Miguel Díaz-Canel spoke again —and once more said nothing—. In his latest speech from Santiago de Cuba, the “appointed one” urged the people to “think” about how to overcome the crisis, as if after more than six decades of “revolution” there were still anyone left who hadn’t considered how to survive it.
The designated ruler assured that the country is going through a "particularly difficult moment" following the passage of Hurricane Melissa and called for "popular participation," "natural leaders," and "local management," as apparently his government can no longer (or does not know how to) manage even the cleanup of mud after the floods.
“We urge you to think about what we are capable of creating with our effort, our work, and our intelligence,” said Díaz-Canel on X, ignoring that the effort, work, and intelligence of Cubans have been clashing for decades against the bureaucracy, inefficiency, and prohibitions of the very regime he inherited.
While Dr. Díaz-Canel invites people to reflect, millions of Cubans spend each day focused on survival: on how to obtain food, electricity, water, transportation, or a flight that will take them out of the country. They think about how to escape a crisis that the regime itself created and which now, with brazen audacity, it attempts to resolve with "popular participation" and "decentralized management."
The scene would be almost comical if it weren't so tragic. A ruler without solutions asking the people to come up with them, while continuing to repeat slogans from the sixties and paying tribute in Santa Ifigenia to those whom he claims "set the example."
But the enduring example in Cuba is not that of the petrified commander, but that of the people who, despite everything, continue to suffer—and think, of course—about how to escape this nightmare without being dragged down by the regime.
The storm after the hurricane: The regime without answers and a people "called to think"
After the devastating passage of Hurricane Melissa, eastern Cuba was not only left underwater but also engulfed in despair.
In the midst of torn roofs, isolated towns, and thousands of families who lost everything, Díaz-Canel appeared before the cameras to offer his usual recipe: empty slogans, appeals to "love for the homeland," and this time, a new gem for the archive of official rhetoric: "we must think".
The Defense Council that supposedly evaluated "the recovery" turned out to be more of a propaganda exercise than real management. While the theorist of "continuity" spoke about "popular participation" and "natural leaders of the people," thousands of those affected were waiting for drinking water, electricity, or simply a dry mattress to sleep on.
According to data from the regime itself, over 95,000 homes were damaged, although international estimates raise the number of affected individuals to more than 3.5 million people.
However, instead of acknowledging the magnitude of the disaster or recognizing the evident institutional incapacity to address it, the government opted —once again— to mask the precariousness with heroic rhetoric.
The cameras of the state television showed Díaz-Canel amid rubble, surrounded by militants and officials, promising that "no one will be left without support." But the reality in the neighborhoods contradicts every word: aid arrives late, materials are scarce, and people are surviving by improvising.
The regime, loyal to its script, tries to turn the tragedy into an act of revolutionary epic. Where the State fails, it blames nature; where the people demand change, it asks them to "think"; and where everything collapses, it clings to the discourse of resistance.
Thus, while in Havana they refine the script for the propaganda, in the east, Cubans continue to demonstrate—without the need for calls to action—that they think, work, and resist. But not to sustain the regime, rather to survive its eternal ineffectiveness.
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