Cuba

MIAMI — Former Cuban President Raúl Castro is facing more charges in Florida related to the 1996 downing of civilian planes flown by Miami-based exiles after the U.S. government indicted the former leader earlier this year.

Florida Atty. Gen. James Uthmeier on Monday accused Castro, 95, of directing spies to infiltrate the exile group Brothers to the Rescue and ordering the attack on their planes. The state charge of conspiracy to commit first-degree murder is based largely on a federal indictment announced in May that included charges of murder and destruction of an airplane.

It remains unclear whether Castro will ever step foot in a U.S. courtroom. Uthmeier said the arrest warrant will restrict Castro’s ability leave the island nation and prevent him from traveling to any place with an extradition agreement with the U.S.

“I’m not ignorant of the fact that Raúl Castro is an older man who’s probably not looking to march himself into Miami,” Uthmeier said. “I think others would get him before the court of law would, but at the end of the day, we stand ready to prosecute the case.”

According to the state complaint, Castro was the Minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces and First Vice President of Cuba when he gave the final authorization to shoot down the planes. Cuban Directorate of Intelligence agents operating as part of the Wasp Network in the Miami area and the Florida Keys infiltrated Brothers to the Rescue and reported flight plans, investigator said.

On Feb. 24, 1996, three unarmed Cessna aircraft departed Opa-Locka Airport in Miami-Dade County. Well outside Cuba’s territorial waters, Cuban MiGs destroyed two of the civilian planes with air-to-air missiles, killing the four occupants, the complaint said. Both aircraft were traveling away from Cuba and received no warning despite contact with Havana air traffic control, U.S. officials said.

Cuban President Miguel Díaz-Canel called the federal indictment earlier this year a political stunt that sought only to “justify the folly of a military aggression against Cuba.” He accused the U.S. of lying and manipulating events surrounding the shootdown.

“Our historic federal indictment laid the groundwork, and James and his team have now taken the important step of bringing charges under Florida law,” U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of Florida Jason Reding Quiñones said at a news conference.

Castro took over as president from his ailing older brother Fidel Castro in 2006 before handing power to a trusted loyalist, Díaz-Canel, in 2018.

While he retired in 2021 as head of the Cuban Communist Party, he is widely believed to wield power behind the scenes, underscored by the prominence of his grandson, Raúl Guillermo Rodríguez Castro.

Meanwhile, President Trump has been threatening military action in Cuba ever since U.S. forces captured former Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro, the Cuban government’s longtime patron.

After ousting the Venezuelan leader earlier this year, the White House ordered a blockade that choked off fuel shipments to Cuba, leading to severe blackouts, food shortages and an economic collapse across the island.

Fischer writes for the Associated Press.

Cuba is once again in the United States’s crosshairs. Washington’s operation in Venezuela at the start of the year is largely seen to have paved the way for a similar undertaking on the Caribbean island. Recent media reports have revealed US military activity nearby while US officials have repeatedly said they want “Cuba to be free”.

When and how the US may strike is still unclear. But indications are that the Cuban Revolution may be nearing its end. That is reason enough to pause and reflect on the outsized role this nation of 10 million has played on the world stage.

When thinking of the Cuban presence on the global geopolitical scene, the figure of Eshu, the most powerful spirit in Cuban Santeria comes to mind. Derived from the beliefs of the Yoruba people, Eshu is a divine messenger, the guardian of the crossroads and mediator between the past and the future.

In stories, Eshu is often portrayed as a mischievous elder, one whose antics are used to teach humility and morality. As a character, Eshu is a classic trickster, an archetype commonplace to many traditions that functions to challenge established norms, subvert power structures and reveal hidden truths.

It’s hard to imagine a more apt analogy for Cuba than Eshu, the trickster, foil to US hegemony. At its best, trickster Cuba forced an open debate on what kind of world we might aspire to and held the empire to account, at times even pushing the US towards its better angels, however begrudgingly. At its worst, it held up an uncomfortable mirror to US power.

It is a potent formula, one struck upon from the very earliest days of the revolution. In September 1960, just a year after taking Havana, Cuban leader Fidel Castro found himself visiting New York to address the United Nations General Assembly. Wary of his anti-imperialist rhetoric, a Cold War-obsessed US government put pressure on several prominent hotels to refuse service to Castro and his entourage. But the Cubans were not to be deterred. Instead, they went uptown to Harlem and found a place at the Hotel Theresa.

Photographers and TV camera people flocked there. A media sensation ensued. And Castro used the opportunity to draw comparisons between the plight of the Cuban delegation and that of Black Americans being refused service in the segregated South.

This landed like a bomb in the middle of the burgeoning civil rights movement. It was an awkward contrast, not just because of the optics but because of the location, not in the heart of Jim Crow, but in a liberal northern city, New York, the cradle of American civilisation. This was the first, but not the last time that Cuba, the trickster, would strike.

In the following years, the revolutionary government developed its programme of Cuban Internationalism, which inevitably stood as a counter to US soft power efforts in the developing world through organisations like the Peace Corps and USAID.

Cuba would send as many as  400,000 doctors, not to mention engineers, agricultural technicians and other professionals, to 164 countries across the world. This material solidarity garnered great affection for Cuba among many countries in the Global South, countries as disparate as Venezuela, South Africa and Vietnam, where characters like Castro and Che Guevara are as recognisable as national heroes like Simon Bolivar, Nelson Mandela and Ho Chi Minh. In these same countries, American leaders are remembered too, often in far less flattering terms.

Other examples of Cuba’s trickster antics abound. Perhaps most notable is the Cuban armed forces’ sound military defeat of the Bay of Pigs invasion, which, while carried out by Cuban exiles, was supported and funded directly by the CIA.

There is also the revolution’s support for the Palestinian liberation movement and the antiapartheid struggle even as the US provided diplomatic cover and military aid to Israel and the apartheid regime in South Africa.

From 1975 to 1991, more than 300,000 Cuban soldiers fought alongside forces in Angola, eventually emerging victorious in a proxy conflict with the US. Operation Carlota, as it was called, would not only liberate Angola and neighbouring Namibia, but it would precipitate the downfall of South African apartheid as well. According to former South African President Nelson Mandela, Cuba’s intervention in Angola “destroyed the myth of the invincibility of the white oppressor”.

Castro himself has carried the spirit of Eshu. The Cuban leader reportedly survived more than 600 assassination attempts and died of natural causes at the age of 90.

And there are the many ways that Cuba has defied the “third world” label so often foisted upon it by beating the US in literacy rates, infant mortality and life expectancy at various points in its revolutionary history.

But beyond all of this, there is the sheer fact of the revolution’s survival. For more than 60 years, the US has imposed a severe economic embargo against the island. The embargo – the world’s longest – has been intensified at various points, specifically after the fall of the Soviet Union as Cuba reeled from a profound economic crisis.

Despite this regime of maximum pressure from the world’s largest superpower, the revolution nevertheless persevered through the crisis of the 1990s by diversifying  and liberalising the economy and by drawing upon its well-established programme of internationalism in the Global South. Not only that, but it managed a nationwide sustainable agricultural revolution in the process, a feat for any nation, but perhaps unsurprising for Cuba, given its trickster nature.

But tricksters also work in unexpected, even contradictory ways. Despite these accomplishments, the denial of political rights and the repression of the freedoms of expression and assembly have been the Cuban Revolution’s greatest failings.

Speech is not free in Cuba. Access to information and the internet is heavily restricted, and recent popular protests have been violently extinguished.

Such dynamics have long been pointed to by detractors as evidence of Cuba’s inherent authoritarian nature. But in this regard, Cuba is not the US’s opposite, but rather its peer.

The US in 2026 is a country facing its own rash of unfreedoms: comical levels of corruption; the erosion of democratic institutions; the embrace of AI and the panopticon surveillance it enables; continual attacks on free speech, voting rights and the media; extrajudicial killings of US citizens by masked agents of the state; and an increasingly monarchical presidency. All of which is to say nothing about the spectre of the infamous detention facility at Guantanamo Bay, still home to 15 detainees from the “global war on terror”, raised once more in relation to President Donald Trump’s brutal immigration crackdown.

One cannot help but be struck by the ways that the Trump administration appears to emulate countries like Cuba or Russia or Iran that it rhetorically maligns.

But in this way, Cuba carries on in its role as the foil to American power. In its repression, it reflects the creeping authoritarian inclinations that characterise the Trump administration. Tricksters, after all, are themselves morally ambiguous. And if the greatest flaw of the US has always been that it fails consistently to live up to its most laudable ideals, then in this sense, it is no different to Cuba and its revolution.

With the US poised and ready and with the conditions in Cuba deteriorating rapidly, we may be witnessing the final days of the revolution. That begs the question: When the day comes that Eshu no longer guards the crossroads, what then? What becomes of the world when there is nothing but unquestioned empires and techno-feudal overlords? Without tricksters to confound their power, will we revert to the revanchist past or tumble into some kind of dystopian future?

If and when the revolution finally falls, there will no doubt be cheering on the streets of Miami. But there will be tears elsewhere – tears not just for the revolution, but for the alternative that it represented, however flawed. Perhaps if the US had listened more or differently, they would have heard the lesson that Eshu was trying to teach.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Cuban American poet Kyle Carrero Lopez first learned what sanctions were as a child — not as a political measure, but as a gendered one. In his poem “Sanctions,” he describes how his father, a surly Cuban refugee who worked as a DJ, laid out the terms of acceptable masculinity.

“No dance class/no “girl toys”/don’t walk like that,” writes Carrero. “His anthem, his law, hammered, hammered, into me.”

The poem features in his debut book of poetry, “Party Line,” released in July by indie publisher Graywolf Press. As a gay, Black Cuban American, Carrero uses social etiquette as a springboard to critically examine how marginalized people learn to negotiate space — whether at a nightclub; in the stratified gay mecca of Fire Island; at a socialist magazine party; or in line for customs at the U.S. border. He cites Black cultural figures like the queen of salsa Celia Cruz, American fashion journalist André Leon Talley, the late French singer and dancer Josephine Baker and political activist Assata Shakur as guiding lights.

“There are two sides of me,” he told De Los. “Between the party girl and the politico is Kyle Carrero Lopez.”

Born in 1995 to Cuban parents in New Jersey, Carrero is now based in New York City, where he earned a master of fine arts in poetry at NYU and published his award-winning 2022 chapbook, “Muscle Memory.” He answered my phone call in South Carolina, while overlooking the Atlantic Ocean; his mother was on the precipice of getting married a second time. Carrero, already a poet, scholar, political organizer and nightlife host, would flaunt yet another title that weekend as wedding officiant. “My work is naturally in conversation,” he explained.

Many of the poems in “Party Line” came to Carrero after visiting Cuba for the first time in 2017, through the CubaOne Foundation. Inspired by the Birthright Israel program for Jewish youth, the nonprofit sponsored trips for Cuban Americans to connect with Cubans on the island. Yet for Carrero, this strengthened his political dissonance with many Cubans in the U.S., who’ve supported economic sanctions on the communist nation. In order to force regime change, in January the Trump administration levied an oil blockade on Cuba, triggering a humanitarian crisis.

Written with an unmistakably Caribbean verve and snappy, conversational meter, Carrero defines his stance on Cuba in no uncertain terms.

“This book really is for Cuban Americans,” he said. “Those of us who are not trying to destroy Cuba, that is.”

Carrero spoke to De Los about party politics, Black Cubanidad and how visiting the island changed his writing for the better. The following interview has been lightly edited for clarity and length.

A lot of people fall back on these ideas about immigrant communities being all hard work and drudgery — but we come from a festive, dance-fueled culture. How did you get the idea to combine poems about parties with poems about politics?

I’ve always been involved in politics. I’ve done a lot of canvassing. In high school, I was in a learning community called the Civics and Government Institute. We did a “social reformers” panel, where you had to play somebody from a social movement. They had me up there dressed up as Elijah Muhammad in the 10th grade, asking me what I’d think of Obama. I had to drag Obama! These Nation of Islam people were not feeling the moderate Democrats.

But that informed my political engagement to this day. I was concerned with the language surrounding the embargo and U.S. aggression against Cuba. In my poem “Torricelli,” I talk about how [former New Jersey congressman and senator] Bob Torricelli wrote the Cuban Democracy Act, which he designed to, quote, “wreak havoc on that island.”

And I write a lot about nightlife. It is a family industry for me on both sides. My maternal grandfather ran a social club in New Jersey, a games parlor. My mom was a club kid. She was out all the time. Parenthood changed some things, but my father still had DJ gigs. Our basement was his studio. He’d leave the house at 9, 10 o’clock to go to the gigs. You know that new Jordan Firstman movie, “Club Kid”? I’m the original club kid.

How do you write for those who may not be ready to receive the club kid and the politico at once?

I like challenging assumptions that political people are drab and unglamorous — and that party people are brain-dead, escapist and have nothing to say. One of the problems I have with the ’90s club kid scene, as it existed, is they were extremely apolitical. And not only were they apolitical, but I would go so far as to say the club kids in the ’90s were a white supremacist entity. We don’t talk enough about how their whole thing was like whiteness and white privilege. All we’re here to do is have fun — and we see what that mentality leads to, right?

[The movie] “Party Monster”!

Yes, “Party Monster”! Michael Alig literally killed a man of color. That is not the party world that I live in. We don’t take off who we are just because there’s low lighting and fog and loud music. I’m going to respond the same way to harassment and perceived injustice as I would any other space.

To this day, there are white club kids in New York who are in the club talking in black-ccents and wearing imitations of black people’s hairstyles. And then if you call them out, they’re like, “Why? It’s a party!” And I’m like, “OK, but it’s a party where all of the music comes from Black people … you are a guest in this space.” Before I’m going to serve you a history lesson, let’s at least start with decency.

And though you may not think you’re doing politics … politics will still do you. Your club kid parents experienced politics by coming to the U.S. from Cuba. Can you tell me about their journey?

My father emigrated from Havana as a child. My mother was born to parents who emigrated in the 1950s during Batista’s regime. Cubans have a privileged relationship to immigration — the pipeline available to us [political asylum] was not the same for most people of Latin American descent.

My family came here not only as Cuban immigrants, but as Black immigrants. Politics happened to them. My father came to the U.S. in the late ’60s, getting called the N-word walking home from school with his two sisters…. They got hit so hard with belts that they would go home having soiled themselves. They were not only Black, but they didn’t even know what language or culture they were trying to assimilate to. There were layers of hatred…. When people talk about Cuban Americans, they think of white, rich Miami Cubans. It’s irresponsible to think in such a flat and one-dimensional way.

In the poem “Usefulness,” which was originally published in the Yale Review, you speak of how Black Cubans exist at the nexus of two different political agendas: the pro- and anti-Revolution contingents. Can you talk about that?

My opinion is very useful to many agendas. I joke that I would make a great Republican talking head. If I decided tomorrow that I wanted to get the GOP bag and be like, “Democrats are liars! I hate immigrants! I hate welfare! There’s two genders! We don’t need gay marriage!” — I would be a millionaire in under six months.

There’s a tokenism that happens when you exist at this nexus of identities. It’s true of the left as well sometimes. You could ask five different people in Cuba what they think about the government and they will give you five different answers. And that is OK! We need to allow that to be the case.

I don’t want what Trump and the Marco Rubios of the world want for Cuba — which is to seize it, to subjugate it and turn it into the next Puerto Rico. If people who are progressive and committed to Cuba’s autonomy don’t want that, I think part of [the work] is talking to Cuban people and hearing them out. I don’t think it’s acceptable to seek out only the opinions that match your own.

You bring up a historical moment that not a lot of Cuban Americans know about, which was the 1976 bombing of Cubana Flight 455, by an anti-Castro Cuban exile group. You said they planned on bombing a flight to Havana the week before, which your mom and her sister were on. How did they manage to avoid that?

[My grandfather] was an influential man. He knew the right people. So he heard something was going down and said, “I’m not putting my kids on that flight.” The flight went on as planned, but these men knew my grandfather and heard that his daughters were getting on the plane. To me that’s like getting on the list … sometimes you get into the party, or the plane [isn’t] bombed. It’s the same negotiation. Or just a moment of alignment.

What was it like visiting Cuba for the first time after the Obama administration eased travel and trade restrictions?

I don’t give Obama much, but he did try to normalize relations there. Unfortunately, Biden didn’t follow through with that, but for a second, we did care about Cuba.

The first time I went was in 2017, when I was 22. It was an incredible experience. My mother traveled to Cuba as a teenager; my father never went back. But they never discouraged me from going. I know that’s the case for a lot of Cuban Americans; there’s so much baggage. But once there was an easy path to go, it changed my life.

I write about Amiri Baraka’s time in Cuba, when he was earlier in his poetry journey — and his writing changed from being there. He wrote a poem called “Betancourt,” named after a young radical there. It made me more politically serious. I feel closer to my heritage, having done that.

What made you close the book with “I Saw Assata In Havana”? Did you really see Assata Shakur?

That was an imagined encounter. But it was the vision of what I imagine was her new life in Cuba — her second chance. I thought that it was a good ending note to land on, pushing against prevailing narratives.

I think the ways that we talk about our radicals — the Huey Newtons of the world, people like Kwame Ture or Angela Davis — we think of them as mythical beings, or, depending on who you ask, terrorists. But that disconnects them from their humanity. I wanted to create a portrait of [Shakur] as a normal lady who needed to pick up groceries sometimes. These were regular people who saw what was going on in the world and decided that they needed to do something about it. Each of us has that ability to enact change.

There are so many ways to make societal shifts, whether that’s writing to your officials or protesting or creating art that is challenging. What Shakur did was to say, “I don’t like this for my people. I don’t like this for the world I’m living in.” The same boot that’s on the necks of Black American people is on the necks of people in the Congo, people in Palestine, people of the global majority. We all have to share the planet. If we work together, we can have a world that can actually sustain itself.

My last question for you is: What would you like to see happen for Cuba?

I’m not a politician; I’m an artist. My duty is not toward any specific government; it is toward truth. My Cuba position, as a Cuban American, is focused first and foremost on my home country’s contribution to the conflict. If Cuba is truly no more than a failed state, why not lift all of the restrictions? Let’s see what happens when Cuba is unimpeded by hostile U.S. policy. That’s how you can best prove your point, right? Unless, of course, you’re afraid of what Cuba could be.

The Cuban government is pushing ahead with its plans to transition to renewable energy, amid a de facto oil blockade from the United States that has strangled the island’s economy.

In an interview with the Reuters news agency on Monday, Cuban Minister of Energy and Mines Vicente de la O Levy explained that the blockade has forced Cuba to explore domestic alternatives to foreign fuel imports.

“We are seeking our own alternative solutions, using our own resources, our sun, wind, tides, fuel, Cuban crude oil and the gas produced in our wells,” de la O Levy said.

He said 144 solar farms with a combined capacity of about 1,418 megawatts have been installed on the island in recent years.

China has been the largest supplier of solar panels to the island, and shipments have increased since the blockade began in early January.

At the time, US President Donald Trump halted all oil shipments from Venezuela, a close ally of the Cuban government.

Later that month, Trump also announced he would impose heavy tariffs on any country that exported oil to Cuba, justifying the threat by calling the island’s government a “national security” threat.

Since then, only a single oil tanker from Russia has reached Havana. The US has increased its shipments of oil to Cuba’s private sector, but it has largely barred fuel exports for nationalised industries on the communist-led island.

The government-run electrical grid, widely considered to be antiquated, relies heavily on fossil fuels. Only 40 percent of Cuba’s electricity comes from ‌‌‌‌domestic ‌‌‌‌oil production, according to the International Energy Agency.

As of 2023, only nine percent of the country’s energy consumption was covered by renewable sources.

De la O Levy admitted in his interview with Reuters that the country was facing difficulties. The blockade has caused shortages of medicine, water and fuel, pushing Cuba to the brink of a humanitarian crisis.

“We are surviving and moving forward, little by little, even if not at the pace we would like,” he said.

“We face long hours of blackouts and lack fuel for cooking and transportation. We lack fuel, but we are gradually making headway through our own solutions and our people.”

Cuba’s production of domestic crude oil remains stable, he added, but is almost entirely allocated to power plants.

The United Nations and human rights watchdogs have criticised the oil blockade as a violation of international law.

Cuban Foreign Minister Bruno Rodriguez Parrilla also condemned the oil blockade in his speech at the UN General Assembly last month.

“It is an unusual and unprecedented action,” Rodriguez said of the blockade.

“A superpower unilaterally deprives all states of their right to export the commodities that they wish to the country that they wish.”

The US has maintained an economic embargo on Cuba for more than 60 years, since the Cold War era.

But since taking office for a second term as president, Trump has sought to squeeze Cuba’s economy further, as part of a “maximum pressure” campaign. His administration has indicated that it wants to topple Cuba’s government.

On October 7, US authorities announced they had seized 90 biodiesel fuel shipments valued at over $2.8m destined for Cuba.

“These shipments were part of an attempt to unlawfully export fuel to Cuba in violation of federal export laws,” US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) said in a statement.

But in his interview with Reuters, de la O Levy denied the Cuban government had any link to the shipments.

“No Cuban state-owned company has managed to secure a fuel contract, whether for small or large quantities,” he said.

He added that any US oil shipments to private firms fall far short of the country’s requirements.

“I would venture to say that the amount entering the country doesn’t even cover 3 percent of its fuel needs,” de la O Levy said.

Photographic evidence

There is a photograph that serves as evidence: Delcy Rodríguez and Donald Trump, together, smiling, in New York. Hundreds of narratives can be constructed around that photo. Diplomatic, tactical, or strategic explanations can be devised. Some may speak of pragmatism, power dynamics, negotiation, or political necessity. All of that is open to debate. But there is something that remains true regardless of any narrative: the photograph is evidence and depicts a specific scene. And that scene is difficult to reconcile with much of the political tradition from which Delcy Rodríguez hails.

Because there is another image from the same day that completes the picture: Delcy Rodríguez approaching [Spanish President] Pedro Sánchez while he is on the phone, waiting for him to finish so she can greet him. The image conveys something difficult to reconcile with the power of the Bolivarian Revolution’s historic leadership: a desire to reach out, almost like a student waiting for the other person to hang up the phone so she can greet him; an attitude that seems a far cry from the dignity and authority with which Chavismo once stood up to global powers. And a few hours later, the photo-op with Trump appears. Two images from the same day that speak for themselves, because diplomacy is one thing, and the position from which it is exercised is another; negotiating is one thing, and showing subordination is another. That is what it looks like.

Chavismo’s tradition

And what we see today is a far cry from Hugo Chávez’s “Go to hell, you fucking Yankees.” It’s a far cry from that rebellious Chavismo that could stand up to the King of Spain, that could publicly confront the United States, and that built much of its political identity around an idea of sovereignty, dignity, and resistance in the face of imperial power. There was a political force there, a capacity to stand up to power, a way of exercising leadership, that is hard to find in these recent images.

When the narrative trumps reality

We live, at the same time, in a dystopian world in which artificial intelligence, technological advances, and algorithms often lead us to be unaware of reality or to experience it from a perspective different from what is actually observed. We can construct stories, narratives, and entire universes around a single scene until the narrative ends up overtaking reality. While the world’s wealthy talk about moving to Mars or colonizing other planets, perhaps the biggest debate we face is much more fundamental: aligning stories, narratives, and algorithmic trends with reality.

Assuming that reality is something different from what we see often leads us to explore ideas, utopias, or even political stances from a perspective increasingly distant from what is actually happening. And perhaps today, a revolutionary leap would be to align reality with what is being recounted or narrated. Ideas, utopias, and political stances need to stem from reality—not from a reality constructed to align with what we need to believe. When the narrative begins to take the place of facts, we stop interpreting reality and start adapting it to our needs.

The power of what is seen

That is why the power lies in what is seen. And what is seen is not just a photograph of Delcy Rodríguez and Donald Trump. That photograph appears in the wake of a US military intervention in Venezuela, which led to the kidnapping of Nicolás Maduro and Cilia Flores, and after Trump publicly took credit for the operation. What we see is Delcy Rodríguez standing before the man who brags about this operation and presents its outcome as a victory. And this matters because the photograph isn’t floating in a vacuum: it has a context—it involves deaths, a military attack, a captured Venezuelan president, strategic resources at stake, and a US president claiming credit for the outcome of that operation.

At this very moment, paradoxically and surprisingly, an entire epic narrative of triumph and “peace diplomacy” is emerging, a grandiloquent celebration of a supposed victory. And the important thing is to state something very simple: defeat is not epic. A defeat can simply be a defeat. What can be discussed is how one faces it, what stance one takes in the face of it, and what dignity one maintains when conditions are adverse. But a defeat does not become a victory simply because we construct a grand narrative around it. Reality retains a dimension that rhetoric cannot erase.

The words of the victor

What we see is a Delcy Rodríguez who tolerates Trump saying outrageous things. Trump spoke of the US operation in Venezuela in terms of victory and the victor; he justified the use of force and even spoke of the spoils that belong to the victor. This is an offensive affront to the dead—who are not only Venezuelans but also Cubans—and, fundamentally, to those killed in an intervention on Latin American soil. That context does not disappear simply because a diplomatic facade is later constructed or by conjuring a strategic explanation for every gesture.

It happened. And it is incomprehensible that Delcy Rodríguez would then appear in a triumphant, smiling manner in the face of that display of power and in the presence of the very person who has abducted Venezuela’s President Nicolás Maduro and Cilia Flores. We can discuss the reasons for the negotiations, the balance of power, the tactical necessities, the circumstances, and the alternatives. All of that is part of politics and can be analyzed. But there is something that comes before all those explanations: what actually happened.

Tactics and consistency

And this raises a question we should not shy away from: What is the difference between Milei’s stance and Delcy Rodríguez’s stance with regard to the US? No doubt, in the coming hours, explanations will emerge aimed at establishing profound differences between the two, and we will be told that they follow different logics, that one expresses subordination and the other a tactic, that one represents a political project and the other a historical necessity. All of that is open to debate. But it is important to look at the concrete attitude, because if politics can always be explained away as a tactic, then consistency begins to lose all specific weight. And when consistency loses its specific weight, almost anything can become a strategy: a concession can be presented as a victory, subordination as pragmatism, a defeat as peace diplomacy, and a photograph as an epic moment. Reality, however, remains.

A model of dignity

If there is a model to look to today—as we saw on January 3—it was Cuban dignity, which fought to the very end against US troops and delivered a fierce, dignified response, despite being outmatched in firepower and at a disadvantage in every respect. At the UN General Assembly, too, it was the Cuban delegation that stood up and walked out [during Trump’s speech]. Therein lies a model of dignity—a model from which to fight and from which to view ourselves. There are moments when politics needs to reclaim the ability to set boundaries against power.

And this matters especially for those of us who see ourselves within a tradition of the left, of sovereignty, of emancipation, and of transformation. Because we cannot lose the ability to recognize a point of reference when we see it. We cannot construct an artificial epic around something that offers us no point of reference. And we cannot turn a scene of subordination into a revolutionary one simply because we need to preserve a certain narrative.

Surrender is also conceptual

If we fall into this pragmatic, tactical logic—where consistency seems to carry little weight and reality can be distorted through grandiloquent rhetoric—we lose something far more important than a short-term political debate: we lose the ability to think. What we see is a very happy Delcy Rodríguez standing next to Trump. What we see is a Venezuelan historical process that we have admired but which no longer serves as a point of reference, because today it is part of mechanisms that strengthen Donald Trump and of a strategic surrender of resources—not only natural ones but also conceptual and ideological ones.

And the latter is perhaps even more important, because it is not just about oil, natural resources, or economic agreements. Symbols, references, words, and political traditions are also being surrendered. A tradition that for years was built around resistance to imperialism may end up being used to legitimize a new relationship of subordination. And when that happens, the surrender is not only material—it is also conceptual. A part of what for years allowed us to construct a worldview, a way of interpreting sovereignty, and a way of understanding emancipation is being surrendered.

Intellectual honesty

So there is no turning back. As a matter of dignity, as activists, it is important not to betray our intellect and to realize that this is what it looks like.

Some will come forward in the next few hours to say, “No, it’s a tactic.” Well, but no revolutionary process has ever come about that way. Can you imagine Fidel Castro celebrating with Kennedy after the Bay of Pigs? It would be something similar. The comparison may seem harsh, but it actually helps us understand the problem: it’s one thing to negotiate with an adversary and quite another to stage a celebration with someone who has just bragged about a military intervention; it’s one thing to manage a defeat and quite another to build an epic out of a defeat.

Back to reality

Perhaps the problem of our time is precisely this: we have learned to construct narratives capable of altering our perception of reality. Artificial intelligence can do it, algorithms can do it, political narratives can do it, the great powers can do it, and we ourselves can do it when we need reality to resemble what we want to believe. That is why, perhaps, a revolutionary leap today is something much more fundamental and, at the same time, much more difficult: returning to reality, aligning what is with what is reported and narrated; not abandoning utopias but preventing them from becoming an excuse to ignore the facts; not abandoning politics but preventing politics from forcing us to deny what is right before us; not ceasing to think strategically but reclaiming coherence as a dimension of strategy.

And perhaps the first obligation of those of us who still believe that politics can transform reality is not to betray our intellect in order to save the narrative. To look at reality, to think from within it, and to hold our ideas up against what is actually happening. Because before any explanation, before any epic, and before any narrative construction, there is something that remains right before us.

It is what it looks like.

Translated by Venezuelanalysis.

Source: Barrio Adentro