THE FIRST CUBAN RESTAURANT IN MIAMI, WITH THE SOUL OF 1960s HAVANA

THE FIRST CUBAN RESTAURANT IN MIAMI, WITH THE SOUL OF 1960s HAVANA

First in Spanish, despues en Español

I am an Australian, but a frequent visitor to both Miami and Havana, involved in both places as a Professor of Medicine and a Lecturer in Anthropology.

I left Havana in 2023, and today was the first time I truly savored the kind of Cuban cuisine I had grown used to in La Habana—a few notches higher in elegance and sophistication than most Cuban-American restaurants in Miami. I was transported back to the many dinners and long conversations in the halls of Havana, and I deeply enjoyed the nostalgia evoked by the cuisine of 1960s Cuba.

This cherished culinary tradition is kept alive at La Rosa Restaurant, founded in 1968 by people from the province of Matanzas.

I don’t think you’ll find malanga soup with such refined taste anywhere else. I had the grilled fish, and my companion enjoyed vaca frita after his salad. And how can a Cuban meal be complete without Caviar Cubano—frijoles negros, the black beans?

I closed my eyes while sipping the black bean soup and could feel the breeze from the Malecón (my apartment was near the Malecón).

The dessert took us both by surprise. I had Cuban natilla, reminiscent of crema catalana or crème brûlée—every morsel was delicious. My companion had arroz con leche, a melt-in-the-mouth kind of delight.

My stomach was satisfied, my mind coated in the warm nostalgia of my recent life in Havana, and I felt spiritually connected to the rich history of that island just south of here.

You will always be in my heart.

EL PRIMER RESTAURANTE CUBANO EN MIAMI, CON EL ALMA DE LA HABANA DE LOS AÑOS 60

Soy australiano, pero visitante frecuente tanto de Miami como de La Habana, involucrado en ambos lugares como Profesor de Medicina y Docente de Antropología.

Salí de La Habana en 2023, y hoy fue la primera vez que pude saborear realmente el tipo de cocina cubana a la que me había acostumbrado en La Habana—con un nivel de elegancia y sofisticación superior al de la mayoría de los restaurantes cubano-americanos en Miami. Me transporté a aquellas muchas cenas con largas conversaciones en los salones de La Habana, y disfruté profundamente la nostalgia que evocaba la cocina de Cuba en los años 60.

Esta querida tradición culinaria se mantiene viva en La Rosa Restaurant, fundado en 1968 por personas de la provincia de Matanzas.

No creo que se pueda encontrar una sopa de malanga con un sabor tan refinado en ningún otro lugar. Pedí el pescado a la parrilla, y mi acompañante disfrutó de una vaca frita después de su ensalada. ¿Y cómo puede estar completa una comida cubana sin el Caviar Cubano—los frijoles negros?

Cerré los ojos mientras tomaba la sopa de frijoles negros y pude sentir la brisa del Malecón (mi apartamento estaba cerca del Malecón).

El postre nos sorprendió a ambos. Pedí una natilla cubana, parecida a la crema catalana o a la crème brûlée—cada bocado fue delicioso. Mi acompañante pidió arroz con leche, un deleite que se derretía en la boca.

Mi estómago quedó satisfecho, mi mente envuelta en la cálida nostalgia de mi vida reciente en La Habana, y me sentí espiritualmente conectado con la rica historia de esa isla justo al sur de aquí.

Siempre estarás en mi corazón.

COCHIN. HARMONY AMONG THE INHABITANTS OF ALL FAITHS

Interdenominational Veneration in Fort Cochin, India

Harmony Among the Inhabitants of All Faiths

For curious reasons, Fort Cochin—a small peninsula that juts into the backwaters and faces the Arabian Sea in Kerala’s southwest—is the only city I regularly visit in India.

During my most recent visit, just a month ago, I was struck by the deep religiosity of the people I encountered. Whether they belonged to Hinduism, Christianity, or Islam—the three major religions in the region—or to smaller communities like the Jains or the handful of Jews in Jew Town, their devotion was unmistakable.

Sacred Space and Mutual Respect

What impressed me most was the reverence the people of Cochin show toward sacred spaces—not only their own, but also those of others. One cannot imagine here the burning of churches as in Pakistan, the prohibition of church-building as in Malaysia, or the desecration of Jewish cemeteries as seen in France. Such acts feel inconceivable in Cochin.

This harmony has deep historical roots. Hinduism is the native faith of Kerala, although archaeological evidence—such as dolmens near Cochin—suggests the presence of pre-Hindu, aboriginal traditions. Christianity and Islam have also had ancient footholds in the region. St. Thomas the Apostle is believed to have traveled along the Malabar Coast. The Portuguese, arriving with Vasco da Gama, were reportedly surprised to find active Christian communities already established. Arab traders brought Islam to these shores long before its violent spread elsewhere.

Notably, India may be the only country where Jews have lived for centuries without experiencing antisemitism.

Observances in Cochin and Abroad

I am writing this from Brussels, Belgium. Outside my window, I see a group of schoolgirls in hijab—an image that feels like an anomaly in this European context. Yet in Cochin, such a sight feels entirely natural.

Every morning in Cochin, you’ll see Hindu children with sandalwood paste on their foreheads, Christian children with crosses around their necks, and Muslim children in hijabs or skullcaps—all in school uniforms, walking together. It is a beautiful, ordinary sight. And it has been this way for centuries.

This harmony has been noted by Jewish, Arab, and European travelers for over a thousand years. Before the Portuguese arrived, even a thriving Chinese Buddhist community existed along the Kalvathy River. The native population of Cochin today carries the physiognomic legacy of Arab, Jewish, Portuguese, and Dutch ancestors—more so than the Dravidian features found inland.

Ritual and Spirituality

The people of Cochin are deeply religious. I was surprised to find a church service full of congregants at 7 a.m. on a weekday—a rare sight in the West. The region is dotted with mosques. The older ones are understated and blend in; the newer ones, built with funds from Saudi Arabia, feature minarets and domes that rise incongruously amid palm trees and banana plants.

As someone who works closely with Native peoples of the Americas, I find an interesting contrast. Among them, spirituality is not tied to texts, clergy, or religious buildings. It centers on connection to the natural world—trees, thunder, the moon. In Cochin, religion is expressed through devotion, ritual, and piety.

Yet there is a shared mythic consciousness. A Christian woman in Cochin once apologized to me for missing Sunday church—despite the fact that she attends church twice daily. Her sincerity reminded me of my Native American friends who describe the sacredness of a river or the blooming of a flower. In both cases, the connection to something larger than oneself—whether called “God” or “the universe”—is palpable.

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Living Monuments of Interfaith Harmony

Kappiri Muthappan: The African Spirit Guardian

Two sites in Fort Cochin exemplify the region’s interfaith amity: the shrine of Kappiri Muthappan and the tomb of Nehamia Mutta.

At both places, people from all faiths come to pray, light candles, offer flowers—and in the case of Kappiri Muthappan, even offer toddy (palm wine) or cigarettes.

“Kappiri” is derived from the Portuguese word Cafre, meaning a Black African man. Legend holds that when the Portuguese retreated, they buried some of their African slaves alive along with their treasure, hoping the spirits would guard it until their return. Kappiri is said to live in mango trees and is fond of arrack and cigars.

There are areas in Mattancherry called Kappiri Mathil—“Kappiri’s Wall”—believed to be places where the spirit rests. His shrine is simple: just a raised platform, no deity or idol. Yet it has become a revered space for people of all faiths.

Nehami Mutta: A Jewish Sage Venerated by All

A short walk from Jew Street, beyond the tourist paths, lies a quieter residential area. There stands the tomb of Rav Nehamia ben Avraham, a Yemeni Jewish scholar who migrated to Cochin and died in 1616.

The site, once part of the Black Jewish cemetery, was entrusted to a local Christian family after most Cochin Jews emigrated to Israel in the 1950s. The family keeps it clean and whitewashed, as promised.

Today, people of all backgrounds—Christians, Muslims, Hindus—visit the tomb to offer prayers. I lit Shabbat candles there, said prayers for friends scattered across the world, and felt privileged to do so.

Translation of the Tombstone
(Courtesy of the late Itzhak Hallegua of Cochin)

Here rests the Kabbalist and venerable sage,
Who emanated the light of his knowledge
And shines throughout the Jewish diaspora.
He is the perfect wise man,
A righteous soul of divine connection,
Rav and teacher—
Nehemia, son of the Rav and teacher, the wise and beloved
Abraham Muta (elder), of blessed and saintly memory.
He passed from this life on Sunday, 28th Kislev,
In the year of creation 5376 (1616 AD).

 

The fact that Kappiri was Christian and Nehamia Mutta was Jewish does not matter to the devotees. They come in search of grace, comfort, and healing—regardless of origin.

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Historic Mosques and Jewish Generosity

In her book The Mosques of Cochin, Patricia Fels documents the Kerala-style architecture of the region’s mosques. One such mosque is the Chembitta Palli, also known as the Kochangadi Juma Masjid.

My friend Mr. N told me a remarkable story about its founding: A Jewish merchant was so impressed by the wisdom of Sayyid Fakhr Bukhari, the mosque’s spiritual leader, that he donated all the timber for its construction.

Such stories are not anomalies—they are part of the cultural DNA of Cochin.

Enduring Friendship Across Faiths

Even today, in an era of rising global polarization, the interfaith bonds of Cochin remain intact. I have met young Cochin Muslims working in Salalah, Muscat, and Doha. Though exposed to the modern political discourse of the Arab world, they retain a deep respect for people of other religions—an inheritance from their homeland’s traditions.

I came across a video online titled Faces of Cochin. It features locals with a range of appearances—Dravidian, Arab, European—a testament to centuries of migration, intermarriage, and peaceful coexistence.

This, too, is Cochin: a living mosaic of faith, culture, and shared humanity.

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ASSASSINS

ASSASSINS

Have you ever wondered about the etymological origin of the word assassin?

Two key names frequently arise in historical accounts—whether you’re reading The Assassins by the distinguished historian Bernard Lewis or the beautifully crafted novel Samarkand by the erudite French-language writer Amin Maalouf. While the term is often casually linked to "hashish-eaters," any serious student of Middle Eastern history would quickly dismiss that oversimplification.

The so-called "Order of Assassins"—more accurately known as the Nizari Ismailis—was an Islamic sect. According to texts from Alamut, their stronghold in Persia, their leader Hassan-i Sabbah referred to his followers as Asāsīyūn (أساسيون), meaning "those who are faithful to the foundation [of the faith]." However, foreign travelers and chroniclers misunderstood or deliberately distorted the term, erroneously associating it with hashish.

Hassan-i Sabbah, a prominent Ismaili from Qom, is a central figure in this sect’s complex history, which falls within the broader Ismaili branch of Shia Islam. I was especially intrigued by the story of Nizam al-Mulk, the Grand Vizier of the Seljuk Empire, who tragically became one of the Assassins' most notable victims.

Conversely, I found it difficult to sympathize with Hassan-i Sabbah himself—a figure whose methods and ideology seemed to embody a darker side of his time, and perhaps even of ours.

As children, we were taught about the Ismailis in a far more benevolent light—largely due to the Aga Khan and his well-known philanthropy. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting several Ismaili merchants in Zanzibar, and those encounters only enriched my perspective.

History becomes even more captivating when a region enters your soul. In such moments, its stories don’t just inform you—they embrace you.

MY WAY OF TRAVEL. SUITS ME BUT I WONT RECOMMEND IT TO OTHERS, FIND YOUR OWN STYLE

My Way of Traveling

I’ve prioritized travel above everything else in my life — but this is not something I recommend to others. Everyone should discover their own style of exploration.

I was no more than four years old when I became determined to see the world. My major journeys didn’t begin until I was 19, but within the next five years, I had completed my first round-the-world trip (though I stopped in only a few places).

My First Round-the-World Flights

The route went: Melbourne – Sydney – Singapore – Bangkok – New Delhi – Karachi – Tehran – Tel Aviv – Athens – Rome – Copenhagen – and finally Sweden (as an exchange student).

I returned home via: Copenhagen – London – Bermuda – Nassau – Mexico City – Acapulco – Tahiti – Fiji – Sydney – Melbourne.

The flights themselves were just as thrilling as the destinations.

My approach is to choose a destination and return there repeatedly until I understand the region — its people, culture, and above all, its food.

Over time, I’ve covered many parts of the world:

The Caribbean during my student years in Miami

The South Pacific while working as a junior doctor in Melbourne

Africa while studying anthropology in London

South America while living in Jamaica and Cuba

I’m still waiting for Iran to open up to fearless travel for Westerners (no more “Death to this or that!”). Exploring that country remains a dream.

In the surrounding region, I’ve visited: Armenia, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Qatar, Oman, Saudi Arabia, and Israel (many times). Among these, I particularly enjoy Qatar, Oman, Israel, and Morocco.

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Next up: I’m looking for a charming hotel in Sultanahmet, Istanbul, for my upcoming visit…

Miami, Memory, and the Migration of Authoritarian Thinking. Miami, Memoria y la Migración del Pensamiento Autoritario

 Miami, Memoria y la Migración del Pensamiento Autoritario. First in Spanish and then in English 

Soy australiano, pero mi vínculo con Miami, Florida, comenzó durante mis estudios de medicina y continúa hasta el día de hoy.

Miami ha sido durante mucho tiempo un refugio para quienes huyen de dictaduras—y, paradójicamente, también para algunos de los propios dictadores. La ciudad alberga a casi dos millones de cubanos y sus descendientes, la mayoría de los cuales escaparon del miedo, la pobreza y la desesperanza bajo el comunismo. Fulgencio Batista, el dictador derrocado por la Revolución Cubana, tenia una casa aquí.Machado otro dictador cubano es enterrado aqui. Otros llegaron huyendo de Pinochet en Chile, Somoza en Nicaragua y, más recientemente, Bolsonaro en Brasil.

Lo que siempre me ha desconcertado es que muchos de los que huyeron de la opresión no se convirtieron en defensores de la democracia liberal o la tolerancia. En cambio, a menudo adoptan ideologías de extrema derecha—volviéndose racistas vocales, capitalistas explotadores e indiferentes al sufrimiento ajeno. En las elecciones de 2020, la mayoría de los votantes inmigrantes de Miami apoyaron a Trump, quien prometió deportaciones masivas, incluso para personas con estatus legal o infracciones menores.

Entonces me pregunté: ¿los exiliados iraníes siguen un patrón similar? Esperaba más matices políticos de un pueblo que admiro profundamente por su tradición literaria e intelectual. Sin embargo, muchos inmigrantes iraníes y sus hijos también parecen atraídos por el autoritarismo.

Un reportaje reciente de la BBC perfiló a Arpineh Masihi, de 39 años, quien llegó a EE.UU. como refugiada a los 3 años. Su tarjeta de residencia fue revocada hace 25 años por un fraude menor, y ahora enfrenta la deportación. A pesar de ello, tanto ella como su esposo siguen apoyando las duras políticas migratorias del gobierno actual—un sentimiento común entre los iraníes en Los Ángeles.

La neurociencia tal vez ofrezca una explicación: los cerebros formados en sociedades rígidas como Cuba o Irán suelen resistirse al cambio. Incluso en libertad, buscan estructura y certezas, encontrándolas en el extremismo—un patrón similar al de quienes fueron moldeados por años de adoctrinamiento ideológico.

 Yehuda kovesh: Miami, Memory, and the Migration of Authoritarian Thinking

I am an Australian, but my connection to Miami, Florida began during my medical studies and has lasted to this day.

Miami has long served as a sanctuary for people fleeing dictatorships—and, ironically, for some dictators themselves. The city is home to nearly two million Cubans and their descendants, most of whom escaped the fear, poverty, and hopelessness under communism. Fulgencio Batista, the dictator ousted by the Cuban Revolution, had a house here. Another cuban dictator Machado is buried here. Others arrived from Chile under Pinochet, Nicaragua under Somoza, and more recently, Brazil under Bolsonaro.

What has always puzzled me is this: many who fled oppression did not become champions of liberal democracy or tolerance. Instead, they often embraced far-right ideologies—becoming vocal racists, exploitative capitalists, and indifferent to the suffering of others. In the 2020 election, the majority of Miami’s immigrant population voted for Trump, who openly promised mass deportations—even for those with legal status or minor infractions.

This led me to wonder: do Iranian exiles follow a similar path? I had hoped for more political nuance from a people I admire deeply for their literary and intellectual tradition. Yet, many Iranian immigrants and their children also appear drawn toward authoritarianism.

A BBC story recently profiled Arpineh Masihi, 39, who came to the U.S. as a refugee at age 3. Her green card was revoked 25 years ago over a minor fraud charge, and she now faces deportation. Despite this, both she and her husband remain strong supporters of the current administration's harsh immigration policies—echoing sentiments common among Iranians in Los Angeles.

Neuroscience may offer an explanation: brains shaped in rigid, controlling societies like Cuba or Iran often resist adaptation. Even in freedom, they seek the structure and certainty of extremism—mirroring the cognitive patterns seen in those shaped by years of ideological indoctrination.

THINKING ABOUT OMAR QAYYAM AND HIS POETRY ON THIS HISTORIC DAY OF CONFLICT BETWEEN ISRAEL AND IRAN

Here are five select quatrains (rubāʿiyāt) of Omar Khayyam, presented in Persian (original), transliteration, English translation, and a brief philosophical commentary on the atheist or skeptical themes they express.

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1. Denial of Divine Justice and Afterlife

Persian:
گفتند بهشت با حوران خوش است
من میگویم که آب انگور خوش است
این نقد بگیر و وان نسیه بگذار
کاواز دهل شنیدن از دور خوش است

Transliteration:
Goftand: Behesht bā hūrān khosh ast
Man mī-gūyam keh āb-e angūr khosh ast
In naqd begīr o ān nasyeh bogzār
K’āvāz-e dohol shenīdan az dūr khosh ast

Translation:
They said: “Paradise is sweet, with houris fair.”
I say: “But grape juice here is better fare.”
Take this cash and let that credit go—
A drum sounds sweet—but only from afar.

Commentary:
A clear rejection of deferred religious promises. Khayyam favors what is tangible ("cash") over unverifiable afterlife rewards ("credit"), challenging both Islamic eschatology and any belief in divine reward or punishment.

 

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2. Silence of the Dead

Persian:
از آمدنِ تو نیست افزونیِ کَس
وز رفتنِ تو نیز نقصان نشود
چون آمدن و رفتنت از بهرِ فناست
سَر بِه فنا بِنِه، که آسان نشود

Transliteration:
Az āmadan-e to nīst afzūnī-e kas
Vaz raftan-e to nīz noqṣān nashavad
Chon āmadan o raftanat az bahr-e fanāst
Sar be fanā beneh keh āsān nashavad

Translation:
Your coming adds nothing to existence here,
Nor does your going diminish it, clear.
Since both your birth and death are for decay,
Accept annihilation—it won’t go away.

Commentary:
This rubāʿī denies the importance of the individual soul and subtly refutes the religious idea of an immortal essence. The poet invites the reader to embrace non-existence—a radical, almost nihilistic, stance.

 

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3. Futility of Seeking Divine Answers

Persian:
در دایره‌ای کامدن و رفتن ماست
آن را نه بدایت، نه نهایت پیداست
کس می‌نزند دمی در این معنی راست
کاین آمدن از کجا و رفتن به کجاست

Transliteration:
Dar dāyere-i kāmadan o raftan-e māst
Ān-rā na bidayat, na nihāyat peydāst
Kas mī-nazanad damī dar in ma‘nī rāst
K’in āmadan az kojā o raftan be kojāst

Translation:
We circle in a ring of coming and going—
Its start and end, there’s no way of knowing.
No one speaks a word of truth about it:
Whence do we come? Where are we going?

Commentary:
Khayyam questions the very foundation of religious cosmology. His tone is epistemologically skeptical: no prophet, priest, or philosopher truly knows the origin or destination of life. This echoes existential uncertainty and critiques religious certitude.

 

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4. Wine as Rebellion Against Dogma

Persian:
من بی‌می ناب زیستن نتوانم
بی باده کشید بارتن نتوانم
من بنده آن دمی‌ام که ساقی
گوید «قدحی بگیر» و نتوانم

Transliteration:
Man bī-mey-e nāb zīstan natavānam
Bī bāde keshīd bār-e tan natavānam
Man bandeh-ye ān damī-am keh sāqī
Gūyad "qadaḥī begīr" o natavānam

Translation:
Without pure wine, I cannot live one hour,
Without the cup, I lose both strength and power.
I’m servant to the moment when the cupbearer
Says “Take the wine!”—I cannot, will not, cower.

Commentary:
Wine here symbolizes freedom, rebellion, and human will—in contrast to the restrictions of Islamic orthodoxy. It’s not just hedonism—it’s a philosophical protest against asceticism, a celebration of the present over the promised unseen.

 

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5. Rejection of Cosmic Meaning

Persian:
ترسم که چو ما به خاک گردیم بلند
کز جام جهان نمای، ناگاه، برند
آگاه کنندگان ره را گویند
رندان خرابات گهی یاد کنند

Transliteration:
Tarsam keh cho mā be khāk gardīm boland
K’az jām-e jahān-namāy nāgāh barand
Āgāh konandegān-e rah rā gūyand
Randān-e kharābāt gahī yād konand

Translation:
I fear that when we’re dust, one bright clear dawn,
They’ll lift the world-revealing cup—and we’ll be gone.
Those who might know the secret of the path
Will speak of tavern-drunken ones—then move on.

Commentary:
This quatrain shows tragic atheism: fear not of hell, but of vanishing before truth is known. It also portrays the ephemeral nature of consciousness, implying there’s no lasting spiritual essence.

CRISIS IN NUTRITION IN THE USA

🥦 The Crisis in Nutrition in the USA: A Nation at a Crossroads

Despite being one of the wealthiest nations on earth, the United States is facing a nutritional health crisis that threatens its present and future well-being. The causes are multi-layered—rooted not in food scarcity, but in poor education, systemic inequities, and the industrialization of the food supply.

🧠 A Health System Poorly Trained in Nutrition

Shockingly, most healthcare professionals receive minimal training in nutrition. Physicians, nurse practitioners, and even some dietitians complete their programs with only a handful of hours dedicated to understanding the role of food in preventing and managing disease. As a result, nutritional counseling is often superficial or completely absent in patient care.

📲 Misinformation in the Age of Social Media

At the same time, social media platforms are awash with influencers dispensing dietary advice, often with no scientific background. Fad diets, miracle cleanses, and fear-mongering about food groups dominate the narrative, while evidence-based voices are drowned out or dismissed as boring. This creates widespread confusion and encourages harmful habits.

🏙️ Food Deserts and the Disappearing Middle

In many parts of the country, food deserts—urban and rural areas with little access to fresh produce or unprocessed foods—make healthy eating a luxury. Even for the middle class, the cost and accessibility of whole, nutritious foods are deteriorating. Instead, Americans are surrounded by highly processed products designed for convenience, addictive flavor, and profit—not health.

🔄 How Do We Escape This Cycle?

Reversing the crisis requires both individual action and structural reform.

• 🍽️ At home: Shift toward cooking whole foods, even simple meals, and read food labels carefully.

• 🎓 In healthcare: Advocate for mandatory, comprehensive nutrition education in all medical and nursing schools.

• 🛒 In society: Support policies that fund farmers' markets, regulate misleading food marketing, and subsidize real food over ultraprocessed junk.

“The solution is not a new diet—it’s a new paradigm that prioritizes public health over corporate profit.”

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MANGROVES AND MEMORY. TRACING THE HIDDEN CURRENTS BETWEEN PINE ISLAND AND CUBA

Mangroves and Memory: Tracing the Hidden Currents Between Pine Island and Cuba

Red mangroves—key to both Cuban and Pine Island coastal ecosystems.

Pine Island, Florida is not the kind of place that loudly announces its stories. Tucked away from the bustling coastal development of Fort Myers, it rests quietly behind a screen of mangroves and still waters. But if one listens closely—to the tides, to the fishermen, to the soil itself—there is a whisper, drifting up from the south. A whisper shaped like Cuba.

Though 400 miles of water separate Pine Island from Havana, the anthropological ties between these two geographies run far deeper than maps reveal. Not just through trade or migration, but through a shared cultural ecology—an interwoven story of human lives shaped by saltwater, mangrove roots, and resilient traditions.

Tides of History Before the Cold War sealed Cuba behind the veil of embargo and ideology, boats moved freely across the Gulf of Mexico. Pine Island fishermen brought back tales of Cuban docks, and Cuban boats sometimes followed the current northward. Tobacco, seafood, and handmade tools were traded quietly. After 1959, the currents carried more than goods—they carried stories of exile, of risk, of longing. Though Pine Island was not a hotbed of Cuban migration like Key West or Miami, it was not untouched.

Handmade fishing boats like this were often seen crossing Florida Straits.

Local oral histories tell of fishing vessels that changed course, of lights seen on the water at night, and of families who arrived silently and stayed briefly. The Cuban story in Pine Island is more subterranean—told in gestures and names, not monuments.

Ecologies in Mirror The mangrove is the great unifier. Both Cuba and southwest Florida host vast estuarine labyrinths where red, black, and white mangroves shape life at the water’s edge. The Calusa people of Pine Island and the Taino of Cuba built their lives around these aquatic forests. The manatee swims between both shores, as does the tarpon—migratory emblems of a shared sea.

The tarpon—migratory emblem of the Caribbean Gulf.

Fishermen in both regions, even today, use remarkably similar techniques—hand-lining, cast nets, and silent stalking through flats. These are cultural practices passed not through books but through muscle memory, observation, and oral teaching—what anthropologists call traditional ecological knowledge (TEK).

Cosmologies of Water Dig deeper, and the parallels extend into the symbolic. In both Indigenous and Afro-Caribbean traditions, water is not merely habitat—it is spirit. In Cuban Santería, Yemayá is the orisha of the sea, mother of all life. Among the Calusa, water spirits governed both nourishment and danger. The mangrove, seen as a protector and a trickster, features in both cosmologies. While Pine Island today might be populated by retirees and weekend gardeners, its land still remembers. Cuban royal palms grow here. Spanish is spoken—softly, in passing. Folk beliefs about tides and fishing days endure in corners of conversation.

Silence as Memory Anthropologists often study memory by what is said. But in places like Pine Island, memory resides just as much in what is not said. There are no museums commemorating Cuban arrivals here. No plaques or murals. Yet gardens bloom with hibiscus and guava. The winds shift south in summer, bringing rainstorms from the Caribbean. And sometimes, when an old fisherman casts his line from a weathered dock, you hear it in his voice: the cadence of another shore.

Fisherman’s dock in Pine Island—stories travel farther than boats.

Pine Island is a place that remembers—not in words, but in rhythms. The rhythms of tides, fish, storms, and stories that cross the water long after the boat is gone.

What Makes Someone Love Their Work?

Reflections from a Life Committed to Indigenous Health

A Purpose That Transcends Borders

For me, it is the deep commitment to the welfare of Indigenous peoples across continents that brings meaning and joy to my work. This devotion has shielded me from anxiety, boredom, and burnout. Over the years, I’ve learned—and been taught—how to engage with Indigenous communities around the world. The lesson is simple, yet profound: approach with love and respect.

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Finding the Right Colleagues

I have always gravitated toward working with colleagues—most often women—who are free from ego, gimmickry, or greed, and who are wholly focused on the well-being of their patients. In the field of international medicine, especially when working in underserved communities in developing countries, one often encounters passionate, highly competent individuals. They inspire others and consistently give their best, even under the most difficult circumstances.

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Learning from the Land and Its People

At present, I work with a small Indigenous tribe in the United States. What sets them apart is that they have not succumbed to the capriciousness, individualism, or scarcity mindset that often characterizes settler cultures. (After all, everyone in America—except Indigenous people—is descended from immigrants.)

In my experience, when it comes to working with tribal members, no problem is insurmountable, so long as you are willing to approach it with care, humility, and genuine intent.

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A Day to Be Grateful For

Today was one of those rare, beautiful days—when every encounter flowed effortlessly and every interaction with the community felt grounded, seamless, and kind.

I am deeply grateful.

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📝 Author's Note:
This post is part of an ongoing series on cross-cultural medicine, Indigenous health, and reflections from the field. Feel free to share  if you’ve had similar experiences or insights.

JAMAICA MANY YEARS LATER AND SAUDADE POR TUDO

Jamaica, Many Years Later

 Jamaica is one of the many countries I’ve lived in over the course of my life. It’s rare that I maintain a relationship with a place where my stay was either cut short voluntarily or due to forces beyond my control. I thoroughly enjoyed my first six months in Jamaica—immersing myself in its culture, history, and literature, and meeting many kind people. But when the time came to leave, I did so without looking back—and never returned. Recently, a friend and former patient who splits his time between Jamaica and Miami invited me to spend the weekend at his beach house on the north coast of Jamaica.

 During the short flight from Miami to Kingston, I felt no nostalgia—no sentimental pull to my former life in the city. Kingston now seemed shrouded in the fog of time. My friend picked me up at the airport, and we drove through the quiet night, past dimly lit suburbs, toward one of his homes nestled in the mountains surrounding the city. After a restful sleep, we enjoyed a beautiful view over breakfast—ackee and saltfish, washed down with fresh coconut water. Jamaica has changed dramatically. I didn’t recognize a single landmark. The narrow roads I remembered are now six-lane highways, and the city teems with new automobiles. 

We exited at Linstead, a town known for its market, then took the back roads to Montego Bay. I was delighted by how green the island remains, yet strangely unfazed by the unfamiliarity. At times, I felt I was in South Africa. It was a wonderful sensation—visiting a country that once was home, yet now felt entirely new. A reminder of the passage of time: things change, and if we don’t change with them, we risk becoming outmoded, outpaced, outdated—ancient. What a lovely day in Jamaica.

 What a Wonderful Day in Silver Sands, Jamaica – Among Friends

 Today has been truly special here in Silver Sands, Jamaica. The atmosphere is filled with warmth, and the genuine friendliness of Jamaicans is something I continue to admire. Despite the often large gaps in socio-economic status, the people here consistently express a heartfelt and welcoming spirit. I'm staying at the home of a Jamaican friend, and today we celebrated the birthday of a gentleman in our group who is of Jamaican origin. Our host graciously organized a lovely gathering in his honor. After breakfast, many of us headed to the beach to enjoy the refreshing breeze and the calm waters. Despite today being a public holiday in Jamaica, the beach was pleasantly uncrowded. Guests began arriving in the mid-afternoon, while two chefs were hard at work in the kitchen preparing a feast of traditional Jamaican dishes — which everyone thoroughly enjoyed. The day offered not only delicious food and beautiful weather but also the joy of new connections. I met a fascinating couple — he from Lebanon, she from Moldova — who met in Cyprus during a UN mission. I also had the pleasure of speaking with a charming farmer from Jamaica’s interior and his talented daughter, a newsreader for a local radio station, along with many other delightful Jamaicans. As if guided by fate, a dear friend with whom I had lost contact for decades learned I was nearby and came to find me. To my astonishment, she now lives directly across from the house where I'm staying. As the Brazilian poet Thiago de Mello once wrote, “Coincidences are not what they seem to be.” Thank you, Jamaica. 

 I’m spending a long holiday weekend at a friend’s home in Silver Sands, along Jamaica’s tranquil northern coast. He invited a small group of friends and family, and once the initial formalities faded, conversations began to flow naturally. The sea breeze softened the sun’s heat, and the kitchen team kept us well nourished. Among the guests was a tall, confident young man and his friendly wife. Today, we had a chance to speak. JA, a corporate trainer, asked what I was reading. I shared that I was immersed in The Ideological Brain by Leor Zmigrod and explained some of her experiments—how behaviors that seem irrational to society can be quite rational to the individual. We spoke of cognitive flexibility and intellectual openness. Curious, I asked what he did “for his crust”—an Australian way of asking about work. Though I know little about corporate systems, JA explained organizational dynamics with impressive clarity. He then surprised me by drawing comparisons between corporate behavior and healthcare systems, including the small clinic where I consult in the Everglades. In just a moment, he made a distinction that stayed with me: leaders deal with individual human issues before they escalate; managers step in when those issues start affecting the system. I immediately thought of a situation at our clinic: a counselor still working remotely since COVID, only visiting once a month. Our CEO, from the local community, tried encouraging her return. When that failed, the COO—culturally distant from the community—was tasked with resolving the disruption. Our talk touched on management, mindfulness, spirituality, and the emotional distance many feel from their aspirations. It reminded me how nourishing a true exchange of ideas can be—especially when carried on a breeze from the sea. Grateful. Humble. Content.

Saudade 

 I clearly remember being four years old. At the end of a hectic day filled with play and food, the guests would begin to say their goodbyes—and I would feel as though my world had suddenly come to an end. A wave of sadness would wash over me, sometimes even bringing me to tears. That feeling never left me. I carried those afternoons with me through the years, and much later, I found a name for that emotion: saudade. I was staying in a flat on Pont Street in London when, one quiet afternoon, the radio began to play a song—Sodade, sung in Cabo Verdian Creole by Cesária Évora. It was while preparing tea that I first heard the word saudade—and felt its meaning. Si bô 'screvê-me, m' ta 'screvê-be Si bô 'squecê-me, m' ta 'squecê-be Até dia qui bô voltà If you write to me, I'll write back If you forget me, I'll forget you too Until the day you return The memory of past pleasures touches us with a tender kind of grief—like what we feel for departed friends. Such memories, and the feelings they evoke, seem to haunt the imagination. This, I once thought, was the best definition of saudade. But I now add my own: Saudade is the ache for something you’ve never truly had—but deeply miss all the same. This weekend, I’ve been staying at a friend’s house. Over the holiday, we welcomed a string of visitors. And now, as the sun sets over the western sea, the guests begin to leave—one by one. The little boy tucked his smile into his pram. The Moldavian woman with her charming accent joined her Lebanese husband at the gate. And suddenly, though others remained in the house, I felt alone. That four-year-old boy stirred within me, lifted his head in my heart, and whispered: "What will happen to me now that my playmates have gone home?" 

 All Departures Are Sad 

Today was the day we left our beach refuge and returned to the capital. Thanks to the new Chinese-built roads, the journey was swift. Still, as I stood at the doorstep of the beach house before departing, I felt genuinely sad—I didn’t want to return to Miami. It’s a natural reaction after spending a few days in good company and being so well cared for. Several people had sought my counsel during this stay, and I noticed a common thread: a lack of mindfulness. It made my conversations with them more focused. I encouraged them to learn about meditation—preferably Vipassana. I shared how Israeli historian Yuval Noah Harari, one of today’s most influential public intellectuals, spends two hours each day meditating and dedicates a full month every year to Vipassana practice in India. I, too, try to incorporate regular periods of Vipassana into my life—for the sake of my mind, body, and spirit. This is a developing country, yet the imprint of American culture is unmistakable, especially in the spread of fast food—even though, interestingly, it tastes somewhat different here (not my observation, but one often repeated). What struck me most, however, was the genuine warmth of the people. Unlike in Cuba, where locals often anticipate small gifts from visitors, here there are no such expectations. I’ve been treated with generosity—driven around, cared for, and given a truly rich experience. Every traveler’s path is different, and I know I am among the particularly fortunate. Grateful. Humble. Compassionate. Iran has been on my mind.

 How a Short Vacation Can Change Your Perspective on a Culture, a Country, and Its People I spent five days in Jamaica, staying at a friend’s beachside vacation home on the north coast. It was nothing short of life-changing—transforming my thoughts, attitudes, and even behaviors. I'm proud to admit that I had some misconceptions, and I’m willing to confess them openly. What I encountered was a profound sense of warmth and friendliness from every Jamaican I met. It’s easy to form impressions based on the behavior of immigrants from less-developed countries who settle in America or Europe. These individuals are often burdened by the struggle to adjust to a new environment and status, sometimes unable to fully express the natural warmth and authenticity of their native cultures. But in Jamaica, I found people who were genuinely open-hearted. Their kindness wasn’t transactional, unlike the often desperate friendliness seen in countries facing significant economic hardship, like Cuba. I spoke with Jamaicans from various socioeconomic backgrounds, and none of them blamed their country or dreamed of escape to America. Instead, what stood out was the sincerity in their interactions—so different from the superficial exchanges I often encounter in Miami among locals and immigrants. The hospitality I experienced reminded me of a kind I had long forgotten during my many years of exile from my own country, Australia. There were no polemics, no talk of today’s erratic world leaders, no shallow political chatter rooted in intellectual or cognitive rigidity—just genuine connection. I came to love Jamaica. The warmth I received will stay with me for months, and when it fades, I will surely return to replenish it.