Thoughts on Chuwi's Libertad

A photo of a mural that reads "Welcome to the Oldest Colony" taken in Viejo San Juan in June 2017

Chuwi asks us to imagine a different Puerto Rico than what exists now; a place where Pan (EP from 2022), Tierra (EP from 2024), and now Libertad are afforded to everyone. A free Puerto Rico that is more than a playground for rich outsiders and more than a dream for local Puerto Ricans.

There’s a hopefulness at the beginning of the album. Fantasmeo introduces us to two individuals living their own lives in PR (tu en la tuya, yo en la mía). They strive to see each other once again, but there's a tension that makes them hesitate. They persist and with that we transition to Plei, and a desperation to be back on the shores of Isabela. We learn that the tension in Fantasmeo comes from feeling like they need to leave Isabela to find that happiness, or at the very least that comfort that comes from freedom. However, being away from the homeland is too much and they, like many of us, are called to return. This is especially true when you realize the “land of the free” is a lie; all there is to do is stay home, play Playstation, and watch Netflix. There's not enough money to do anything else. This reminds me of the short film, Melao, by Val Vega where a jíbaro goes to extreme lengths to get to the U.S., only to get there and learn it's not at all what he expected.

Now that we're back in Borikén, we make it work like other working class Puerto Ricans. We got the basics that keep up going, but what’s missing? That's what Chuwi asks in Falta Algo. What's missing is that true freedom that comes from liberation. They remind us that it’s a reality that we can’t only strive for; it’s a reality that we have to create. A free, autonomous, and socialist Puerto Rico. However, organizing and coming together is a threat to power. Said power begins to buzz as their war machine powers up in Interludio. Like agents congregating outside an interrogation room in the Academy of Truth to take a peek at the suspected nationalists. However, we are ready to power up in response with the sounds of our ancestors and as the war machine intensifies, so do our ancestral drums, empowering a diaspora-wide response.

By the time we get to Bashiata estamos hartes ya. The synths color the dread that envelops the exasperated Puerto Rican who just wants to live in their homeland. It's more of the same. PPD or PNP, it doesn't matter. But now we know that it's not just the material conditions of Puerto Rico; it's the influence of the U.S. government that drives what happens in Puerto Rico. Puerto Ricans are choked, restricted, and otherwise made to survive under U.S. imperialism rather than to thrive with full lives in their homeland. As we get into the heart of the album we sense the urgency that Chuwi demands of us. More drums, more pain and justifiable anger. An anger that's well earned. Corre Negro, is a call from the past to la gente negra de Puerto Rico. The ones that have suffered the most under the various forms of colonialism that existed in Puerto Rico and that can guide the new wave of resisters, nationalists, and independistas. Reminding them of the lengths they’ll need to go to for liberation. It's a warning that this time, we know what is coming and we all need to activate. 

Chuwi begins to call our attention to specific conditions and actors that have stripped Boricuas of their libertad. Ay Mío is a direct attack on La Junta y la ley PROMESA. They discuss the Puerto Rican debt incurred by the empire and how regular Puerto Ricans on the archipelago don’t have any say in how they incurred the debt, so they shouldn’t be responsible for it. Cutting public education funding and other austerity measures have worsened conditions for everyday people. They call out previous governors Alejandro Garcia Padilla and Luis Fortuno who worked with then President Obama and have contributed to the thievery. "¡Me robaste la oportunidad!" However, instead of just sitting back, Chuwi describes burning yachts and pursuing the proverbial Julius Caesar (I see you Fiscal Oversight and Management Board) to strip him and the U.S. of their plenary power over the people of Puerto Rico. El Cuco is the personification of the U.S. “intelligence” and espionage here to keep the people in check. El cuco is informed by the tactics and brutality that the U.S. will use to undermine socialist movements in Puerto Rico, the Caribbean and across Latin America. The song also references the September 23rd, 2005 FBI siege on militant nationalist Filiberto Ojeda Rios home Hormigueros, PR where he was assassinated.

Veo Veo is about unlearning past understandings of who you've been told to be and how you evaluate your self-worth. It's about standing firm in your beliefs without the influence of capitalism, white supremacy culture, patriarchy, and heteronormativity. It’s a recognition that our internal sense of self is influenced by the societies we’re in, and therefore, our sense of self can influence the society that we want to create. To liberate and decolonize Puerto Rico, her people also need to free themselves. Decolonize your soul and your mind in order to build a society that doesn’t replicate oppressive systems. Aqui Lo Mío No Es Tuyo feels heavy af. But it's calling us to respond. It's a marching song that we recite on the way to fight. Fight for themselves, their families, and for their "patria." There's a mix of indignant bravery and sadness for the sacrifice that's coming. The ongoing sacrifice of Boricuas is exactly why people feel so proud of their lands and are ready to raise up arms. The song features a clip of nationalist leader Don Pedro Albizu Campos speaking at a rally in 1950, outlining what’s at stake. We hear shots erupt towards the end; the brutality of the oppressor is at its peak.

Maquina starts with references to how people are being displaced from their houses due to paperwork issues despite living on the land for “20, 30 even 80 years.” All of the sudden, the government machine can come in and say, “actually, that land doesn't belong to you, you have to leave.” But it's a fucking machine and we can turn off machines to fix them if they're not working well (although many would argue they are working exactly as intended). If we don't change this material condition, people will continue to be forcibly and violently displaced. It's up to the people to invent new ways of being to avoid being destroyed.

We can and must change the physical, material conditions of Puerto Rico. Chuwi helps us to imagine just what this could look like in Libertad. Public transit that could take you from the west side to the metro area, clean water and air, and no fences blocking access to the beach. We would have everything and there would be no need to leave. But Chuwi reminds us that this isn't just imagination. Not just a dream. It's true libertad. Libertad that we can have. The end reminds us of all of the people who have been fighting for this libertad for all Puerto Ricans. There are references to the people that were massacred in Ponce in 1937 to the imprisonment and experimentation of Don Pedro. They weren’t random people; there were our ancestors, our elders, our great grandparents whose sacrifice cannot be understated. There is . We hear a reference to the Rafael Hernández written track, Preciosa, popularized by proud Nuyorican singer, Marc Anthony. Loren’s anguish as she screams ‘libertad’ over the sound of the bomb that the U.S. dropped during the Jayuya Uprising on October 30th, 1950 gives me chills in ways that Marc’s 14-second ‘libertad’ in Preciosa can’t.

P.T.L. starts with the cuarto-version of the Land of the Free after Rogelio is sent to look for an extra star, or statehood for Puerto Rico. Fireworks explode before the song switches to a boogaloo-esque reminder that true liberty is bread, land, and liberty, or Pan, Tierra, y Freedom, the former PPD slogan popularized before the time of Luis Muños Marín's governorship when he was still an independista, and before the FBI began to pull on his puppet strings. However, this slogan is contextualized to our Puerto Rico today. That libertad is from the U.S. empire, and it's a freedom that Boricuas across the diaspora are called to fight for.