminding us that inclusion also lives in laughter.
And still, the questions return. Because while all of this unfolds, the Mártires del Moncada School—with 35 students, only three girls, eight teachers for eight groups, and care extending up to age 18—continues to face the absence of key specialists. Even its traditional April 2nd march, which once crossed the city to the Plaza de los Trabajadores, was shortened this year to just a few steps—from the school to José Martí Park.
It was said plainly: we cannot wait for a specific date to talk about inclusion. It must be a daily practice, constant commitment, a gaze that does not look away.
I left, moved, yes—but also challenged. Because these stories are not asking for pity; they are asking for coherence. And perhaps everything begins there: by truly asking ourselves the right questions… and having the courage to live the answers, every single day of the year.
Translated by Linet Acuña Quilez