At the Arenales bookstore in Madrid, journalist Julio Antonio Fernández Estrada hosts Pensar Cuba, a videopodcast of conversations with Cubans reflecting aloud on the possibilities of a different Cuba. The first guest is actress Claudia Álvarez, who rose to fame at 16 and appeared in Cuban film and television productions including Aquí estamos, Bocacherías habaneras, and Nido de mantis. She emigrated to Spain in 2021.
Álvarez describes migration as both a painful process and an opportunity. She never wanted to leave Cuba — her father remains on the island and her family is scattered — and she believes that for most Cubans, emigration is not a free choice but a forced one. The first two years in Madrid were especially hard: she went from being a recognizable face in Cuba to being completely invisible, and had to adapt to routines that had nothing to do with art.
A turning point came through the theater production Jacuzzi, which she describes as “a life raft, an oasis.” Performing it on Tuesdays gave her back a sense of belonging. The show also taught Spanish audiences something unexpected: many would ask afterward, “Did this really happen?” — confronting the frozen, outdated image of Cuba that persists in Europe. For Cuban migrants in the audience, the play served as a balm — a space to feel the grief of displacement without guilt.
One of the most resonant themes of the conversation is Álvarez’s firm refusal to conflate Cuba with its government. She states clearly:
I refuse to interpret my country through its Government, and I refuse to hate Cuba because of its Government.
For her, homeland means the right to that land, pride in a guava pastry, in Benny Moré, in Cuban identity — entirely separate from any political regime. At 33, when asked who she is, her answer is simply: “I am Cuban and I am searching for my place in the world.”
The conversation also touches on what Álvarez has learned from Spanish society, particularly how the elderly are treated. She is struck by seeing older people owning the streets, socializing freely, supported by social policies that allow them to live with dignity — a sharp contrast to Cuba, where an aging population is left without adequate protections. She wishes that kind of dignified old age for her father, who loves Cuba and chooses to remain there.
Finally, Álvarez reflects on her reinvention as a migrant: together with her partner, she co-founded a travel agency called Manana. Rather than fighting exclusively to act — a path that depends entirely on others choosing you — she has learned to build parallel ventures she enjoys. Migration, in her telling, is not just displacement but a forced reckoning with identity, resilience, and what it truly means to belong somewhere. Her closing stance is one of stubborn tenderness: not bitterness toward Cuba, but an insistence on keeping the love intact.
