Celia Cruz: 100 years of "Azúcar," rebellion and freedom

One hundred years ago, in Havana’s Santos Suárez neighborhood, Celia Caridad Cruz y Alfonso was born — the daughter of a stoker and a housewife. From childhood, her voice seemed to foreshadow the greatness to come. Amid the bustle of a large family, she already stood out for her clarity, her strength, and that spark that would one day make her singing a beacon for generations.

Celia Cruz— as she would go down in the annals of history — became not only the queen of salsa, but also a symbol of identity, resistance, and hope. Her music — a blend of boundless joy and indomitable strength — became a homeland when her own was denied to her.

From exile, every song became an act of rebellion, every cry of “¡Azúcar!” a defiance of imposed silence — and a celebration of freedom.

From Havana to the world

Her path began before the microphones of the radio program Mil Diez, and she soon shone in shows such as La Corte Suprema del Arte and La Hora del Té. She won contests, collected prizes, and stood out for her naturalness, discipline, and talent. In 1948, she joined Las Mulatas de Fuego, touring Mexico and Venezuela, and in 1950 she became part of La Sonora Matancera, the most important orchestra in Cuba at the time. 

With them, she toured across Latin America, earning the title La Guarachera de Cuba, and popularized songs that have since become timeless classics: “Caramelos,” “El yerbero moderno,” “Burundanga,” and “Cao cao, maní picao.” Her first gold record came in New York in 1957, marking the beginning of a career that would transcend oceans and borders.

Exile and resistance: Celia's great sorrow

The 1960s brought a defining choice: not to return to Cuba — a decision that marked the beginning of her forced exile. Her music was censored and banned on the island, yet her voice never faded. Every performance, every song, became a reminder that joy can be an act of resistance, and that love for one’s homeland can be sung from anywhere in the world.

But the reality is that Celia Cruz could not return to her beloved island -through the big door- not even to bury and say her last goodbye to her mother. Nor did she ever set foot on her stages, although she never stopped singing for her.

She married Pedro Knight, the trumpeter from La Sonora Matancera who became her inseparable companion and manager, and collaborated with great legends such as Tito Puente and Willie Colón — among many others — recording eight albums that cemented her influence in Latin music.

The eternal legacy

When she returned to Cuba in 1990 —to the Guantánamo Naval Base-, — she took a handful of earth, asking that it be placed in her coffin, a symbolic gesture that spoke of love and memory. Her last public appearance, in 2003, singing “I Will Live,” made it clear that her voice would transcend death.

She passed away a few months later, leaving a legacy that lives on in every chord, every hip movement, and every “¡Azúcar!” that echoes around the world.

Today, one hundred years later, Celia Cruz remains the voice that celebrates life, joy, and freedom. Her story reminds us that music can be an act of resistance, that identity is sung, and that even far from home, hope can endure.