The scene would have seemed impossible only a few years ago.

The name of Raúl Castro Ruz appearing formally inside a United States federal criminal indictment. Cuba’s former general of the Army, for decades one of the most powerful figures inside the Havana regime, accused in connection with the shootdown of the Brothers to the Rescue aircraft and the deaths of American citizens in 1996. And all of it unfolding in Miami, inside the Freedom Tower, on May 20.

That detail matters.

Because this indictment arrives at one of the most fragile and politically tense moments in recent relations between Washington and Havana. It comes as Cuba faces deep economic collapse, growing political exhaustion, mass migration, blackouts, and increasing public frustration both inside and outside the island. It also arrives on a date carrying enormous symbolic weight for Cuban exiles — the anniversary of the founding of the Cuban Republic in 1902.

But the true significance of this moment goes far beyond symbolism.

What happened in Miami represents something much larger: the collapse of the idea that certain men would never face accountability.

For decades, Raúl Castro embodied the permanence of revolutionary power in Cuba. Defense minister. Military strategist. The man who oversaw the armed forces for generations. One of the central architects of the Cuban political and security apparatus built alongside Fidel Castro. A figure many believed would leave this world untouched by any court, shielded forever by power, time, and history itself.

Today the image is very different.

Today his name appears inside the language of American criminal prosecution.

And that changes the historical dimension of this case completely.

Because this is no longer simply a political accusation voiced by the Cuban exile community. It is now a formal federal criminal indictment publicly announced by the United States government against one of the highest-ranking figures in the history of the Cuban regime.

The setting itself carried enormous meaning.

The Freedom Tower is not just another building in Miami. For generations of Cuban exiles it represents memory, displacement, survival, and the beginning of a new life after fleeing Cuba. Thousands of Cubans passed through those doors after escaping the revolution. Families arrived carrying fear, uncertainty, grief, and hope all at once. Announcing these charges from that location transformed the moment into something far deeper than a legal proceeding.

And the people witnessing it were not only members of the exile community.

Among those present were relatives of the young men killed nearly 30 years ago. Families who spent decades waiting to hear words they feared might never come. Families who carried the weight of loss while believing the men responsible would never be formally accused by any court.

That emotional weight still surrounds this case.

On Feb. 24, 1996, two civilian aircraft operated by Brothers to the Rescue were shot down over the Florida Straits by Cuban military jets. Armando Alejandre Jr., Carlos Costa, Mario de la Peña, and Pablo Morales were killed. The flights were connected to humanitarian rescue efforts searching for Cubans attempting to flee the island during the migration crisis of the 1990s.

Those aircraft were not military bombers.

They were not attacking Cuba.

They were civilian planes associated with rescue operations involving Cubans risking their lives at sea.

That reality has always shaped how this tragedy lives inside the memory of the Cuban exile community.

For many, this was never viewed simply as a geopolitical conflict between hostile governments. It was seen as the use of military force against civilians connected to humanitarian missions during one of the darkest chapters in modern Cuban migration history.

But for many Cubans, the indictment reaches far beyond the Brothers to the Rescue case itself.

It touches decades of unresolved pain tied to one of the central figures behind Cuba’s military and political system.

It reaches mothers who buried sons lost in compulsory military service or in distant wars they never chose to fight. Families who spent years believing promises that were never fulfilled. Political prisoners who disappeared into silence. Relatives who watched loved ones die trying to flee the island.

And for many LGBTQ Cubans, the moment carries another layer of historical weight.

Long before official campaigns promoting tolerance and inclusion emerged from within the Cuban government, there were years of persecution, fear, forced silence, and humiliation carried out under the revolutionary system itself.

The UMAP labor camps remain one of the deepest scars in modern Cuban history. Gay men, pastors, religious believers, artists, and others considered incompatible with the revolutionary ideal were sent away under the language of “re-education” and forced labor.

In recent decades, public gestures toward LGBTQ inclusion promoted by figures close to the Cuban leadership attempted to project an image of progress and openness to the international community. But for many survivors, and for many Cuban LGBTQ people, those gestures never erased the trauma or the historical responsibility tied to the same structures of power that once persecuted them.

For many, acknowledgment without accountability still feels painfully incomplete.

That is why this indictment resonates so deeply today.

Because it arrives while Cuba once again faces profound national crisis. The island is losing entire generations through migration. Public frustration continues to grow. Economic collapse shapes daily life. And the revolutionary narrative that once projected permanence and control appears increasingly eroded by reality itself.

Against that backdrop, the image emerging from Miami becomes even more striking.

A man once viewed as untouchable by history now formally accused by the United States government and legally transformed into a fugitive wanted by American justice.

History moves slowly until suddenly it does not.

And for many Cubans, both on the island and throughout the diaspora, what happened today inside the Freedom Tower felt like witnessing something they once believed they would never live long enough to see.

As a Cuban, as an immigrant, and as someone who has lived close to that pain, one thought keeps returning tonight:

Justice takes time.

But when it finally arrives, it arrives with history behind it.

About 80 days into the U.S.-Iran war, while much of the world struggles with oil supplies, India is confronting a different crisis: a widening condom shortage. Health activists warn the supply disruption could worsen HIV/AIDS risks in the world’s most populous country.

Disruptions in maritime trade through the Strait of Hormuz have strained supplies of petrochemicals and industrial lubricants used in condom manufacturing. The crisis has increased production costs across the sector and pushed retail prices sharply higher.

India’s condom manufacturing industry is valued at nearly $1 billion. 

Production depends heavily on silicone oil and ammonia. Silicone oil, a key lubricant used in manufacturing, is in short supply. Ammonia, which stabilizes raw latex, is expected to see price increases of 40-50 percent. Rising packaging costs have added further pressure. Some manufacturers and retailers have reported condom prices increasing by as much as 50 percent.

India is home to an estimated 2.5 million people living with HIV, the world’s second-largest population of HIV-positive people, according to a 2024 report. The Health Ministry’s India HIV Estimation 2025 technical report said 5.4 percent of HIV cases in 2024-2025 were linked to transmission between men who have sex with men.

In 2024, India recorded an estimated 64,470 new HIV infections and 32,160 AIDS-related deaths nationwide. The figures marked declines of 48.69 percent and 81.42 percent, respectively, compared with 2010.

Ankit Bhuptani, an LGBTQ activist in India, told the Washington Blade that the country has made significant progress in reducing HIV infections over the past two decades. But, he said, that progress depended heavily on affordable condoms, targeted outreach programs and on-the-ground work by NGOs serving MSM and transgender people.

“Pull one thread and the whole thing loosens. What worries me about this particular shortage is that it arrives at exactly the moment when India’s LGBTQ community was beginning to access healthcare more openly after the Section 377 reading down,” said Bhuptani. “Young queer Indians in tier-two cities were just starting to trust government health systems enough to engage with them. A price spike that prices them out, or a shortage that sends them to substandard alternatives, could set that trust back by years.”

The Indian Supreme Court in 2018 struck down Section 377, a colonial-era law that criminalized consensual same-sex sexual relations.

In March, the Commerce and Industry Ministry acknowledged the difficulties faced by Indian exporters due to disruptions caused by the war in West Asia and launched a roughly $51.5 million Resilience and Logistics Intervention for Export Facilitation, or RELIEF, program. It provides credit insurance support for exporters whose shipments have been stranded because of the conflict.

“Price elasticity in sexual health products is brutal. When a condom pack goes from 20 rupees to 40, usage drops. It’s that simple,” said Bhuptani. “And when usage drops in populations with higher baseline HIV exposure, you don’t see the consequences for two or three years. Then the numbers arrive and everyone acts surprised.”

The situation has been further aggravated by the structure of India’s condom market, which operates on a high-volume, low-margin model designed to keep products affordable for a population of more than 1.4 billion people. Industry analysts say that model is now under growing pressure from rising raw material and shipping costs.

Reports in Indian media said supply constraints and price volatility involving PVC foil, aluminium foil, and packaging materials have disrupted production and complicated order fulfilment across parts of the condom manufacturing sector.

“Supply chain vulnerability assessments almost never include sexual health commodities. They should. India imports roughly 86 percent of its anhydrous ammonia from West Asian countries including Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and Oman, with that ammonia being essential for stabilizing the natural rubber latex used in domestic condom production,” said Bhuptani. “That is a documented strategic dependency that was never flagged as a risk. The Iran war converted it from a latent vulnerability into an active supply shock in a matter of weeks.”

The National AIDS Control Organization, or NACO, which oversees India’s HIV/AIDS programs, during the 2026-2027 fiscal year received an allocation of about $249 million, up from roughly $238 million the previous year. By comparison, the U.S. approved a $6 billion funding package in 2026 for global HIV/AIDS programs, according to the United Nations.

“The gay and trans community in India report high perceived HIV risk and adopted PrEP through non-profit and private channels, with cost and access remaining consistent concerns,” said Bhuptani. “The community organizations managing that risk perception are now operating in a tighter supply environment while simultaneously absorbing the downstream effects of USAID funding cuts. Health workers seeing increased anxiety among community members are observing the predictable consequence of removing redundancy from a system that had very little to begin with.”

The Washington Blade reached out to Indian condom manufacturer Manforce several times, but the company declined to comment.

Harish Iyer, an LGBTQ and equal rights activist in India, told the Blade that this is the time when the government needs to step in. Condoms, Iyer said, are not about pleasure, but about life.

“Not just in terms of HIV, it is also a source of contraception in a nation which is heavily populated. So, if there is a crisis in the condom industry, it has an adverse effect on the LGBTQ community,” said Iyer. “And eventually it has a compounding effect on the economy as well. Because if the cases of HIV wrecks to rise, if the population was to explode, it is going to have a straining effect on the economy as well. So, I think it is time that the government steps in, and condoms should be recorded as a necessity commodity rather than making it feel like any kind of commodity that some (privileged people) can afford.”

Iyer told the Blade that the government should provide condoms free of cost. 

He pointed to the Nirodh Scheme, India’s long-running family planning and safe sex program launched by the government in 1968. Condoms, Iyer said, are a necessity, not a luxury product. He urged the government to classify them as essential items and either remove the Goods and Services Tax or reduce it to a minimum.

The Nirodh Scheme was launched by the Health and Family Welfare Ministry to promote contraception and prevent the spread of sexually transmitted infections, including HIV, through the nationwide distribution of subsidized and free condoms.

There is a dangerous silence surrounding intersex lives in Ghana — a silence shaped by fear, misinformation, cultural misunderstanding, and institutional neglect. Today, amid discussions around the possible passage of the Human Sexual Rights and Family Values Bill, 2025, that silence risks becoming law, reinforcing exclusion and deepening the marginalization of already invisible lives. 

Much of the national debate surrounding the bill has focused on LGBTQ+ identities. Yet buried within it are implications for intersex persons that many Ghanaians do not fully understand because intersex realities remain largely invisible. 

Intersex persons are born with natural variations in chromosomes, hormones, reproductive anatomy, and/or genital characteristics that do not fit typical definitions of male or female bodies. Intersex is not a sexual orientation or gender identity. It is a biological reality. Ghana’s Commission on Human Rights and Administrative Justice (CHRAJ) has clearly acknowledged this distinction. 

Despite this distinction, the bill mistakenly collapses intersex realities into a legal framework linked to LGBTQ+ criminalization. 

Although the bill contains only limited references to intersex persons, under certain medical exceptions, these references do not amount to recognition or protection. Instead, they frame intersex bodies as abnormalities requiring regulation, correction, and institutional management. This approach is inconsistent not only with Ghana’s constitutional guarantees of dignity, equality, privacy, and liberty, but also with emerging African and international human rights standards. The African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights Resolution on the Promotion and Protection of the Rights of Intersex Persons in Africa – ACHPR/Res.552 (LXXIV) 2023 affirms protections relating to bodily integrity, dignity, freedom from discrimination, and against harmful medical practices. Additionally, the United Nations has repeatedly condemned medically unnecessary and non-consensual interventions on intersex children. Rather than affirming the humanity and autonomy of intersex persons, the bill risks legitimizing systems of surveillance, coercion, violence, and institutional erasure. 

This is not protection.

It is managed erasure.

A child born intersex in Ghana already enters a society shaped by secrecy and stigma. Families are often pressured to hide intersex children or seek “correction” to make their bodies conform to social expectations. 

The bill risks intensifying this pressure.

Clause 17 creates space for “approved service providers” to support interventions relating to intersex persons, yet offers little protection around informed consent, bodily autonomy, confidentiality, or coercive treatment. Under the language of “correction” or “support,” harmful interventions may become normalized. 

The intersex community has documented painful lived experiences of intersex Ghanaians that reveal the devastating consequences of stigma and invisibility. 

One heartbreaking case involved intersex twins born in Ghana’s Eastern Region in 1993, who were repeatedly forced to move from village to village because of rejection and ridicule. After losing their father, their main source of protection and support, they became even more vulnerable and reportedly experienced severe emotional distress, including suicidal thoughts linked to years of stigma and exclusion. This is what invisibility looks like in practice. 

Another painful example is the story of Ativor Holali, whose lived experience exposed the cruel realities intersex persons face in sports and public life. Ativor Holali endured invasive scrutiny, public humiliation, and social suspicion because her body did not conform to rigid expectations of femininity. Rather than being protected as a Ghanaian athlete deserving dignity and privacy, she became the subject of speculation, gossip, and institutional discomfort.

Her experience reflects a broader social crisis: when society insists that every body must fit a narrow binary definition, intersex people are forced to defend their humanity in spaces where dignity should already be guaranteed.

Intersex Persons Society Of Ghana (IPSOG)’s Ŋusẽdodo research further revealed that approximately 70 percent of intersex respondents reported depression, anxiety, trauma, or severe emotional distress linked to medical mistreatment, family rejection, bullying, and social exclusion.

The bill risks transforming these existing prejudices into institutional policy. Several provisions risk deepening surveillance, restricting advocacy, weakening confidentiality, and discouraging public education around intersex realities. Intersex-led organizations providing healthcare guidance, legal referrals, psychosocial support, and community services may face serious challenges.

This places IPSOG and other intersex-led organizations in Ghana at serious risk.

For many intersex Ghanaians, these spaces are not political luxuries.

They are survival mechanisms.

Governments derive legitimacy by protecting the natural rights of all persons, including dignity, liberty, bodily autonomy, and freedom from arbitrary interference. The bill raises concerns because it risks weakening these protections for intersex persons through surveillance, coercive interventions, and restrictions on advocacy.

Ghana’s Constitution declares that “the dignity of all persons shall be inviolable.” Articles 15, 17, 18, and 21 specifically protect dignity, equality, privacy, expression, and freedom of association. These protections should apply equally to intersex persons. 

Intersex persons are not threats to Ghanaian culture.

Intersex children are not moral dangers.

Intersex bodies are not political weapons.

They are human beings deserving dignity, healthcare, safety, and constitutional protection. 

The true measure of a democracy is how it protects those most vulnerable to exclusion. At this moment, Ghana faces a choice: deepen fear and silence, or uphold dignity, bodily autonomy, and constitutional freedom for intersex persons. 

History will remember the choice we make.

Fafali Delight Akortsu is the founder and president of the Intersex Persons Society of Ghana (IPSOG).