Yunior García Aguilera – Translating Cuba

A Book Rescues the Memory of More Than 600 Victims of Forced Disappearance in Cuba

Historian Daniel I. Pedreira exposes how Castroism literally erased those who opposed it.

Images of Andrew de Graux Villafaña, a US citizen on his father’s side, who joined the Escambray guerrillas to fight against Castroism. / Martí Noticias

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, July 11, 2025 — In Los desaparecidos del castrismo, Cuba desde 1959 (The Disappeared of Castroism, Cuba since 1959), historian Daniel I. Pedreira delivers a work as painful as it is essential. Against the tide of silence imposed by the Cuban regime, Pedreira delves into one of the darkest and least documented aspects of the Island’s contemporary history: the forced disappearance of citizens opposed to Fidel Castro’s regime.

Through more than 600 cases, the author exposes how Castroism has used disappearances as a tool of repression and social control, publicly denying their existence while threatening and persecuting those who try to clarify the truth. Pedreira stresses that the majority of the victims were young people, which represents not only a human tragedy but also a mutilation of the future of the Cuban nation. The book aims to rescue their memory, break the imposed silence and pave the way for justice and national reconciliation.

The work is based on collaboration with organizations such as Archivo Cuba, the Instituto de la Memoria Histórica Cubana contra el Totalitarismo and the Asociación de Familiares de Cubanos Desaparecidos, as well as key witnesses. Despite the impossibility of accessing official documents of the regime, the author has managed to gather a solid basis of evidence with historical, judicial and forensic value. Pedreira hopes the book will reach international human rights institutions in order to dismantle the official narrative of continue reading

Castroism and raise awareness about the magnitude of the phenomenon. Its publication and presentation in Miami, at the Encuentro Internacional con el Libro Cubano Exiliado, on July 19-20, marks a milestone in documenting the human cost of repression on the Island.

The author has managed to gather a solid basis of evidence with historical, judicial and forensic value

Far from being limited to political denunciation, the author builds a solid investigation that disproves the myth that ideological regimes like the Cuban do not commit extrajudicial crimes or systematic disappearances. Pedreira reveals how the absolute control of institutions has allowed Castroism to literally erase those who oppose it, often without leaving a physical or documentary trace.

One of the most moving cases is that of Andrew de Graux Villafaña, a young guerrilla fighter who, at just 18 years old, was wounded, captured and eventually disappeared by the regime’s forces. The history, reconstructed from family and medical testimonies, exposes the machinery of concealment and dehumanization that characterizes this type of regime. The tireless struggle of his sister Mary Louise, even decades later, is a symbol of moral resistance to institutionalized oblivion.

Pedreira delves into one of the darkest and least documented aspects of the Island’s contemporary history / Courtesy

The work also includes the names and stories of other missing persons such as the brothers Pedrozo and Becerra, Orlando Collazo, Lázaro Fernández, Carlos M. Ibáñez and Alberto Sigas. Each case, accurately and respectfully reported, contributes to a portrait of collective pain that has been systematically silenced.

Pedreira points out that disappearances continue in present-day Cuba, either through direct repression or as a result of the conditions imposed by the dictatorship, which forces thousands of people to migrate along dangerous routes. Young people recruited for wars by others, migrants who disappeared at sea or in the jungle, citizens who never reached their destination: all of them are victims of a system that continues to take lives.

One of the book’s great successes is its dual approach. On the one hand, it provides concise data -dates, names, places- making it an invaluable source for researchers, historians, lawyers and human rights defenders. On the other, it does not forget the human component. Each entry is an act of memory, a symbolic tombstone for those who did not have a burial.

Disappearances continue in present-day Cuba, either through direct repression or as a result of the conditions imposed by the dictatorship.

The work is also part of a wider tradition of recovering historical memory in dictatorial contexts, as happened in former East Germany or in the Latin American Southern Cone.

Pedreira recognizes the limitations imposed by the regime’s permanence in power, but he establishes an ethical and historiographical starting point for the future.

The Disappeared of Castroism is a necessary book. Not only for its documentary contribution, but because it rescues from oblivion those whom the regime wanted to erase. With this work, Pedreira returns a face, voice and dignity to hundreds of Cubans who disappeared because they dreamed of a different country. As the author warns, many of them were young people, representatives of “the Cuba of the future,” and with them, a part of that future also disappeared.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Sandro, Grandson of Fidel Castro: Condemn Me, Instagram Will Absolve Me

The hardliners (Taliban) of the Cuban regime cannot stand that the young man displays the contradictions of the system

The ’influencer’ grandson mocks the Electric Union with a Yankee flag at his back. / Screen capture / Instagram

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, July 5, 2025 — The orthodoxy of Castroism has unleashed a strong offensive against the most viral grandson of Fidel Castro, founder of the oldest dictatorship in Latin America. Sandro Castro has gained more than 100,000 followers on Instagram for brazenly demonstrating the strong contrasts in today’s Cuba. While most suffer blackouts, shortages and hardships, a privileged few like him will never know the words sacrifice or effort. His main sin has been to break a golden rule in his family: enjoy and shut up.

Yuliet Teresa Villares, communication coordinator at the Martin Luther King Jr., Memorial Center, suggests in a publication that Sandro is an “unpunished shithead”. The propagandist Pedro Jorge Velázquez -nicknamed El Necio – calls him an “ideological enemy” on X. Ernesto Limia, vice-president of the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba, publishes a pamphlet on Facebook, fills it with appointments to cover his back, and finally releases it: “Sandro is an idiot.” Immediately the former spy Gerardo Hernández Nordelo, high priest of the monitoring committees, blesses his post with an “amen.”

Pedro Jorge Velázquez – nicknamed El Necio – calls him an “ideological enemy” on X

Sandro is the son of Alexis Castro Soto del Valle, the eldest of five sons of Fidel and Dalia. The boy’s mother, Rebecca Arteaga, has been a faithful observer of the family golden rule and keeps a low profile.

The boy assaulted his own Moncada four years ago, when he posted pictures with his girlfriend pressing the throttle of a Mercedes Benz, “one of the toys I had at home.” After a boxing of ears, he offered apologies publicly, although behind his words he seemed to say: Condemn me, it doesn’t matter, Instagram will absolve me. continue reading

Curiously, the same people who now want to burn him at the stake of the Fidelist inquisition go in procession to the center that treasures the relics of the Commander, to venerate the armored Mercedes Benz model 500 SEL that “the first of his name” used for two decades to drive through his estates.

Sandro is the broken mirror of a political project that swore to create the “New Man” and has ended up generating an influencer who mocks the Electric Union with the Yankee flag at his back. He owns a bar, never strays from a cold Cristal beer and is a fan of vampires. Perhaps it was Sandro who enlightened the official Alexis Triana to get in Spain a copy in good condition of the film Vampires in Havana. Before the media grandson made reference to a film that the Cuban Institute of Art and Film Industry had not been able to preserve, the skilled squire Triana stepped forward.

“Ah, but look at Fidel Antonio Castro Smirnov, so discreet, so intelligent, so committed”

To prove that he does not have a genetic defect, the ultra-fidelistas compare Sandro to one of his cousins. They say: “Ah, but look at Fidel Antonio Castro Smirnov, so discreet, so intelligent, so committed”. Smirnov is the son of a Russian woman with Fidel Ángel Castro Díaz-Balart — Fidelito, the second of his name — who threw himself from a fifth floor window in 2018. Smirnov, unlike Sandro, was trained outside Cuba. His passion is not for Cristal; it is for cigars. He is not attracted to vampires but to parachuting. His partner is not an instagrammer, she is a presenter of the television program Cuadrando la caja: Marxlenin Pérez. What conservatives like about him is his silence.

The anger of the “loyalists” has exploded because Sandro disassembles all their rhetoric and represents what they will never be. El Necio and Limia may become mere propagandists, perhaps with minor privileges, perhaps with the possibility of reaching some position within the nomenclature. But they will never be untouchable. They belong to a lower caste, like Carlos Lage, Felipe Pérez Roque and Alejandro Gil. They will taste the honey of power as long as they are useful, and if the power in the shadows decides to discard them, it will do so without a blink of an eye.

Limia did not say “I can’t speak out of turn” when Raul’s grandson-bodyguard ran over a 19-year-old girl with impunity

Attacking Sandro seems easy. Comparing him with Smirnov too. The one the Taliban will never mention is Raúl Castro’s favorite grandson: El Cangrejo (The Crab). Raúl Guillermo Rodríguez Castro – son of Débora Castro Espín and the late López-Calleja – makes Sandro look like a commoner.

Limia did not say “I can’t speak out of turn” when Raúl’s grandson-bodyguard ran over a 19-year-old girl and her young son with impunity on April 23, 2022. He will never dare to question his videos shot on luxury yachts singing “I’m a Playboy model.” El Necio – whose nickname fits perfectly with his scarce talent – will never dedicate a measly criticism against the most powerful dauphin of Cuban royalty. Opportunists always know where it says “danger.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The ‘Pajama Plan’ and Other Ways to Disappear in Cuba

The euphemisms of dismissals in Cuba

Former Cuban Foreign Minister Felipe Pérez Roque, “dismissed” in 2009, recently seen on the streets of Havana / Facebook / Siro Cuarte

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, June 23,2025 — The Cuban regime, after more than six decades in power, has developed an enormous fondness for the use of euphemisms. Even to dismiss their bureaucrats, ambiguous terms and encrypted phrases are common, as if each token move, rather than a routine partisan maneuver, was a riddle for “the enemy”. And when power is held by force, that enemy can be everywhere, in the streets or within their own ranks.

Also, the graduates of the Ñico López -University of the Communist Party (PCC)- sometimes find it difficult to hit the target when some official note announces the “release” of a Party cadre. Some speculate that there are subtle differences in the language used, which do not mean the same as “duties,” “positions,” “responsibilities,” and “functions.” Each could hide a different cause and effect, as if it were a secret code.

It is here that the parallel euphemisms used in the bread lines and bus stops come into play. If it is a cadre that is promoted to a higher position, on the street it’s called “falling up.” If we never see his face again or hear his name, they have put him on the “pajama plan.” If his dismissal conceals the possibility of an error or a slight suspicion of disloyalty, he was “dethroned.” continue reading

Now the destroying bolt of lightning has hit Roberto Morales Ojeda, although he did not inherit the official title of “second secretary”

During the years 2011 to 2021, the person in charge of “enthroning” was José Ramón Machado Ventura, number two of the PCC’s Central Committee, after Raúl Castro. Now the destroying bolt of lightning is in the hands of Roberto Morales Ojeda, although he did not inherit the official title of “second secretary,” which Machado intends to keep symbolically and for life. The royal hierarchies of power in Cuba are today an undecipherable puzzle.

From his position as head of Organization and Cadre Policy, Morales is responsible for boxing ears, offering promotions and cutting off heads, but some decisions are made over his head.

The year 2024 was his year of glory. He moved his chips in at least seven provinces, replaced three ministers and swept away two deputy prime ministers. Bald and discreet like his predecessor, Morales passes the sword quietly and opportunely. If there is any scandal in sight, the cadre in question must be kept in place at all costs. No “giving weapons to the enemy” or pleasing the dissatisfied plebs. Then, when the waters calm down and no one expects it, the time will come to settle accounts. The best example is, perhaps, Alpidio Alonso -Minister of Culture-,who has survived in office against the current and without any favorable result. They must wait for an independent newspaper to mention him, then “release” him from his responsibilities.

It is necessary to be absolutely inexpressive, repress any aspiration to occupy first place and avoid standing out at all costs

The one in charge of putting someone on the throne must meet some basic requirements. It is necessary to be absolutely inexpressive, repress any aspiration to occupy first place and avoid standing out at all costs. Charisma is a remnant of the era of Fidel Castro, skillfully exterminated by his younger brother. Raúl took it upon himself to annihilate that generation of screamers that emerged during the Battle of Ideas and the Open Forums. Now is the time for Machado’s pupils: disciplined 50-year-olds, preferably mediocre and without any oratory skills.

Some of the cadres removed in 2024 were relocated to other provinces or to the higher structure of the Central Committee. But not all. Luis Antonio Torres Iribar -former first secretary of the PCC in Havana- was “released” in April with the semantic novelty of a “renewal,” something that was not used in other provincial releases. Although he maintains activity on Facebook and X, his agenda is in deadlock: he only shares institutional publications, and no new posts appear on his profiles.

The phrase “release for renewal” was also used in the cases of two other dismissed ministers: Elba Rosa Pérez Montoya -Science, Technology and Environment- and Manuel Santiago Sobrino Martínez -Food Industry. The first one has no profile on X. The second one does, but he hasn’t published anything since 2022. No official media has mentioned them again. Journalists in the State apparatus soon learn not to dig into the names of any released cadres.

“Committed errors in the performance of his duties”

The one seen a few weeks ago was Jorge Luis Perdomo Di-Lella, former deputy prime minister. He appeared for two seconds in the Noticiero del Mediodía, in a report on a tribute to Fidel Castro, where his widow and some of his children were also present. The official note of Perdomo’s dismissal used the expression “removal from office,” and added something worse: “he committed errors in the performance of his duties.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The Battle of El Uvero, a Simple Skirmish Turned Into an Epic

The Revolution has been an expert in turning defeats into victories – that is, in lying – and in exaggerating its triumphs, however small they may have been.

The survivors, including Fidel Castro, took refuge in the Sierra Maestra, where they began to reorganize and recruit new members. / EFE

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, May 30, 2025 — On May 28, 1957, in a far-off nook of the Sierra Maestra known as El Uvero, a skirmish took place that the official Cuban narrative has elevated to the altars of revolutionary epic. Historians of the regime describe it as “heroic,” and Díaz-Canel insists that today’s youth view it as a battle of titans, aware that many of them are more familiar with Marvel movies than with Cuban history itself.

The Revolution has shown remarkable skill in transforming defeats into victories—essentially, in distorting the truth—and inflating even the smallest triumphs. The battle of El Uvero has been portrayed as a turning point, the coming of age of the fledgling Rebel Army, and a display of exuberant courage by a few aspiring bearded fighters. Yet, when the events are examined more closely, a less heroic and far more grounded version of that encounter comes into view.

To grasp the true significance of El Uvero, one must situate it within its historical context. In late 1956, the 26th of July Movement suffered a disastrous landing at Alegría de Pío, where the majority of its fighters were either killed or captured. The few survivors—including Fidel Castro—sought refuge in the Sierra Maestra, where they began regrouping and recruiting new members.

What was a military barracks doing there? Primarily, it served to monitor the coastline and secure the area against smuggling. But above all, it was tasked with controlling a modest, makeshift airstrip.

In 1957, El Uvero could scarcely be called a “town” in the conventional sense. It was a fleeting settlement of perhaps fewer than 200 souls (a generous estimate), made up of a handful of shacks, a general store, a rural school that functioned sporadically, and a military barracks housing several dozen of Batista’s uniformed men. What was a military barracks doing there? Primarily, it served to monitor the coastline and secure the area continue reading

against smuggling. But above all, it was tasked with controlling a modest, makeshift airstrip.—useful for resupplying troops or dispatching goods like tobacco and timber, which did, in fact, circulate through the region.

The name hides no secret symbolism or conspiracy theory: simply, the area was rich in trees known as beach grapes (Coccoloba uvifera), which produce small, grape-like fruits. The name wasn’t the brainchild of a revolutionary poet, but rather of farmers with practical botanical acumen.

According to official accounts, the so-called “army” led by Fidel Castro launched an assault on a Batista regime garrison composed of just 53 soldiers. With roughly 80 fighters, the rebels managed to force the surrender of the barracks after nearly three hours of combat. The outcome: seven rebels killed and eight wounded, while government forces sustained 14 fatalities and 19 wounded.

When these figures are placed under scrutiny, an uncomfortable question emerges: can it truly be considered a heroic feat when a numerically superior force, bolstered by the element of surprise, overcomes a smaller, poorly equipped garrison?

In a recent television report, propagandist Gladis Rubio described El Uvero—her voice lofty, set against a swelling soundtrack—as a mighty bastion, complete with “fortresses made from the thick trunks of the oldest trees in the Sierra Maestra.” The flourish of language, however, was a transparent attempt to obscure the actual conditions: a ramshackle wooden barracks, scarcely fortified and feebly defended. She conveniently avoided mentioning the soldiers’ lack of training and the fact that they were taken by surprise. Yet even under such circumstances, it took Castro’s 80 combatants nearly three hours to subdue them.

Revolutionary propaganda has done what it does best: distort reality, creating a narrative that serves political ends more than historical truth.

Today, El Uvero remains a remote and semi-forgotten place, unnamed on Google Maps, only reached after hours of trail and patience.

While the victory was a modest achievement for the rebels, it is difficult to call it a feat. The numerical superiority of the attackers and the limited strategic importance of the barracks undermine any grandiloquence. In military terms, it was more a tactical operation than a decisive battle.

Today, El Uvero remains a remote and largely forgotten spot, unmarked even on Google Maps and accessible only after hours of arduous trail travel—and a good deal of patience. A modest monument commemorates the so-called “battle,” erected by the Revolution to ensure that the site wouldn’t fade from official memory, unlike so many others that never drew the glare of television cameras. A rural school bears a date as its name—a common stand-in when imagination runs short—and here and there, faded graffiti still clings to walls, quoting Fidel or Raúl. As for the uvero trees themselves, few have survived; coastal erosion and years of neglect have quietly erased them.

Díaz-Canel, however, seems desperate to claim—at the very least—his own Uvero. The gray-haired, clean-shaven successor can’t even muster a Pyrrhic victory. With the population teetering on collapse, the nation unraveling, and generals clamoring for a flicker of hope or a miracle, the hand-picked president might have no choice but to call on Gladis Rubio again—to craft a pseudo-poetic report extolling the monumental feat of… a lineman, perhaps?

Translated by Gustavo Loredo

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‘If It’s a Strike, Then It Is Counterrevolution,’ Warned the Rector of the University of Havana

An audio recording reveals Miriam Nicado García’s pressure to get students to abandon their protest against Etecsa’s rate hike.

Nicado is a deputy in the National Assembly of People’s Parties (ANPP), a member of the Council of State, a member of the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC), and former rector of the University of Cuenca (UCI). / Cuba.cu Portal

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 17 June 2025 — The recently leaked audio recording of a meeting between the rector of the University of Havana, Miriam Nicado García, and students dissatisfied with the so-called ‘Tarifazo’ — the rate hike from Etecsa, the State telecommunications monopoly– not only confirms youth discontent with an arbitrary measure, but also gives voice—and tone—to the authoritarian model of top-down pedagogy masked by the rhetoric of “unity and dialogue.”

Nicado is not a mere academic administrator. She is a deputy in the National Assembly of People’s Power, a member of the Council of State, a member of the Communist Party, and the former rector of the University of Informatics Sciences (UCI), an emblematic center of technological control and loyalty to power. In other words, she is an official of the regime, located in one of the country’s key institutions: the University of Havana, the historic cradle of Cuban critical thought.

It begins with economic technicalities, continues with condescension and ends with veiled threats.

The audio, which has gone viral on social media, shows a debate that begins with economic technicalities, continues with condescension, and ends with veiled threats. A story that many students, especially the bravest ones, know by heart. “If you don’t come to class, you don’t receive classes,” Nicado says in a calm but implacable voice. “If it’s a strike, then it’s counterrevolution.”

Thus, bluntly, the university’s highest authority equates a student civic action with “treason.” The students’ demand was clear: that the Etecsa rate hike be explained transparently, that space be given to criticism and real dialogue, not institutional monologue. The response: emotional blackmail, ideological disqualification, and the insinuation of punishment. continue reading

“Do not come to class until this dialogue becomes a reality.”

The demand of Amalia Díaz Pérez, president of the FEU (University of Havana) Faculty of Philosophy, History, and Sociology, was respectful, articulate, and, above all, legitimate: “As this is a problem that not only affects students but the entire population, our position as the University of Havana must also be aligned with that.” And the applause shook the walls when she stated her position: “Do not come to class until this dialogue becomes a reality.”

But Nicado prefers to crush any fissure rather than engage in genuine dialogue. What follows in her remarks sounds like something from an interrogation at State Security’s Villa Marista, not a university campus.

The rector anticipates any protest: “I have some information here,” she says, and pulls out a supposed rumor of a demonstration like a card up her sleeve. No one has said anything, but she already has the accusation ready. The method is familiar: discredit before the adversary speaks. Fabricate the threat to justify the control. She never clarifies who gave her this information, although multiple students have already reported the disproportionate presence of State Security agents inside the universities.

The paradox is that this exile they call the enemy is the one they are forcing to save their socialist enterprise.

“We can’t play into the hands of those who want to see us in the streets or those who want to see us protesting,” Nicado declares, always referring to an external enemy. The paradox is that this exile they call an enemy is the one they are forcing to save their socialist enterprise by sending phone and internet recharges — in US dollars — to their families on the island.

The rector hides behind technocratic language—numbers, clusters, percentages—to disguise what is essentially an imposition as a “rational explanation.” She says, with the tone of someone who has memorized her lesson well, that Etecsa relied on “arithmetic logic” to set rates, even though “this has a social cost.”

Nicado’s presence on the Council of State is not for show. It signals that she is aware of—and involved in—the decisions that affect the lives of millions of Cubans. That’s why she resorts to the same demagoguery: first, she sweet-talks the students by talking about “culture and intelligence,” and then she fires off the words “blackmail” and “division.” Her rhetoric is classic Cuban power. She talks about transparency while censoring and repressing any dissent. She offers dialogue, but only if the questions don’t bother her.

More and more young people are deciding to raise their voices.

The leaked audio is not an isolated incident. It joins a series of spontaneous expressions of discontent from universities, workplaces, and neighborhoods that are beginning to break through the wall of official silence. More and more young people are deciding to speak out. The fact that they do so in a classroom, in front of a rector, without insults or empty slogans, shows that fear no longer completely paralyzes them. The fact that those in power respond with threats disguised as pedagogy is a sign that the legitimacy of the system is cracking.

For now, Nicado remains in her position. Her voice, at least in the audio, sounds confident, even maternal. But beneath that confidence, one senses the cracks of an authority that is beginning to be questioned.

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‘Sórdida Tropical’: Carlos Lechuga Writing Without Apologies

Carlos Lechuga presents his most insolent novel in Madrid

Unlike many Cuban intellectuals who graduate from Literature with a torrent of readings, Lechuga is a child of cinema; he learned more to watch than to read. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 9 June 2025 — Madrid/ Carlos Lechuga presented Sórdida Tropical this Saturday at Arenales, the Madrid bookstore that has become something of a spiritual embassy for the Cuban creative exile. Published by Hypermedia, ‘Sórdida Tropical’ is not exactly his latest novel, but rather his first—one he wrote almost a decade ago and which slept the sleep of innocent beasts until the world, or at least a part of it, was once again ready to read it.

Because Sórdida Tropical, as Ulises Padrón Suárez pointed out in the presentation, is incorrect to the core. Tropical, yes. Sordid, of course. And completely cancelable if it were read by a neo-Puritan reading committee.

The novel drags us through a Havana that reeks of sweat, decadence, stale ideology, and the New Man.

Narrated in the first person—because Lechuga doesn’t know how or want to do it any other way—the novel sweeps us through a Havana that reeks of sweat, decadence, stale ideology, and the New Man. Its protagonist, a nameless, unfiltered man, is misogynistic, fetishistic, racist, sexually predatory, and culturally opportunistic. He seeks excitement in the armpits of the tropics while the city, and an entire country, burns around him. continue reading

Lechuga, born in Havana in 1983, is best known for his films: Melaza (2012), Santa y Andrés (2016, censored by the regime), and Vicenta B (2022), his most intimate work. But he has also demonstrated a keen eye with his pen. If not, just ask those who read ’En brazos de la mujer casada’ (2000) or his most recent essay-novel, ’Esta es tu casa, Fidel’ (2024), where he already warned that his goal was to speak clearly, without unnecessary nuances.

Unlike many Cuban intellectuals who graduate from Literature with a torrent of readings, Lechuga is a child of cinema; he learned to watch more than to read. He studied at the Faculty of Audiovisual Communication (Famca) and the International School of Film and Television of San Antonio de los Baños. Perhaps that is why his prose is visual, sharp, without makeup or academic posturing.

“This book must be kept for ten years”

The story behind Sórdida Tropical is a good enough story for another novel. The manuscript was initially rejected by a Spanish publisher who, somewhat panicking, told him: “This book needs to be kept for ten years.” Perhaps she feared that, in a world where even Sleeping Beauty has been criticized for a stolen kiss, someone might mistake the author for his character.

But Lechuga isn’t his nameless protagonist. He doesn’t walk the streets ignoring what he’s stepping on, nor has he needed any ’levers’ to create. More than once, he’s taken the plunge and suffered the corresponding chill of an artist who dares to get wet in an authoritarian context.

The novel oozes references: Guillermo Rosales’s Boarding Home, the dirty fatalism of Pedro Juan Gutiérrez, the tropical existentialism of Desnoes. Lechuga, however, doesn’t seek to imitate anyone. His strength lies in the brazenness with which he writes, in the way he “strips” the sentences and leaves the reader like the characters: vulnerable and “bare-bones.” It’s a kind of literary OnlyFans, but with more neurosis than simple raw meat.

Lechuga has said that he wrote the novel in the midst of the crisis

At one point, Sórdida Tropical was called Nebula, and also Burn Havana, Burn It All. And not for pure effect: this novel is an emotional, cultural, and aesthetic burning. A release without anesthesia that brings out the rot that many prefer to ignore.

Lechuga has said he wrote it in the midst of a crisis: exiled from the cinema, sleeping on his mother’s couch, and with a fierce need to say everything. That is why the book burns. That is why he doesn’t ask permission or offer explanations.

Some might say there’s nothing new under the sun, but the context in which this novel is published elevates the risk. This book of protest—or proteXXXta, as Lechuga calls it—was not born in a time when the brashness of the intruder is celebrated, but in one where the market assumes new moral rules. And its courage doesn’t lie in defending horror; on the contrary, it lies in not sweeping it under the rug.

Welcome, Sórdida Tropical. A book to be read in one gulp, with an arched eyebrow and a fan in the background. It’s not meant to decorate your bookshelf: it’s meant to be handled, discussed, and perhaps—if you’re not afraid of fire—read again.

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The Cuban Regime Dismisses Citizen Protests Against Etecsa’s Rate Hike, ‘el Tarifazo’

Díaz-Canel justifies the increase in internet prices: “I see it as a tactical retreat.”

Díaz-Canel categorically denied any conflict with the students. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 5 June 2025 — The podcast “Desde la presidencia,” [From the Presidency] broadcast this Thursday on the State TV’s Round Table program, confirmed what was already evident: the absolute disconnection of the Cuban regime’s bureaucracy from the debates and real demands of the citizenry. It took Miguel Díaz-Canel a week to address the crisis following the unpopular Etecsa rate increases for phone and internet service. And he did so by repeating the same justifications of the last few days and making it clear that, if there are changes, they will be minimal, because the essentials remain the same. “If we don’t apply them, we would be very close to technological collapse,” he said of the controversial rates.

Faced with widespread criticism that the thirteenfold increase and disguised dollarization of the state-run telecommunications monopoly’s rates had come at the worst possible time, the president’s response was a gem of political cynicism: “There’s never been a better time.” And as if that weren’t enough, he added: “I see it as a tactical retreat. We were moving forward and forward, we have to stop and step back a bit, accumulate what we need, so as not to deny the development we need in the immediate present and in the future.”

To support the new rates, the officials accompanying the president, the Vice Minister of Communications, Ernesto Rodríguez Hernández, and the president of Etecsa, Tania Velázquez, provided a wealth of technical data, including a graph showing revenues—on a downward slope—and data consumption, crossing in the opposite direction. Among the most striking data was the number of radio base stations, of which there are 5,600 on the island, half of which lack power backup.

Among the most striking data was that of the radio bases, of which there are 5,600 on the Island, half of them without power backup.

“Today, depending on its design, a base station connects between 900 and 3,000 people. So, when it goes down, we’re talking about 3,000 users immediately losing connection, losing communication,” Velázquez specified. Purchasing a new one costs $100,000, she said, “and that’s money we don’t have available. Neither to replace nor to expand coverage, continue reading

for example, in 4G, which only covers 50% of the country and 50% of the population.”

There’s also the shortage of battery banks, she added. About 2,800 are needed to replace damaged ones, but each one costs $1,500. Adding to the total, there are 25,000 landline telephones that have been without service for six months because there is no money to repair them, and new cell phones can’t be sold because of a shortage of SIM cards.

With this litany of shortcomings, what is inexplicable, not to say negligent, is the failure to plan investments in time to reverse the situation. But Díaz-Canel, as if the problem had just arrived, said that the rate increase is something that “we are obliged to take if we want—and it is what we want—to save, first and foremost, a basic service for the population, and one essential for advancing the country’s digital transformation.”

Knowing, however, that the population is up in arms against this colossal blow—which is occurring at the same time they are seeing more and more hotels being built that are never filled—he offered, in his own way, a meager apology. “It is necessary to recognize where we have failed in communicating or designing them,” he admitted regarding the new measures. And in a seemingly conciliatory manner, he said: “The leadership of the Revolution will never shy away from dialogue with the people, because our reason for being is precisely to serve the people.”

“The leadership of the Revolution will never shy away from dialogue with the people, because our reason for being is precisely to serve the people.”

In recent days, the internal fracture these measures have caused within the state apparatus itself has been laid bare. This isn’t just about ETECSA. The decisions were pushed by the head of government, Manuel Marrero Cruz, and blessed since late 2024 by the leadership of the Cuban Communist Party (PCC). But, faced with popular fury, both Díaz-Canel and Marrero preferred to throw the company’s executives into the crossfire, using them as a shield.

And yet, the rift opened. Last Saturday, from his Facebook wall, the very official Ernesto Limia Díaz—vice president of the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba (UNEAC) and a trusted essayist of the regime—publicly attacked the prime minister. He began his message by aligning himself with Díaz-Canel, whom he called “our president” and showering him with praise for his actions during previous crises. But then he mentioned Marrero—without titles or affection—and demanded that he show his face. In an unexpected outburst, he wrote that it was he who should “undo wrongs,” blaming him directly for the rate increase.

His courage didn’t last long. After Roberto Morales Ojeda—known as the “guillotine of cadres” within the PCC—posted a call to “close ranks,” Limia reversed course. In his new post , with a melancholic tone and barricade-like vocabulary, he spoke of “shooting ourselves in the foot,” blamed “Marco Rubio and the Batista clique,” and asked, with selective memory: “Strikes for what?” The story, apparently, weighs more than 6 GB.

La Manigua Telegram Group, home to the most radical and violent sectors of the ruling party. / Screenshot

The Cuban student rebellion, however, has already crossed the Atlantic. Even the podcast La Base—a sanctuary of former Spanish leader Pablo Iglesias—devoted a special episode to the topic. The only interviewee from the island, paradoxically, was not a student, but Ernesto Teuma, a member of the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC). His testimony was equally damning: he acknowledged that the current bureaucracy, “in the absence of Fidel, has failed to build itself with a new generation of leaders.” The comrade’s statement left the presenters speechless, after almost an hour of prelude heavy on nostalgic sentimentality and external justifications.

In the podcast broadcast by Cuban Television, the president of Etecsa acknowledged that limiting consumption to 6 GB was a deliberate strategy to push customers to seek international top-ups. It is precisely this diaspora, denied the right to express their opinions and accused of spreading “scurrilous ideas,” that the state monopoly intends to exploit even further to keep its finances afloat.

For his part, Díaz-Canel categorically denied any conflict with the students. He said the photos, videos, and testimonies circulating on social media about the academic strike—without ever mentioning the word “strike”—are manipulations by “counterrevolutionary hate platforms.” But university channels themselves have published minutes, communications, and interventions that contradict the president. The strike is a fact, as is the call for the resignation of the leaders of the University Student Federation, accused of not representing anyone who doesn’t wear an official guayabera.

In the Telegram group La Manigua, the cradle of the most radical and violent sectors of the ruling party, user Yuri Aguiar Luna published a warning this Thursday that seems to reflect the preference of some sectors of the regime for repression rather than dialogue: “I’m reminding some of the kids at MatCom (Faculty of Mathematics and Computing) that yesterday, June 4, was the anniversary of Tiananmen.”

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Abraham Maciques Has Died: The Architect of a Parallel Economy That Kept Castroism Afloat

Maciques retired as he lived: without fuss, but with the certainty that his legacy had the friendship of Dalia Soto del Valle / Más Cuba

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 29 May 2025 — One of the most powerful and discreetly feared men of Castroism has died: Abraham Maciques Maciques, the great administrator behind the scene. He was 95 years old and survived almost all the purges of Castroism. He died this Wednesday in Havana, after more than six decades of juggling currency, hotels, congresses and financial fugitives.

Maciques was not a minister, nor a general nor an ideologue. He was something more useful: a precision gear in the economic machinery of the regime. A bureaucrat with a head for business, without bragging or proclaiming anything, he wove networks of power through entities like Cubalse, Cubanacán S.A. and the all-powerful Palco Business Group, from where he pulled strings for the millionaires.

He was born in 1930, in Matanzas, to a family of Jewish origin. At the end of the 50s, he was a minor sub-delegate of Tourism in his province, when he crossed paths with a young bearded man who promised to redeem Cuba by shooting left and right. The chemistry was instantaneous. Fidel Castro sent him to the Ciénaga de Zapata to settle a minor matter with coal miners, and there he was surprised by the invasion of the Bay of Pigs. The fright became confidence, and the bond with Fidel and Celia Sánchez was forged. continue reading

A bureaucrat with a head for business, without bragging or proclaiming, he wove networks of power through entities like Cubalse, Cubanacán S.A. and the all-powerful Palco Business Group

From then on, Maciques became part of that small circle that did not need a uniform to exercise power. He presided over Cubalse – a kind of exclusive consumer holding for the nomenklatura – directed the construction of the Palace of Conventions and ended up as tsar of Cubanacán S.A., the spearhead of Cuban tourism in the 80s.

It was precisely at this time that Havana became the refuge of one of the most famous financial scammers of the 20th century: Robert L. Vesco, alias the pirate banker, a fugitive from the American justice system and star of the regime. “We don’t care what he did in America. We only care about his money,” said Fidel, words that should be chiseled into marble at the entrance to the Ministry of the Interior.

Vesco landed, grew a beard so he would fit in and called himself Tom Adams, as if that would erase his record. From Palco, with Maciques as a silent partner, they set up a network that included Donald Nixon Jr. – nephew of former President Richard Nixon – and José Antonio Fraga Castro – nephew of Fidel and director of Labiofam – to promote a miraculous HIV vaccine called Troxidal. They invested $30 million. It did not cure anything, but they made history: the fraud ended with Vesco sentenced in 1996 to 13 years in prison in Cuba. Maciques, of course, came out unscathed. Fidel took care of his own, especially if they knew how to keep quiet.

Maciques handled, for decades, what might be called institutionalized elitism

From his throne in Palco, Maciques handled, for decades, what could be called institutionalized elitism: exclusive hotels, houses for diplomats, restaurants invisible to the ordinary Cuban, free zones, special services for foreign companies. Palco was a lucky country within the country, a Cuba without blackouts or lines, reserved for those who were well connected.

The Soviet collapse turned those operations into pure gold. While the people lined up for bread, Maciques administered currency, international connections and incentive packages for foreign delegations. His real position never appeared in the Official Gazette, but his power was tangible: anyone who wanted to move money or set up a fat business deal had to go through him or stay out.

In June 2021, when the generals began to shake up the “historical founders without uniform,” Maciques was silently dismissed by Prime Minister Manuel Marrero Cruz. Palco was partially absorbed by Gaesa, the military emporium that devours what remains of the national economy. There was no scandal, only a dry official notice and discreet relief. Maciques retired as he lived: without fuss, but with the certainty that his legacy had the friendship of Dalia Soto del Valle, the widow of the first Castro.

The death of Maciques does not close a chapter: it closes a library

Miguel Díaz-Canel, in his usual necrological tone of ungracious official, lamented the loss and praised his “collaboration with Fidel and Celia,” as if he were remembering the receptionist of a hotel. Palco, for its part, dismissed him with honors, recognizing him as a “founder and essential figure.” No one said what he really was: the architect of a parallel economy that kept Castroism afloat when everything else was falling apart.

The death of Maciques does not close a chapter: it closes a library. He was a man who understood better than anyone else the Cuban alchemy of mixing ideology with business, confidentiality with privilege, revolution with reserve. He survived it all: Celia, Fidel, the sanctions, Vesco, sex tourism, blackouts, reforms, the Castro nephews and Gaesa itself.

His tombstone will say that he was the “founder of Palco.” In reality, he was something else: the steward of Castroism, but without the keys to the safe.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Something That Has Deeply Affected Cuban Literature Is Fear

Leonardo Padura presented his book this Wednesday at La Mistral, a few meters from the Puerta del Sol in Madrid / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior Garcia Aguilera, Madrid, 22 May 2025 — Madrid starts the week in full swing with Cuban literature. On Tuesday, Carlos Celdran presented his book -with two plays- at the Arenales bookstore. A day later, Roberto Carcassés presented his first novel at El Argonauta, while Leonardo Padura attended the presentation of Un camino de medio siglo: Alejo Carpentier y la narrativa de lo real maravilloso, at La Mistral. Despite the coincidence, the audience filled all the seats.

Padura shared a table with Luis Rafael Hernández, director of the publishing house Verbum, and the Spanish critic and professor Fernando Rodríguez Lafuente, former director of the Cervantes Institute. The conversation was a kind of meeting between the living and the dead, a contest between the marvelous and the harshly real, but also a confession of the fears that have accompanied generations of Cuban writers.

Winner of the Princess of Asturias Prize for Literature (2015), Padura does not hide Carpentier’s influence on his work, even though his colleagues joked that every writer should “erase the traces of his referents”. Carpentier himself used to say that “writers should not talk about their masters, so that the seams do not show.

The label of the Latin American boom has also been applied to Borges and Carpentier, without much nuance. The result: theoretical confusion and the lumping together of different literatures. continue reading

In 1978, Padura wrote a review of La consagración de la primavera, which El Caimán Barbudo subtitled “Más realismo que maravilla” (More realism than wonder). “It was already a novel in which the ’marvelous real’ didn’t work in the same way; you had to look at things from a different point of view,” he explained. But critics continued to work with the same aesthetics, the same categories. The label of the Latin American boom was also applied to Borges and Carpentier, without much nuance. The result: theoretical confusion and the lumping together of different literatures.

Padura drew a clear line: magical realism accepts the fantastic as an indistinguishable part of reality; marvelous realism, on the other hand, presents the magical from a logical, almost rational approach.

The research underlying this essay began in the midst of the Special Period, when access to information in Cuba was a titanic task. To write The Man Who Loved Dogs, he had to rely on friends with free Internet access who downloaded PDF files from abroad. “We’re talking about 2006 or 2007. Imagine what it was like before,” he said.

“In the 1990s, I wrote like a madman in order not to go crazy,” he confessed without laughing. And he recalled that when he gave the essay to Carpentier’s widow, “there were things she didn’t like because she was very jealous, very widowed.”

Thanks to this research, he was able to better understand Carpentier’s concept of history, his vision of space and, above all, his interpretation of the concept of revolution, which Padura considers “very saccharine” and with which he admits to disagreeing. He also told an anecdote that illustrates the biographical ambiguity of the author of The Century of Enlightenment: for fear of being deported during the Machado regime, Carpentier claimed to have been born at 14 Maloja Street in Havana, when in fact he was born in Lausanne, Switzerland. “All in all,” added Padura, “he is the most Cuban Swiss-born writer one can imagine.”

“The writers of the 1970s who survived wrote in fear. And later generations have not been completely free of it.”

In addition to Carpentier, the author revealed three other great references: Vargas Llosa, Cabrera Infante – “who taught me to write in the Havana language” – and Manuel Vázquez Montalbán – “who showed that it was possible to write police literature that was, above all, literature”. “I’ve been wanting to write a note for about two years, and I couldn’t do it while Vargas Llosa was alive, because it might seem like I was buttering him up” he joked.

The writer recalled that his years as a student at the university were marked by a power that demanded “a Marxist understanding of history”. In addition, the culture of the island suffered the ostracized death of two “phenomena” of world literature: Virgilio Piñera and Lezama Lima.

“It was very difficult” – Padura admitted – “something that has deeply affected Cuban literature is fear. People wrote with fear. The writers of the 1970s who survived wrote with fear. And later generations have not been completely free of it.”

Translated by Gustavo Loredo

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The Ruins of the Industrial Design Institute in Havana, Metaphor for a Crumbling Country

Of the building built in the 19th century, only the facade remains, hiding rubble and piles of rubbish.

“If you look out at it from San Carlos Street, it seems like a bomb fell on top,” says a neighbor of the ISDi / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Juan Diego Rodríguez/ Yunior García, Havana/Madrid, 13 May 2025 — Although Havana – like almost all of Cuba – is today a catalogue of rubble, it remains particularly painful to see the ruins of what was once the Instituto Superior de Diseño Industrial (ISDi). The facade still resists, while its interior collapses under the weight of abandonment. Among the rubble and piles of garbage, the building sinks into its own history, converted today into a metaphor for a country that is also crumbling.

The remains of the ISDi, behind the fences, have created a microclimate of insalubrity. “One should by now be accustomed to building collapses, but this is impressive,” says Yamila, a former neighbor of the area, in statements to 14ymedio. “From the outside it looks strong, but if you look out at it from San Carlos Street it seems like a bomb fell on top. If this happened with the ISDi, what awaits the rest of this city?”

Yamila is worried about the coming rains. “This is going to become a breeding ground for rats and mosquitoes; look at the neglect there.” Shee is also afraid of another collapse or that the pile of garbage will clog the sewer and cause flooding. “I avoid going through this street at night,” she adds. “Imagine what can occur in the middle of a blackout. Anything could happen here.”

The building, originally a military hotel and club for officers of the Spanish Army, was home to the School of Cadets (1874-1878), the Asylum of continue reading

Widows and Orphans, the barracks of the General Staff during the First American Occupation and the Ministry of Health in 1940. In 1982, it was transformed into the headquarters of the Polytechnic Institute of Industrial Design, the predecessor of the ISDi.

Decades of idleness, poor renovations and lack of maintenance slowly condemned the property / 14ymedio

Its architectural, historical and educational value was unquestionable. But decades of idleness, poor renovations and lack of maintenance slowly condemned the property. In March 2022, the building was closed after an “architectural failure” was detected that endangered students and workers. Then, however, the official press was full of optimism: “The Revolution founded the universities and always accompanied them,” it said, as if words were enough to sustain cracked columns.

That speech fell apart in July 2024, when part of the interior facade collapsed. And in January 2025, another partial collapse left an elderly woman injured and four families without access to their homes. Although there were no fatalities, the symbolic impact was profound: not only was the building sinking but also a promise, an institution and an era.

More accurate were the words of the architect Lourdes Martí, founding rector of the ISDi until 1988, who in 2022 had launched a public complaint:

“What happened during these last 33 years? Was it never maintained again? What architectural fault is it that does not allow the restoration of the building, or part of the building? Do you want to destroy the building or eliminate the training of industrial and information designers? Are we witnessing the end of the country’s industrial development?”

The answer to his questions are not in a technical report but are on the face of Yamila, who looks at the rubble with resignation: “I feel very sorry for the kids who studied there. Do you think this will ever return to what it was? This will likely remain a place that is destroyed, for tourists to take pictures of or people to ’plunder’ little by little. Or they will turn it into a hotel. But it will never be a school again.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Animation in Cuba Needs More Than Russian Cartoons

Three filmmakers reflect on the challenges facing the sector and the urgency of structural change.

Frame of ’Todo por Carlitos’, by Ernesto Piña.

14ymedio, Madrid, Yunior García Aguilera, 11 May 2025 — Following statements by the president of the Cuban Institute of Art and Film Industry (ICAIC), Alexis Triana, on the recent agreements signed with the Russian studios Soyuzmultfilm, 14ymedio gathered the testimonies of three prominent Cuban animators. All agree on an essential point: animation in Cuba needs much more than Russian cartoons to survive.

None of the interviewees questions the quality and legacy of Russian studios. What they regret is the lack of knowledge about the details of the agreement, beyond what has been published in official media. Accustomed to the fact that many agreements are signed without consulting the creators and ultimately end up benefiting mainly the official political discourse, they hope that this time the institution will take advantage of the opportunity to revitalize a sector facing serious obstacles.

Ernesto Piña is one of the most influential contemporary filmmakers in Cuban animation. With works such as Todo por Carlitos, Eme-5, Pubertad and his recent feature film La Super, he has built a style of his own, characterized by a lack of inhibition, an alternative visuality and a Creole humor that mixes influences of the classic Cuban style with foreign references. continue reading

“Many people have emigrated, not only from the country, but also from the animation studios, because the pay is no longer stimulating and life is very hard”

Piña deeply regrets the shortage of qualified personnel: “Many people have emigrated, not only from the country but also from the animation studios, because the pay is no longer stimulating and life is very hard,” he confesses. “It’s hard work to do, no doubt about it, because today everything is done digitally. And although the blackouts affect the provinces more, Havana is also in check.”

On the material conditions, he is blunt: “We have outdated technology, archaic, almost primitive, to make more or less decent products. There is also very little participation in international events because the director cannot be present at all, and there is little knowledge and infrastructure to place these materials on large platforms or move them internationally.”

From Ourense, in Galicia (Spain), where he has been living for three years, director Adrián López Morín continues to create animations. In Cuba he founded the Anima studios, one of the most solid outside the capital. Desde Holguín produced historical short films, video clips and the medium-length film, Abdala, el retorno de los señores de Xibalbá, an ambitious work that combines 2D and 3D techniques.

For López, one of the most serious problems is the lack of vocational training: “A facilitator needs two to five years of specialized training, taking advantage of his skills and complementing them with specific tools. There are very good self-taught animators, but they are the exception, not the rule.”

In his studio, they recruited graduates from the provincial academy of fine arts. However, when the required social service terms for these students expired, the flow of new talent was interrupted. “An experimental short film can be made with four guys,” explains López, “but if you want to develop a more complex product, designed for the international market, you need a minimum team of 15 professional animators.”

About the technology, Lopez is clear: “Even for traditional animation, paper is needed, and that too is scarce. We created cartoons with typewriters. To get into a 3D project you need Nvidia RTX cards or computers with more than 32 GB of RAM. Another issue is software licenses and their pricing. I don’t know how much the technological embargo affects, but there is an institutional fear of investing in something that seems very expensive.”

For him, sustainability is another fundamental stumbling block: “How can we do merchandising in a country like Cuba? How can we make these products profitable? How can we overcome the prejudice against commercialism? Arthouse cinema is great, but not everyone is Juan Padrón*,” he concludes.

One of the most prolific creators today is Vladimir Emilio García Herrera. In 2024, his short film Chimbe was awarded at the TAL (Latin American Television Awards). Although he has worked with the ICAIC and Cuban television, he has opted for independence with his project VLAstudio-Animation Laboratory. Far from complacency, Garcia has taken advantage of his recent visibility to be critical of the state of the sector: “Animation in Cuba is in a chaotic state. We have a great legacy that is about to be lost,” he says.

In the middle of an unusually brief blackout, Garcia reflects: “This job requires that the lights do not go out. I agree that there is a need for technology and specialized training, because it is not just about producing more, but doing it with quality and creating competitive materials.” He also denounces the culture of precariousness: “There are colleagues who, for fear of not being able to carry out their work, negotiate less and less budget. And that is negatively marking the product, conditioning the simplicity of projects.”

Recent years have been marked by growing tensions between film-makers and cultural institutions. To the general deterioration of living conditions are added the cancellation of events, censorship, the exodus of talent, technological obsolescence and a structure that continues to distrust the market, without finding effective mechanisms to distribute or monetize audiovisual production.

Beyond the promises of the president of the ICAIC, the animators continue to create. However, they agree in regretting the little progress in Cuba of tools as useful as artificial intelligence. “AI is here to stay, and not even Hayao Miyazaki can be against that,” said Piña.

*Cuban animation director and comics artist.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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When Propaganda Collides With Freedom

The Con Filo presenter’s visit to Spanish cities has sparked criticism, ridicule, and a necessary consensus among Cuban exiles.

As a history graduate, Fernández should understand that the regime’s setups will never have the weight of a rebellion. / Con Filo

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 10 May 2025 — Since Gabriela Fernández Álvarez—a propagandist for the Cuban regime—began her tour of 12 Spanish cities, her rejection by her exiled compatriots has been clear. But the mediocrity of the official discourse, the inconsistencies of its spokesperson, her lies about the country’s reality, as well as the precariousness of her communication skills, have also been clear.

The organizers and funders of the trip—the State Movement of Solidarity with Cuba—have opted to prohibit Cubans from attending the talks (except for Embassy staff). They are fully aware of the antipathy generated by the television program Con Filo, both on and off the island. This is the first indication of the anti-Cuban nature of these meetings, which demonstrate that the “solidarity” of those organizing them is not with the Cuban people, but exclusively with the ideology that holds power.

Multiple memes about Fernández’s gaffes are circulating on social media, where she says “venemos” instead of “venimos” and claims that Latin America is “one country.” It was already evident—thanks to the videos published by her team—that the presenter is incapable of delivering a complete sentence without having to cut herself short, due to diction errors and difficulty memorizing the script. It’s clear that she wasn’t selected for her talents as a broadcaster, but for her loyalty to a small group of disciples of Iroel Sánchez, the well-known official censor who died two years ago. continue reading

Con Filo did not emerge spontaneously from those young people, its true creator was Iroel Sánchez

The idea for the program didn’t even come spontaneously from those young people. Its true creator was Sánchez, described by his own compañeros as an “extremist” and leader of the faction known as “the Taliban.”

Even singer-songwriter Silvio Rodríguez, during a meeting we held at the Ojalá studios after the 11 July 2021 protests—recorded at his request—acknowledged that Sánchez was “part of a sect that shut everything out.”

The troubadour recounted: “When Guillermo Rodríguez Rivera made a proposal for consumer rights on my blog, Díaz-Canel—who wasn’t president at the time or anything like that—summoned Guillermo, [Víctor] Casaus, Vicente [Feliú], and me to the Palace. And the person they put in front of me was Iroel. The moment I saw that, I said: ’this is bad.’ And indeed… Two or three meetings were held, and nothing moved forward, because it was all about: ’the blockade,’ ’the enemy’… and all that nonsense.”

The 2009 anecdote about the confrontation between Sánchez and the then Minister of Culture, Abel Prieto, is famous. Witnesses say Iroel banged his desk several times, received a public reprimand, and produced a pamphlet accusing Prieto of being “lacking in ideology.” He was dismissed from the Cuban Book Institute, although he was later protected by Ramiro Valdés, which allowed him to return to the circles of power.

The propagandist has also tried to downplay what happened on 11 July 2021.

In her second talk in Spain, the young “iroelista” attempted to distort the meaning of the artists’ protest in front of the Ministry of Culture on 27 November 2020. She forgets that, beyond our naiveté, that was an action in solidarity with the San Isidro Movement and in open opposition to official policy. Only the coincidence of the date with the execution of the eight medical students in 1871 prevented us from being beaten by the rapid response brigades already deployed in the surrounding area. Despite this, there was no shortage of pepper spray, threats, and subsequent interrogations.

In her catalog of complaints, Fernández also criticizes the international press for ignoring the counter-demonstration organized by student groups subordinate to the Union of Young Communists, two days after November 27th. Known as “the Trillo Park brawl,” that supposedly spontaneous platform was provided with logistical resources, transportation, audio equipment, and a “surprise visit” from President Miguel Díaz-Canel, which refutes any narrative of spontaneity.

The propagandist has also attempted to downplay the events of 11 July 2021, questioning why the largest social uprising in more than six decades has had more visibility than the May Day parade. As a history graduate, she should understand that the events of totalitarian regimes will never have the historical weight of a genuine rebellion. Going out to protest—risking your freedom and your life—against a repressive government will always be more memorable than attending a mandatory march where your workplace or school takes roll call.

The spokesperson’s tour continues. The money invested could easily have been used to send food or medicine to Cuba, but those nostalgic for totalitarianism prefer to fund propaganda. At each talk, she will find an audience willing to excuse her mistakes, in the name of Castro or Stalin, but she will also encounter an emigrant community that, in a free country, enjoys the right to dissent and protest.

If this worn-out initiative has achieved anything positive, it has been to unite diverse sectors of the Cuban exile community who, without renouncing their differences, have managed to aim their arrows in the same direction.

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Cubans Are Blocked from Attending Gabriela Fernández’s Talk in Madrid

Only Spaniards loyal to the Cuban regime and Embassy staff were allowed to enter.

Protesters outside Gabriela Fernández’s conference in Madrid on Monday. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 5 May 2025 — On Monday, some twenty Cubans heckled Gabriela Fernández Álvarez, host of the pro-government program Con Filo, which airs on Cuban TV, as she left a conference where she gave a talk in Madrid at the Bartolomé de las Casas Spanish-Cuban Friendship Association. The host left escorted by regime officials, while mockingly blowing kisses and listening to the crowd’s cries of “freedom.” Those present demanded, “Look us in the face,” “Freedom for political prisoners,” “Down with the dictatorship,” and “No to political violence.”

National Police officers, who were called in by the organizers, also served as protection for the procession.

Broadcaster Gabriela Fernández Álvarez, in the background, wearing glasses, mockingly blowing kisses to the crowd. / 14ymedio

The protesters had tried to enter the venue but were denied entry. “You’re not welcome, this is a private event,” the venue, located in a neighborhood far from the center of Madrid, told Cubans who wanted to enter. “Cubans can’t enter here,” they reiterated, a discrimination that is illegal in Spain.

With the title “Cuban Youth in the Time of Trump,” the event inaugurated a “tour” by the 25-year-old broadcaster through 12 cities in the “Spanish State”—a term often used by nationalist parties and the far left to refer to the country—until May 21, with the support of the State Movement of Solidarity with Cuba, as announced by the pro-regime media outlet Cubainformación. At no point was it indicated that the events would involve any kind of restriction on who could attend.

Several members of this group covered their faces, either with an umbrella or with a handkerchief bearing the image of Che Guevara. / 14ymedio

The event was held in a nearly empty hall. “It seems they only let in acquaintances, I imagine very close friends,” declared a Spanish citizen who was also not allowed in, adding, “There are more people outside than inside.”

There were barely a dozen people in the small auditorium, including continue reading

prominent members of the Cuban diplomatic corps. From the street, absolutely nothing could be heard: no voices, no applause, no murmurs. “It must have been really boring,” ventured one of those gathered in the small square.

“It seems they only let in acquaintances, I imagine they’re very close friends,” said a Spanish citizen who also wasn’t allowed in. / 14ymedio

Those who congregated outside the association’s doors in the rain did so peacefully. Some held signs calling for the release of political prisoners, including photos of several of them, such as rapper Maykel Castillo Osorbo. Five or six State Security agents were closely watching the movements.

The more than 20 Cubans who gathered outside the association’s doors in the rain did so peacefully. / 14ymedio

Half an hour after the talk was scheduled to begin (7:00 PM Madrid time), two National Police vans arrived at the scene. “The Consulate has requested reinforcements,” joked one of those present. In response to a complaint from one of the security guards, one of the Spanish officers was blunt: “Those who are on the streets have the right to be there.”

Led by Michel Torres Corona, heir to the late Iroel Sánchez, Con Filo is one of the most aggressive propaganda programs on Cuban Television. Like Hacemos Cuba, hosted by regime spokesman Humberto López, its objective is to attack and defame activists, opponents, independent journalists, and any other citizen who deviates from Party orthodoxy. All of this is aimed at a “young” audience, with a manner that pretends to be relaxed and borders on apathy.

Gabriela Fernández, in Madrid, escorted by Cuban regime officials. / 14ymedio/Capture

The list of its smear campaigns even includes Alejandro Gil, Cuba’s ousted Minister of Economy, who is detained and whose whereabouts are still unknown.

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Eduardo López-Collazi, Scientist and Writer Who Left Cuba ‘To Be Free’

The Elena Fortún Library was packed with a broad ranging audience./ 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 26 april 2025 – “I left Cuba to be free”, Eduardo López-Collazo said on Saturday in Madrid at the launch of his first novel, ’Narcisos’. After thirty years in Spain his life has become an example of personal and professional realization, combining rigorous investigation with creativity, a passion for the arts and literature, scientific dissemination and activism to promote diversity and inclusion.

On account of this, the psychologist and neuroscientist Ana Asencio wondered: “How can so many lives fit into one single body?” López-Collazo himself rebels against the insistence, in certain sections of society, for always classifying or pigeonholing people with one single label. It’s a long time since he decided to come out of all the closets: he stopped signing his cultural critiques with a pseudonym, and in his LinkedIn profile he stopped hiding the fact that he wrote about dance in El Cultural. He’s not worried that they call him a twenty-first century Renaissance man.

The amazing thing is that this Cuban, born on 3 July 1969, in Jovellanos, Matanzas, manages to do it all “like crazy”. He graduated as a nuclear physicist from the University of Havana, a city in which, in his own words, he was “hungry and homeless”. In Spain he got his doctorate in pharmacology at the Complutense University of Madrid and ended up running, over the course of a decade, the biggest centre for scientific investigation in the Spanish capital. The impact of his work has been recognised by Forbes, El Mundo and El Español, all of which have described him as one of the most influential people in the country.

Narcisos presents us with the lives of eight men through the eyes of Carmen, a psychologist who will go on to have a journey of self discovery over the course of the narrative. The author describes the novel as a search for understanding “who we are when nobody is looking at us, not even ourselves”. The work is dedicated to his lifetime companion Holden, with whom he discussed the evolution of many of his characters. continue reading

[The filmmaker and writer Carlos Lechuga, charged with presenting the book, described its cinematic potential

The filmmaker and writer Carlos Lechuga, charged with presenting the book, described its cinematic potential. The reader will be able to confirm this immediately, thanks to the fluidity of the dialogue and the richness of the images transmitted through its pages.

Although this is the first novel he has had published – by Mayda Bustamante and Ediciones Huso – it is in fact the third one he has written. The previous two are very personal and it might take a little more time for them to see the light of day. Nevertheless, anyone who has followed his work, including his most scientific texts, will recognise the ease of his writing. It’s not for nothing that El País included one of his titles in their list of “books with an unsettling theme that are a pleasure to read”.

When questioned about whether there exists a battle between the rigour of science and the chaos of creativity, López-Collazo replied that he always looks for freedom. Naturally, he’s a firm believer in discipline: he admits that on occasion he sometimes found himself counting the number of words that he’d ascribed to each of his characters in order to achieve perfect equilibrium. “But without freedom”, he confessed, “growth is lateral, never upwards”.

It’s no surprise that the Elena Fortún public library was packed with a broad ranging audience, many of them standing, to be witness to this presentation. Among those present were the singer-songwriter Liuba María Hevia, the Nobel Peace Prize winner Carlos Umaña, the former Vice Mayoress of Madrid Begoña Villacís and the dancer María Pagés, worthy winner of the Asturias Prize for Princess of the Arts. And many others, who, when it was all over, rushed to buy the book – in which some of the characters are real… and others are too.

Translated by Ricardo Recluso

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The Annexationist Thoughts of Cubans

It is natural that the millions of Cubans who have acquired American citizenship see the future of Cuba linked to the country where they have been able to prosper.

The average Cuban usually sees in Miami an image that contrasts with the precariousness and misery they suffer on the island. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 28 March 2025 — The Castro-communist regime, whose narrative has been fundamentally based on its dispute with the United States, has always used the specter of annexationism as an argument in its favor. According to its theorists, the northern power desperately desires to seize Cuba, even today. To support their thesis, they use old theories such as the “low-hanging fruit ” of John Quincy Adams (1823), the Monroe Doctrine (America for Americans), and the doctrine of Manifest Destiny. On the other hand, the regime’s opponents have been repeatedly labeled “lackeys of the Empire” or, simply, as annexationists. In this way, Castroism hides behind a supposed defense of national sovereignty to legitimize itself.

One might suspect that Cuba’s State Security itself has been responsible for spreading annexationist sentiments among a segment of the exile community and the opposition to bolster its narrative. And while I have no doubt this is perfectly suited to their narrative, I also don’t ignore other reasons why this current of thought has all the fuel it needs to spread spontaneously.

Let’s be frank, annexationist thinking has existed among Cubans for more than two centuries. Its origins date back to the late 18th century, within the Creole slave-owning bourgeoisie. On the one hand, they were disappointed with the decline of Spain, feared abolitionist pressures from England, and were terrified by the slave revolutions taking place in the region. This sector saw in its allegiance to the southern United States an opportunity to maintain the stability of the slave economy. Even our flag has an annexationist origin, designed by the Venezuelan Narciso López, a staunch defender of that movement.

Within the United States itself, rejection of the idea of Cuba becoming part of the Union was growing.

However, within the United States itself, rejection of the idea of Cuba becoming part of the Union was growing. Perhaps the most striking reflection of this contempt for this option was the article “Do We Want Cuba? ” published in The Manufacturer in 1889. The article praised the land but despised its inhabitants.

White Cubans were categorized as an inferior race, effeminate, lazy, morally deficient, and naturally incapable. The main argument used to justify our inability to be free was precisely the continued failure of our rebellions.

Black Cubans were treated even worse, with the argument that they were “clearly on the level of barbarism.” According to the article, the only possibility of annexation was to completely replace the population. But even so, they feared that the Anglo-Saxon race would degrade under the effects of the tropical sun.

Obviously, the pamphlet was rejected by Cuban patriots, especially José Martí. The annexationist tendency gradually declined, while support for the independence ideal grew. Later, during the Republic, the rejection of the Platt Amendment would be one of the driving forces behind an increasingly nationalist outlook among Cubans.

Then came the Revolution, capitalizing on and radicalizing a supposed nationalism, although in practice it turned the island into a satellite of another foreign power: the USSR. The oversaturation of anti-American discourse, out of exhaustion, provoked the opposite effect in a large part of the Cuban population, resurrecting annexationist thinking.

While in the rest of Latin America the word “gringo” is often used to refer to Americans, in Cuba the word “yuma” is used, which has a connotation that is far from pejorative. The average Cuban tends to see in the US, and especially in Miami, an image that contrasts completely with the precariousness and misery they suffer on the island. On the other hand, it is only natural that the millions of Cubans who have acquired American citizenship over the decades see Cuba’s future inextricably linked to the country where they have been able to prosper.

In short, annexationist thinking not only has historical roots but is also a direct result of the political, economic, and social failure of the Castro regime, as well as the continued mass exodus of Cubans to the United States.

For my part, leaving aside any ideological bias, I don’t believe the American powers are seriously considering the possibility of annexing Cuba. The current US president, when he talks about expanding his territory, looks more to the north: to Canada and Greenland. This administration, when it looks south, doesn’t see any ripe fruit or anything like it. It goes and dreams… of very high walls.

I don’t think the American powers would seriously consider the possibility of annexing Cuba.

There are reasons to believe that the majority of the Cuban opposition desires a free and independent country. Beyond our differences, I believe the prevailing vision is a future Cuba that maintains a normal relationship with its northern neighbor, without renouncing our sovereignty. However, we cannot turn a blind eye to the differing opinions growing in certain exile communities.

Finally, and to dispel any doubts about the regime’s hypocrisy when it uses the word “sovereignty,” it is enough to recall Díaz-Canel’s words after his last visit to Moscow. The hand-picked dictator said he was deeply moved when Lukashenko reminded him that Cuba “was also a former Soviet republic.” He told this to Ramonet, his eyes watering with nostalgia. And he repeated it to Bruno Rodríguez Parrilla, moved and with goosebumps, from the presidential plane. When talking about annexationism, this anecdote cannot be forgotten either.

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