Cuban Regime's Military "Might" Falls Flat on Territorial Defense Day

The Cuban regime once again donned olive green—and a cloak of shame—as it celebrated another "glorious" Territorial Defense Day. This is the day when the government parades its propaganda machine in the streets, pretending the nation is prepared to fend off a foreign invasion... even if it's with sticks, stilts, and enthusiasm as phony as the recycled uniforms worn by participants.

Images circulated by state media—and by internet users with more humor than fear of State Security—depict scenes so surreal they resemble a comedy sketch: shooting drills with rusty rifles, elderly women warming up to chants of "culture and sport," militiamen on stilts who evoke more tenderness than intimidation, and civilian brigades wielding sticks, ready to suppress the "internal enemy."

In the 21st century, while global powers engage in hybrid warfare, autonomous drones, and cyberattacks, the Cuban regime flexes its muscles with canes, rusted boats flying the 26th of July flags simulating the Granma landing, and masterclasses on how to wave a stick. All this under the solemn argument that the "empire" is lurking, despite the fact that the greatest threat Cubans perceive today is the soaring food prices and the collapse of the national electrical system, caused by a corrupt and inept government that calls for "creative resistance" to power outages.

Amid an explosive international landscape—with conflicts in Gaza, Syria, Ukraine, and recent U.S. bombings of nuclear facilities in Iran—the regime tries to revive its worn-out rhetoric of imperialist aggression. Each year, it activates its "War of the Whole People" doctrine, a strategy that hasn't evolved since the days of black-and-white television. While it once mobilized millions in the 1980s, today it barely convinces those forced to leave their jobs to pretend to march in defense of something they no longer believe in.

Social media, as always, was unforgiving. Satire was swift. On Twitter, one user joked, "Watch out, Cuba has a battalion of stick-wielders ready to liberate Puerto Rico." On Facebook, images were shared with captions like "G.I. Joe, CDR Edition" or "The Avengers of MINFAR." The contrast between the official rhetoric—of heroism and readiness—and the reality—of poverty, improvisation, and apathy—couldn't be more stark... or more comical.

State television, predictably, played its part: epic reports with close-ups to hide the militiamen's tattered shoes and the disinterest of children forced to recite Martí's verses among uniformed guards. In some municipalities, the coverage was so poor that the "combat simulation" involved crossing a stream while carrying an old hunting rifle, with a red and black flag fluttering as if in a bad Soviet movie.

The public's sarcasm is not just mockery: it serves as an escape valve from an exhausted model that continues to sell the idea of a besieged Cuba, when the true enemy is internal. While the leaders play at war with 1970s manuals, the average Cuban must battle daily to survive the transportation collapse, blackouts, inflation, and shortages.

Neither Raúl's speeches nor Fidel's slogans painted on walls can mask the truth: the people are no longer willing to shed "rivers of sweat and blood" for a war that exists only in the minds of those who never go to the front lines, but always shout "Homeland or Death, We Will Overcome" before returning to their tables laden with fine foods, and air-conditioned rooms where ridicule is cloaked as the "successes" of the "uniformed people."