Yunior García Aguilera – Page 2

Culture Becomes One of the First Victims of Cuba’s Collapse

The regime prioritizes theaters of military operations and tank parades over the Book Fair.

Among the measures announced is the postponement of the 34th Havana International Book Fair 2026. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Madrid, Yunior García Aguilera, February 7, 2026 – Every time the Cuban regime meets in congresses and plenary sessions with artists and intellectuals, it repeats the worn-out refrain that “culture is the first thing that must be saved.” The phrase sounds good, sweetens the ears of the salaried thinkers of official ideology, and allows more than one “sobaco ilustrado” [illustrated armpit] to applaud. The problem is that reality insists on disproving it and does so with a bluntness that no longer allows for euphemisms or metaphors.

The official note from the Cuban Book Institute announcing the postponement of the 34th Havana International Book Fair 2026 is yet more proof. The country’s main cultural event is put on hold—the only one that for years allowed many Cubans access to new books, exchanges with authors, and, with luck, the chance to buy something more than pamphlets. And, as usual, the explanation does not appeal to internal incapacity but to the ever-present enemy: the “genocidal blockade” and the “escalation of aggressions.”

What is declared a priority is “defense and internal order.” Whatever resources remain will be devoted without hesitation to the fair of rifles and mines, the “theater of military operations,” the olive-green runway and the AKM slung over the shoulder as the latest fashion statement. Culture—by which I mean the real kind, the kind that doubts, questions, moves, and transforms—is usually far too dangerous for a State at war.

The culture “of the people” is relegated to commemorative acts, mandatory anniversaries, and tasteless spectacles designed for propaganda

But Cuba’s cultural collapse did not begin yesterday, nor can it be explained by a single contingency. It is a prolonged, measurable, and deliberate process.

Between 2019 and 2024, state-run publishing production collapsed dramatically. According to official data, print runs fell by more than 70%. The price of paper—imported, yes, but managed by an inefficient State—became prohibitive even for the institutional apparatus itself.

Cinema has fared no better. National production has been reduced to historic lows. The Cuban Institute of Cinematographic Art and Industry (ICAIC) is becoming “Russified,” seeking to revive old ideological alliances through sporadic co-productions, unfinished projects, and a growing dependence on funds from its authoritarian cronies.

In theater and music, the situation is just as alarming. continue reading

Iconic groups have reduced performances or disappeared altogether. National tours have been almost impossible for years due to the lack of transportation, fuel, and per diems. Many musicians can no longer survive even by playing in hotels—making “soup”—because tourism has also been in decline long before 2026 shook the entire regional board. The culture “of the people” is relegated to commemorative events, obligatory anniversaries, and tasteless shows designed for propaganda.

In this context of collapse, the official announcement to “strengthen community art” appears as a perfect alibi. No one disputes the value of cultural work in neighborhoods, schools, or small, remote communities. The problem lies in the political use the government makes of that notion.

That is why it surprises no one that, at this critical hour, art becomes one of the first victims

The regime prefers a fragmented, local art with low symbolic impact and little national reach, because it is easier to control and less dangerous. A mural, a children’s workshop, or an occasional gathering can serve as a momentary anesthetic against hunger, blackouts, and hopelessness, without questioning the structural causes of that misery. Community art, understood this way, entertains, numbs, fills time, and goes straight into compliance reports. That is why art that builds a loyal audience, creates spaces for debate, or—worse still for those in power—collective dissent, is avoided.

The other side of that “measure” is the systematic surveillance and repression of art that makes people uncomfortable. Any creator who tries to go beyond fleeting entertainment, who connects the intimate with the political, or who challenges the spectator as a citizen rather than a captive audience member, automatically enters the danger zone. This is where the decision by El Ciervo Encantado, one of the country’s most important and coherent theater collectives, to leave the institutional system belongs. As does the expulsion of playwright Roberto Viñas as a professor at the University of the Arts. Or the detention in Holguín of the young members of El4tico, who encourage critical thinking through social media.

Added to this is the exodus. In recent years, Cuba has lost thousands of writers, visual artists, filmmakers, actors, editors, and curators. The country that once boasted of its symbolic capital now expels, one by one, those who produce it.

The regime has never defended culture as a diverse and living space; it defends a domesticated, utilitarian version, subordinate to the official narrative. That is why it surprises no one that, in this critical moment, art becomes one of the first victims. On the altar of collapse, culture is always among the first offerings sacrificed.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The Cuban Regime Is Not Honoring Its Dead, It Is Using Them

The glorification of the fallen allows them to impose a forced pause on internal debate.

The regime turns the dead into symbolic shields to protect itself from its own fractures. / Cubadebate

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 continue reading

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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Brief Autopsy Report of a Corpse Called Cuba

While power remains in the hands of those who designed and sustain the disaster, the Island will continue on its path to extinction

Continuing to repeat that “next year will be better” is premeditated cruelty and a slap in the face of Cubans. / Instagram / Nicole Pankalla

14ymedio, Madrid, Yunior García Aguilera, December 21, 2025 — At the end of every year, Miguel Díaz-Canel repeats the same slogan: “next year will be better.” It doesn’t matter how grave the closing balance has been, nor how deep the accumulated wounds. Official optimism appeals each New Year’s Eve to rhetorical morphine for the grieving and to keeping the Revolution’s corpse in chloroform. Reality, however, behaves like an implacable forensic report. And the diagnosis leaves us with a country in a prolonged process of decomposition whose reversal is unviable while the same authors of the disaster remain in power.

The year 2025 was a clear confirmation of that trajectory with no light at the end of the tunnel. The price hike [‘tarifazo‘] from Etecsa, the national telecommunications monopoly, applied in a country where average salaries barely allow survival, provoked a university protest that was quelled with threats and pressure on the main leaders of the rebellion. Blackouts increased until they became the daily norm. Hurricane Melissa worsened structural damage and added to the list of victims with unresolved problems. The scandal of Alejandro Gil’s conviction once again exposed that the power’s method is punishment without transparency. The country faces a health crisis marked by outbreaks of chikungunya, dengue and other diseases, with dozens of deaths, medicine shortages, hospitals operating at capacity and collapsed cemeteries.

Closing the year, Parliament experienced a series of unusual resignations, including that of the Secretary of the Council of State, Homero Acosta, seen by some as part of the reformist bloc. His replacement by José Luis Toledo Santander—a staunch conservative—is an unequivocal signal that immobilism has won the internal fight and is calling the shots. Toledo Santander became sadly famous for his phrase that “the Communist Party is above the Constitution.”

The demographic dimension converts that sum of crises and bad omens into an even more serious problem. Cuba lost the balance between births and deaths long ago. In the last five years, the country registered—according to official data—a negative external migratory balance exceeding one million people. This is a systematic bleeding of population of working and reproductive age. And the result is a society that ages without accumulated wealth, without sufficient productive force and without generational replacement. In historical terms, Cuba has entered a phase never seen in the region for a country that is not at war. continue reading

Cuba offers blackouts, human decapitalization, chronic corruption, inflation and massive emigration

Comparison with other countries in the Caribbean environment is necessary to understand that the problem is not the geographical zone nor post-pandemic effects. The Dominican Republic, with a similar population, maintains sustained demographic growth: many more Dominicans are born than die. Additionally, it attracts investment, expands its tourism sector and sustains an imperfect but functional energy system. Cuba, in contrast, sees tourism income fall to levels so low they don’t even cover the most basic imports.

Energy explains much of that divergence. The Dominican Republic consumes and serves more than 22,000 GWh annually, with installed capacity exceeding 7,200 megawatts (MW), which allows it to sustain industry, services and urban life. Cuba, with similar capacity, though 50% inoperative, and with much lower consumption, cannot cover even half of daily demand. Blackouts are the logical result of decades without real investment, dependence on imported fuels and mismanagement. Without stable energy there is no productivity, and without productivity there is no possible improvement.

In this context, the insistence of some on applying the Chinese or Vietnamese models is unsustainable and absurd. China and Vietnam bet on deep reforms, large-scale opening, insertion into global value chains and a relatively stable framework of rules for capital. Cuba has done the opposite, with partial reforms, state control over strategic sectors, criminalization of private accumulation and an unpredictable regulatory climate. The Asian model requires abundant energy, sustained investment, fiscal discipline and an expanding workforce. Cuba offers blackouts, human decapitalization, chronic corruption, inflation and massive emigration. Asian culture, in contrast, is based on effort, competitiveness and ambition to grow. Cuban culture settles for “resolving” and “surviving,” accumulating social weariness from the permanent demand for sacrifice without reward.

The Cuban crisis is not reversible in the current political framework

The Island doesn’t have many allies left capable of artificially sustaining the system. Venezuela faces its own crisis and has reduced fuel shipments. Russia confronts a war economy with resources concentrated on another front. Mexico cooperates in limited fashion, while dealing with internal tensions and an increasingly critical young generation. At the same time, the regional political map has changed. Governments that for years offered ideological support have lost elections or face internal weaknesses. For the international left, Cuba has ceased to be an exportable symbol. It is, rather, an uncomfortable problem that cannot be mentioned without having an excuse manual nearby.

The health and education crisis completes the crime scene. The health system, for decades presented as a showcase, now functions with chronic shortages, professional exodus and rising negative indicators. Education also suffers abandonment, quality loss and teacher desertion. Human capital, the country’s main historical asset, deteriorates or emigrates, and is no longer capable of maintaining high standards in a world that prioritizes technology and the handling of new tools. The regime has repeated several times that it has Artificial Intelligence development on its agenda: how the hell is that achieved in a country without energy, aged, poorly connected and bankrupt?

Everything leads to an objective conclusion: the Cuban crisis is not reversible in the current political framework. Not because natural resources, talent or geographical possibilities are lacking, but because the system governing the Island is incompatible with recovery. Each passing year, the demographic base shrinks, infrastructure degrades, energy becomes scarcer and social trust erodes.

In official rhetoric, the entire disaster is justified with the expressions “intensified blockade” and “enemy campaigns.” The paradox is that, if the country’s clinical death has not yet been decreed, it is thanks to Miami and other capitals of exile. Without the oxygen of remittances and diaspora investment in the private sector, the Island would have long ago entered respiratory arrest.

Continuing to repeat that “next year will be better” is premeditated cruelty and a slap in the face of Cubans. The country needs a profound and urgent break with the model that brought it here. While power remains in the hands of those who designed and sustain the disaster, Cuba will continue on its path to extinction.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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“Zero Transparency”: Díaz-Canel’s Speech About His Former Friend Alejandro Gil

The president used quotes from Fidel Castro to denigrate the person who was his right-hand man in the government.

Why did they let him be showered with hugs and birthday wishes? They mocked him in front of the entire country. / Granma

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, December 14, 2025 — At the 11th Plenum of the Central Committee, Miguel Díaz-Canel had a privileged opportunity to offer explanations about one of the biggest political and judicial scandals of Castroism: the life sentence for espionage, in addition to a 20-year sentence for other crimes, that a court has just imposed on the former Minister of Economy, Alejandro Gil.

But instead of detailing facts, responsibilities, failed control mechanisms, or institutional lessons, the president chose a different path. With evident dyslexia, he read five paragraphs of moralizing rhetoric, quotes from Fidel Castro, and metaphors about traitors and patriots. The result was a speech laden with adjectives but devoid of concrete information about how and why one of the men he trusted most ended up becoming, in his view, a “great traitor.”

The close relationship between Díaz-Canel and Gil was also evident in the academic sphere. The president was the principal advisor for the then-Minister of Economy’s doctoral thesis. This endorsement implied a bond of trust and made Díaz-Canel the intellectual guarantor of Gil’s economic vision. That same thesis has been cited by critics and relatives of the former minister as a symbol of the extremely close relationship between the two.

For years, Gil was the public face of Díaz-Canel’s government’s economic policy and one of its most highly promoted figures. Even after his dismissal, the president showered him with praise and public embraces. However, he then agreed to serve as a prosecution witness during the closed-door trial against the former deputy prime minister. And now, in Congress, he presents him as the prototype of those who “sell out the nation.” This abrupt shift only holds up if the official narrative manages to isolate the case, transform it into an individual moral drama, and avoid continue reading

any difficult questions about the political responsibility of the inner circle that elevated him. This is where the phrases Díaz-Canel chose for his speech, and their underlying subtext, come into play.

Díaz-Canel, conscious of his limited authority, immediately invokes the late Fidel Castro

The president began to paint a picture of Gil without naming him: “There appear those who profit from needs and shortcomings, those who obstruct the path and delay progress, and others capable of selling out the nation that once elevated them to the highest offices.” Díaz-Canel is attempting to reinforce Gil’s image as an internal enemy, shifting the discussion from the technical-economic sphere to absolute morality. There is no talk of design flaws, but rather of “those who obstruct the path,” as if the system were a smooth highway and the problem were simply a fallen tree trunk.

Díaz-Canel, aware of his limited authority, immediately invokes the late Fidel Castro: “The enemy is well aware of the weaknesses of human beings in their search for spies and traitors.” On the surface, the message points to the enemy—more than external, “eternal” (the CIA)—but at the same time, it erases any personal responsibility by praising the “capacity for sacrifice and heroism” of the majority (among whom he seems to include himself). The system, he repeats, is not the problem; the problem is the rotten potatoes.

Fidel’s second quote is even worse, speaking to us of the Revolution as a great battle that teaches us who are “those who aren’t even good enough to fertilize their land with their blood and their lives.” We all witnessed how some Castroist radicals, including those on the program ” Con Filo,” campaigned for Gil’s eventual execution. And now Díaz-Canel insinuates that his former friend wasn’t even good enough to waste the bullets of a firing squad on.

Even so, Díaz-Canel didn’t hold back his verbal attacks against Gil, bluntly lumping him in with those “made of selfishness, ambition, disloyalty, betrayal, or cowardice.” While reciting this catalog of vices, the television cameras focused on Humberto López, a star propagandist and master of the stage, who was also close to the ousted former minister.

The third image of the late Castro completes the operation: “In a revolution, everyone has to take off their mask; in a revolution, the altars collapse. Those who have tried to live by deceiving others, those who have tried to live posing as virtuous or posing as decent people, or posing as patriots, or posing as brave. That is what the Revolution teaches us, it teaches us who the true patriots are, and where the great traitors come from.”

The lack of clarification in the plenary session demonstrates that, rather than “zero tolerance”, what abounds is “zero transparency.”

This clip is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a fit of rage. Díaz-Canel is portraying himself as a cuckolded husband, ridiculed by all his colleagues. How could the powers that be have let him make a fool of himself for so long? If they already knew about Gil’s infidelities, why did they let him mentor him, thank him on Twitter for his efforts, promise him new tasks, shower him with hugs and birthday wishes? They mocked him in front of the entire country.

After this indulgence in Fidelista rhetoric, Díaz-Canel concludes: “I don’t think there are more accurate phrases to describe the actions of Alejandro Gil, from whose disgraceful case we must draw experiences and lessons, making it clear, first of all, that the Revolution has zero tolerance for such behavior.”

Here, finally, the former minister’s name appears, but only to fit into the already constructed category: traitor, selfish, ambitious, disloyal. Gil doesn’t exist as a political actor with concrete decisions, but rather as an abstract synthesis of all the vices enumerated.

What doesn’t appear in any of these paragraphs is what many “revolutionaries” were hoping to hear: how the alleged spy network was discovered, which structures were compromised, which control mechanisms failed, who was politically responsible for keeping him in office for so long, or what guarantees exist that there aren’t other “little altars” still standing. Díaz-Canel, like a priest on Sunday, turns the case into a moral lesson and a disciplinary warning to the apparatus.

The toxic relationship between Gil and Díaz-Canel, after this speech, takes on the air of a soap opera. The relentless persecution of the convicted man, the opacity surrounding the case, the attempt to isolate and silence the family, and the lack of clarification in the plenary session demonstrate that, more than “zero tolerance,” what abounds is “zero transparency.” Díaz-Canel’s speech was the typical lament of a cuckold. All that was missing was the stab in the back behind closed doors, without anyone noticing.

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The Ministry of Fear and the Culture of Panic

The “suspect detector” has been perfected as a management tool, each official calculates how many times per day he should tweet the hashtag ordered by the boss.

The “people” is nothing more than a huge archive where everyone has an open file. / Facebook

14ymedio, Madrid, Yunior García Aguilera, November 18, 2025 — Terror has taken hold of Cuban institutions. Faced with a rumor circulating on social networks about the old and long-known corruption within the Ministry of Culture, the commissioners have come out to respond with a letter of self-vindication, accompanied by some 220 signatures. The answer may seem desperate and ridiculous if you do not understand the context in which it is written: there is an internal purge and all heads feel threatened.

Only panic can explain the clumsiness of those who wrote, signed and decided to make public the pamphlet. The hornet’s nest that can be stirred up behind this letter is far worse than any rumor about a spa in the home of a former deputy minister. Because, although the family business of Fernando Rojas is not news to all of us, there are juicier tidbits hidden in the Cuban cultural muddle. The Squirrel, in honor of his nervous name, far from protecting his henchmen is focusing on them. And there everyone has a glass ceiling.

Therefore, the most reasonable explanation for the official’s reaction may be related to the Gil case. After the accusations against the former deputy prime minister and head of Economy, every bureaucrat suspects that he or she may appear on the list (and not precisely Jeffrey Epstein’s). As they would say in the time of Stalin: “There is no one innocent, only people poorly investigated.” In Cuba it would be translated as: “No one knows the past that awaits him.”

As they would say in the time of Stalin: “There is no one innocent, only people poorly investigated.” In Cuba it would be translated as: “Nobody knows the past that awaits him”

All this paranoia and conspiracy theories have their origin in the obvious disaster that the country is experiencing. But perhaps it got even more complicated from a misunderstanding. A friend who’s a jokester but well-informed tells me that someone confirmed to Raúl Castro that the ship was sinking and it was hopeless. And Raúl, without taking his eyes off the screen of his television, replied that they would look for a scapegoat. So far, everything was normal; after all, his brother had shot his best general (and best colonel) when the trumpets of perestroika and glasnost sounded. What difference would it make to sacrifice a technocrat whom no one had heard of before the pandemic? continue reading

But here comes the possible mistake: perhaps the secretary misspelled the word expiar [atone for] and replaced it with espiar [spy]. Once you screwed up, you had to continue with the pantomime, and the former comrade of Díaz-Canel went from being merely insensitive to being a notorious spy, although we still do not know if he sent the alleged information to Agent 007 or to Mortadelo and Filemón [Spanish cartoon characters].

“The Cuban people can never be divided with messages of hate,” proclaims La Jiribilla’s text, refusing to recognize the curvature of the earth. Never before, my friends, had we been so divided! What they call “the people” is made up of the same people they call “enemies.” Their own speech betrays them. The “people” is nothing more than a huge archive where everyone has an open file.

Seeing some roofs burning and others running to hose them down, I remembered a phrase that may have escaped (or maybe not) the officer who questioned me during my last months in Cuba: “I’m itching to finish you off along with the insufferable little groups of your generation, in order to deal with the big shots we’re investigating.” It is possible that his phrase was part of the manual. But it is also likely that the officers were so saturated, propping up a building that was coming down without plans, that they did not give a fig about the manual. The truth is that, if my file was about ten pages long, that of the officials of the apparatus surely occupied several volumes. That’s why they all jump at the first accusation. They’re on edge.

The poor souls who stamp their signature on the pamphlet are old acquaintances of the guild. Some of the elderly included there are dependent on the increasingly meager aid of the “attention to personalities” department, a bureaucratic euphemism for state charity. Others expect a promised house, or hope to be prioritized if a ship arrives with a donation of paper. And there is no lack of those who retain good memories of some cultural drunkenness and feel indebted to the official who brought the bottle. But not a single one of those signatories can say, with his hand on his heart, that cultural institutions are corruption-free territory or that the country is doing well.

Not a single one of those signatories can say, with his hand on his heart, that cultural institutions are corruption-free territory or that the country is doing well.

Nor is it news that some in the world of culture play at being the mascot of power. Even the Austrian painter had several artists who put their talent at the service of horror. In our own history there is no lack of examples: Machado had his salon chroniclers; Batista his pen-pushers who called him “The Man”; and Fidel Castro his army of shaggy bards. But those who used to sing to the bearded man are today still on their knees before a bureaucrat whom they themselves recognize as a mediocre leader, even if he is disguised as someone who will help when a hurricane strikes.

In the corridors of the Ministry of Censorship five-year plans are no longer discussed, but rather daily rumors: who did not applaud enough during the last speech-poem by Alpidio Alonso; who fell asleep listening to Abel Prieto criticizing Shakira and talking nonsense about cultural colonization; who did not post a a heart emoji to the last profile photo of Amauri Pérez, Prieto’s new wardrobe consultant. The suspect detector has been perfected as a management tool, and each official calculates how many times per day he should tweet the hashtag ordered by the boss.

What is coming now is predictable. UNEAC, AHS, UPEC and all those subordinates to G2 will go through the list to collect new names. And after a while, the vast majority of those who stamp their initials will say as usual: “I didn’t know what I was signing.” And the worst is that they will be right, because many of them completely ignore what is hidden behind this pamphlet.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The Rebellion of the ‘Clarias’: Cracks in the Cuban Regime in Its Terminal Phase

If the Prosecutor’s Office announcement about Alejandro Gil was a “smokescreen,” it backfired spectacularly.

President Miguel Díaz-Canel and his then Minister of Economy, Alejandro Gil Fernández, in an archive photo. / Facebook/Pinar del Río Provincial Education Directorate

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, November 3, 2025 – “The Communist Party of Cuba must demand the dismissal of its first secretary and president of the country, as well as that of Manuel Marrero Cruz.” Thus, without mincing words, the pro-government psychologist Suzanne Felipe, speaking from her Facebook wall, demanded the removal of Miguel Díaz-Canel and the prime minister, due to their close ties with the ousted Alejandro Gil. What was most striking was not her audacity, but the avalanche of likes, thumbs up, and supportive comments from other “revolutionary” profiles.

The scene would have been unthinkable just five years ago. But in today’s Cuba, where economic collapse has made commonplace the corruption, darkness, and hopelessness, even the clarias (catfish) —that digital army that once blindly defended “continuity”—seem to have lost faith in the anointed Díaz-Canel.

When the Prosecutor’s General’s Office published the litany of serious crimes attributed to the former Minister of Economy, many interpreted the news as a distraction, a smokescreen to cover up the devastation left by Tropical Storm Melissa in the eastern part of the country. But this time, the smoke got in the eyes of the regime’s own firefighters.

The Gil case threatens to become a political hurricane far more devastating than Melissa.

The Gil case threatens to become a political hurricane far more devastating than Melissa, further damaging the already precarious image of the establishment and unleashing what some have mockingly dubbed “the rebellion of the clarias.”

If the announcement was intended to distract, to mask the widespread perception of a failed regime, it backfired spectacularly. Neither the military helicopters rescuing isolated families nor the choreographed news reports on the National News managed to impose a different narrative. Within the ranks of officialdome itself, the only topic of conversation is: who were Gil’s accomplices, and how far do these corrupt loyalties extend? The alleged continue reading

crime of “espionage” by a high-ranking figure—an extremely rare accusation in the recent history of Castroism—only fuels the feeling that something has broken down at the very heart of power.

The internal cracks had been simmering for some time, ever since Havana tentatively dared to pay tribute to another Caribbean hurricane: Celia Cruz. At the Fábrica de Arte Cubano (FAC), the epicenter of half-tolerated independent art, an exhibition was organized, along with a performance of protest following censorship, and even a star was unveiled in honor of the Queen of Salsa. This was enough to send the hardliners into a rage.

In his Facebook group, Rodrigo Huaimachi—a Chilean proletarian, excuse me: a property owner, living in Havana—was tearing his revolutionary clothes and threatening the Colombian Air Force with popular reprisals: “They will have to rectify this, or the people will have to take matters into their own hands.” The tone was more Castro-like than Castro himself. One of his followers even proposed destroying the star dedicated to the Queen of Salsa “with sledgehammers.”

Faced with the indifference of the club and its supporters—built, not by chance, on the ruins of an old oil factory—Huaimachi broadened his offensive. His new target was Carlos Miguel Pérez Reyes, a congressman and mipymero [small business owner], accused of ideological lukewarmness for expressing overly cautious opinions about Celia Cruz. Haila María Mompié also fell victim to the fire for organizing a mass in honor of the singer, as did the Minister of Culture himself, Alpidio Alonso, accused of turning a blind eye to the issue.

Not even the most loyal propagandists escaped the blows. Even Pedro Jorge Velázquez, alias El Necio (The Fool), a regular defender of the official line, was torn to shreds by the Chilean, who called him a “likes hunter,” politically unprepared and with a profound ideological dizziness.”

The Party apparatus, accustomed to controlling the narrative, is facing a digital rebellion from its own creations.

The troubadour Raúl Torres, a singer known for official funerals and the author of a couple of good songs, also didn’t want to be left out of the show. He complained on social media that his projects were shelved due to a “worm-like bureaucracy” and practically demanded his own star. In a burst of performative Fidelism, he declared: “Sooner rather than later they’ll find out that here nobody who is not with Fidel is going to take advantage.”

But the true epicenter of the earthquake remains the Gil case. His abrupt downfall, the nebulous accusation of espionage, and the media censorship surrounding him have unleashed a Category 5 political storm within officialdom. The Party apparatus, accustomed to controlling the narrative, is facing a digital rebellion from its own members, who now doubt, confront, and, most seriously, go off-script.

The “monolithic unity” proclaimed by the regime is crumbling before everyone’s eyes. Gone are the days when they controlled the narrative—as in the Ochoa case—nor can they silence the families of those who have fallen from grace—as in the times of Carlos Lage and Felipe Pérez Roque. Now everyone has a phone where they can break the silence and amplify their opinions.

The clarias —those amphibious creatures that live in the mud—have begun to leap out of the pond. If this new storm makes anything clear, it’s that Castroism, in its decrepit and recycled form, has lost its monopoly on faith. And when believers begin to doubt, the churches empty faster than the wine cellars.

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The Cuban Regime Survives Thanks to Our Paranoia

It is paradoxical that activists who proclaim “freedom for political prisoners” quickly join defamatory campaigns.

The regime fears that if it moves even a millimeter from its position, the entire building could collapse. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 18 October 2025 — In recent days, two Cuban political prisoners recently returned to exile—José Daniel Ferrer, leader of the Patriotic Union of Cuba, and Luis Robles, sentenced to five years in prison for holding a banner with the word “freedom”—have been targeted. What is most disturbing is that many of these attacks come from sectors of the opposition itself.

It is paradoxical that activists who proclaim “freedom for all political prisoners” quickly join campaigns of insults, suspicion, and conspiracy theories against those who paid for their dissent with years in prison.

In Ferrer’s case, it was predictable that State Security would attempt to undermine his leadership and prevent him from forging a consensus in exile. With the younger Robles, they seek to demotivate him, damage his testimony, and warn other Cubans that the community demanding your freedom today may tomorrow call you a “traitor” without considering your sacrifices.

The regime survives, in large part, thanks to this mutual distrust. Paranoia demobilizes, discredits, isolates, and causes both Cubans on the island and international institutions to lose confidence in the opposition. continue reading

In totalitarian contexts, distrust reaches extreme levels, as the fear of infiltration by regime agents is real.

During my interrogations in Cuba, my interrogators almost never sought concrete information: they wanted to sow discord. They tried to alienate me from activists like Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara, Maykel Osorbo, Tania Bruguera, Manuel Cuesta Morúa, and Ferrer, and I know they did the same with all the others.

In totalitarian contexts, mistrust reaches extreme levels, as the fear of infiltration by regime agents is real. Direct penetration by undercover agents is a constant and early practice, perfected by organizations such as the Soviet KGB and the Stasi in the German Democratic Republic. Beyond simple surveillance, these agents actively intervened in the internal dynamics of opposition groups, fostering rivalries, spreading rumors, and promoting tactics that compromised the anti-repression organization.

It is true that in the Soviet Union in the 1920s, the Cheka even created fake opposition organizations to attract, identify, and neutralize genuine dissidents, as occurred in the famous Operation Trust. These strategies sought not only to infiltrate but also to fabricate a controlled opposition. However, over time, counterintelligence evolved toward less daring methods. The greatest risk of fabricating a fake opposition lies in the ” boomerang effect,” losing control of the organization and its leaders.

One of the most notable examples of this effect is the terrorist Osama Bin Laden. During the 1980s, the CIA supported the Afghan mujahideen to weaken the USSR, creating an environment that allowed Bin Laden to consolidate his position and later found Al Qaeda. This temporary alliance later transformed into a direct threat to the US, demonstrating that strategies based on manipulation or instrumentalization can produce enemies more dangerous than the original objective.

State Security, a disciple of the KGB and the Stasi, doesn’t usually take too many risks. Every time I read about the “fake change” theory, I wonder if we are aware of the stale conservatism of the Cuban leadership, the advanced age of its leaders, and their innate rejection of any change, even if it’s “fake.” We forget that this regime hasn’t even been able to mutate toward the Chinese or Vietnamese models, that Díaz-Canel chose the word “continuity” as his motto, and that the “replacement cadres” are particularly mediocre, lacking in originality, and dogmatic.

Its undercover agents have been mostly “people in the line of fire,” whisperers, without much relevance or prominence.

I don’t rule out that, in the future, they could plan something similar to a “fraudulent change.” But, so far, neither the official rhetoric nor international alliances point in that direction. The regime fears that, if it shifts even a millimeter in its position, the entire edifice could collapse. That’s also why it takes decades to implement even less daring economic reforms.

Cuban counterintelligence agencies have preferred more orthodox tactics. They have avoided the direct creation of groups or leaders, preferring to infiltrate, gather information, generate rumors, influence decisions, and dynamite organizations to destroy them from within. Even the level of repression varies capriciously from one opposition figure to another, fueling theories and suspicions. Their undercover agents have mostly been “people in the ranks,” whisperers, without much relevance or prominence, precisely to avoid the boomerang effect.

Although all democratic movements in totalitarian contexts suffered from the problem of division, there are some examples of successful organizations. The cases of Solidarity in Poland and Charter 77 and the Civic Forum in Czechoslovakia demonstrated that alliances and consensus, regardless of political affiliation, can overcome the divisions fabricated by power.

The Cuban regime has transferred its strategy to social networks, creating not only defenders of the system, but also false “radicals,” from anonymous profiles.

These unifying agendas allowed ideological or social differences to take a backseat. The broadness of the coalition, combined with a nonviolent strategy and massive popular mobilization, largely neutralized the security apparatus’s ability to exploit internal fractures. Unity, in these cases, was not the product of deep ideological affinities, but of pragmatic negotiation around shared objectives.

The Cuban regime has studied these examples and is working to prevent us from putting them into practice. It has extended its strategy to social media, creating not only defenders of the system, but also fake “radicals” from anonymous profiles whose mission is to attack other opponents, promote conspiracy theories, and sabotage alliances.

After more than six decades of dictatorship, Cuban society faces enormous difficulties practicing tolerance, respect for differences, and consensus. And it does so in a world where extreme polarization threatens even consolidated democracies. It would be tragic if paranoia—that seed the regime cultivates with such precision—were to prevent us from achieving freedom in Cuba, before democracy, in other latitudes, begins to wither away.

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“With So Many Young People Like You, Tyranny Doesn’t Last a Week”

From Miami, this is how José Daniel Ferrer addressed Luis Robles, “the young man with the placard,” at a press conference held in Madrid.

Luis Robles and his mother, Yindra Elizastigui, at the end of the press conference. The sign reads, “In Cuba there are more than 1000 political prisoners just for asking for Freedom” / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 15 October 2025 — “I had already served my sentence, but I was still a hostage,” Luis Robles told 14ymedio a few hours after arriving in Madrid on Monday, after serving five years in prison in Cuba for marching in Havana with a placard demanding freedom. In the Spanish capital, he was accompanied by his mother and six-year-old son, while his brother Lester remains imprisoned on the island.

“The goal of my protest was to break the silence,” Robles said, because “I didn’t want to be complicit in the abuses being committed, in the hunger… Someone had to do it.” The young man saw that everyone around him thought like him, but fear prevented them from defending their opinions. He didn’t consider himself a politician or a leader, just a citizen tired of remaining silent in the face of injustice. “That day I decided to break the fear,” he said with a firm voice and gaze, without losing the humility and simplicity that characterize him.

Robles and his mother, Yindra Elizastigui, spoke about the call they received from the State Security officer in charge of harassing them. “Where is Luis?” the officer asked over the phone in a clearly annoyed tone, although news of his arrival in Spain was already circulating in independent media and on social media. His mother answered without a tremble in her voice: “You know, he’s already out of Cuba.”

He did not consider himself a politician or a leader, just a citizen tired of keeping silent in the face of injustice.

The officer criticized them for not having informed him directly about Robles’s efforts to leave the country. Despite knowing of his intention to leave the island, they pressured him to handle any arrangements through them, in order to maintain absolute control over his actions. “They constantly threatened my mother with me, and me with her. They made us believe that any word or action could land me back in prison, despite having fully served an unjust sentence,” Robles told this newspaper.

The phone call suggested that Officer “Michel”— as he calls himself —had been reprimanded by his superiors for not being able to keep track of every movement of Robles and his family. Although the state’s repressive continue reading

machinery monitors and controls its targets down to the smallest movement, it doesn’t always operate as smoothly as they would have us believe.

The officer admitted in the call that “everything belongs to them,” referring to Villa Marista and other places where Robles had to go to complete his exit procedures, but his discomfort was not having been able to properly carry out his task of following his steps and finding out everything before his superiors.

Regarding his time in Combinado del Este prison, Robles says he stood up for his position as a political prisoner. He never admitted to having committed a crime, but rather to exercising and defending a human right. In prison, he faced threats, punishment, and repression, but he also felt the respect of other prisoners who admired his firm stance.

Robles says he defended his position as a political prisoner. He never admitted to having committed a crime, but rather to exercising and defending a human right.

Robles, his mother, and his son arrived dressed in white, bearing with them the justice of their cause and their commitment to the other political prisoners still in Cuba. His mother, a Guantanamo native who doesn’t hesitate to confront injustice, can’t stop thinking about her son Léster, who remains imprisoned in Cuba awaiting trial. “In a regime like Cuba’s, any citizen runs the risk of having a crime fabricated against them,” she tells us, but she won’t rest until Léster and the rest of the victims of the dictatorship are also free.

His mother recounted her ordeal at a press conference this Wednesday. “My life changed completely since my son Landy started the campaign for Luis Robles’s release. I realized I was just another prisoner who had to follow orders.” They began harassing her at work; they even went to a niece’s school to ask about Luis. “I was forced to leave my job at Housing in Guantánamo; I had to take a leave of absence to go to Havana to see my son’s situation, but all these setbacks we went through because Luis made me grow up.”

“Fear prevails in Cuba, but there are many people who are in touch with reality and have discovered that they are outraged and are not afraid,” he added. He also highlighted the role of families and the harm that silence causes to those in prison. “Many prisoners feel abandoned by Cubans themselves; they raised their voices for everyone. What better way than for those Cubans to support them. We are more than the authorities, the police, or State Security.”

José Daniel Ferrer, leader of the Patriotic Union of Cuba, also participated online from Miami.

The press conference was organized and moderated by Javier Larrondo, president of the Prisoners Defenders organization. Also participating online from Miami was José Daniel Ferrer, leader of the Patriotic Union of Cuba (UNPACU), who praised the valor of Luis Robles: “With so many young people like you, tyranny doesn’t last a week.” Ferrer was exiled the same day Robles arrived in Madrid. Also in attendance were Javier Nart, a Member of the European Parliament, and Spanish lawyer Blas Jesús Imbroda.

A representative of the Cuban exile community gratefully welcomed Robles and his family. Several activists had been discreetly organizing his arrival for months to prevent the regime from impeding his departure. “I will continue fighting for those who remain there, and for Cuba to be free,” stated the man who became known as the “young man with the placard,” who is determined to continue raising his voice from Spain.

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The Case of William Morales Reopens the Debate on Asylum for Terrorists in Cuba

Fernández de Cossío, Cuban deputy foreign minister, denied knowing this case in an interview

Morales, who was sentenced in the U.S. to 89 years in prison for possession of weapons and explosives, has been protected by the Havana regime since 1988. / latinamericanstudies.org

Madrid, Yunior García Aguilero, September 27, 2025 — William Guillermo Morales is a name that sums up several decades of tensions between Washington and Havana. His case is one of the most cited when there is talk about fugitives sought by American justice who found asylum on the Island, and it returns to relevance after the recent interview that the Cuban Deputy Foreign Minister, Carlos Fernández de Cossío, granted to journalist Mehdi Hasan. The diplomat rejected the accusations that Cuba is supporting terrorists, but there are elements in Morales’ story that hardly fit this official version.

Morales, a Puerto Rican-born New York engineer, was a member of the Armed Forces of National Liberation (FALN), a clandestine group that carried out dozens of bombings in the U.S. in the 1970s to demand Puerto Rico’s independence. The FALN’s bloodiest action occurred in January 1975, when a device exploded at the Fraunces Tavern restaurant in Manhattan, killing four people and injuring dozens.

Although Morales was not directly convicted of the attack, he was arrested in 1978 after an accidental explosion at a bomb factory in Queens. The blast left him severely mutilated, with his hands shattered and face disfigured. In the apartment, police found explosives and documents linking him to the FALN network and the Fraunces Tavern bombing.

Morales was sentenced to 89 years in prison for possession of weapons and explosives. He was hospitalized at the Bellevue Hospital Center in New York to receive prostheses when, in May 1979, he participated in a breakout worthy of a documentary. The terrorist used an improvised rope made with bandages to hang from the bathroom window, aided by supporters of the underground movement. He fled to Mexico, where in 1983 he was arrested after a shoot-out with police that left an officer dead. He spent five years in prison in that country and, upon his release in 1988, was able to travel to continue reading

Cuba where he obtained political asylum. Since then he has been living in Havana, free and protected by the Cuban government, despite U.S. extradition demands.

The families of the deceased at Fraunces Tavern have repeatedly asked that Morales be extradited and serve the sentence he evaded

The case of Morales shows how the Cuban regime has served as a refuge for individuals accused of terrorism or serious crimes in the U.S. The best-known example is Joanne Chesimard, aka Assata Shakur, a former member of the Black Liberation Army who was convicted of murdering a New Jersey police officer in 1973 and has been on the run since 1979. Shakur died in Havana this September 25, due to health problems and her advanced age.

Charles Hill is also mentioned, implicated in the murder of a policeman in New Mexico in 1971 and living in Cuba since the 1970s. For the U.S. authorities, these cases are proof that Havana is violating international agreements on judicial cooperation and combating terrorism. For the Cuban government, they are political fighters who faced persecution and deserve asylum.

Fernández de Cossío, in his dialogue with Mehdi Hasan, denied knowing the case of Morales. He argued that Cuba does not protect terrorists and said that Washington’s accusations are part of a political pressure campaign. However, the argument does not solve the dilemma of the victims, who continue to demand justice half a century after the events. The families of the deceased at Fraunces Tavern have repeatedly asked that Morales be extradited and serve the sentence he evaded. For them, the decision of Havana is an affront that prolongs the pain.

The asylum granted to Morales has implications that go beyond the legal. The Cuban regime’s refusal to cooperate with the U.S. justice system in cases of civilian killings raises an ethical problem. Morales is a kind of political ghost in Havana: he does not appear in the official press and does not participate in public events, but he is a symbol of the old alliance between armed independence activists and the Cuban government. At a time when Havana is desperately seeking to improve its international image and normalize relations with Washington, protecting fugitives from violent crimes on the Island is a burden that fuels mistrust and provides arguments for maintaining sanctions.

The case of William Morales is a reminder that historical debts do not expire and that political refuge, when extended to perpetrators of attacks against civilians, ceases to be a humanitarian gesture and becomes a political decision with consequences.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Leonardo Padura Presents a Novel in Madrid That Portrays the Disaster of Cuba

The writer describes a country where the poverty of pensioners and the opulence of the new rich coexist

Padura acknowledged that the “control industry” is still standing and called the judicial repression following the protests “brutal.”/ 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 3 September 2025 — The most-read living Cuban writer on and off the island, Leonardo Padura, presented his latest novel this Tuesday in Madrid. Morir en la arena (Dying in the Sand) (Tusquets Editores, 2025) has been described by the author himself as “the saddest” he has published so far, a stark and almost fatalistic portrait of national reality. Some 200 readers gathered at the Espacio Fundación Telefónica to listen to the creator of the famous Mario Conde, and to buy his book and renew that imaginary photograph that many keep of Cuba.

Padura is not a gold coin. In exile he is often reproached for his ideological ambiguity and his silence in the face of political repression. Within the island, on the other hand, he is perceived as an uncomfortable author, too independent for official institutions and too famous for the taste of cultural curators. He does not belong to the chorus of “gratefuls,” those who claim to owe everything to the Revolution. He recognizes that his success is due in large part to the luck of obtaining a contract outside the country. And he himself complained, during the presentation, that his last books have not come out in Cuba, because, according to the authorities, “there is no paper.”

With or without criticism, it is impossible to deny his international recognition. Receiving the Princesa de Asturias de las Letras award in 2015, translated into more than 30 languages and a regular on the lists of best sellers in Spain and Latin America, Padura is today an indisputable reference. This Tuesday, he appealed to a metaphor that could well define him: a character who refuses to be heads or tails, and who insists on being on “the edge of the coin.”

**Hundreds of readers gathered in the Espacio Fundación Telefónica to hear the creator of the famous Mario Conde. / 14ymedio**

Morir en la arena stems from a real parricide in a family close to the writer. Although the story takes place in 2023, the narrative covers half a century of national changes, such as the war in Angola, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the crisis of the 90s and the current disaster. continue reading

The pages reflect today’s enormous social divide, from the poverty of pensioners to the opulence of the new rich. It is no longer the music of Silvio Rodríguez or Pablo Milanés that accompanies the landscape, but the reparto,* a penetrating wave that floods everything. Padura even knows by heart the lyrics of one of those songs, saturated with “beatings” and “asses with authority.”

The scientist and writer Eduardo López-Collazo, present at the meeting, asked him if he thought Cuba had a solution. Padura avoided a direct response. He defined himself as an observer, not a politician or sociologist. But in his eyes Cuba is a country in decline, with two million emigrants in recent years and doctors unable to survive on their salary.

Another attendee, Spanish by his accent, spoke plainly of the repression on the island. Padura spoke of the fear, and he agreed that Cuba needs profound transformations in all spheres: economic, political and social. He also acknowledged that the “control industry” is still standing and called the judicial repression following the protests “brutal,” when too many young people received sentences of eight or ten years for breaking a window. “If all those who break a window in demonstrations were imprisoned in France, no one would be left on the street,” he said.

**A Cuban woman wore a sign on her back alluding to the Cuban political prisoners. Everyone noticed and took pictures of the message. / 14ymedio**

A Cuban woman wore a sign on her back alluding to the Cuban political prisoners. Everyone noticed and took pictures of the message. / 14ymedio

The writer Berna González Harbour moderated the conversation and thought she saw Padura himself in one of the characters in Morir en la arena. He denied it. He only intended to satirize a genre of his youth, the “revolutionary police novel,” which, he said, had “much of Revolution, little of police and no novel.” Although he did not advance the correlation, he did confess his interest in vindicating that character.

“What keeps Cubans singing and writing?” asked another voice from the audience. The most ingenious answer came from the Nicaraguan Gioconda Belli, who recalled the joke of a poor driver who, to the same question from a diplomat, replied: “in addition to living in poverty, you also want it to be sad?”

At the end, among the audience, a Cuban woman wore a sign on her back alluding to the Cuban political prisoners: “In Cuba there are more than 1000 political prisoners just for asking for freedom.” Everyone noticed and took pictures of the message. She came up with her book, received an elegant dedication and a photo with the writer. For many, this afternoon was the first time they heard Padura speak publicly about the island’s repression, unjust convictions and the urgency of political change. Perhaps, after all this swimming, it is not obligatory to die in the sand.

*Urban musical genre similar to reggaeton

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The Cuban Regime’s Cultural Commissars Discover the Podcast

Abel Prieto announces that his podcast will be “anti-fascist, anti-colonial, anti-imperialist, Latin Americanist, Caribbean and ‘Lezamian’.”

The former Minister of Culture’s announcement barely garnered a dozen comments on Facebook, half of them negative. / Facebook

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 20 August 2025 — La Casa de las Américas has decided to join the podcast craze in Cuba. On its X and Facebook profiles, the institution’s president, Abel Prieto Jiménez, announced that they will begin publishing a biweekly program, with an “anti-fascist, anti-colonial, anti-imperialist, Latin Americanist, Caribbean, and Lezamian*” approach. What the former Minister of Culture didn’t explain is how they plan to fit all of this together without the whole mess exploding in their listeners’ stomachs.

The Cuban regime maintained a monopoly on information for decades. The arrival of the internet—albeit late—began to break its grip on the narrative. Aware of their defeat in the so-called “communications battle,” the single-party strategists launched an offensive: anonymous profiles, the so-called cyber-clarias [catfishers], weren’t enough. It was necessary to create creators of revolutionary content, Castro influencers, hammer-and-sickle YouTubers and tropical communism podcasters.

The hand-picked president himself took on his role with Desde la Presidencia. With effort—it must be admitted—Miguel Díaz-Canel managed to read the teleprompter without looking like a primitive version of artificial intelligence. He hid his cards from the camera’s frame and rehearsed sentences while biting a pencil to hide his poor diction. continue reading

He is not a millennial dictator. He would never take a selfie at the UN, like Salvadoran President Bukele did. Díaz-Canel is an old-school bureaucrat.

He is not a millennial dictator. He would never take a selfie at the UN, like Salvadoran President Bukele did. Díaz-Canel is an old-school bureaucrat, even though his wife, Liz Cuesta, introduced him to the art of botox. In his podcast, he promised a July “without blackouts,” a ‘family basket’ with “better prospects,” [from the ration store] and “greater stability” in the water supply. Reality shows that, just as paper can withstand anything, a microphone can also withstand any lie spewed into it.

It is no surprise that Prieto’s podcast claims to be Lezama-esque. Cynicism and hypocrisy are organic characteristics of the model inherited from the Soviets. The young people recruited by Casa de las Américas may only use Lezama to boast about their difficult readings, without remembering that his Paradiso was dismissed as “incomprehensible” and “elitist,” “foreign to revolutionary morality,” and “art useless for the people.” The man whom El Caimán Barbudo called “bourgeois extravagance” now inspires the cultural commissars’ podcasts .

The headlines and presentations of pro-government communicators always seek to break, to slash, to tear. Con Filo promises to “tear the seams of media manipulation,” Arleen Rodríguez Deribet’s Chapeando Bajito (“Weeding Low”), although more than grass, she seems to want to uproot all dissenting opinions. Prieto, for his part, attempts to use the Lezamian “scratch in the stone,” without making it clear whether this rocky mass refers to the site where Fidel Castro’s ashes were buried.

The official menu is ample, but with a fairly uniform flavor: elegies to the institution, political analyses from a single perspective, and news summaries filtered through various ideological filters. On YouTube, iVoox, or Spreaker, the results are not good. Desde la Presidencia rarely exceeds a few hundred views, except for temporary peaks. The same is true of Chapeando. They depend more on the official machinery than a loyal community.

On the other hand, critical podcasts have built strong and engaged audiences.

On the other hand, critical podcasts have built strong and engaged audiences. In terms of public metrics—followers, playbacks, community—independent podcasts lead the way. State-run podcasts have the machinery, but are failing to retain audiences. Critical podcasts, despite facing censorship and with their audiences inside Cuba forced to use VPNs, are building active communities.

Prieto’s announcement received only 12 comments on Facebook, half of them negative. The Cuban intellectual who signs on from Madrid under the pseudonym Fermín Gabor predicts that the podcast will be more like “a stone in the sand.” At least the production of memes is guaranteed.

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*Translator’s note (copied from AI on-line source): “Lezamian refers to something connected to José Lezama Lima (1910–1976), a renowned Cuban novelist and poet known for his unique writing style characterized by Baroque syntax and complex imagery. A ‘Lezamian feast,’ for example, would be a massive, extravagant meal, referencing a scene in his novel Paradiso.”

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San Antonio de los Baños Celebrates the 99th Anniversary of Fidel Castro With Anti-Regime Posters

Indifference prevails, especially among young people, and the cult of personality no longer works as an ideological cement.

It is no coincidence that in the same place where the spark that originated 11J was ignited, the 99th anniversary of Fidel Castro’s birth was thus received. / Odalys H Rizo

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, August 13, 2025 — On this 13th of August, in the streets of San Antonio de los Baños, several posters appeared that read “Abajo Fidel,” “Martí no es comunismo,””Patria y Vida” and “Libertad.” It is no coincidence that, in the same place where the spark that originated the social outburst of July 11, 2021 was ignited, the 99th anniversary of Fidel Castro’s birth was thus received.

The Cuban government, aware of the low popularity of the current leaders, has tried to dust off Castro’s figure. In a calculated maneuver, the electricity deficit was reduced for at least a few days, ensuring that almost two-thirds of the population were exempt from the usual blackouts. In addition, youth camps, book presentations, photo exhibitions and other activities were organized to revive an admiration that no longer exists beyond official circles.

What abound are photomontages of Castro in ridiculous situations and mocking comments about his legacy.

In New York, an enormous luminous sign with the image of the bearded man adorned a central street. It was not a spontaneous initiative of nostalgic emigrants, but a service paid for by The People’s Forum, an organization run by pro-Castro activists Claudia de la Cruz and Manolo de los Santos. Already known for their photos with the president-elect Miguel Díaz-Canel, and for campaigns to support Team Asere, the Cuban baseball team, both have been singled out for receiving funding from billionaire Neville Roy Singham, resident in Shanghai and linked to the Chinese propaganda apparatus. The operation, rather than a tribute, is more like an expensive reminder that the official Cuban story should not be forgotten abroad.

However, the celebration has not aroused enthusiasm on the island. Most Cubans reacted with sarcasm on social media, turning the event into a festival of memes. Instead of tears and veneration, what abounds are photomontages of Castro in ridiculous situations and mocking comments about his legacy. continue reading

None of the major international media dedicated relevant space to the anniversary.

Confusion was evident among the very ranks of officialism. Some activists believed that it was already the centenary of his birth, not the 99th year. The error reveals the historical ignorance even within the militancy and the overload of activities with which the regime saturated its bases. More than one official suggested, in a low voice, that something should be left for 2026, when the anniversary will actually happen.

Outside the Island, silence has been prominent. None of the major international media devoted significant space to the anniversary. In similar countries such as Venezuela and Nicaragua, laudatory notes were published but without much resonance. Even when asked by several artificial intelligences about the most influential figure born on August 13, “Alfred Hitchcock” was the most frequent answer.

Citizens stopped seeing him as the “uniformed and threatening leader” and perceived him as a frail old man, poorly dressed and obsessed with moringa.

The island’s own recent political history helps to explain the disinterest. During the period when Raul Castro took over, he strove to turn away from orthodox faithfulness, betting on an image of greater pragmatism. The thaw with Barack Obama and the timid economic opening required a symbolic break with his big brother’s intransigent speech. The Reflections that Fidel published in the press became anachronistic and often uncomfortable for the new course. Citizens stopped seeing him as the “uniformed and threatening leader” and perceived him as a frail old man, poorly dressed and obsessed with moringa.

The result was a gradual substitution of symbols, perhaps traced from Raúl’s own office. Presenting Fidel as a foolish and delusional grandfather served to smooth the transition and to justify the idea that the future depended on a change of style, not system. In contrast, Raul Castro has striven to be much more vital–at 94–than the last images we saw of his haggard brother. And this remarkable difference between the two nonagenarians is not a coincidence for a regime with so many communicative filters.

But the Raulist experiment also failed miserably. The Ordering Task, conceived as a decisive economic adjustment, further eroded purchasing power and public confidence. This failure gave new life to loyalist sectors that had remained in the shadows. Figures like Iroel Sánchez and other defenders of a more rigid Marxism returned to occupy media spaces, insisting that Fidel’s orthodoxy was the only way.

In contrast, Raúl Castro has striven to be shown as much more vital–at age 94–than the last images we saw of his haggard brother.

In this ideological vacuum, Miguel Díaz-Canel clung to the slogan of “continuity,” but without a clear plan or enough charisma to sustain it. Mass access to the internet has eroded information control. Authorities, who for decades boasted of “winning the battle of ideas,” publicly admitted that they were losing it.

The attempt to use the 99th anniversary as an act of political reaffirmation has come up against a reality that can no longer be reversed. The figure of Fidel Castro has been emptied of content for a large part of the Cuban population. The new generations know him more by familiar accounts of deprivation and repression than by fiery speeches about sovereignty. For many, he is the symbol of immobility, endless pronouncements and the cause of the problems that continue to suffocate the country.

The anniversary, far from strengthening the official narrative, has served to measure the distance between myth and reality. The personality cult that once served as ideological cement is now perceived as a liability. Propaganda fails to reverse accumulated fatigue and the increasingly widespread conviction that the country needs radical change.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Israel Rojas, ‘La Joven Cuba’ and the Art of Surviving the Collapse

Domesticated reformers and Taliban clash as regime collapses

In ’La Sobremesa’ we saw a disenchanted Israel Rojas, transformed into a kind of Care Bear with selective amnesia. / Screenshot

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 5 August 2025 — The recent interview with singer and composer Israel Rojas on the program La Sobremesa, on La Joven Cuba (LJC), has sparked intense controversy on both sides of the Cuban political spectrum. For some, it was an attempt to “whitewash” one of the most unpopular figures in the Cuban exile community; for others, especially those close to the regime, it was an unacceptable betrayal: how could Rojas possibly agree to appear on a media outlet “funded by the enemy”?

For years, there have been those who view La Joven Cuba as a sort of cultural supplement to the official newspaper Granma or a watered-down version of Cubadebate. Founded in Matanzas by Harold Cárdenas in 2010, it emerged under the wing of the so-called reformist ruling party. Over time, once outside Cuba, its writing began to shift between measured criticism and calculated winks that would allow it to maintain its status as a “valid interlocutor” for the island’s power.

That ambiguity worked for them. But the social uprising on 11 July 2021 marked a turning point.

During the Obama era and the thaw, that ambiguity worked for them. But the social uprising of 11 July 2021 marked a turning point. La Joven Cuba didn’t know how to—or didn’t want to—incorporate the historical weight of that rupture into their discourse. They clung to their narrative trenches as if the country were still the same as it was in 2010, when they were barely a university blog. It then, is no surprise that today they are judged harshly from both sides. Their lukewarmness is incomprehensible in a country where the streets and despair demand clearer definitions. continue reading

Their ambivalent strategy—outdated for some, opportunistic for others—lost them followers. Some prominent voices stopped writing in their pages. And their mocking, almost childish tone toward other media outlets that lost funding after the closure of USAID seemed like the final nail in their coffin. However, it must be acknowledged that La Sobremesa has been their resurrection, a “Lazarus, arise and walk” that has returned them to the center of debate and won them new followers.

The numbers don’t lie. The interview with Israel Rojas surpassed 50,000 views on YouTube, while the latest broadcast of Con Filo barely reached 7,000, fewer even than the army of cyber-speakers forced to inflate their metrics. It’s not the algorithm; it’s boredom. And it’s clear that Etecsa’s restrictions have also affected the “cyber-combatants.”

We saw a disenchanted, defeated Israel Rojas, transformed into a kind of Care Bear with selective amnesia.

On La Sobremesa, we saw a disenchanted and defeated Israel Rojas, transformed into a kind of Care Bear with selective amnesia. The poet of the “bulb” and the “ringworm” seems to have forgotten that he was present on November 27th, but not on the side of the artists, but rather locked in the offices of the Ministry of Culture. He also took to the streets on 11 July 2021, but not with the peaceful protesters, but after receiving the “combat order,” aligned with plainclothes police and military personnel. He arrived at the ICRT (Cuban Institute of Radio and television) ready to “beat the hell out of,” albeit late: they had already loaded us onto a truck of rubble headed for the Bivouac prison.

Now, Cubadebate —a self-proclaimed defender of sovereignty—is attacking him by hiring a foreign writer. Carlos González, an Asturian communist (not to be confused with Mentepollo, whose surname is Gonzalvo), accuses him of having fallen into “the trap of equidistance,” while resorting to the old and stale slogan of a besieged fortress. For this radical, the enemy is no longer the United States, but perfidious Norway. Shortly after, Michel Torres Corona—more eager to fly to Madrid than to defend the Revolution—echoes these words on Facebook and calls them “illuminating.”

The Cuban model is collapsing. And each of its fragments is competing to avoid being crushed in the collapse.

There are theories circulating that this is all part of a State Security operation: to restore some visibility to an artist faithful but without a muse, and to reposition La Joven Cuba as a victim of both extremes, thus renewing its legitimacy. Frankly, I don’t think they’re that clever.

The Cuban model is collapsing. And each of its fragments is competing to avoid being crushed in the collapse. Israel Rojas wants to tour internationally without having to sing for the benefit of the few in the venues of solidarity movements. La Joven Cuba needs to regain its audience and sustain its funding. Becoming the victim of cross-attacks suits them perfectly, as it allows them to appeal to that broad sector that, as in any society, prefers to avoid polarization.

Neither Donald Trump nor Xi Jinping would move a single aircraft carrier through Cuba.

The ideological Taliban, for their part, act as their nature dictates. Even though they feel the tremors beneath their feet, they must answer to their international allies, who are often more Castro-friendly than Castro himself. This radicalism guarantees them scholarships, trips, forums, positions, awards, fellowships, and red hearts, in the form of ‘likes’.

Ideology, in this context, seems to have reached unimaginable levels of prostitution. And in this great geopolitical brothel, neither Donald Trump nor Xi Jinping would move a single aircraft carrier through Cuba. That whiny, epic, and stale speech by Israel Rojas about “the besieged little island that resists more than anyone” no longer serves even as lyrics for a hit song.

The regime has failed. Everyone knows it: Buena Fe, La Joven Cuba, Díaz-Canel, Cubadebate. The only question is who clings to more bricks… while the building collapses.

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Haydée Santamaría, An Almost Forgotten Symbol of a Revolutionary Suicide

In 1980, the human stampede towards the Peruvian embassy left her stunned.

“That tall guy who dropped his cigarette ash all over the floor I had cleaned.” Haydée Santamaría 3rd from left. / Cubadebate

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 28 July 2025 — Haydée Santamaría Cuadrado shot herself in the head on July 28, 1980, two days after the 27th anniversary of the Moncada barracks attack. It’s even said that the bullet could have been fired on the 26th itself, but the hairy men of the nomenclatura would never allow a suicide to spoil their celebration.

There were no honors in the Plaza. No national mourning was declared. Nor was there any mention of the weapon, the farewell note, or the most serious wound, that of disillusionment. She was bid farewell with a routine phrase in the official newspaper Granma: “after a prolonged physical and emotional illness.” A small feat for a founder of the Revolution, for one of the few “heroines” of a testosterone-doped process.

She was probably a Fidelista until the last minute of her life. In a sect, nothing is allowed but fanatically and unconditionally worshipping the leader. But there are also no second chances for a first impression. And when Yeyé — as she was called — met Fidel, she saw him as “that tall guy who left his cigarette ashes all over the floor I had cleaned.”

Dozens of women – including 14 mothers – who remain in Cuban prisons today could well remind their jailers of this fact.

It is well known that, after the failure of the Moncada attack, her brother and boyfriend—Abel Santamaría and Boris Luis Santa Coloma—were killed. What the official press doesn’t often repeat is that the cruel dictator Batista only sentenced her and Melba Hernández to seven months in prison. The dozens of women—including 14 mothers—who remain in Cuban prisons today for peacefully protesting against the regime might well remind their jailers of this fact.

When Haydée was released, she was sent to the United States to buy weapons from the mafia. Although she later confessed to feeling “terrified,” she did so without remorse. She also proudly recounted how she entered Cuba with her skirt full of fake pockets… and bullets. With a profound humanist vision, she also recounted her role in organizing attacks: “When someone had to plant a bomb during the struggle, and even in the underground, sometimes I was the one who had to decide who would do it […] I always chose the best, the one with the greatest conscience, the best human qualities, so that whoever it was wouldn’t get used to planting bombs, wouldn’t feel pleasure in planting them, so that it would always continue reading

hurt them.”

It is fair to recognize that she protected, as far as possible, some Cuban artists that the macho-Leninist sugar mill itself was trying to turn into guarapo

Perhaps it was her semi-illiteracy—she barely completed sixth grade—that allowed her to shine at the head of the Casa de las Américas. There she received Mario Benedetti, Cortázar, and Galeano. She protected those who wrote strangely, those who thought differently, as long as they didn’t challenge dogma too much. It is also fair to recognize that she protected, as much as possible, some Cuban artists whom the same macho-Leninist sugar mill was trying to turn into guarapo [sugarcane juice].

But by the late 1970s, Haydée no longer believed. She had learned to keep quiet inside. The repression was getting tougher; the culture was becoming more and more instrumental. And in April 1980, the human stampede toward the Peruvian embassy left her stunned. Cuba was beating those who left. Repudiation rallies were organized. Mobs shouted insults at the “worms” from the doors of the revolutionary vigilance committees.

Haydée broke down. She sent a letter to Fidel. She asked him to reflect. She denounced the violence in the streets. But she never received a reply.

Those who knew her say that her gaze was already hollow, that she spoke little, that she had lost hope.

She no longer attended meetings. She kept to herself in her home. She had been in a car accident shortly before. Those who knew her say her gaze was already hollow, that she spoke little, that she had lost hope. Until that July morning, she asked her driver to leave her alone. She closed the door. She took out the gun she had kept since her years in hiding. And fired.

Fidel didn’t utter a single public word. Nor did Raúl. Juan Almeida was the only one who dared to say it clearly: “In principle, we revolutionaries do not accept the decision to commit suicide. The lives of revolutionaries belong to the cause and the people. But those of us who knew her… knew that the wounds of Moncada had not healed.” It was an exception to the official silence.

Lamentably, the tragedy continued

Her two children, Celia Hart Santamaría and Abel Hart, died in a mysterious car accident.

Twenty-eight years later, on September 7, 2008, her two children, Celia and Abel Hart Santamaría, died in a mysterious car accident in Havana’s Miramar neighborhood. They were traveling in the same car. The vehicle crashed into a tree, and both died instantly. The official press reported the incident briefly. No in-depth investigation was conducted. Nor was there a memorial service.

After the accident, rumors began to swirl. Was it a real accident? A planned suicide? A desperate act in the face of ideological suffocation? There’s no proof. But the tragedy resonated like the echo of their mother’s gunshot.

The death of Haydée and her children are not isolated episodes. They are chapters in an emotional story that has never been told before. A story that doesn’t fit into school textbooks or official museums. It is the story of the human price of silence, of dogma… and of disillusionment.

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Official Data Reveals the Magnitude of Cultural Decline in Cuba

In 2024 a general decline was recorded in almost all of the country’s cultural indicators: in production, creativity, active spaces and audience attendance.

Archive image of film production organised by independent producers in Cuba. / Cubadebate

14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 18 July 2025 – A nation’s culture is not measured in kilowatts, but when the lights go out in its theatres, its libraries and its cinemas, the resulting darkness has no need of metaphors. And even if artistic quality doesn’t figure in any quantifiable economic indicators of state, the coldness of the numbers is enough to illustrate a map of the disaster. Cuba’s 2024 Statistical Yearbook offers a cold but revealing picture of the structural deterioration that the nation’s cultural ecosystem is suffering.

The diagnosis is severe. Data from the National Office of Statistics and Information (Onei) shows a general fall in almost all cultural indicators: production, creativity, active spaces and audience attendance. But among all the headlines, the one concerned with books destroys any triumphalist speeches given by Alpidio Alonso – head of Culture – who comes precisely from the book sector himself. Whilst in 2023 six million book copies were printed in Cuba, in 2024 the figure fell dramatically to 1,355,500. It isn’t just down to a shortage of paper, but a shortage of political will, and priorities.

Cinema, for its part, confirms the sombre tone. In 2024 there were 6,647 fewer screenings than in the previous year, and 15 cinemas completely disappeared from the map. Production contracted in size too: there were fewer shorts produced and the overall total of animation films was reduced. continue reading

According to the Onei itself, not one feature film was actually completed – a statement contradicted however by the actual facts themselves

According to the Onei itself, not one feature film was actually completed – a statement contradicted however by the actual facts themselves: at least two films were recognised by critics as being the best films of the year: ’An Evening With the Rolling Stones’, by Patricia Ramos; and ’Maisinicú, Half a Century Later’, by Mitshell Lobaina. Both productions, completed in 2024 under the hallmark of the Cuban Institute for Art and Cinema (Icaic), were simply ignored in the official figures, which – it’s worth adding – are compiled using data from the Ministry of Culture.

The lack of insight goes even further when you look at independent filmmaking. Invisible for the Art & Cinema Institute, the National Office of Statistics, the state-run media and all the state-run cinemas of the country, this sector develops audiences beyond the usual margins – at international festivals or on digital platforms. Two titles particularly stand out in this area: the documentary ’Cronicles of the Absurd’, by Miguel Coyula, and the fiction debut of director Marcos Díaz Sosa, ’Natural Phenomena’. Two works which demonstrated that, even if they didn’t cross the thresholds of the national cinemas, art itself needs no permission to exist.

And theatre, traditional object of suspicion and censorship by the cultural police, has also given ground. Although the number of venues increased marginally, from 85 to 87, more general figures invite pessimism. 48 actual theatre companies were lost, along with 440 professionally-active performers (reducing from 2,103 to 1,663). The country registered a deficit of 1,205 performances, and 195,700 fewer theatre attendances than in the previous year. Neither the heroic efforts of theatre creators nor the enthusiasm of loyal theatre audiences have been able to reverse the decline.

Music is suffering a parallel fate. Some 334 bands disappeared and there were 1,691 fewer working musicians than there were in 2023. The number of live concerts, clubs and related cultural activities decreased from 90,033 to 62,162 – an equivalent loss of more than 6 million concert attendances. The silence is not only falling upon theatres but also on parks, cultural centres and community spaces.

Music is suffering a parallel fate. 334 bands disappeared and there were 1,691 fewer working musicians than there were in 2023

This newspaper has monitored complaints from musicians across a number of provinces, many of whom are victims of prolonged outstanding payments from state entities such as Artex. Some artistes have gone for months without pay, whilst the company boasts about an optimistic balance sheet. The paradox is revealing: company income is growing but cultural activity is decreasing. They are saving on culture, as though culture were something dispensable. Even worse, the company (state-run, ’socialist’, so they say) gets richer, whilst its artistes are exploited and go unpaid.

Geographical inequalities are also notorious. Holguín survives with just one theatre. Las Tunas is seeing its network of cinemas and libraries diminish. In Mayabeque some libraries are barely managing to cling onto existence. Ciego de Ávila turns out to be the province with fewest museums, and Sancti Spíritus has only hung on to two art galleries. Beyond the larger urban centres, culture has been reduced to mere wreckage and nostalgia.

So 2024 was more than just a poor year for culture, it was a year of cultural famine and darkness. Not for a lack of cultural creatives, nor through any public apathy, but because of a worn out model that administers culture as though it were just another office of state. What the National Statistics Office can’t measure – nor dares even to name – is the spiritual price of this shutdown. And as they’re so keen to quote José Martí so often, they ought also to remember this one: “The mother of decency, the lifeblood of liberty, the conservation of the Republic and the solution to all its ills is, above all else, the propagation of culture”.

Translated by Ricardo Recluso

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