It was Ramón Silverio, a man who doesn't age, who gave birth to a project that at the time caused embarrassment, scandal, and rejection among quite a few people; and rightly so, since every revolutionary project encounters detractors, opposition, obstacles, and closures.

The Mejunje had many locations before its current home. They had to leave almost all of them; it was difficult to accept different people in a patriarchal and very conservative environment. Silverio and a few others tried at all costs to save a place that would be a refuge for the marginalized, but also a home for everyone, for the good of all.

And there, between bare brick walls covered in ivy that seem to hold decades-old secrets, stands this temple to plurality.

Ramón Silverio

More than a cultural center, it’s an ecosystem of freedom, founded in the 1980s by Silverio in the Guiñol Theater. After a series of locations, they finally settled in the ruins of an old house on Marta Abreu Street. There, it was born as a refuge for the rejected and those who couldn't find a place within the rigid norms of the time.

--Silverio, you often say that El Mejunje is not just a cultural project, but a work of faith: how do you sustain that faith when reality gets tough?

In order to live, you need faith; otherwise, we practically don't exist. Sometimes people make the mistake of linking faith exclusively with religion, but the faith that sustains this project is faith in people, in human improvement, in humanity, and in the changes that are yet to come. We always hope for something, and if we truly hope for it with faith, it's more likely to arrive.

Although my idea was modest; I didn't intend to be so original, but rather do something within those new trends. That Saturday, we met in the puppet theater in Santa Clara. Margarita Casallas was the group's general director and was the first collaborator; she embraced the idea as her own.

But everything was done with the tenacious opposition of the then-director of the Provincial Cultural Sector, who did everything in her power to put an end to the initiative. The official argued that it was a farce and that the puppet theater wasn't for that.

A place that is very close to the downtrodden, as the great troubadour Teresita Fernández would say. That is our faith: to include them, to respect them as people, and to make them feel good.

To make someone who has been displaced feel like a complete human being is, perhaps, the greatest act of faith we can perform each day.

It became a landmark for being the first space to openly embrace cross-dressing and offer full freedom to the gay community, defending it from discrimination.

From its inception, its principle has been inclusion without ghettos, promoting respectful coexistence among all differences. It also opened its doors to people with HIV/AIDS, providing them with support and dignity in the early years of the disease.

It was a rendezvous point for hippies and rockers, who found there a space free of prejudice. From its beginning, the place was characterized by welcoming all urban tribes and cultural expressions, without distinctions or ghettos, promoting respectful coexistence among differences.

Simply a scandal that transcended its time.

--It has survived economic crises, social prejudices, and the inexorable passage of time. What is the secret to enduring so many years without losing its essence?

Resistance and persistence—I believe battles last until you decide to give them up. If you surrender in the first fight, you'll never win.

El Mejunje has endured because it has known how to renew itself. Four generations or more have passed through here, and one must always be thinking about the generation ahead of them.

I don't age; I always move with the times. Some people complain about age, but youth is in the mind, not in the body.

I'm 77 years old, and I feel like a young man because I think like one; I live at the same level as the young people who come here. Furthermore, I consider myself privileged: I'm a survivor of this entire revolutionary period after 1959. I witnessed a triumphant revolution, something many people will never see again.

My battle is to always be present in my time and in the struggle I must face.

—Music has been the soundtrack of that battle. Songs of the Nueva Trova movement seem to have taken on a new meaning within these walls. Why are songs like "No lo van a prevenir" so symbolic for you?

They are melodies of resistance. When the LGBTQ+ movement began—the trans movement, the lesbian movement—that song by Amaury Pérez became a battle anthem. It gives you strength, it gives you the spirit to keep going. The same is true for "Ojalá" or "La maza" by Silvio Rodríguez.

Art possesses that magic: you interpret it and make it your own according to your own struggle. For example, in El Mejunje, we talk about women with genetic predispositions or female firefighters, those who are strong and determined. That music is part of the spiritual fabric of this place.

I use those songs to project who we are, as Silvio's song "La silla" says: "On the road, many chairs will present themselves for you to rest, but if you have faith and conviction, don't sit down."

You keep pushing forward, that's the spirit of El Mejunje: a battle that never ends, sung with the dignity of someone who knows they're on the right side of the heart.

---Who was essential for this project to stay alive, beyond the help of so many people?

Many people helped the project live; there are so many, and it would be ungrateful to mention some and forget others, but there's one person who's no longer among us and who was indispensable: that's María, the doorman, the artist, the friend, my sister. I don't remember those who did harm; it's better to forget and forgive, in the end, we're still here.

Today it's a living monument to inclusion, where folk music, rock, drag, the elderly, and children coexist; it’s, in essence, the embodiment of the unwavering will of a country where diversity matters.

El Mejunje is still here, not as a relic of the past, but as a constantly evolving work of faith, reminding us that as long as there’s resistance, nothing can stop hope.

Silverio bids farewell, his gaze fixed on the courtyard of his cultural center, where today's youth are already beginning to arrive. His words contain not nostalgia, but a sense of enduring relevance.

We spoke with Silverio about the mystique of this place which, after more than four decades, remains the most daring of the city, but also spiritual heritage of a city and a country.

Translated by Amilkal Labañino / CubaSí Translation Staff