On May 5, I spoke by phone with Wilfred Labiosa, executive director of Waves Ahead, a Puerto Rico-based LGBTQ community organization that for years has provided mental health services, support programs, and safe spaces for vulnerable communities across the island. During our conversation, Labiosa confirmed every concern described in the organization’s public statement announcing the cancellation of “Live Your Pride,” an event scheduled for Sunday in the northwestern municipality of Isabela. But beyond the financial struggles and organizational challenges, what stayed with me most was the emotional weight behind his words. There was pain in his voice while describing what it means to watch spaces like these slowly disappear.

This was not simply the cancellation of a community event.

“Live Your Pride” had been envisioned as a celebration and affirming gathering for LGBTQ older adults and their allies in Puerto Rico. In a society where many LGBTQ elders spent decades hiding parts of themselves in order to survive, spaces like this carry enormous emotional and social significance. They become places where people can finally exist openly, without fear, apology, or shame.

That is why this cancellation matters far beyond Isabela.

What is happening in Puerto Rico cannot be separated from the broader political climate unfolding across the U.S. and its territories, where programs connected to diversity, inclusion, education, mental health, and LGBTQ visibility increasingly find themselves under political attack. These changes do not always arrive through dramatic announcements. More often, they happen quietly. Funding disappears. Community organizations weaken. Safe spaces become harder to sustain. Eventually, the absence itself begins to feel normal.

That normalization is dangerous.

For years, organizations like Waves Ahead have stepped into gaps left behind by institutions and governments, particularly in communities where LGBTQ people continue facing discrimination, social isolation, economic instability, and mental health struggles. Their work has never been limited to organizing events. It has involved accompanying people through loneliness, trauma, rejection, depression, aging, and survival itself.

“Live Your Pride” represented much more than entertainment. It represented visibility for LGBTQ older adults, many of whom survived decades of family rejection, religious exclusion, workplace discrimination, violence, and silence. These are individuals who came of age during years when living openly could cost someone employment, housing, relationships, or personal safety. Many learned to survive by making themselves invisible.

When spaces like this disappear, something deeply human is lost.

A gathering is canceled, yes, but so is an opportunity for healing, connection, recognition, and dignity. For many LGBTQ older adults, especially in smaller municipalities across Puerto Rico, these events are not secondary luxuries. They are reminders that their lives still matter in a society that too often treats aging and queer existence as disposable.

There are still political and religious sectors that portray the rainbow as some kind of ideological threat. But the rainbow does not erase anyone. It illuminates people and stories that society has often tried to ignore. It reflects the lives of young people forced out of their homes, transgender individuals targeted by violence, older adults aging in silence, and families that spent years defending their right to exist openly.

Perhaps that is precisely why the rainbow unsettles some people so deeply.

Its colors expose abandonment, hypocrisy, inequality, and fear. They force societies to confront realities that are easier to ignore than to address honestly. They reveal how fragile human dignity becomes when political agendas decide that certain communities are no longer worthy of protection, funding, or visibility.

The greatest concern here is not solely the cancellation of one event in one Puerto Rican town. The deeper concern is the message quietly taking shape behind decisions like these — the idea that some communities can wait, that some lives deserve fewer resources, and that safe spaces for vulnerable people are expendable during moments of political tension.

History has shown repeatedly how social regression begins. Rarely with one dramatic act. More often through exhaustion, silence, budget cuts, and the slow dismantling of organizations doing essential community work.

Even so, Waves Ahead made one thing clear in its statement. Although “Live Your Pride” has been canceled, the organization will continue providing mental health and community support services through its centers across Puerto Rico. That commitment matters because people do not survive on slogans alone. They survive because somewhere there are still open doors, trained professionals, supportive communities, and people willing to remain present when the world becomes colder and more hostile.

Puerto Rico should pay close attention to what this moment represents. No healthy society is built by weakening the organizations that care for vulnerable people. No government should feel comfortable watching community groups struggle to survive while attempting to provide services and compassion that public institutions themselves often fail to offer.

The rainbow has never been the problem.

The real problem is the discomfort created when its colors force society to confront the wounds, inequalities, and human realities that too many people would rather keep hidden.

Jonathan David Muir Burgos is 16-years-old, and that fact alone should force the world to stop and pay attention. He is not an armed criminal, nor a violent extremist, nor someone accused of harming others. He is a Cuban teenager who ended up behind bars after joining recent protests in the city of Morón, in the province of Ciego de Ávila, demonstrations born out of exhaustion, desperation, and the growing collapse of daily life across the island.

Those protests did not emerge from privilege or political theater. They erupted after prolonged blackouts, food shortages, lack of drinking water, unbearable heat, and a level of public frustration that continues to deepen inside Cuba. People took to the streets because ordinary life itself has become increasingly unbearable. Families are surviving for hours and sometimes days without electricity. Parents struggle to find food. Entire communities live trapped between scarcity and silence.

Jonathan became part of that reality.

And today, he is sitting inside a Cuban prison.

The World Health Organization defines adolescence as the stage between approximately 10 and 19 years of age, a period marked by emotional, psychological, and physical development. That matters deeply here because Jonathan is not simply a “young protester.” He is a minor. A teenager still navigating the fragile years in which identity, emotional stability, and personal growth are being formed.

Yet the Cuban government chose to place him inside a high-security prison alongside adults.

There is something profoundly disturbing about a political system willing to expose a 16-year-old boy to the psychological brutality of prison life simply because he exercised the right to protest. A prison is never only walls and bars. It is fear, humiliation, emotional pressure, intimidation, and uncertainty. For a teenager surrounded by adult inmates, those dangers become even more alarming.

The situation becomes even more serious because Jonathan reportedly suffers from severe dyshidrosis and has previously experienced dangerous bacterial infections affecting his health. His condition requires proper medical care, hygiene, and adequate treatment, precisely the kind of stability that is difficult to guarantee inside the Cuban prison system.

Behind this story there is also a family living through a kind of pain impossible to fully describe.

Jonathan is the son of a Cuban evangelical pastor. Behind the headlines there is a mother wondering how her child is sleeping at night inside a prison cell. There is a father trying to hold onto faith while imagining the emotional and physical risks his teenage son may be facing behind bars. Faith does not erase fear. Faith does not prevent parents from trembling when their child is imprisoned.

And this is where another painful contradiction emerges.

While a Cuban pastor watches his son remain incarcerated, there are still political and religious voices outside Cuba romanticizing the Cuban regime from a safe distance. There are people who speak passionately about justice while remaining silent about political prisoners, repression, censorship, and now even the imprisonment of adolescents.

That silence matters.

Because silence protects systems that normalize abuse.

For too long, parts of the international community have spoken about Cuba through ideological nostalgia while refusing to confront the human cost paid by ordinary Cubans. The reality is not romantic. The reality is families surviving in darkness, young people fleeing the country in massive numbers, parents struggling to feed their children, and now a 16-year-old boy sitting inside a prison after joining a protest born from desperation.

No government has the moral right to destroy the emotional and psychological well-being of a teenager for exercising freedom of expression. No ideology should stand above human dignity. And no institution that claims to defend justice should remain indifferent while a child becomes a political prisoner.

Jonathan David Muir Burgos should not be in prison.

A 16-year-old boy should not have to pay for protest with his freedom. 

“Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong, West Virginia …” Those immortal lyrics describe one of the best-kept secrets for LGBTQ Washingtonians: Lost River, W.Va.

Less than 2.5 hours from the D.C. metro area, Lost River, in Hardy County, W.Va., is a haven for LGBTQ Mountaineers and our nearby city neighbors. From queer-owned businesses and artwork to a vibrant community of LGBTQ residents, Lost River has been a destination for LGBTQ visitors seeking a mountain getaway for nearly 50 years. For some, our rural community has become home for those who want to trade city life for country living.

Because Lost River welcomes all, we celebrate Pride each year in our slice of heaven.

Lost River Pride Weekend will be held June 12–14, the weekend prior to Capital Pride. If you haven’t been, our Pride is a little different from the urban Pride events most people are used to. In Lost River, forget the multinational corporate sponsors. Instead, think about local talent, grassroots community organizations, and our version of patriotism on full display. Most of all, we welcome people from all walks of life to live authentically as themselves, regardless of where they come from, how they think, or how they love. We truly welcome everyone.

Coincidentally, Lost River Pride Weekend is being held on President Trump’s birthday weekend, including a variety of traffic-jamming events in the D.C. area and the upcoming fight on the White House lawn. Why not come visit Lost River for the day or the weekend (we have some wonderful places to stay) and get a taste of West Virginia living?

While our town has only about 500 people at any given time, we swell to over twice that during Pride weekend. Friday evening includes an intimate cabaret at the Inn at Lost River (whose general store is on the National Register of Historic Places). Our centerpiece, the Lost River Pride Festival, is hosted on Saturday at the local farmers market, followed by an afternoon drag pool performance and an evening performance by the world-renowned Tom Goss at the Guesthouse Lost River. Finally, we finish the weekend with a closing brunch at the Inn to reaffirm our Pride. In between events and throughout the weekend, visitors and locals indulge in local art, restaurants, and more.

We recognize that West Virginia isn’t always seen as welcoming to LGBTQ people. State law does not protect against discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender identity, and cultural stereotypes remain persistent. Additionally, trans girls are prohibited from participating in sports of their affirmed gender in schools. In a state considered one of the most conservative, it can be difficult to see progress.

However, our community exists to prove that progress is possible. In fact, due to the work of statewide groups such as Fairness WV, 21 municipalities have passed local ordinances prohibiting discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity, covering more than 13 percent of the West Virginian population. Last year, Lost River Pride sponsored the first-ever equal cash prize for the nonbinary category of the Lost River Classic, a local bike race held annually. There is hope in every corner of our community.

Recently, Lost River Pride was the only West Virginia contingent in the 2025 World Pride Parade, which was held during Capital Pride Weekend. I will always remember our rugged truck coming down 14th Street to a sea of diverse, friendly faces, while waving our state flag and hearing many voices singing “Country Roads” in every remix available (trust me, there are many).

Lost River Pride is one of only a handful of Pride organizations in West Virginia and one of the few structured as a nonprofit. We sponsor the only LGBTQ scholarship in Eastern West Virginia for a graduating senior from a local high school. Moreover, we provide monthly community programming and make frequent donations to local allied nonprofits, including the fire department, food pantry, and schools.

I encourage you to attend Lost River Pride Weekend, especially this year’s Lost River Pride Festival on Saturday, June 13, from 12-4 p.m., at the Lost River Farmers Market (1089 Mill Gap Road, Lost City, W.Va. 26810). Feel free to reach us at [email protected] or visit our website at lostriverpride.org for more information.

Tim Savoy is president of the board of directors of Lost River Pride.