To the artists of the 27N movement, architects and protagonists in the construction of a pluralistic and democratic society. Throughout the history of humanity, intellectuals committed to truth and freedom have always represented a threat to different power structures. The 1984 book by George Orwell provides an understanding of the existing analogies with the oppressive Cuban society. One of the most nefarious effects of totalitarianism does not lie strictly in physical and brutal repression. The main consequence of the psychological pressure exerted by totalitarian states on the individual is the pretense that it causes in the human being; this is a mechanism that usually hides true ideas and convictions, and thus preserves the individual's social and economic status, and way of life. It is a society where all spheres of life are controlled by the state machinery, especially the academic and intellectual professions. In this way, opinion leaders who carry out creative work in the artistic and literary spheres, and also scientists, are silenced. In this sense, totalitarianism in the Cuban context constitutes a sui generis referent, not only because of its continuation in time, but because it is evident that the system is based on that apparent and false adherence to a worn-out ideology that only offers messianic and utopian horizons for the human being. Since the beginning of the Cuban Revolution, intellectuals in Cuba have had few options to live in the truth, as the Czech writer and playwright Václav Havel argues in his fundamental work El poder de los sin poder (The Power of the Powerless) for the Czech context. He refers to an existence based on lies and pretense, aspects that are accentuated in the Cuban regime. In Cuba, we, the intellectuals, have generally had three paths: to simulate our loyalty to the regime as a survival mechanism, and in certain cases to enjoy few and modest privileges—such as publishing or teaching, professions where the intellectual usually takes refuge; to confront power regardless of the consequences, even losing freedom (let's not forget the fate of writers like Raúl Rivero and Ángel Santiesteban-Prats, imprisoned for their ideology); and the third path, the exile, which is as sad as imprisonment. Great Cuban intellectuals have found in their exile the only possible place for their artistic creation. Mentioning all of them is impossible and beyond the objectives of this text. For example, Reinaldo Arenas, Heberto Padilla, Rafael Rojas, Gastón Baquero, Wendy Guerra, among others, are on that long list. In Cuban society, people have always lived with masks. From a young age, they instill in you empty slogans that have no meaning, but with the passage of time and access to information, they lose their credibility. For example, when I was just a child they imposed on me the slogan: “Pioneers for communism, we will be like Che” [Ernesto “Che” Guevara]. Without having the slightest idea what both symbols meant, those words always sounded empty in my fragile spirituality. The previous generations that in their time supported the system, now feel deceived and experience the greatest frustration, because their dreams were hijacked. This is why a book like La gran estafa (The Big Scam), by the Peruvian Eudocio Ravines, fascinates me and has a lot to teach us. My experience is painful, not only because every day I live with the fear of repression and ending up in jail for challenging the system and its totalitarian power, but because, by not playing the simulation game, I have to resign myself to marginalization, since I cannot publish in my own country in magazines or newspapers, and I am no longer able to teach at university (which is one of the most beautiful and exciting professions). My Catholic activism is a social sentence because the system does not tolerate a philosophical vision other than Marxism-Leninism. In earlier times, Catholic intellectuals like José Lezama Lima found a refuge in the National University in order to survive economically and dedicate themselves fully to literary creation. At that time, Eliseo Diego had the support of activist Nicolás Guillén in the National Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba. My situation is dire because I have been denied belonging to that institution of Cuban artists and intellectuals. The reason for this exclusion is obvious: because I disagree with the official ideology. To suffer social exclusion for thinking differently and for reasons of conscience constitutes a violation of human rights. There is a high price to pay for dissenting from the regime in Cuba, and few dare to confront the system. But in recent years the situation has changed, demonstrating the power of the intellectual and his ability to subvert totalitarian power.