The report published by the Presidency under the title "Loyda and her greatest gift: to shape a good human being" is not journalism: it is sentimental propaganda in the service of power.
And probably one of the most revealing expressions of disconnection between official discourse and the reality of Cuban mothers in 2026, coming from the "muses" tasked with inspiring the swan songs of the "continuity" of Miguel Díaz-Canel.
The piece seeks to present as a symbol of Cuban motherhood a legal advisor from the FAR and former military prosecutor, portrayed as a sensitive, noble, and “more just” woman thanks to having had a child.
The implicit message is as evident as it is disturbing: the military and judicial apparatus of the regime is also made up of tender, loving, and morally virtuous individuals. Maternity, according to the convoluted perspective of journalist Alina Perera Robbio, serves as an emotional whitening mechanism for structures that have been associated for decades with political control, repression, and fear.
The most striking aspect of the text is precisely the reiterated idea that motherhood transformed the prosecutor into a “more humane” and “more just” person. As if the professional ethics of someone performing judicial functions depended on having given birth.
The implication is unintentionally devastating: before becoming a mother, was she less fair? Less sensitive to the suffering of others? In any serious state, the impartiality and humanity of a prosecutor should stem from the law, professional training, and respect for citizens' rights, not from an emotional awakening associated with motherhood.
But the problem is not just conceptual. It is also profoundly political.
While the pencil-pushers at the Presidency dedicate entire pages to describing "such small hands," "lumps in the throat," and "the tenderness that permeates the profession," millions of Cuban mothers live a radically different experience: blackouts, scarcity, pulverized salaries, emigrated children, fractured families, and daily fear.
Where are the mothers of political prisoners in the official press? Where are the mothers who stand in endless lines to get a little chicken or milk? Where are the women who have seen their children leave for Nicaragua, Mexico, or the Darién? Where are the mothers of young people imprisoned after the protests on July 11? Where are those who age alone because their children had to emigrate to survive?
That is the significant absence of the report: real Cuba.
The mother of Saylí Navarro is missing, marked by years of political persecution. The mothers of political prisoners beaten in Cuban jails are also missing. The women who say goodbye to their children at airports without knowing when they will be able to hug them again are missing too. Nor are the Cuban mothers who died waiting for remittances, medicines, or impossible family reunifications.
In contrast, the official press chooses as its maternal emblem a female official connected to the state's military apparatus, with white skin, green eyes, a perfect smile, and the insignia of Major of the Revolutionary Armed Forces on her shoulders.
It is not a coincidence. The regime is not attempting to honor Cuban mothers; it is trying to legitimize its institutions through a carefully crafted emotional narrative.
Even seemingly innocent details reveal the ideological operation. The boy correcting the pronunciation of "Frías" because his school is named after Hugo Chávez adds nothing to the family story, but it does serve as a symbol of political reproduction from childhood. The message is clear: the exemplary, educated, and noble child also naturally internalizes the ideological references of the revolution.
The language used confirms the propagandistic nature of the piece. There is no journalistic distance or critical observation. Everything is written in a melodramatic, almost liturgical tone, with overly sentimental and artificial phrases that aim to provoke emotional attachment rather than inform.
Meanwhile, authentic Cuban motherhood continues to be characterized by separation, sacrifice, and uncertainty. This was precisely the image portrayed by numerous testimonies and independent reports this Mother's Day: mothers crying for their emigrated children, reunions after years apart, and women surviving amidst shortages and nostalgia.
There lies the true contrast.
The official press attempts to create a picture of institutional harmony and revolutionary tenderness. However, the reality of Cuba contradicts every line of that narrative.
Because today, for too many Cuban mothers, the greatest gift is not to "raise a good human being," but simply to be able to see them grow up without hunger, without fear, and without having to leave their country.
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