When the Caribbean sun of Hispaniola first burned the backs of those African Black bodies, a wound was opened. Sugar Island reminds us that this scar still hurts; more than 500 years later, the echoes of colonization continue to resonate. Rarely has Dominican cinema looked so rigorously at a past that cannot be shaken off. The reflection in the mirror is painfully difficult, and we prefer escapism so the mind can drift elsewhere. From that uncomfortable place, Johanné Gómez Terrero constructs a powerful narrative painted on a hypnotic, color-drenched canvas.

Makenya (Yelidá Díaz) lives in a batey with her mother and grandfather; the sugarcane fields are the limits of her world. An unexpected pregnancy breaks the thread of adolescence and confronts her with the harsh reality of an impending premature adulthood. Through Makenya’s eyes, Sugar Island immerses us in multiple discourses: social struggle, colonial legacy, spirituality, and family drama. In its first part, the film seems to want to cover too much, which can weaken its narrative, but we soon realize everything integrates subtly. The visual composition enchants us, and through symbolism, the film makes us feel a sense of inherited pain as its protagonist searches for her identity.

With the same force that machetes cut through sugarcane, Sugar Island strikes us with its music and colors. Sweet like sugar, but heavy like the harvest. To the rhythm of gagá, we embark on an allegorical journey that fuses fiction and reality. The master–slave dynamic is transformed, but not erased; the overseer remains on horseback as a figure of oppression, an endless cycle of poverty and impossible social barriers. The film demands audience participation; stepping outside of it is not an option.

Between cane and sweat, Sugar Island turns the batey into a symbol of resistance, a place where the past still pulses strongly. The burden of those first enslaved people who arrived on Dominican soil still weighs on Makenya’s shoulders. That silent memory is passed from generation to generation, and Johanné Gómez Terrero reminds us that Dominican identity was built on wounds that are still open. Hidden amid songs and rituals, the film’s discourse speaks to us of the invisible chains that continue to tighten with force.