La patria, homeland, that word that for some is barely an echo—is the largest chessboard that life gives us. And on it, each person must decide whether to play like a knight or to crawl like a pawn.

14ymedio, Jorge Luis León, Houston, 30 June 2025 – It was Savielly Tartakower who, with an acuity that distinguished him as much off as on the chessboard, uttered the following sentence which still resonates today with some force:
“Chess is only a game; any nobility attributed to it is owing, without a doubt, to any nobility in those who play it.”
This sentence contains a deep truth. Chess, in itself, is just a mixture of rules, pieces and movements. But when honest men take up the game and when they turn it into a way of life, those of them who don’t compromise themselves through lying then ennoble the game; it becomes dignified and reaches an ethical dimension that goes beyond any art or sport.
Capablanca: honour versus power
Cuba, cradle of one of the most immortal geniuses of chess, found in José Raúl Capablanca not just a world champion, but a man of principle. Few people know or remember that during Gerardo Machado’s dictatorship there were attempts at using him as a propaganda tool for the regime. Capablanca refused, with elegance but also with firmness. He knew that true glory in the game of chess couldn’t be sullied by dirty politics or by a despot’s ambitions. He was an example of that nobility that Tartakower had revered. He never betrayed his dignity, even when silence could have been easier.
Cuba, cradle of one of the most immortal geniuses of chess, found in José Raúl Capablanca not just a world champion, but a man of principle
Miguel Alemán: voice of the people and of conscience
In more recent times another name shone out in my memory as a symbol of courage: Miguel Alemán, ex national champion of Cuba, a modest gentleman, he stayed away from public focus but remained immense in his truth. I listened to him speaking when I was barely an adolescent in a small chess club:
“Living under dictatorship is unbearable.”
He said it without embellishment, without fear, and with the simple clarity of a pawn who sacrifices himself for the greater good. Years later, ill and continue reading
Dignity on the chessboard
What has become of Cuban chess players in these our tragic times? Where is their nobility? Why are they so full only of analysis, of replayed matches, of calculated movements and detail, whilst Cuba is being pushed into the abyss of desperation?
Perhaps it’s simply enough for them to adjust their player’s seat and set the timer while the nation bleeds and dies beyond the edges of their chessboard? No need to defend anything more than a well-plotted chess move? Where are their voices whilst the fatherland is trapped, whilst the people – the same ones that applaud them during their tournaments – are drowning in misery?
Many of these chess players, some of them with enviable academic titles – lawyers, historians, sociologists – have preferred to stay silent. Or even worse, they’ve decided to repeat empty slogans about the “blockade”, joining in with the con like docile pieces in a match that lacks any dignity. In their social networks they show brilliant chess moves, digital chessboards, victories which save nobody. And not a word about the repression, not a single gesture in the face of all the people’s pain. They settle for a few crumbs here and there, a bit of travel, a medal. Some even openly declare “fidelity” to Cuba’s tormentor.
Other examples, same shame
In other parts of the world there’ve been chess players who raised their voices. Gary Kasparov, for example, openly confronted Putin’s regime, knowing he was putting his own safety at risk. He chose the truth. He chose to be a man over being a champion. He didn’t sell his voice for a title or for a chair on some committee.
In Iran, champion player Dorsa Derakhshani was expelled from the national team for not wearing the veil in one tournament. She refused to give in, refused to pretend
In Iran, champion player Dorsa Derakhshani was expelled from the national team for not wearing the veil in one tournament. She refused to give in, refused to pretend. Today she represents the United States and continues to speak up for the oppressed. What does this tell us about force of character?
Silences that are betrayals
I have put questions to a few Cuban chess players. I’ve spoken to them with respect, called on them to join the debate, to bare their souls. The majority told me I should just keep silent. Others, more cowardly, simply blocked me. Is that the fortitude of a chess master? Is that the spirit of Caïssa? No. It’s just the alternative sham for which they have preferred to bend the knee.
I say this to them, out of a passion I’ve had for the game since infancy:
Your dignity is worth so much more than any medal, than any trophy, than any foreign trip.
The fatherland – a word that for some is merely an echo – is the biggest chessboard that life has given us. And on it, each one of us must decide whether to play like a gentleman, or whether to be sold, as a pawn, and swept away.
The nobility of a chess player isn’t measured by their titles, but rather by their commitment to the truth. It’s in their refusal to be complicit.
Today more than ever, Cuba needs chess players to play the hardest match of all: that of dignity against oppression. And in that match there is no possibility of a draw.
Either you win with honour, or you lose forever.
Translated by Ricardo Recluso