The glorification of the fallen allows them to impose a forced pause on internal debate.
14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 17 January 2026 — “Propaganda works by appealing to emotions, not reason.” This phrase, attributed to Noam Chomsky, sums up the political moment in Cuba following the deaths of 32 Cubans in Venezuela. More than a tragic event, the episode has been transformed by the regime into a carefully orchestrated display of pathos to regroup, silence dissent, and revive an internal obedience that had been eroding for some time.
The political events celebrated on the island in honor of the fallen are not conceived to convince the outside world. Nor do they seek international credibility or aspire to whitewash a narrative that much of the world has already dismissed. The “performance” is directed inward, at the Party structures, the mid-level cadres, the weary militants, and the officials who in recent months have begun to waver. Hence Miguel Díaz-Canel’s call to “close ranks,” a new battle order.
Michel Torres Corona and Gabriela Hernández, presenters of the propaganda program Con Filo, have barely managed to conceal their enthusiasm for the current situation. In a Facebook Live broadcast, they both boasted about the regime’s supposed ability to mobilize its supporters and hailed Díaz-Canel’s speech as “the best he has given” to date. The scene was completed by the systematic blocking of users whose opinions differed from their own. Far from any sign of restraint, the two appeared exultant, as if the tragedy had arrived at the perfect moment to revive a political optimism that had been waning for some time.
The regime enters this period after one of its worst years in terms of internal cohesion. The accelerated deterioration of the economy, persistent inflation, the collapse of basic services, and the energy crisis have undermined not only social support but also morale within the apparatus itself. Added to this were corruption scandals and political blunders that were difficult to conceal, such as those involving Marta Elena Feitó, the fall from grace and subsequent conviction of Alejandro Gil, and the mysterious resignation of Homero Acosta—episodes that opened unprecedented cracks in the discourse of unity and discipline.
The capture of Nicolás Maduro revealed not only that the regime was lying, but also that its military apparatus was incapable of fulfilling the mission that, in theory, justified its presence on foreign soil.
For the first time in a long time, criticism was coming not only from exile or the open opposition, but also from areas traditionally aligned with the system. Officials, state economists, academics close to the government, and long-time activists began to express reservations, unease, or disillusionment. The combination of material hardship, endless blackouts, and the spread of disease in a country lacking medicine finally eroded the “revolutionary” mystique.
In this context, the deaths of the 32 Cubans in Venezuela appear as a political opportunity. Outside of Cuba, the impact has been minimal. The international community knows that Havana repeatedly denied the presence of Cuban troops on Venezuelan soil. The capture of Nicolás Maduro revealed not only that the regime was lying, but also that its military apparatus was incapable of fulfilling the mission that, in theory, justified its presence on foreign soil. For most external observers, the Cuban casualties are just another chapter in the opaque and deeply discredited relationship between Havana and Caracas.
Within Cuba, however, pathos does work. The glorification of the dead allows the regime to impose a forced pause on internal debate. “This is not the time for criticism,” is repeated, as if mourning demanded obedience and emotion nullified the right to think. Sacrifice, elevated to a moral category, thus becomes an argument to justify repression, reinforce control, and delegitimize any questioning as a lack of respect for the “heroes” or an act of treason.
Abel Prieto has even confessed, without shame, how they use pathos for the benefit of official propaganda.
At the same time, the intensive use of pathos offers a mobilizing cause, something the regime had lost. When there were no more credible achievements or promises to rally the masses, the cult of the fallen provides an epic narrative of emergency. It matters little that the facts are uncomfortable or that the narrative rests on omissions and contradictions. In the logic of propaganda, emotion supplants reason.
Another official who has shamelessly confessed how they exploit pathos for the benefit of official propaganda is Abel Prieto. In statements to the press, the former advisor to Raúl Castro described how he was at the memorial “from early on,” how he saw “the families crying” in front of the coffins, and how the people “crowded together, even in the rain,” before drawing an explicit political conclusion: “This profound pain strengthens our anti-imperialism, our anti-fascism.”
It is clear that his words contain neither private grief nor respect for silence, but rather a classic agitprop operation, dedicated to collecting, displaying, and transforming emotions into ideological fuel. The melodramatic scene—tears, coffins, rain, crowds—is not narrated to understand a tragedy, but to demonstrate that suffering produces “unity.” When Prieto concludes by asserting that Cuba is “stronger” thanks to the loss, the attempt at manipulation is blatantly exposed.
The Cuban regime is not honoring its dead: it is exploiting them. It is turning them into symbolic shields to protect itself from its own internal divisions. And in that gesture lies an implicit admission of weakness, because only those who lack solid results or legitimacy need to repeatedly resort to pain and sacrifice to maintain their grip on power.
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