Hey, let me explain… what shame and pity those pseudo-artists who dream of seeing their own people’s blood run. But not just any blood, no: the blood of those who sweat it out on a P8 bus at six in the morning on their way to work, the blood of those who stand in line under the sun to take a piece of bread home.
The United States’ policy toward Cuba was never a secret, my brother: to suffocate, to strangle, to force its collapse through hunger and shortages. Even the cats on the Malecón know that. But what Trumpism perfected for 2026 is a slow-moving extermination machine that no longer hides behind euphemisms. Energy blockade (blackouts that fry your refrigerator and test your patience), persecution of doctors who are saving lives around the world, threats of invasion that are no longer just “statements” but practically a promise. The objective is singular: to make the average Cuban bleed, to bend, to get on their knees and beg forgiveness for existing with dignity.
In this scenario of total siege, of a blockade that squeezes you to your very soul, there are people (sitting in their Miami mansions or their Madrid apartments with their machine-made coffee) who not only applaud the lockdown, but shout like madmen for the Yankee Navy to come and put boots on the ground. They are the pseudo-artists of the gilded exile, those who turned nostalgia into a business and criticism of the government into a commodity they sell to the highest bidder. Their political stance? Nah, that’s not politics anymore, my friend. That’s necrophilia. They crave blood, the blood of their own, as if that were the only key to unlock the cage of their own rage.
The Artistic Death Troop
There’s a legion of singers, actors, and music producers who have become the most obscene echo chamber of the most radical Trumpism. Economic sanctions aren’t enough for them (sanctions that have already silently killed more Cubans than any war, mind you, because you don’t see that on the news). They want more. They want boots pounding the asphalt of Old Havana. They want the drone of planes, the smoke, the panic. They want an invasion.
At every “Latinos for Trump” rally, on every little exile TV show, these figures repeat like a mantra: “The regime must be overthrown, by any means necessary.” And when they say “by any means necessary,” you and I know what that means. They’ve whispered it in private, they’ve blurted it out live with a smile: a US military intervention, with tanks on the Calzada, with helicopters flying over Cerro and Diez de Octubre, with civilian deaths (“collateral damage,” as the Pentagon manuals call it, as if blood had a surname). There isn’t a single statement from these guys condemning Trump’s threats to “wipe out” Iran, not a word about the Palestinian children blown to bits by bombs made in the United States. Their solidarity is selective: only for those who share their anti-Castro hatred. Even if it means embracing the very empire that has looted, invaded, and bombed half the planet. As if Uncle Sam were some kind of saint, for God’s sake.
The most repugnant thing isn’t that they support the maximum pressure policy, which is criminal in itself—no one would dispute that—but the filthy glee with which they contemplate the possibility of a direct invasion. On their social media, when a news outlet announces When NATO announces new military exercises in the Caribbean, they respond with fire emojis and American flags. When some White House hawk says that “no option is off the table,” they cheer as if they’ve just had a new album released.
For them, the Cuban people are pawns in their personal vendetta against the Revolution. They couldn’t care less that an invasion would mean thousands of deaths, bombed hospitals (oncology wards, maternity wards), schools reduced to rubble, and broken families. They know it. And yet they still demand it. Because their class hatred, their resentment festering for decades of privileged exile, outweighs any semblance of humanity. They are the same ones who, from afar, call a system that guarantees free healthcare and education—with all the limitations you can imagine, but free—a “dictatorship,” while they live in countries where an ambulance costs three thousand dollars and if you don’t pay, you die on the sidewalk. They are the same ones who talk a big game about “freedom of expression” while applauding A president who imprisons journalists and threatens to “open fire” on his own people.
There is no possible coherence, my brother, in those who clamor for a military invasion of their own land. That is not patriotism, nor is it even dissent. That is treason with the enemy’s weapons. It is sitting in the front row of the gallows and applauding while the executioner sharpens the axe. And they know it. Because these pseudo-artists will not bleed. They will not be in the trenches. They will not bury their children under the rubble. Their war is a war of armchairs, of caviar, of exclusives in the Miami press. Meanwhile, the Cuban people, the very people whose freedom they claim to defend, would be the ones to pay with their lives for their delusion.
They have demonstrated this time and again. When Trump threatened to “completely shut down” trade with Cuba, they applauded. When remittances were prohibited, the little bit of help that family sends from abroad to buy a chicken, they applauded. When the list of sanctions against Cuban medical cooperation was tightened—the cooperation that has saved millions of lives in Haiti, Venezuela, and Africa, places where no one else goes—they applauded. And now, when the warmongering rhetoric reaches its peak and there is open talk of a “surgical” invasion (as if surgery didn’t hurt, as if it didn’t leave scars), they applaud again. Because the blood of the Cuban people, they think, is a small price to pay to see what they could never defeat at the ballot box or in the conscience of the people crumble.
History will be merciless with these individuals, I tell you. It will be written, not in stone, but in the hearts of those who resist, that while an empire prepared its final assault against an island that has only defended its right to exist with dignity, there were those born on that very island who chose to wear the invader’s colors. Not out of democratic conviction, the kind that doesn’t withstand the slightest scrutiny, but out of class hatred, for profit, for the desire to feel important in the executioner’s court.
The Cuban people, my friend, the same ones who endured the Special Period when there was absolutely nothing and people were eating sugar water, the ones who stood up to dozens of attacks, the ones who continue building schools while the blockade prevents even the arrival of medicine for children with cancer… that people doesn’t need lessons in freedom from those who dream of seeing them bleed. They need solidarity, not invasion. They need respect, not bombs. They need truth, not the macabre spectacle of pseudo-artists who confuse criticism with the desire for extermination.
And while they continue applauding from Miami with their wine glasses and air conditioning, here in Cuba there are those who have already said what they will do if foreign troops set foot on their soil. Not with pretty speeches, not with songs paid for by the American right wing. With a rifle in hand, yes, but also with the tenderness of one who defends his own. Because defending the homeland isn’t a slogan, my brother: it’s the only possible response to those who yearn to see the blood of their own people spill. And that’s not cheap poetry. That’s the rawest and most beautiful truth we have.
I never liked these guys, and we’ll talk about their artistic merit another day… But we will talk!!
IMAGE CREDIT: From the Facebook page of Raulito Torres
[ SOURCE: www.cubainformacion.tv ]
