Let’s say it plain: the Cuban exile community is a fractured, bickering mess—too proud, too nostalgic, and too comfortable to do what must be done. We love to speak of Martí, of Maceo, of the hunger in our people’s eyes—but when it’s time to act, to unify, to strike at the root of tyranny, what do we do?
We argue. We form factions. We host conferences in Miami air conditioning while our brothers and sisters rot in dungeons for whispering the word "freedom."
The Cuban diaspora is massive. We have voices in Washington, wealth in Europe, influence in Latin America, and digital reach across the globe. And yet... not even a whisper reaches the walls of Havana strong enough to make the regime tremble. Why? Because we can’t agree on anything.
We can't agree on leadership—everyone wants to be the next José Martí but refuses to be the first to sacrifice. We can't agree on methods—some say diplomacy, some say protests, some say guns, and some just want likes and retweets. And worst of all, we can’t agree on truth. While activists are beaten and dragged off in the night, some of our own exiles sip cortaditos and call them "destabilizers."
Destabilizers?! Good. That’s the point. We want instability for the regime. We want collapse. We want justice with teeth.
There is no middle ground with a dictatorship. The Castro machine—yes, I said Castro, because Raúl is still breathing and Díaz-Canel is his sock puppet—knows one language: power. And we’ve handed them the silence of our division.
Where are our modern-day Moncada assaults? Where are our digital insurgencies? Our coordinated boycotts? Our strategic infiltration? We have tech experts, hackers, lawyers, organizers, veterans—yet we waste our talent in endless debates about who gets to sit at the head of the imaginary table.
You want unity? Stop demanding perfection in your fellow patriot. Stop canceling people over small disagreements. Stop waiting for the "right moment"—the right moment was yesterday, and the cost was another innocent prisoner.
If you’re Cuban and in exile, your job is clear: work together or get out of the way. This is not about clout, funding, or nostalgia—it’s about a nation that bleeds while we squabble.
I’m done clapping at exile events that accomplish nothing. I’m done pretending unity will come without sacrifice. I’m done with the cowardice.
To the exile leaders reading this: either build the offensive or admit you never wanted to win.
To the youth in Miami, Madrid, and Montreal: your TikToks won’t save Cuba. Organize. Encrypt. Mobilize. Learn.
To the so-called moderates: stop playing both sides. You’re either with the people or with the pigs.
Cuba needs fire—not more flowers. If you’re not ready to get loud, get targeted, and get your hands metaphorically dirty, then do us all a favor and sit down. But don’t you' dare stand in the way of those of us who are ready to go on the offensive.
Because when this dictatorship falls—and it will fall—I want history to remember who fought and who fiddled while Havana burned.
