There is nothing more frustrating, for those who cross the line between silence and speaking out, than being greeted with suspicion by others.

In Cuba, a country where the alternative blogosphere and twittersphere are both expanding, they held a meeting on Web 2.0 without inviting a single non-institutional voice.

In the long list of the words forbidden in my childhood, there were two in particular that were censored: "Christmas" and "Human Rights."

The nothingness, the apathy, the wall at the corner to sit on, forever wasting time. The hero of the film Juan of the Dead was already acting like a corpse before the zombies invaded Havana, a city in fact shrouded and dead.

When Fidel Castro visited Pyongyang in March 1986, almost a million people greeted him, among them thousands of children waving flags with suspicious synchronicity.

The suitcase keeps looking at me. "When will we travel?" I imagine its worn-out wheels asking me. And I can only answer that perhaps this Friday in a parliament -- without real power -- some decree will return to me a right I should have always enjoyed.

On this December 24th there are many who feel cheated, once again deceived. How much time does government need to erase the limitations on movement that it itself imposed on its citizens?

Last weekend Vaclav Havel died, just at the time when he was most read in Cuba. He left and we can't hear his voice in a classroom of our University, nor listen to his extensive collection of anecdotes about the years of Soviet control.

Thousands of eyes were glued to national television screens this last Friday. The social networks and text messages also vibrated nervously. A strong rumor had been growing all week, centered on the possibility of the National Assembly announcing travel reforms.