The United States government has said that “not much more pressure can be exerted except by entering and destroying the place.”

That “place” is me.  I am the Cuban grandmother who gets up every day with a tired body and a strong spirit.

I am the one who raises children, the one who teaches, the one who cares, the one who resists, the one who fights.  I am the one who does not surrender.  Don’t talk to me about destruction.

Because I come from Mariana, who gave her sons to the war and shouted:  “Kneel before your mother, not before the enemy!”

I come from Carlota, who broke chains in Matanzas and was murdered for dreaming of freedom.

I come from Ana Betancourt, who in the midst of the 1868 war of independence demanded that women also have a voice.

I come from Celia, from Vilma…  I am the granddaughter of those who could not be destroyed.  They don’t just threaten a government.

They threaten my mother, who works miracles with what little she has.  My daughter, who dreams of becoming a doctor in gratitude for all that the healthcare professionals in a blockaded country do to save lives.

My neighbor, who shares her rice even when she doesn’t have enough.  Me, who writes with anger and tenderness, with memory and courage.

My family, who cherishes what they have achieved, my people who, with the spirit of the Cuban independence fighters, know very well the homeland they defend.

This threat is not new.   It is the same as always: the threat of the empire that cannot bear to see us standing tall.

The threat of those who cannot tolerate a small, mixed-race, rebellious island deciding its own destiny.  The threat of those who believe they can erase with bombs what we have sown with blood and songs.

But you cannot destroy what is rooted in tradition.   And I am rooted in tradition.  Of the Ceiba tree, of machete, of drum, of breast milk, of red earth, of tears that never dry because they water the soil.

I am not a place to be destroyed.

I am a Cuban grandmother.

And I do not get down on my knees.