The Pride of Living in Cuba

By Julieta García Ríos on July 2, 2026

An interview with Graciela Ramírez Cruz, an Argentine journalist and activist.

This is the story of a woman who fights, loves, and embraces. She is the daughter of Spanish Republicans who survived fascism and immigrated to Perón’s Argentina. She was born in that southern country: Graciela Ramírez Cruz. She is also a survivor of horror—that of Argentina’s last civil-military-ecclesiastical dictatorship. To many, she is Gra, the tireless activist for all just causes. In Cuba, she is a familiar face. The people associate her with the Five Heroes—Gerardo, René, Fernando, Antonio, and Ramón—anti-terrorist activists who were imprisoned in U.S. jails. Together with Alicia Jrapko, she chaired the International Committee for their release and, for more than fifteen years, knocked on doors around the world to raise awareness of the case and stand in solidarity with the mothers, wives, and daughters.

For her tireless efforts in this and other causes, and her boundless solidarity with the Largest of the Antilles, she was awarded several medals, including the Félix Elmusa Medal for her journalistic work; in 2011, she received the Medal of Friendship, conferred by the Council of State of the Republic of Cuba; and other honors.

Her bond with the island and her love for it led her, in 1994—in the midst of the dramatic Special Period—to settle permanently in Havana, where she works in close collaboration with the Cuban Institute of Friendship with the Peoples (ICAP).

She is persistent, restless, and loyal. She has a gift for bringing people together. For this reason, she has played a strategic and decisive role in fostering international solidarity with the homeland she has also made her own. From the Cuba correspondent’s desk at “Cuba en Resumen,” which she directs, she tells the world about the realities of Palestine, Venezuela, Lebanon, and this rebellious island. She conceives and produces books, documentaries, and beautiful projects such as the podcast *Mujeres al Sur*, recognized in 2023 by the website Feedspot as the fifth-best among the top 50 feminist podcasts in Spanish.

Mate Armago speaks with Graciela to give us a glimpse of the Cuba she arrived in during the 1990s and the Cuba of today—the one that imperialism seeks to subdue, now with Trump and his henchman Marco Rubio.

When did your ties of solidarity with this Caribbean island begin?

I was living in Madrid when the socialist bloc and the Berlin Wall fell. At the time, all of Spain and Europe were saying, “The only thing left is Cuba. Now it’s really going to fall.” They were counting down the days. Travel agencies were selling tickets, urging people to come quickly and see what socialism had been like. Many on the left believed that without the USSR, the Cuban Revolution would be unsustainable. In contrast, the comrades I worked with at the Argentine Association for Human Rights in Madrid—where we denounced the “Due Obedience” laws and pardons for perpetrators of genocide—remained steadfast in our support for their resistance. Through the UNESCO Friends Club, we formed the group “Latin Americans with Cuba,” which immediately joined the Spanish Movement of Solidarity with Cuba (MESC). The first priority was to help and send whatever we could: powdered milk, toiletries, eyeglass frames, school supplies, and toys for the children. Medicines were sent to a lesser extent because Cuba still had a substantial stockpile. On the contrary, our comrades would come and be amazed by Cuban natural medicine, and they always asked to take some home.

We collected supplies and denounced the genocidal and extraterritorial nature of the U.S. economic blockade against the island and its criminal laws. In 1992 in Madrid, we welcomed Fidel and accompanied the Cuban press covering the Second Ibero-American Summit of Heads of State and Government, held in the Spanish capital on July 23 and 24. It was a truly fabulous experience, which concluded on July 26 with a massive demonstration. On July 25, an open letter was published in the newspaper El País; unintentionally, this led to a confrontation with the Peruvian writer Mario Vargas Llosa, who took every opportunity to insult the Cuban Revolution.

Tell us what that confrontation was like.

I was handing out copies of the open letter we had published with enormous effort; the things being said about Cuba were so hostile that we collected money and paid for the half-page ad. It denounced the blockade and called for the July 26 demonstration. The open letter was headlined “Hope Under Siege—No to the Blockade—Let’s Protect Cuba.”

“Welcome, Fidel; we admire the dignity of your people.” It was signed by everyone from Rafael Alberti to Mario Benedetti, Antonio Gades, Charo López, the Workers’ Commissions, and the entire Spanish parliamentary left. We couldn’t fit any more signatures because we didn’t have enough time to raise money to pay for a larger ad space.

As I exited the Metro near the Palacio de Cibeles, I noticed something strange. There was a barrier, and the entire press corps was gathered there. I approached with the intention of handing the media that message in support of the Cuban Revolution. The police let me through, mistaking me for a journalist. Upon arriving, I discovered that Vargas Llosa was giving a statement. He was speaking in the most terrible terms about Cuba and Fidel. I walked toward him and handed him a copy of the text. He smiled at me and kept talking; then, glancing sideways, he read the title and crumpled it in his hand into a ball, which he threw to the ground. I handed him another one, and he did the same thing again. Every time the Peruvian writer threw the text to the ground with such contempt, it felt like a slap to my soul. So much effort, so much energy, only for that traitor to trample it underfoot. When I handed him the third one and saw his intentions, I couldn’t hold back. I said to his face: “You are a disgrace to the conscience of Latin America, even more so because you are a mixed-race man with dark skin. If Cortázar could hear you, he’d die all over again.” I felt a sharp blow to my back, then another.

A police officer held a megaphone upside down over my mouth to silence me; another kicked me in the ankle, causing me to stumble, but they failed to knock me down or make me drop the copies of the paid advertisement, which the press then took away. Spanish television filmed the whole thing, and that night I made the headlines: “Castro’s Defender Confronts Vargas Llosa.” The next day, with my foot bandaged, I witnessed the moment when Antonio Gades publicly read the open letter from the balcony of the UNESCO Friends Club. It was wonderful.

How do you remember Cuba in the 1990s?

In 1992, I traveled to Cuba for the first time with my friends. I fell in love with its people and its beaches. I was very impressed by how modest they were when it came to political propaganda. I had expected huge Soviet-style posters and an inflated sense of self among the leaders, but I didn’t find that. I was surprised by how much they did to preserve the memory of their heroes and heroines, whose names were given to schools, hospitals, avenues, and even in the Pioneers’ motto to “be like Che.”

Later, I met my partner in Madrid. I fell in love with this cultured man, who spoke several languages, sang, and played trova songs on the guitar. By then, he already held a Ph.D. in Physics, having graduated from Lomonosov University in Moscow, and was conducting scientific research in Madrid; and, like any good Cuban, he participated in solidarity actions. Our relationship grew stronger, and in ’93 I returned to meet his family… and a year later, on August 5, 1994, I left behind the independence of my attic apartment in Madrid—a relatively comfortable life—and came to live here.

Two loves shaped my decision: my personal love for him and my deep admiration for the Cuban Revolution and Fidel.

We were a family of eight living in a beautiful house in Lawton, a working-class neighborhood far from the city center. I was amazed at how my mother-in-law would get up early every day to wash the cloth diapers for my newborn nephew. She did this to make the most of the daylight hours, because power outages at that time lasted 12 hours or more. The change was huge. It was difficult to get around the city due to the lack of public transportation. To communicate with my family in Madrid, I had brought a fax machine, but the cost was so high that I had to rely on the time it took for letters to go back and forth.

How do you view Cuba today?

I am extremely concerned about the situation of the Cuban Revolution, which they want to destroy.

The differences compared to the Special Period are enormous. Back then, the Revolution was much younger and better equipped to face the situation.

Despite the severe shock caused by the collapse of the socialist bloc, the country’s infrastructure—both educational and healthcare—was in far better condition. Back then, the Revolution was 32 years old; today it is 67. Everything that could not be corrected, repaired, modified, or sustained gradually deteriorated due to accumulated neglect. Over the past eight years, imperialism has exploited the Commander-in-Chief’s absence from the public eye in its smear campaign. His passing in 2016 also dealt a massive blow.

Today we are going through one of the most dangerous moments for the Cuban Revolution. There is a shameful, unpatriotic, and resentful sector of people who were born in Cuba, and who, from the comfort of Miami, are calling on Trump and Marco Rubio to invade. My parents were Andalusian Republicans who fled to Argentina because of the poverty in Spain. But I never heard them say they wanted a foreign invasion of Spain. Never. How can they call for an invasion? There is no innocence in this demand, nor a lack of conscience—they want bloodshed. Then they will have to take responsibility for the massacre—and for the consequences.

I’m happy to be in Cuba and part of this resistance. I wouldn’t want an invasion, I wouldn’t want a war, I wouldn’t want innocent Cubans to die—nor the foreigners of us who are here willing to give our lives for Cuba, nor confused Americans who might come here believing this is a dictatorship.

We’re constantly accused of being a dictatorship. You lived through it and survived it—what’s your take on that?

When people refer to our revolutionary governments as dictatorships, I react with tremendous vehemence. The word “dictatorship” is terrible—it inflicts such fierce harm on human beings that those who use that term to describe governments that have risen to power for the dignity of the people, as is the case with the Cuban Revolution, should be penalized. Cubans are a loving people who sing and dance and just want to be left to live in peace.

What message would you give to our friends?

I hope solidarity grows stronger. We were far too late in coming to Venezuela’s aid. It’s terrible. Today, the country is in the hands of the United States, and Maduro has been captured and held hostage in a U.S. prison. Cuba is not Venezuela.

Cuba is in the hearts of the people, who are ready to defend it, but we must take to the streets, we must demonstrate in front of embassies, we must gather aid for this people, and we must not waste time. We must offer to come and defend Cuba. That, too. If Cuba were to fall, as Pablo Neruda said, we would all fall. We must love Cuba, protect it, and—as in ’92—help save it.

Julieta García Ríos, is a Cuban journalist, currently works at the Museum of Music in Havana and contributes to various media outlets in her country and throughout the Patria Grande, such as Mujeres al Sur. She is a member of the UPEC.

Source: Mate Amargo translation Resumen Latinoamericano – English