Culture

Art as propaganda

Chavez’s eyes still gaze from walls across Caracas. So too do the eyes of other figures, like Maduro and independence leader Simon Bolivar. Some images are faded. Others are accompanied by slogans like “To doubt is treason”.

Forastero has worked on government projects, including under Rodriguez. But he is critical of some of the newer images. He remembers a time when he painted murals of Chavez playing with children or riding a bicycle, not slogans.

“When Chavez was alive, people painted Chavez because we loved him very much. It’s as simple as that,” he said.

In recent decades, he argues that Venezuela’s public art has fallen increasingly under government control, with murals commissioned to carry explicitly political messages.

“Muralism is a story told on a wall,” Forastero said. “What we really see on the walls now are propaganda posters. I’m a chavista, and I’m disgusted by it.”

Still, the removal of the artwork is another form of propaganda, in Forastero’s eyes. He believes the Rodriguez government is seeking to project a more “neutral” appearance to better appeal to the US.

He also accuses Rodriguez of abandoning ideals key to the chavismo movement: namely, anti-imperialism and revolution. He pointed to the US’s role in shaping Venezuelan policy.

“The United States is forcing our government to behave this way,” Forastero said.

Rafael Araujo, a Venezuelan activist, has a different view of the changing landscape.

To him, there was something “jarring” about seeing chavista figures plastered across city walls, especially the leaders who have caused the country so much pain.

During their time in power, Chavez and Maduro both faced allegations of overseeing human rights abuses, including through the violent suppression of dissent. Venezuela’s last two presidential elections have been widely denounced as illegitimate.

Known in Caracas as Senor Papagayo, Araujo has used colourful, handmade kites to protest against government violence and economic policy.

He sees the Chavez murals as a form of oppression, an ever-visible reminder of a repressive government apparatus.

His kites are a way of sending a different message. His favourite carries aloft a single word: “Freedom”.

“Freedom is what all countries need. Democracy is the most balanced system a citizen can live under,” Araujo said.

California is poised to be the first state in the nation to allow people to identify their Jewish heritage on state forms, sparking debate within the community about identity and the merits of being singled out.

Some Jews believe the move would help people understand the community better, particularly on issues such as health and hate crimes. But some are wary about providing too much information given the history of government-sanctioned persecutions against Jewish people.

The state recognizes nearly 50 racial and ethnic identities for data collection, but it considers Jewish identity only as a religion, not an ethnicity.

Senate Bill 1387, which lawmakers passed Aug. 31, seeks to require state agencies to include a box for Jewish ethnicity on all demographic data forms, ranging from public assistance programs to college applications.

The goal is to improve the accuracy of state data to better understand the needs of Jewish communities, according to the bill’s author, state Sen. Henry Stern (D-Los Angeles). The bill, which received broad support in the Assembly and Senate, will head to Gov. Gavin Newsom’s desk in the coming weeks for a signature or veto.

The proposed law has gone beyond data collection within the Jewish community, prompting discussions and disagreements over whether being Jewish is religious, cultural or a blend of many things. For some, it’s evoked anxiety about the historical dangers of tracking Jews.

Stern doesn’t mind the debate. In fact, he says, it speaks to a core part of Jewish identity.

“I love that the Jewish tradition is us arguing with each other,” he said. “It is such a beautiful part of our heritage to debate these kinds of things and what it means to be Jewish, and I love making space for that.”

California has broadened the list of racial and ethnic categories people can select in recent years. Newsom last year signed a similar bill that created a category for Middle East and North African individuals separate from the “white” designation that had previously encompassed those ethnicities.

California is home to an estimated 1.2 million Jewish people, representing the second-largest Jewish population in the United States after New York. And for most American Jews, Jewish identity is not one size fits all.

“The difficulty here, I think, is that Jewishness doesn’t fit neatly into the categories Americans normally use,” said Jeffrey Kopstein, the chancellor’s professor of political science at UC Irvine. “So, of course, to non-Jews, Jews are often thought of as a religion, but Jewish identity also has historically involved ancestry, culture and peoplehood.

“Many people who are entirely secular nevertheless understand themselves and are understood by others as Jews,” he added.

A Pew Research study published in 2021 found that about 1 in 5 Jews in the United States — roughly 19% of respondents — said that being Jewish is about a combination of religion, ancestry and culture. About 22% said being Jewish is a matter of culture, while 21% said it was a matter of ancestry. About half as many — roughly 11% — said being Jewish is mainly about religion.

The study found that religion is not central to the lives of most Jews living in the United States. Still, identifying as Jewish matters greatly to them, with three-quarters of Jewish Americans saying that “being Jewish” is very important or somewhat important to them, according to Pew.

Jewish California, a Jewish advocacy group that sponsored the bill, wrote in a statement that when Jewish ethnicity is absent from data, disparities in healthcare, education and discrimination are less likely to be identified or addressed. Data collection, it says, “signals to the public how communities are understood.”

“When California recognizes Jews only as a religion, it reinforces a narrow and incomplete understanding of Jewish identity, encouraging the misconception that Jews are defined solely by belief or worship rather than by a rich and distinct culture, history, peoplehood, and shared experience. That misunderstanding leads to generalizations, creating fertile ground for bias and discrimination,” the group wrote in a statement.

But opponents argue that the bill oversimplifies Jewish identity and could potentially make people more of a target for antisemitism, which saw a nationwide surge after the start of the Israel-Hamas war on Oct. 7, 2023.

In 2025, the Anti-Defamation League tallied 6,274 incidents of antisemitism in the United States, down from 9,354 incidents the year prior. Last year’s numbers were still about five times higher than a decade ago, according to the ADL.

Cat Zavis, a rabbi at Beyt Tikkun, told the California Assembly’s Judiciary Committee in June that the bill erases the diversity of Jewish people whose families come from a variety of places including the Middle East, North Africa, South Asia and Europe.

“Jews are not a single ethnicity. Judaism is a religion,” she said. “Many Middle Eastern and North African Jews have spent years working to have their distinct histories recognized. Their stories are not the same as those of Ashkenazi Jews. They have different experiences of displacement, discrimination, privilege and identity. By collapsing all Jews into a single ethnic category, this bill makes those communities invisible.”

Stern says people will still be able to check multiple racial and ethnic identification boxes on forms to encompass all the ways they identify.

Groups have also raised concerns about the government maintaining records on Jews, which is reminiscent for some of the trauma of the Holocaust. In the 1930s, the Nazi government used a variety of forms of public data including tax returns and census records to help identify Jews who would be rounded up and sent to concentration camps where millions were killed.

“History offers a clear warning: when Jewish identity is officially distinguished from that of all other ethnic groups, the results have too often been catastrophic,” the Bay Area chapter of Jewish Voice for Peace, an advocacy organization that bills itself as the largest Jewish group supporting Palestine, wrote in a statement.

Supporters of the bill say identifying as Jewish under the law is strictly voluntary. For Stern, the root of the bill is empowerment.

As a kid growing up in Los Angeles, Stern wasn’t as religious as he is now, but he was still singled out for being Jewish. Other students drew swastikas on his backpack. Antisemitic cartoons appeared in his school newspaper.

“Some stuff happened where I went from being a normal kid blending in to suddenly realizing I had an identity and it was one that was sort of defined by being called out for it,” he said. “Back then, there were no forms on campus, or applying for college, that had an opportunity for me to identify as Jewish, even though I was being identified by other people that way.”

He hopes the proposed law will give people the chance to own their Jewish identity on their terms.

“Maybe this is one place where people who are excellent at disagreeing with each other can all kind of agree that there ought to be a space for us,” he said.

Long gone are the days of Mexican Americans’ alienation from Mexico — at least, if the Mexican government can help it.

On Sunday, hundreds of spectators gathered inside the Orpheum Theatre in downtown Los Angeles to watch the United States semifinals for “México Canta,” a binational music competition for rising artists from the U.S. and Mexico, organized by the latter’s Ministry of Culture.

Seven participants of Mexican descent from across the U.S. braved the stage with original songs, in what can only be described as a heartfelt singing contest, without the scorn of nitpicky judges or behind-the-scenes melodrama, but rather a zealous crowd made up of all age groups.

Voting was handed over to the public, as the segment broadcast live on public television across the United States and Mexico. Over 300,000 individuals tuned in to cast a vote to advance the top three contestants: Tiffany Galaviz, Joshua Soto and Rosalba Valdez. They will go on to compete in the grand finale of México Canta on Sept. 13 at the Auditorio Nacional in Mexico City for a chance at a record deal.

“There’s always that saying that if you’re Mexican American, you’re not Mexican enough, but I think that’s wrong,” said 18-year-old Soto, a Bronx native whose musical theater background and deep R&B groove gave depth to the bilingual country-corrido “Terco Callejero.”

“Ever since I was little, my parents always showed me my culture, my roots. It’s in my blood. It’s in the traditions that I follow and the music that I listen to every day,” added Soto, who is enrolled in New York University’s vocal performance program in music theater.

For 27-year-old semifinalist Valdez — a Chicagoan whose signature red hair and bedazzled fringe fit distinguished her onstage, as she sang her merengue-infused tune “Por Bonita” — being Mexican American is both a huge privilege and responsibility.

“When I was younger, I used to think the opposite, because of what our community went through,” said Valdez. “Now I see it as a superpower. [Being Mexican American is] something that I want more people to understand has power. We can create a lot of change when we realize the power that we have.”

Over 300,000 individuals tuned in live to cast a vote for the top three contestants: Joshua Soto, Tiffany Galaviz and Rosalba Valdez

(Ronaldo Bolanos / Los Angeles Times)

Speaking to The Times, Mexico Secretary of Culture Claudia Curiel de Icaza, stressed the importance of binational programming — adding that she believed that the singing contest can unite young people across the U.S.-Mexico border.

“We cannot think that we are merely divided by territory. Culture transcends borders, music transcends borders,” she said. “We are separated, but ultimately there is an extremely intimate and rich cultural development because culture has been the space of resistance, of resilience.”

As host and singer, Majo Aguilar — granddaughter of Mexican film and music legends Antonio Aguilar and Flor Silvestre — ushered vocalists on and off the stage. Large screens lit up with educational stories of the legacy of Mexican nationals, such as Pedro J. González, one of the first Spanish radio broadcasters in the U.S.

The show also paid homage to American-born individuals who have elevated Mexican music: including Texas-born Gloria Ríos, who helped pioneer rock ’n’ roll in Mexico in 1956 and Arizona-born Linda Ronstadt, whose 1987 album “Canciones de Mi Padre” became the bestselling non-English language record in U.S. history.

This year, the contest placed an emphasis on música mexicana. According to Spotify, global streams of the genre have grown by 295% since 2021; in the U.S. alone, its popularity has grown by 162% since 2021.

In large part, its popularity has been driven by corrido tumbados, or songs which blend traditional Mexican folk with trap, often underscoring street life, “the hustle” and the riches that can follow.

Its most prominent acts include Junior H, Fuerza Regida and Peso Pluma. These were the biggest streaming Latin musicians in the U.S. in 2024, just below reggaeton superstar Bad Bunny — yet none of these popular música mexicana artists were recognized during the competition.

“Mexican music is among the most consumed worldwide and it’s a matter of choosing a genre where young people feel identified and music that transcends borders,” said Curiel de Icaza. “And no, we are not censoring it.”

México Canta began in 2025 as state-sponsored programming to promote musical narratives beyond themes of violence and drug-trafficking.

Besides banning the use of artificial intelligence and other audio alterations, the contest did not permit “songs that glorify violence or drug use.” Failure to comply with the rules would result in disqualification for contestants.

“More than banning, it’s about educating, guiding, and getting young people to stop listening to that music,” President Claudia Sheinbaum said in a news conference last year when the program was first introduced.

President of Mexico Claudia Sheinbaum speaks during the daily morning briefing at Palacio Nacional on Aug. 6, 2025, in Mexico City.

(Manuel Velasquez / Getty Images)

The singing competition comes at a time when 10 out of 32 Mexican states have implemented bans or limitations on corridos in public spaces; namely narcocorridos, or ballads that recount or glamorize elements of drug culture or organized crime.

Some lawmakers assert that the lyrics in these songs promote violence, including Mexico City lawmakers who, in May, passed a law barring the songs from being played at public events.

“The bans, which come amid President Trump’s hyper-focus on drug trafficking in Mexico, have sparked debates here about freedom of expression and state censorship and have raised provocative questions: Do narcocorridos merely reflect reality in a nation gripped by powerful drug gangs? Or do they somehow shape it?” wrote Times correspondent Kate Linthicum in a May 2025 article.

In May, the second edition of México Canta was announced during Sheinbaum’s daily news conference, generating online buzz when famed corrido tumbado singer Junior H vocalized support for the contest — while also lamenting his past musical choices.

“In my initial [career], some of the stories that I shared in my music didn’t add to the positive message that reflect my current compositions,” said Junior H, whose real name is Antonio Herrera Pérez, in the news conference. “I kept growing and I learned that music, besides being a form of expression, also implies a responsibility when millions of people hear you worldwide.”

The 25-year-old rose to fame through popular narcocorridos such as 2023’s “El Azul,” which is believed to be about Sinaloan drug lord Juan Jose Esparragoza Moreno; as well as his 2022 banda-fused track, “El Hijo Mayor,” which some speculate to be about the son of Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán.

“When you grow up, you have a career path and you see that you have an impact on young people, you start to mature and evolve your career,” Curiel de Icaza said of Junior H. “And you realize you want to go in a different direction, that’s when he understood and decided that it was better to focus on something else.”

During the news conference, Sheinbaum denounced the idea that the music contest was a form of censorship. Curiel de Icaza also refuted those claims: “We’re not prohibiting anything. Music will continue to exist, different voices exist and we’re not prohibiting or censoring songs.”

To help amplify the values of México Canta, organizers enlisted the help of Los Tigres del Norte, one of the most successful regional Mexican acts in the U.S. The night before the semifinals in L.A., Los Tigres performed with Gustavo Dudamel at the Hollywood Bowl.

The band closed Sunday’s competition with a performance of “México Sigue De Pie,” a new song that underscores the grit of the Mexican community. “They’re legendary,” Curiel de Icaza said of the band.

Coincidentally, the esteemed guests were early pioneers of narcocorridos: including their 1974 song “Contrabando y Traición,” which details a fictional drug trade tale of Emilio Varela and Camelia la Texana, as well as their 1978 track “La Banda del Carro Rojo,” which describes cocaine trafficking across the state lines.

But over the last decade, the band, too, has been advised by concert organizers in Mexico to avoid playing these types of songs when performing in certain venues, leading them to voice concern over the criticism of corridos — which they argue provide listeners with details over real-life truths, in the same way journalists engage in storytelling.

“We’re narrators of people’s lives,” bandleader Jorge Hernández told El País last year.

Famous for its walls bearing scribbles and sketches left behind by patrons for over 60 years, El Batey, a bar in Old San Juan, is a Puerto Rican institution serving locals and tourists alike.

It was inside this famed establishment that filmmakers Lorraine Jones Molina and Cristian Carretero first met one night back in 2008. Since then, the two have joined forces in both life and art; they are a married couple, as well as parents and close collaborators on film projects.

Their first feature, “Esta Isla,” which is now available on VOD, made history as the first Puerto Rican film to win at the Independent Spirit Awards in February, taking home the John Cassavetes Award honoring a production made for under $1 million. At the 2025 Tribeca Film Festival, it received three prizes, including best new narrative director.

A politically charged, coming-of-age road-trip movie, “Esta Isla” follows Bebo (Zion Ortiz), a young man from the “caserios,” or projects, and Lola (Fabiola Victoria Brown), a well-off girl unhappy in her bubble of privilege. Violence forces Bebo to run away to the mountains. Lola tags along and together they come across a series of people who expand their worldview.

There’s a grounded, earthy lyricism to the images captured in “Esta Isla” that show a Puerto Rico that’s at once lush and entrancing but also undiscovered and unseen in cinema.

Fabiola Brown, pictured above, plays “Lola” in the new Puerto Rican film “Esta Isla.”

(Experimento Ludico)

Key to their professional success thus far, the filmmakers believe, is their loving personal bond. “We’re always together and talking about ideas. When we were working on ‘Esta Isla,’ it helped a lot to really dig deep and have long conversations about certain details and topics,” Carretero says during a recent video call. “We do mostly everything ourselves, just me and Lorrie. Sometimes I do camera, Lorrie does sound. We keep it pretty small.”

In 2010, Carretero and Jones Molina founded the production company called Experimento Lúdico in the western town of Mayagüez with the intent of decentralizing production on the island. Most opportunities for filmmaking are still based in the San Juan metropolitan area.

“I’m from Arecibo, from the north, and Cristian is from here, from Mayagüez. That’s part of who we are, and we want to tell these stories from here. It’s part of resisting. It feels like somebody has to do this,” Jones Molina says with a laugh, while sitting next to Carretero.

Lorraine Jones Molina and Cristian Carretero are the filmmakers behind the Puerto Rican road trip movie “Esta Isla.”

(Experimento Ludico)

When Carretero and Jones Molina first met, it was the documentary scene that sustained Puerto Rican cinema because those stories could be told with fewer resources. Karen Rossi’s 2007 environmentalist doc “Isla Chatarra,” for example, inspired Jones Molina.

She and Carretero later directed the 2016 medium-length doc “Seeds, Chronicles of the Earth,” about GMO experimentation on the island.

Most of the fiction production on the island then pertained to Hollywood films, such as “Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides” (2011). In the 2010s, however, a string of fiction films, including Ari Maniel Cruz’s “Under My Nails” (2012) and “Before a Rooster Crows” (2016) and Ángel Manuel Soto’s “La Granja” (2015), pushed local storytelling forward.

And while those movies, just like “Esta Isla,” don’t address the socioeconomic issues facing Puerto Ricans didactically, their mere existence is in itself a statement. “Making Puerto Rican films in Puerto Rico is political,” says Jones Molina. “Talking about who we are, our identity, our culture, our history and saying that we are here and we exist is political.”

Residents in San Juan are currently experiencing a water crisis, and while the scarcity hasn’t directly affected Jones Molina and Carretero in Mayagüez, this problem is not new and has only turned more urgent in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria.

That’s why they deliberately wrote a scene in “Esta Isla” showing people getting water from a water truck.

“It’s crazy that we filmed that a couple of years ago to talk about that issue, and it’s just gotten worse,” says Carretero. “Now we have a drought, and you have to have water rationing. It’s something that is reflective of a bigger problem in the island: the neglect of the most important needs of the citizens.”

Puerto Rico’s status as a colony of the U.S., where the interests of corporations supersede the well-being of the local population, is the source of many of its challenges. And for a long time, even referring to Puerto Rico as a colony was taboo. A history of persecution on behalf of the U.S. government ingrained fear in Puerto Ricans.

“The FBI would keep ‘carpetas,’ or files with information on regular people, who were suspected of organizing or fighting for independence,” Carretero says. “People were being surveilled by the FBI, and they’d pay family members or people they knew to survey them.”

“Esta Isla” touches on the troubled relationship between Puerto Rico and the U.S. via Lola’s deceased father, who is a stand-in for Filiberto Ojeda Ríos, a Puerto Rican revolutionary and leader of the pro-independence militant group Los Macheteros. After years on the run, the FBI assassinated him in 2005. In the film, the character Cora (Teofilo Torres) lives in the mountains and works the land. The location used for his house carries great significance.

“The inside shots, with the bullet holes, and the windows, and the books, all of that is from Filiberto’s actual house where he was assassinated,” says Jones Molina. “When you go there, you see all those bullet holes; it’s heavy.”

To that, Carretero adds: “There’s an inferiority complex that the colony perpetuates, which has to do with not knowing where you come from. Once you know all these names and all the stories of women and men who’ve worked for the good of Puerto Rican people, here and in the States, it opens up this whole other space for inspiration that’s from our ancestors”

Carretero and Jones Molina found the core concept for “Esta Isla” on the first page of Octavio Paz’s seminal novel “The Labyrinth of Solitude,” where the Mexican author discusses adolescence as a moment in a person’s life where they open up to the world, while at the same time noting that societies themselves also go through a coming-of-age.

Zion Ortiz, pictured above, plays “Bebo” in the new Puerto Rican film “Esta Isla.”

(Experimento Ludico)

“Puerto Rico is still an evolving organism. It’s a country, a people and a culture still evolving,” Carretero explains. “We’re still trying to understand who we are and where we’re going. Are we a country? Are we not? Are we part of the U.S., or not? Are we Americanos, or somos latinoamericanos? Tantas preguntas that are still unresolved.”

Jones Molina continues: “There’s this idea that you have to just be grateful that you’re a part of the United States and don’t complain. But when you question that, and when you want to really look at why you love and care about your country and your culture and want to educate yourself, then you’re definitely going through this kind of coming-of-age.”

For this filmmaking couple, reaching maturity as artists forged in the complex context of a modern colony hinges on acknowledging their limitations and still persevering.

“We also wanted to show that you can make films with very little; you don’t have to wait for the perfect moment or all the different resources. That’s what we call tropical realism. Not only the style of the filmmaking, but it’s also the means, and how that matches your reality,” explains Carretero. “We cannot pretend to be something that we are not. We have to develop our own language, our own way of filming, our way of telling our stories.”

Venezuelan popular artist Luis Mariano Rivera was born on August 19, 1906. His music is a tribute to life and a commitment to his community’s identity and cultural sovereignty. Rivera’s works remind us that when a people sow their land and tell their stories, they become resistant to oppression and invincible against foreign domination.

A brief and affectionate profile

In the fertile and sunny lands of eastern Venezuela, specifically in the lush village of Canchunchú in Bermúdez Municipality, Sucre State, Luis Mariano Rivera was born on August 19, 1906, 120 years ago. His life was shaped by the rural realities of this area, which combined the abundance of nature with the profound inequalities of a latifundista-dominated agrarian economy.

His childhood was marked by early orphanhood and farm labor. Far from leading to resentment or resignation, this experience shaped in Rivera a loving and vital sensibility that allowed him to dismantle traditional notions of property and patriarchal-landowner hierarchy, enabling him to identify with the land, plants, and animals that surrounded him. This connection to the land enriched his imagination, and his extended family ultimately came to encompass the entire territory.

Rivera’s creative work blossomed after he turned 48. A self-taught musician, poet, and playwright, he composed his first verses using the Venezuelan four-stringed cuatro guitar as his primary instrument. His artistic output became an act of defiance that placed elements dismissed by the dominant culture at the center of Venezuelan poetry: local biodiversity, manual labor, trees, fruits, and wildlife.

Through his popular theater plays and musical compositions, Rivera portrayed a cosmogony in which nature is not merely a resource to be exploited, but a subject with rights to be loved and respected.

Although he never joined any political party nor sought public office, his approach to life and art constitutes a profound political statement. In a Caribbean and Venezuelan context where the neocolonial oil rentier model displaced agricultural production and fueled the exodus from the countryside to the city, Rivera’s insistence on staying in Canchunchú and singing about rural life was a clear act of resistance.

His politics were rooted in pacifism, fraternity, and love for the land. In the face of the metastasizing commodification of life, he prioritized the ethics of care, respect for natural cycles, and community solidarity. Various artists of national and international renown, including Alí Primera, Lilia Vera, Cecilia Todd, Soledad Bravo, Gualberto Ibarreto, and Morella Muñoz, performed his songs, transforming his local message into a banner of continental identity. Alí Primera, in particular, saw Rivera as a beacon of popular dignity, celebrating his ability to transform everyday rural life into revolutionary and loving poetry.

Luis Mariano Rivera passed away on March 15, 2002, in Carúpano, Sucre State, at the age of 95, after nearly a century devoted to cultivating the poetry of life, simplicity, and affection. His legacy is recognized as a symbol of the musical identity that flows directly from the harmonious relationship with the land and the wisdom of the people.

Sound, memory, and collective identity

In many of the ancestral cultures of Abya Yala, sound is part of the creation myth of the women and men who originally inhabited these territories. For all of humanity, sounds have played an important role in the formation of identities. Languages and music stem from this very relationship and our need to connect, to name ourselves, and to determine our own destinies.

Every landscape has its own sonority. In other words, a set of sounds that form its geohistory. This includes our ways of speaking and our music, but also the sounds of the wind, the rain, the sea, the river, birds, insects. In short, all the sounds of life expressing itself, as well as the sounds of human inventions that are now part of our daily lives.

Within this spectrum, there are human beings who manage to connect the sounds of past, present, and future memories to bequeath a sonic identity that transcends the purely artistic realm, becoming the very landscape narrated in their poetry. Luis Mariano Rivera is an example of this transcendental audacity to place oneself beyond time with a unique music.

At the age of 48, driven by the desire to express himself without relying on others to write his letters and thoughts, he taught himself to read and write. Already in his mature years, he began composing verses, parrandas, merengues, and eastern joropos through which he paid tribute to the flora, fauna, and everyday life of his village.

Rivera’s remarkable sensitivity stems from his direct observation of the countryside. His lyrics preserve idioms, sayings, and oral expressions from eastern Venezuela that would otherwise have been lost. Long before the rise of globalized environmental movements, his songs already championed the balance between humans, wildlife, and flora from a local, community-based, and decolonizing perspective. Rivera’s legacy transcends mere musical composition; he represents a defense of communal life and a living example of how it is possible to reclaim one’s own history to create sounds that cement collective identity.

For him, Canchunchú was not merely a geographical reference point, but the center of the world. By singing about his village and embracing rural daily life as a symbol of belonging with a claim to universality, he created an affective geohistory that recognized the dignity of life as equivalent to that of the cherry, the guácara [snail], and the mango. He showed to his community that their own reality is worthy of being celebrated and sung about. As such, his work did not stem from ego. It was born out of the village’s celebrations and gatherings, and like collective knowledge, it has no other purpose than enjoyment and the strengthening of collective unity.

Singing honestly about one’s own village, honoring the vernacular of one’s community without resorting to artificial language, taught us a sense of pride in our ways of feeling, understanding, and reasoning. 

Rivera’s music, paraphrasing Alí Primera, grounds us in our own land, with the profound simplicity of one who surrenders to the magnitude of the surrounding beauty. His deep connection to his native Canchunchú never served as chauvinistic isolation or picturesque folklorism. Rather, it was a gateway to the human condition prior to the violent irruption of Western capitalist modernity, with its imposition of individuality, the commodification of nature, and linear progress, at the expense of communal memory. Rivera’s work operates in the opposite direction: it reconnects with an organic body of knowledge that does not require academia to be legitimate, because it is engraved in the lived collective experience.

It is no secret to anyone that traditional community music, as well as rural poetry, serves as a means of transmitting memory. It is not mere entertainment. Rhythmic patterns, melodic turns, and poetic meter interact with the biological, agricultural, and communal cycles that humankind has cultivated for millennia.

Rivera did not theorize about nature: he embodied it. His philosophy sprang from working the land, from sweat, and from the sounds of the countryside. It is the knowledge transmitted through the body and emotion, that “communal way of life” that predates modernity and remains a reservoir from which to conceive alternatives to capitalism, fascism, imperialism, and Zionism.

True universality does not consist in erasing differences under a single mold with domineering hegemonic pretensions, but rather in reaching our very roots. When we reaffirm the dignity of our communities, we validate the “peripheries” as the center of our own worldviews without the need for external recognition.

Rivera demonstrates that the periphery is a center in and of itself by stripping away the pretensions of colonial modernity. His music taps into the common core of humanity: the wonder of being alive, communal solidarity, and respect for the sacred meaning of life. And this is not a nostalgic gaze toward the past, but rather a reservoir of meaning and hope for the present. It reminds us that beneath the veneer of modernity, the human species remains hardwired to come together, celebrate, and sustain communities.

Finally, Rivera’s production is above all an expression of love. Love toward the full life experience. But when a poet sings about love, it is usually limited to romantic love, or heartbreak in the absence of corresponding feelings. Nevertheless, Rivera did count on a “spiritual companion,” to use his own words: Maximina Marsella, known as La Negra Marsella and whom he affectionately called “la negra,” in what is a very common expression in Venezuela. She was presented as the only woman capable of understanding his silences and his late passion for words. He dedicated many love verses to her, expressing how they shared feelings and devotion for the small things in life and the land.

Writing our own history and cultural sovereignty

The act by which a dispossessed individual reclaims control over the written word is, in essence, an act of sociopolitical liberation. For Luis Mariano Rivera, the decision to learn to read and write on his own as an adult was not merely a matter of functional education or an attempt to conform to bourgeois standards. It represented taking control of his own narrative and a fundamental reaffirmation of his personal and communal sovereignty. In a system dominated by the colonialism of knowledge, where official writing has historically functioned as a mechanism of subordination and administrative control, mastering the alphabet from the campesino perspective means dismantling the monopoly on truth. Rivera lucidly understood that mastering the written code granted him the historical ability to cease being a passive subject, an object of study in folklorism, and become the chronicler and philosopher of his own time. He ceased to be narrated by others and assumed authorship of his territorial memory.

This literacy and poetic endeavor took place against a profoundly adverse historical backdrop. Throughout the twentieth century, Venezuela underwent a traumatic transformation driven by the emergence of the neocolonial oil enclave. Urban modernization advanced aggressively through its ideological and economic strategy of marginalizing the countryside, dismantling traditional community structures, and promoting rural depopulation in favor of slums in the major cities.

The extraction of hydrocarbons by transnational corporations tied to the geopolitical interests of US and European imperialism came alongside an overwhelming wave of cultural propaganda. This ideological penetration sought to impose the American consumerist lifestyle, eroding peasant identity and dismissing local agriculture as synonymous with backwardness and savagery. Venezuela, which was barely emerging from the devastating aftermath of the war of independence and successive nineteenth-century insurrections, revolutions, and civil wars stoked by local elites and foreign capital, saw its food sovereignty and historical memory shaken.

Amid this landscape of alienation, where the country was rapidly transforming into a consumerist, import-dependent enclave, Rivera’s insistence on remaining in his Canchunchú valley and singing about the communal way of life was not a nostalgic or folkloric retreat, but rather a deeply political and assertive affirmation of cultural re-existence.

He sang with such transparent and loving clarity that his powerful message took root in the national collective imagination, ethically reframing the traditions, sufferings, joys, and experiences of campesinos in eastern Venezuela. Against the aesthetics of waste and the logic of neocolonial dispossession, he countered with the ethics of care and the sacredness of everyday life. His compositions served as a mechanism for preserving historical memory: he warned against the collective amnesia regarding the communal way of life driven by the discourse of developmental modernity; he championed food sovereignty in the face of dependence on the globalizing market; he dignified rural labor in the face of urban prejudice, revealing the profound ecological philosophy inherent in popular knowledge. But, moreover, his profound poetic work demonstrates that true national sovereignty is more than just the defense of natural resources or borders. It requires the preservation of the collective soul, the dignity of the living word, and the self-determination of the people’s power.

Luis Mariano Rivera’s life journey teaches us that decolonization is not achieved solely through theoretical confrontation or bellicose rhetoric, but above all through an organic connection to the land and the community. By recognizing himself through his own voice, he prevented imperialist corporations and the oil industry’s maelstrom from erasing the humanity of his surroundings. His music endures as an indestructible testament to cultural sovereignty: living proof that a people who remember their roots, cultivate their land, and tell their own stories become resilient in the face of modern oppressions and invincible against any attempt at external domination.

Fabiola José is a Venezuelan singer. She has performed in countries across South America, Africa, Europe, and Asia. Her singles and albums are available on all digital platforms. She hosted and produced “Cantante y Sonante” for Radio Nacional de Venezuela. In 2018–2019, she created a series of videos for social media, published on her YouTube channel #HechoEnCasa. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Music from IUDEM, Caracas (2005); specialized under Maestro Tom Krause in Spain (2007); and an M.A. in Arts and Cultures of the South from UNEARTE, Venezuela (2020).

Fidel Barbarito is a Venezuelan musician and researcher, with a bachelor’s and master’s degrees in music and history, respectively. He teaches in the undergraduate and graduate programs at the National Experimental University of the Arts (UNEARTE). Together with Fabiola José, he promotes several musical projects aimed at disseminating traditional repertoires, integrating them with contemporary compositions inspired by these sounds. Joropo llanero. Parranda de reexistencia is one of his published essays.

The views expressed in this article are the authors’ own and do not necessarily reflect those of the Venezuelanalysis editorial staff.

Celebrated artist Sliman Mansour, one of the founding figures of contemporary Palestinian art, has died at the age of 79 after a long illness, his family announced on Monday.

Born in Birzeit, near Ramallah, in 1947, Mansour rose to prominence in the 1970s as part of a generation of Palestinian artists, writers and poets seeking to rebuild a threatened identity through symbols rooted in land and memory. Over more than five decades, his paintings came to embody the story of Palestine: the farmer clinging to his soil, the stone house on a hill, the embroidered thobe and the smile of a young girl carrying the hope of return.

Mansour studied art in Beirut and Washington and went on to exhibit extensively, both in solo shows and group exhibitions across the Arab world and internationally. His works are held in museums and private collections worldwide, and he received numerous awards in recognition of his contribution to Arab and Palestinian culture.

His visual language drew deeply from the region’s ancient civilisations – Canaanite, Pharaonic and Assyrian – as well as Islamic and Arab art, particularly calligraphy and geometric motifs. At the same time, his upbringing in Birzeit anchored his work in the everyday life of Palestinian villages: the landscape, peasants, traditional homes and clothing. Mansour also absorbed influences from global art that carried messages of freedom and resistance, blending local forms with a universal appeal.

During the first Intifada, he helped found the New Vision group with fellow artists, turning to mud, straw, wood, leather, henna and natural dyes after Palestinian artists boycotted Israeli-made supplies. This shift, he later said, forged a vital link between post-Nakba art and the work of younger generations.

For many Palestinians, Mansour’s canvases were more than images; they were a visual archive of the cause itself. His brush, critics and admirers agree, carried the homeland.

Al Jazeera looks at some of his famous paintings.

Ahmed Krim spent 30 years teaching English in Algeria’s middle schools. Now retired, the 60-year-old watched the language he loved remain firmly behind French as the country’s second language.

English was less valued than French, which might have been the language of Algeria’s coloniser, but continues to be present in every dialogue, six decades after independence.

On July 25 , Algeria’s Education Minister, Mohamed Seghir Saadaoui, announced that English will become the sole foreign language taught in the third year of primary school in the new academic year for 2026-2027.

French would be pushed back to the fourth year, ending its domination of foreign language classes in Algerian schools.

From next month, eight-year-olds across Algeria will become the first to learn English before French.

“It is a very good decision. But it requires thinking, planning and resources,” Krim told Al Jazeera.

It is among the first steps in President Abdelmadjid Tebboune’s linguistic overhaul for Algeria, which he first outlined in 2022 with English being introduced to primary schools.

Since then, medicine and science faculties have begun switching from French to English.

The French language has been erased from some utility bills and Air Algerie tickets. Road signs are beginning to feature English alongside Arabic, while government ministers’ websites will also have English as an option.

The shift from French to English as Algeria’s secondary language is both sweeping and structural.

It comes amid the most serious diplomatic crisis between the two countries since Algeria’s independence from France in 1962.

In July 2024, French President Emmanuel Macron publicly backed Morocco’s sovereignty claim over Western Sahara.

Algeria, which supports the Sahrawi Polisario Front and hosts over 170,000 Sahrawi refugees, viewed that as highly provocative.

That, and other issues, saw Algeria expel French diplomats, and vice versa.

Algeria’s replacement of French as the country’s second language accelerated after the diplomatic crisis grew.

A classroom without enough teachers

A rethink of the whole education system in Algeria may be needed.

“First and foremost, specialised training centres must be restored and candidates must not be forced into the teaching profession without wanting it – we need people who genuinely want to do this work,” Krim said.

He refers to dedicated institutes established after independence, where primary and middle school teachers, like himself, trained via a model that combined classroom instruction with direct school placements to meet the gap in Arabic instructors.

The centres operated until the late 1990s, when an economic crunch replaced them with the fewer and more selective Ecoles Normales Superieures.

Most teachers today are university graduates, but lack the practical, classroom-first grounding that the older model provided.

Krim said that school curricula must be designed and entrusted to “a qualified body that includes both linguistic and pedagogical expertise, free from all ideology”.

But journalist and analyst Noureddine Bessadi said the ideological dimension matters in Algeria, which overthrew colonialism following a bloody and bitter struggle against the French.

“Since independence in 1962, every shift in language policy has been fought as much on political as pedagogical grounds,” Bessadi told Al Jazeera.

After independence, Algeria’s Arabisation drive, when French was displaced from government and education, was “part of state building and enforcing Algeria’s identity, centring Arabic and Islam”, Bessadi added.

Tamazight, a non-Semitic language spoken by around a quarter of Algeria’s population, was marginalised until 1995, Bessadi said, shaped by an “ideological perception of unity that prioritised linguistic and cultural harmony”.

Critics argue that the transition from French to English is happening faster than the system can keep up with. For one, it is believed that there are not enough qualified English teachers to make the language reforms work.

But one source familiar with the matter told Al Jazeera that there are enough teachers to roll out this programme in primary schools and that any shortage could be filled through contractors.

In February, Algeria’s education ministry reportedly recruited about 15,000 English language teachers for primary schools.

Rafik Laceb, a lecturer in English at Mouloud Mammeri University in Tizi Ouzou, is cautiously optimistic about the primary school reform. But he considers the parallel push to teach university subjects in English to be rushed and poorly executed.

“Frankly, and beyond any chauvinism, I believe this decision is positive… I believe there is, today, sufficient supervision and evaluation work from the first experience,” Laceb said, in reference to the previous introduction of English in later primary school years.

The university experiment that began in 2023-2024 produced insufficient contact hours, a lack of genuine assessment of students’ English levels and no tracking of their progress.

Around 50 percent of teaching at Tizi Ouzou University’s English department is by younger contract staff, which brings other challenges.

“A young contract teacher must first master the basic principles of medicine before attempting to teach medical terminology in English,” he said.

Levelling the playing field

Currently, children only begin learning a foreign language in the third year of state primary schools, whereas multiple languages are taught at private schools from kindergarten.

Djamel Merah, whose daughter attended private schools before transferring to public secondary school, studied Arabic, French and English simultaneously from kindergarten level.

Merah welcomes the government’s language reforms at state primary schools, which will provide more children with the opportunity to learn English.

“It addresses a question about the gap in opportunities between children who get multilingual education from the start and those in public schools who don’t get the same chance,” he said.

Shakespeare’s rising shelf space

There also appears to be a more organic response among the public that precedes the government’s promotion of the English language.

Krimo Taleb, a bookseller at the Libre Pensee bookshop in Tizi Ouzou, has seen a growth in English-language book sales, particularly among female readers.

“In my opinion, it has nothing to do with government decisions. The majority of young readers today speak three languages fluently,” he said.

His own daughter, a middle school student, reads fluently in Arabic, English and French.

Colleen Hoover, Ana Huang and J. K. Rowling are some of the best-selling authors at his shop.

“Previously, our bookshops provided for English literature students the works of Shakespeare,” Taleb says. “Today, there is a diverse range of English-language titles aimed at the general public.”

However, French remains Algeria’s most influential foreign language. According to the International Organisation of La Francophonie (OIF), Algeria has approximately 15 million French speakers, nearly a third of its population.

There is not a single newspaper published in English and written English by Algerians remains in its infancy.

But there are signs that former colonies are turning their backs on France’s linguistic legacy, particularly in Africa, where Paris’s military and political presence made a resurgence in recent decades.

In March 2025, Mali, Niger, and Burkina Faso withdrew from the OIF, accusing it of being a political instrument of Paris.

“Mali made its national languages official in 2023, demoting French to a working language. Burkina Faso followed the same year and Niger in 2025,” Bessadi added. “Even Senegal, which has not removed French as an official language, has begun encouraging local languages at its expense.”

For Krim, Algeria’s linguistic ambitions are not far-fetched, but for it to work, the country needs the “necessary resources… and transparency”.

AVROTROS says escalating international conflicts are undermining the event’s neutrality and fuelling divisions.

The public broadcaster in the Netherlands has announced it will not participate in next year’s Eurovision Song Contest because the event can “no longer be considered neutral” due to ongoing divisions over the war in Gaza.

“It is undeniable that international conflicts are increasingly affecting the Contest, undermining its neutral character. The Eurovision Song Contest has therefore become a platform for division,” said Taco Zimmerman, Director-General of AVROTROS, in a statement on Monday.

The widely-watched show has recently faced a series of boycotts over Israel’s participation. Organisers announced earlier this month that they would exclude any country involved in an armed conflict from hosting the competition.

“However, the recently announced changes… do not provide sufficient confidence that the independent and neutral character of the Eurovision Song Contest has been restored,” the AVROTROS statement added.

Israel finished second in the competition – the world’s largest live televised music event – in both 2025 and 2026.

Next year’s Eurovision is due to be held in Bulgaria’s Black Sea city of Burgas, after Bulgarian singer Darina Yotova, known as Dara, won this year’s contest in Vienna, Austria, with her catchy floor-filler ‘Bangaranga’. The contest on May 15 will be the first time the Balkan nation has hosted.

Since its launch in 1955, Eurovision has become the ultimate pop platform, catapulting Swedish icons ABBA to worldwide fame, while also boosting the careers of artists such as Celine Dion, Cliff Richard and Olivia Newton-John.

However, this year’s competition pulled in 131 million viewers, 35 million fewer than last year, after five countries boycotted over Israel’s participation. The Netherlands, Iceland, Spain, Ireland, and Slovenia all pulled out, with the latter three refusing to broadcast the show at all.

As Messina celebrated the Sicilian holiday of Ferragosto, thieves struck the MuMe museum to steal the masterworks by Antonello da Messina.

Thieves have stolen four Renaissance masterworks by Antonello da Messina valued at up to 80 million euros ($93m) from the MuMe Regional Interdisciplinary Museum in the Sicilian city of Messina in Italy.

Cultural officials and Italian media reported the theft on Sunday, saying the heist occurred at about 9:50pm (19:50 GMT) the day before, during Sicily’s major Ferragosto holiday.

Italian news outlet Il Giornale dell’Arte said that the perpetrators had exploited the citywide distraction of the traditional Vara procession, which drew police and large crowds to central Messina.

Italian daily Corriere della Sera reported that the thieves cut through metal perimeter fencing along Viale Annunziata to gain access to the grounds. They then forced open a side door to enter the gallery halls. Once inside, the group breached an armoured glass display case to extract a small, double-sided tempera panel dating back to 1465-1474.

The portable devotional piece features the Virgin and Child with a Franciscan Monk on its front and Christ in Pieta on its reverse. Originally part of the Wilhelm Soldan collection from 1930, it was acquired by the Sicilian region at a Christie’s auction in 2003 following its formal attribution to Antonello.

The perpetrators also dismantled all five remaining tempera-on-wood panels of the historic San Gregorio Polyptych. Commissioned in 1473 by Abbess Fabria Cirino for the monastery of Santa Maria, which was subsequently destroyed in Messina’s 1908 earthquake, the altarpiece stands as the only surviving masterpiece by Antonello that remained in his hometown. The thieves made off with three key sections of the piece.

Italian outlet Repubblica reported that the thieves abandoned the remaining two panels depicting Saint Benedict and Saint Gregory resting against a wall near the museum grounds.

‘A real movie-style heist like at the Louvre’

“We are devastated by what happened. They were two of Antonello da Messina’s most important and best-known works,” museum director Marisa Mercurio told Italian news agency ANSA.

Local Culture Councillor Enzo Caruso told outlet Il Tirreno: “Nobody in Messina could have imagined a real movie-style heist like at the Louvre.”

Caruso said that international interest in Antonello’s oeuvre had expanded after Italy’s Culture Ministry purchased his Ecce Homo painting for $14.9m earlier in the year.

Lynda Albertson, CEO of the ARCA art crimes research association, told La Repubblica that “stealing an Antonello may be far easier than selling one” given the high visibility and historic footprint of the stolen panels.

She explained that high-profile art of this kind rarely gets sold, often spending years traded within the criminal underworld as leverage for other illegal activities.

Born in Sicily around the year 1430, Antonello da Messina stands as one of the defining masters of the early Italian Renaissance. Because few of his works survive today, his surviving paintings are considered irreplaceable cultural treasures.

The theft follows a separate case days earlier in Parma, northern Italy, where police recovered three stolen works by Renoir, Cezanne and Matisse valued at roughly $11.5m.