Loneliness and weariness, that’s what I find while walking on the streets of Little Havana. This area, situated within the confines of the city of Miami, is a reluctant paradise for immigrants, drifting in an ocean of forgotten streets, deteriorated buildings and neglected people. Politicians fill their pockets and wash their hands by inserting low income housing facilities and drowning the area with buses filled with tourists, denting the pride of the area residents, and precipitating the decadence of the less fortunate. Crashed or vandalized vehicles cover the inner streets, suffering the passing of time and the owner’s lack of funding for repairs. I bump into a displaced person, or someone asking for money on a corner looking to feed either their stomachs or their addictions. Drug and sin walk hand in hand on the streets of Little Havana like a daily ritual. People meet at the “Parque del Dominó”. Their words are like prayers, remembering their origins and salivating in memories of a world that no longer accepts them. Castaways from their native land. Abandoned people in the Saviors country. Men and women of different latitudes are gathered in Little Havana hanging on to their past, and hoping for a better future.
