Cuba's Human Dilemma

At times, I wonder if what is happening in Cuba is not merely a political crisis, but rather a profound human paradox.

In a nation engulfed in deep turmoil, daily life has become a series of shortages: endless power outages, insufficient salaries, young people leaving, resource-deprived hospitals, and divided families. The majority of the population is acutely aware of the reasons for this. They speak softly about it, in private conversations, in lines, at home, in personal messages. There is little confusion about the causes. There is awareness.

Yet, when the government calls, the streets fill up. Marches, events, gatherings, symbols, slogans. Visible crowds in a country where the true exhaustion remains unseen.

This is where the paradox emerges: how can such widespread awareness coexist with public behavior that seems to deny it?

The easy explanation would be to talk about fanaticism or manipulation. But that would be too simplistic. The reality is more complex and more uncomfortable. It's not just about believing or not believing. It's about living in a system where dissent carries real, daily, cumulative costs. Where not participating could mean losing opportunities, being marked, left out. In a country where almost everything depends on the State, obedience isn't always ideological; often, it's merely a means of survival.

Thus, the march ceases to be a political expression and becomes an act of survival. People don't go because they're convinced; they go because they can't not go. They don't shout out of faith; they shout to avoid standing out. They don't join out of enthusiasm, but out of inertia.

This creates a sort of dual reality: a private one, critical and lucid; and a public one, ritualistic and disciplined. A society where thinking one thing and saying another isn't moral hypocrisy, but psychological adaptation.

The most unsettling aspect isn't just that this exists, but that it's used as an argument. Because those images are constantly showcased by regime supporters as proof of legitimacy: to claim that those who think differently are wrong, that the people do support, that dissent is minor or fabricated. And often, this is echoed in comments, debates, on social networks: the crowd as the ultimate "evidence."

But that interpretation overlooks something crucial: presence isn't the same as support. In contexts of political control, the public image doesn't necessarily reflect the social truth. It reflects, above all, the system's ability to organize, pressure, and stage scenes. It doesn't demonstrate conviction; it shows power.

From the outside, one begins to ask another, even more challenging question: is it worth raising one's voice for those who seemingly don't raise theirs? Does it make sense to expend energy defending a people who, at least visibly, continue to support the system that sinks them?

This is a legitimate question. It arises from weariness, not disdain. From the fatigue of shouting while others remain silent or march.

But perhaps this is the final layer of the paradox. The true success of the system isn't just that people obey, but that even those who see the injustice begin to doubt whether empathy still has value. That resignation becomes contagious. That each person thinks only about saving themselves.

Cuba isn't a society defeated by a lack of intelligence. It's a society worn out by an excess of fear, control, and time. Not convinced, but trapped. Not loyal, but tired.

And perhaps the most honest thing to say today isn't that the people support what oppresses them, but that they have learned to live within a constant contradiction: knowing something is wrong, but feeling that confronting it is more dangerous than enduring it.

This is, at its core, Cuba's human dilemma: a collective awareness that exists but fails to transform into collective action. A lucidity that finds no outlet. A nation that knows but cannot act.