Author: Pedro Morejón

Pedro Pablo Morejon recants his January 7th, the day he found his mother dead in her room, and his efforts that followed…

I grew up in a neighborhood of a rural community, where we played baseball and went around quite freely without our parents having to worry.

This is how a song by Isaac Delgado begins, which was released in the early ‘90s. It was a tough time as you all know…

The motor at the electrical plant, which supplies the town of Puerta de Golpe and other areas, has burnt out, like a curse.

Theft is on the rise now that the end of the year is drawing near. My father-in-law told me what happened at his home one night a good while ago.

About to turn 90 years old, only the memories remain of his golden years. His face gains new life when he talks about life in Havana back in the ‘50s.

To tell you the truth, Cuba is magical realism or dirty realism, depending on the lens you want to see it through.

People from Oriente are no longer palestinos, people from Pinar del Rio are no longer dumb and people from Havana are no longer stuck up & obnoxious.

One night in July 1994, my friend Tomasito and I were talking. We were both 19 years old at the time and doing our compulsory military service.

I grew up in a rural neighborhood, where people used to be healthier and neighbors were like family. We kids wandered about, without any worries.