The rhetoric of bravado of the Cuban regime

There is a pattern that repeats every time the Cuban regime confronts reality: they turn up the volume. "Victory or death," "resist until the end," "there will be no surrender," "honor," "homeland." The words multiply just as real power fades away. The bravado grows in inverse proportion to capability.

It's not new. It's not coincidental. And it's not courage: it's propaganda.

Granada in 1983 and Venezuela in 2026 are two uncomfortable mirrors where that hollow epic shatters into pieces. In both cases, the rhetoric was grandiose. In both, reality was swift, unequal, and humiliating. And in both, those who paid the price were not the leaders shouting from afar, but Cubans sent to die or be captured.

In October 1983, when the United States launched the operation against Grenada, Fidel Castro ordered to "resist until the last man." Not to surrender. Not to retreat. To die if necessary. The perfect epic… dictated from Havana, hundreds of kilometers away from the battlefield.

The reality was different. American air and naval superiority crushed any possibility of prolonged resistance. Several Cubans died. More than six hundred were captured. There was no counterattack. There was no victory. There was no epic.

What did exist was propaganda. From that failure, the legend of the “last stronghold of Cubans sacrificing themselves while embracing the flag” was born. A false, inflated image, useful to conceal a defeat and turn it into a heroic sacrifice. I witnessed the declaration live on Cuban television. I don’t remember which puppet made that solemn appearance, but we all were left astonished, saddened, and dumbfounded.

The reality, the harsh reality, debunked the myth within days. Soon after the story of the "immolated stronghold" spread, "combatants" repatriated from Grenada began to arrive in Cuba. They came back alive, intact, and in many cases, with noticeably bulging luggage. Some returned loaded with clothes, personal belongings, and even appliances; one of the cases I remember most was a soldier coming down the airplane stairs with a fan. They did not look like the remnants of a collective immolation, but rather the survivors of a hasty retreat.

The official epic then collided with popular humor, which tends to be more honest than propaganda. Jokes began to circulate in the streets that the government could never control. One of the most repeated was: “If you want to run fast, wear Tortoló sneakers,” referring to the escape of Cuban military personnel to the Soviet embassy and the discrediting of the leadership headed by Pedro Benigno Tortoló Comas. When the people laugh at the epic, it is because the epic is already dead.

Granada was, moreover, the only time the Cuban regime confronted U.S. forces directly. And the outcome made it clear what the true limit of its power was: none.

Decades later, the script was repeated with other actors. Nicolás Maduro, trained and seemingly protected by the Cuban apparatus and Russian missiles, adopted the same tone: “Come for me. I’ll be waiting for you in Miraflores. Don’t take too long to arrive, coward.”

The outcome was even quicker than in Granada. In the early hours of January 3, 2026, a U.S. surgical operation captured him and extracted him from Caracas. There was no real resistance. There was no war. There were helicopters, special forces, and a handcuffed president headed to New York.

Bodyguards died, including 32 Cubans integrated into the security system of the Venezuelan regime: once again, Cubans paying the price. It was said that these Cubans were "guarding" Maduro: were they guarding him only or controlling him? Were they his bodyguards or, rather, his jailers?

After Maduro's downfall, the Ministry of Revolutionary Armed Forces flooded social media with war slogans: that there will be no ceasefire, that surrender does not exist, and that the war only ends with "victory or death."

It's the same language from 1983. But today it sounds emptier than ever.

Cuba could not prevent the fall of its main ally. It could not intervene. It could not respond. It could not protect Maduro. The only thing it could do was shout from Havana.

The less capability it has, the louder it screams. That’s the logic of the regime.

For decades, the Cuban regime has marketed the idea of significant regional influence. The reality is less heroic: its power has not stemmed from its own military strength, but from exporting control apparatuses, intelligence, repression, and subdued labor.

Angola, Granada, Venezuela: the pattern is the same. Cubans sent as geopolitical pawns. Lives sacrificed to uphold epic narratives that crumble when someone decides to verify whether there is real strength behind the words.

Cuban influence has relied on abuse, not on strength. On parasitism, not on power. On propaganda, not on ability.

The conclusion is uncomfortable but evident: the bravado of the Cuban regime is not a sign of strength, but of weakness. It is the cry of someone who knows they cannot do anything but needs to pretend otherwise.

Granada showed it. Venezuela confirmed it. Every time reality takes precedence, the epic fades away, leaving dead Cubans behind, and the regime once again hides its impotence behind slogans.

The floor is yours.

The tweet.

The slogan.

But the real power hasn't been there for a long time.