On the eve of Gibraltar Literature Week, there was a debate brewing across social media and the local press regarding whether a Gibraltar Literature exists. Which to me and many others is a debate not worth having. Especially those of us who write. We are Gibraltarian. We produce literature. …

I used to work at a famous tea shop on London’s Strand. It’s not far from Gibraltar House. You could argue there’s nothing more English than tea (a story of Empire for another day), so of course the shop was often packed with tourists.

And when you’re bilingual, you’re useful…

I’m not sure what compelled me to ask a friend if she had ever visited the Italian Church on Clerkenwell Road. I didn’t even know it existed until a few weeks ago, when bored out of my mind by lockdowns and closures, I decided to walk from Wapping to Bloomsbury…

When I was growing up, we spent our summers in Spain. The first evening of our holidays would often begin in the car, somewhere on Devil’s Tower Road, waiting to cross the border. There were times I remember it taking four hours. …

Photo Credit: Samantha Sacramento (Twitter: @SamanthaSacra)

My great-uncle Pepe had a friend.

His name was Michael. Pepe and Michael lived together, travelled together, and from what I understand now, they loved together too. It was a relationship that spanned decades, probably as long as the ones my grandparents had.

But it was Uncle Pepe and Michael…

When you think of sanctuary it’s in slices of jamon, wrapped in wax paper. Bollos out of the oven steaming the thin plastic bag they are kept in. A vanity table with a silver hairbrush, a heavy glass of perfume with an antique diffuser, and a statue of the Virgin…

Photo Credit: Harry Pallas

The day before the Christmas lockdown, when things in Gibraltar held a sense of feigned normalcy and the sun still shone, I walked to the Garrison Library for an appointment. I’m in the process of writing my first novel, and I wanted to research the events that had led up…

The bile of it always takes me by surprise. Random abuse has lost its capacity to stop me cold. There’s nothing anonymous words on the internet can do that a bottle thrown from a moving car for the fact of holding hands with another man hasn’t already done. You learn…

This year felt the longest of all, until November turned to December and suddenly it feels like we’re hurtling towards 2021. I wasn’t feeling particularly festive, but having stared at the walls of our small apartment for most of 2020, and having spent a sizeable fortune on home decor in…

Jonathan Pizarro

Queer Llanito writer exiled in London. Entre dos aguas. Fiction in Untitled:Voices, Fruit Journal & Emerge Literary Journal. Twitter: @JSPZRO

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