Roberto Madrigal Has Left Us, a Dear Friend
HAVANA TIMES – Dying on a Sunday might not be so bad—there’s more silence, a tranquility that makes us reflective. Sundays tend to be long, sometimes too long. This past Sunday, June 8, Roberto Madrigal passed away. I spent that day watching movies, alone at home.
I found out on Monday, from my friend Verónica Vega, who read it on Facebook. I confess I was paralyzed, even though I knew he had been sick for some time. His strength had helped him overcome his crises, and he had even improved with radiation therapy. But as the illness intensified, he couldn’t resist it. It was strange that we had barely communicated lately. I think he didn’t want me to feel pity for him—he hated being a burden to others.
I met Madrigal through social media, when he sent me a friend request. I never imagined we’d correspond for seven years, nor that he would help me the way he did when I had problems with my laptop—he sent me batteries and a keyboard two or three times. I was grateful for that gesture.
Roberto was a psychologist and writer. He left the country after the events at the Peruvian Embassy (in 1980), where he had taken refuge. He was later moved to a camp called El Mosquito, where people were separated—religious individuals, homosexuals, and another, more “problematic” group.
In the US, he founded the magazine Término and wrote the novel Frozen Zone. Dilettante Without a Cause was a collection of articles from the magazine Cubaencuentro (where he was a contributor), published by Casa Vacia Publishing House.
His film reviews also came out in a volume titled Criticism from Abroad, a book that, as a cinephile, helps me better understand the Seventh Art.
What’s real is that we developed a mutually enriching exchange, which gradually brought us closer into a beautiful bond. We talked about his time living in Havana and his hobbies—there were all sorts of anecdotes, including his love for rock music and his trips abroad.
I treasure those chronicles, the detailed descriptions—so vivid it felt like I was traveling through his experiences.
In our emails, we were “P” and “AI.” Roberto was the Pilgrim, and I, the Immobile Friend. We also had fun making audio messages. I laughed at his unique sense of humor. He was incredibly cultured, and talking with him was never boring.
Since he left, he never returned to Cuba. Yet despite everything, he kept his homeland close. He knew what was happening, as if he had never left. It wasn’t just a loving attitude—it was a deeply rooted connection.
I’m going to miss him, and I know that wherever he is, he’ll see that I keep his memory alive. He managed to become a psychologist outside his country, he wrote, he traveled, he loved many people, and he was loved. Maybe now, in another dimension, he’ll meet up with the friends who left before him—and together, they’ll celebrate another life.