We've been trying to open the gates of communication between

Host: The evening air over Little Havana was heavy with the scent of coffee, tobacco, and memory. Lanterns swung lazily above a narrow courtyard, where a small art exhibit glowed like a lantern in the dark. The walls were lined with paintings—some born in Havana, others in Miami—each one a fragment of a conversation never spoken aloud.

The music of an old Cuban guitar drifted through the air, wrapping around the murmurs of the crowd. The rain had just stopped, and the stone floor still gleamed under the soft light. Jack stood near a large canvas splashed with ocean blue and sunburnt red, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his eyes locked on the horizon the painting hinted at. Jeeny approached slowly, holding two cups of espresso, her expression calm but luminous.

The voice of a curator echoed faintly through the speakers, quoting Jorge M. Pérez:
"We’ve been trying to open the gates of communication between Havana and Miami through art, which is apolitical most of the time: It doesn’t have anything to do with politics and is only an exchange of ideas."

The words hung in the humid air, like the faint scent of salt and nostalgia.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The idea that art could be a bridge when everything else builds walls.”

Jack: “Beautiful, yes. But also… naïve. There’s no such thing as apolitical art, Jeeny. Every brushstroke, every note, every story—it says something about who holds the power, who’s heard, who’s silenced.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Sometimes it’s just an exchange of hearts, not of ideologies. Look around—people from both sides, laughing, talking, sharing a moment. Isn’t that proof enough that art can exist beyond politics?”

Host: The crowd around them rippled with soft laughter, Spanish, English, and silence intermingling like colors on a shared palette. Jack’s jaw tightened as he turned toward a painting of an old street in Havana, its windows open to the sea.

Jack: “Maybe tonight. But wait until tomorrow, when someone writes an article asking whether this exhibit is a symbol of cultural diplomacy or betrayal. You can’t escape politics when the pain behind the art is political itself.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing, though. The pain isn’t politics—it’s human. A mother missing her son, a man remembering his home, an artist painting a shoreline he may never see again. You can’t reduce that to policy.”

Host: The rainwater outside began to drip again from the edges of the roof, soft as tears. A woman’s laughter echoed, then faded. The guitar changed its tune—something slower, more melancholic, like a memory surfacing.

Jack: “You really believe art exists in a vacuum? That a painting of Havana isn’t also a statement about the embargo, or exile, or freedom? That every note of Cuban jazz doesn’t carry a century of longing and loss?”

Jeeny: “Of course it carries those things. But that doesn’t make it propaganda. It makes it alive. It’s not about choosing a side—it’s about remembering both.”

Jack: “But isn’t remembering itself a kind of defiance? The moment you show what’s been erased, you’re taking a stance. You’re not just expressing—you’re resisting.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the kind of politics we need—the kind that doesn’t divide, but connects. The kind that happens quietly, through color, sound, and stories that make people see one another again.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, ruffling the hanging canvases. One painting—a child reaching across an invisible ocean—fluttered like a flag caught between two worlds.

Jack: “Do you know what this reminds me of? That time a group of musicians tried to hold a joint concert between Miami and Havana. The idea was peace, but the backlash was brutal. People accused them of betraying their country, of legitimizing the regime.”

Jeeny: “Yes… I remember. But they played anyway. Do you know why? Because music doesn’t need permission to exist. They played for the people, not for the politicians.”

Jack: “And yet, politics found them anyway.”

Jeeny: “Because the world fears what it can’t control. Art terrifies power precisely because it belongs to no one. It speaks across borders, beliefs, histories—it reminds people that beneath all the arguments, we still share the same soul.”

Host: The music paused, then returned—an old Cuban bolero, soft, tender, filled with something like forgiveness. Jack’s eyes softened. His fingers brushed against the frame of a painting depicting a boat, half in shadow, half in light.

Jack: “You talk like a poet, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because poetry is the only language that still believes in miracles. Look around you, Jack. These people—half from Havana, half from Miami—they shouldn’t even be in the same room, according to history. Yet here they are, talking, smiling, listening. Isn’t that the start of something?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s the start of forgetting.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the start of healing.”

Host: The crowd began to thin, the rain outside now just a whisper. The lights dimmed slightly as the curator approached the microphone again, thanking everyone in both English and Spanish. The words blurred, but their meaning lingered—connection, conversation, creation.

Jack: “You really believe art can fix what politics broke?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. But reach. And sometimes reaching is more important than fixing. Because healing begins when someone finally listens.”

Jack: “And what if no one listens?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep painting, singing, writing—until someone does.”

Host: The courtyard was almost empty now. The last few guests lingered, reluctant to leave the warmth of the light. Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, watching a young artist carefully pack her paintbrushes, her hands trembling, her eyes wet.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe art is the only honest way left to talk.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about being right. It’s about being heard.”

Host: Jack looked once more at the painting—the sea, vast and endless, stretching between two shores that could not yet touch. He thought of the distance, not just in miles, but in hearts.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… for a moment, I could almost hear the two cities breathing in unison.”

Jeeny: “That’s all we’ve ever needed—to remember that the ocean isn’t a wall. It’s a bridge, waiting.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, then dimmed entirely, leaving only the faint glow of a single candle near the painting—its flame trembling, but unbroken.

Host: Outside, the night deepened. Somewhere across the water, another candle might have been burning in Havana, flickering the same way. And for that brief, fragile moment, the two flames seemed to speak to each other—without politics, without borders, only with the quiet, defiant language of art.