The Cuban regime once again donned olive green —and shame— to celebrate another "glorious" Day of Territorial Defense, a day when the government takes to the streets with its propaganda machinery to simulate that the country is ready to resist a foreign invasion... even if it’s with sticks, stilt walkers, and an enthusiasm as fake as the recycled uniforms worn by the participants.
The images released by the state media —and by internet users with more sense of humor than fear of State Security— showcase a series of scenes so surreal that they seem taken from a comedy sketch: shooting exercises with rusty rifles, elderly women warming up with slogans of “culture and sport,” militiamen on stilts that elicit more affection than intimidation, and civilian brigades carrying sticks, ready to suppress the "internal enemy."
In the midst of the 21st century, while in other parts of the world the powers engage in hybrid warfare scenarios, autonomous drones, and cyberattacks, Castroism flexes its muscles with sticks, rusty boats adorned with July 26 flags that simulate the landing of the Granma, and master classes on how to wave a stick.
All under the solemn pretext that the "empire" is lurking, even though the greatest threat perceived by Cubans today is the rising cost of food and the collapse of the national electrical system caused by the corruption and ineptitude of a government that calls for "creative resistance" to blackouts.
In the context of an explosive international situation —with wars in Gaza, Syria, Ukraine, and recent U.S. bombings of nuclear facilities in Iran—, the regime is attempting to dust off its worn-out rhetoric of imperialist aggression.
As every year, he takes the opportunity to activate his doctrine of the “War of All the People”, a strategy that has not evolved since the days of black-and-white television. And although in the 1980s it was a tactic that mobilized millions of Cubans, today it barely convinces those who must leave their workday to pretend they are marching in defense of something they no longer believe in.
Social media, of course, did not hold back. The satire was immediate. On Twitter, a user joked: “Watch out, Cuba has a battalion of paleros ready to liberate Puerto Rico.” On Facebook, images were shared with phrases like “G.I. Joe version CDR” or “The Avengers of MINFAR.” The contrast between the official discourse—of heroism and preparedness—and the actual images—of precariousness, improvisation, and apathy—couldn't be more brutal... or more comedic.
The state television, as always, did its part: reports filled with epic narratives, using close-ups to hide the worn-out shoes of the militia members and the disinterest of the children forced to recite verses of Martí in front of uniformed guards.
In some municipalities, the coverage was so poor that the "combat drill" consisted of crossing a stream while carrying an old hunting rifle, with a red-and-black flag waving in the wind like in a bad Soviet film.
The sarcasm of the citizens is not just mockery: it is a release valve in response to an exhausted model that continues to sell the idea of a besieged Cuba, when the real enemy is internal. While the leaders play war with manuals from the 1970s, the average Cuban must struggle each day to survive the collapse of transportation, power outages, inflation, and shortages.
Neither Raúl's speeches nor Fidel's phrases painted on the walls can mask a truth: the people are no longer willing to shed "rivers of sweat and blood" for a war that only exists in the minds of those who never go to the front, but always shout "Fatherland or Death, We Will Overcome," before returning to their tables with fine delicacies, and air-conditioned lounges where the absurd is transformed into "successes" of the "uniformed people".
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