Arleen Rodríguez Derivet: Aspiring to Martí's Pen and Ana de Armas' Beauty

Arleen Rodríguez Derivet doesn't need external lights; her own perception of herself provides sufficient illumination. However, this week, that light dimmed as power outages left her adrift like a pirate ship.

"José Martí never knew electric light, and he was a genius. I wish I could write a line like Martí with the lights on," she remarked in an interview with Rafael Correa. The reaction from the exiled Ecuadorian was a blink of disbelief: "But Arleen, we're in the 21st century."

Though the moment lasted mere seconds, it encapsulated what Arleen has represented for decades: the disorientation and mediocrity of a state-run press that blurs the line between propaganda and journalism, faith and reporting.

Her viral comment about Martí—who indeed knew, wrote about, and celebrated electric light—was more than a historical slip; it inadvertently painted a psychological portrait. Arleen is more a self-narrator than an informant, turning every public appearance into a personal epic.

She doesn't interview; she pontificates. She doesn't comment; she evangelizes. Arleen has crafted her image as a sentimental heroine of the Castro regime, perpetually positioning herself at the heart of history, in front of cameras, or beside power.

As she herself admitted, "I have a great issue with protagonism wherever I go." This confession encompasses her entire career. From her early days at Juventud Rebelde and Radio Rebelde to her current roles on the Mesa Redonda and the podcast ‘Chapeando bajito,’ Rodríguez Derivet has made political servitude a core part of her identity.

She is the commissar who defends internet shutdowns because "war is being organized against Cuba," who justifies blackouts by quoting the Apostle, and who tweets gratitude with serpentine flair to the Monroe of La Colmenita, saying, "We all wanted to be Ana de Armas."

This blend of admiration, jealousy, and a need for reflection explains much of her public persona. Arleen lives in a constant state of idealized identification with the powerful and the admired. She longs to write like Martí, to be as beautiful and applauded as De Armas, all while remaining the "soul sister" of Miguel Díaz-Canel, who once called her that in one of his ludicrous public greetings.

This phrase sums up her role in the ecosystem of Cuban dictatorial power: the devoted priestess of the official narrative, the striking face of dull obedience. Her life, as she described in an interview for Al Mayadeen, is meant to be a "permanent Operation Truth," a sacred mission in service to the regime and the ancient myth of Santa Ifigenia.

Arleen speaks of herself with the tone of the chosen, with the solemnity of someone who believes she's defending something greater than reality, whether it be the delusional musings of the ostomized dictator or the farcical heroism of five imprisoned spies.

Yet beneath this mystical rhetoric—of the "light of memory," "revolutionary decency," and "the new man"—lies a figure deeply subordinate and dependent on power. There is no distance or self-critique, only a devotional faith. She is the lay nun of propaganda, always ready to justify the unjustifiable, even at the cost of mortifying ridicule.

"It's a path where we still have to endure a few more blackouts, but we must hold on," she obsequiously remarked to Vicente de la O Levy, who, in September 2024, promised to generate a minute of electricity with renewable energies in 2025 and "build it up" thereafter.

Her desire to be part of the power circle has led her to dwell in a kind of treacherous ideological sea, guided by this compass: the point of Birán (a heliocentric red dwarf), the dark matter of Rosario (moral eclipse), the troubadour of San Antonio (Oumuamua comet), and the black hole of Placetas (decent heir and "continuator").

In this symbolic universe, Arleen floats between nostalgia and servitude, amid gravitational fields of manuals and pamphlets, convinced she's echoing the words of heroes and thinkers when she's merely recycling slogans in the void.

And so, while the nation slides into chaos and darkness, Arleen continues to speak to her illusory luminosity. She sees in every blackout a metaphor for "creative resistance" and in every leader "handpicked," a new reflection (or errata) of her faith.

In her world, truth is a dogma, not an endless quest; a word recited from memory, even when everything around reeks of stagnation, silence, privilege, and clots of blood.

As a young veteran rebel and her subordinate once said after a few drinks, Arleen "thinks with her systole and diastole."

Thus, chanting the Guevarist psalm of "honesty, integrity, and decency," Arleen goes on as an intellectual of the organopónico, pondering between tuber contractions.