It began as a melody on social media, a catchy tune that ricocheted across platforms and time zones. But for Puerto Ricans, the viral song about their homeland has become something far weightier: a mirror held up to a collective identity. As the track climbs charts, British cultural attachés are dissecting its soft power impact, but the real story lies on the streets of San Juan, in the diaspora’s living rooms, and in the quiet defiance of a people who have long been told their culture is up for grabs.
The song, a fusion of reggaeton and folkloric rhythms, name-checks landmarks like El Morro and the rainforest of El Yunque. Its lyrics weave nostalgia with a sharp edge, referencing the island’s colonial history and the ongoing economic crisis. For many, it is a balm. “It makes me feel seen,” says María, a 34-year-old teacher in Santurce. “We are not just a headline. We are a people with pride.”
Yet the track’s virality has also sparked debate. Some accuse it of sanitising hardship, of offering a palatable version of Puerto Rico for tourist consumption. “It romanticises struggle,” argues Carlos, a community organiser. “But maybe that’s what we need right now. A reminder of what we fight for.”
The British Foreign Office, never one to miss a soft power play, has noted the song’s reach. A leaked memo describes it as “a cultural asset with diplomatic potential”, citing its ability to humanise Puerto Rico in global discourse. But such analysis risks missing the point. This is not a strategy. It is a cry.
What strikes me most is the generational divide. Older Puerto Ricans hear the song and recall the jíbaro music of their youth. Younger listeners remix it, layering trap beats over the chorus of “¡Yo soy boricua!” In London’s Puerto Rican enclave, a group of second-generation immigrants gather to film their own version, cell phones raised like torches. “Our parents left the island, but the island never left us,” says Elena, 22. “This song feels like a homecoming without a flight.”
The British cultural attachés might frame this as an example of “informal diplomacy”, a tool for building bridges. But ask the man in the street, and he will tell you: the song is not a bridge. It is a wall, a fortress of sound against the tide of erasure. It is the sound of a people refusing to be a footnote.
As the track continues to spread, its fate will be decided not by memos but by the hearts it has already touched. Puerto Rico has long been a source of inspiration, a wellspring of music and art. Now, with this song, the island has given itself a gift: an anthem for the age of displacement. And that is a soft power no diplomat can quantify.
