The old order was ending and something new was being offered
On Cuba's independence day, the United States filed criminal charges against 94-year-old Raúl Castro for ordering the 1996 downing of two humanitarian aircraft that killed four people — a legal act timed to carry the full weight of historical symbolism. The move is part of a sweeping campaign of pressure by the Trump administration that includes oil embargoes, financial sanctions, and a deliberate effort to redirect American engagement away from Cuba's state institutions and toward its private sector. Two nations that have argued over the same century of history from opposite shores now find themselves at a moment where Washington appears to be attempting not merely to punish a government, but to rewrite the conditions under which power on the island can exist.
- The indictment of a 94-year-old former head of state on murder charges, delivered on Cuba's own independence day, is a provocation calibrated to wound both legally and symbolically.
- Cuba's power grid is collapsing in real time — the island can supply less than half the electricity its people need, leaving hospitals, neighborhoods, and historic landmarks in darkness.
- The Trump administration is applying pressure from every angle simultaneously: oil embargo, CIA signals, sanctions on the military conglomerate Gaesa, and now a criminal indictment — each move designed to tighten the vise.
- Washington's proposed off-ramp is not normalization with the Cuban state but a deliberate bypass of it — American capital and commerce flowing only to private actors, starving the regime's institutions of oxygen.
- The legal architecture of the Helms-Burton Act means Trump cannot unilaterally lift the embargo; Cuba must make the first visible move, leaving both governments locked in a standoff neither can easily exit.
On the morning of May 20th, Marco Rubio invoked 1902 — the year the Cuban flag first flew over an independent nation — while Miguel Díaz-Canel, speaking from Havana, reframed the same date as a reminder of American intervention. The argument between the two countries, pulling history in opposite directions, has lasted more than a century. That same afternoon, the U.S. Department of Justice formalized criminal charges against Raúl Castro, accusing the 94-year-old former president of ordering the destruction of two Hermanos al Rescate aircraft on February 24, 1996, killing four people. The charges — murder, conspiracy, destruction of property — arrived on Cuba's independence day by design. Castro has not responded.
The indictment was only the most visible element of a broader campaign. Since late January, the Trump administration has imposed an oil embargo, sanctioned Cuba's military intelligence services, and targeted Gaesa — the military-linked conglomerate that controls between 40 and 70 percent of the island's economy. A CIA director visited Havana to signal that Cuba posed no security threat, a message seemingly intended to separate the regime from the people. Meanwhile, ordinary Cubans were living without electricity: on that same May 20th, the power system could supply barely half of national demand. The Hotel Nacional went dark. Entire neighborhoods lost water.
Rubio's message was direct — Cuba's suffering exists because those in power stole billions — but economists offer a more complicated picture. Gaesa is an instrument of Castro-era military control, not the system itself. Dismantling it would not automatically dismantle the architecture of power behind it. What the Trump administration appears to be proposing is something more radical: a relationship that bypasses the Cuban state entirely, channeling American capital and commerce to private actors while starving state institutions of resources and legitimacy.
The obstacle is legal as much as political. The Helms-Burton Act conditions any lifting of the embargo on regime change — a threshold Trump cannot waive unilaterally. The burden falls on Havana to move first. Díaz-Canel's answer was defiant: lift the embargo, then we talk. But the indictment of Raúl Castro, arriving on independence day, seemed designed to signal something larger — that the era of the revolution's founders was closing, and that Cuba's future would be shaped not in Havana, but in Washington, in courtrooms, in the slow arithmetic of American pressure.
On the morning of May 20th, two men spoke to Cuba from opposite shores. Marco Rubio, the U.S. Secretary of State, stood in Washington and invoked 1902—the year the Cuban flag first flew over an independent nation. Miguel Díaz-Canel, speaking from Havana, acknowledged the same date but reframed it entirely: a day to remember American intervention, American meddling, the beginning of imperial reach. This has been the argument between the two countries for more than a century, each side pulling history in opposite directions.
That same afternoon, as Rubio's words still hung in the air, the U.S. Department of Justice formalized criminal charges against Raúl Castro. The former president, now 94 years old, stands accused of ordering the destruction of two aircraft belonging to a humanitarian organization called Hermanos al Rescate on February 24, 1996. Four people died in those planes. The charges include murder, conspiracy to kill Americans, and destruction of property. The timing was deliberate: the indictment arrived on Cuba's independence day, a symbolic weight that did not go unnoticed. Castro has not publicly responded to the accusations.
The strategic choreography of the moment revealed something about the Trump administration's intentions. While Rubio promised help—relief from the current crisis, a better future—the Justice Department was simultaneously announcing that the man who has loomed over Cuban politics for decades would face American courts. It was pressure and proposition delivered simultaneously, a message that the old order was ending and something new was being offered, though what exactly remained unclear.
The pressure on Cuba has been relentless and unprecedented. An oil embargo imposed in late January was followed by threats, sanctions against military intelligence services, restrictions on Gaesa—the sprawling military and economic conglomerate that controls between 40 and 70 percent of the island's economy—and financial constraints that have squeezed the government from every direction. A CIA director visited Havana to make clear that Cuba posed no security threat to the United States, a message that seemed designed to separate the state from the people, to suggest that Washington's quarrel was with the regime, not the nation.
Meanwhile, ordinary Cubans were living without electricity. On that same May 20th, the National Electric Union announced that the power system could supply only 1,300 megawatts against a demand of 2,780 megawatts. Blackouts stretched across the island. The Hotel Nacional went dark. The Vedado neighborhood had no water. The university, once a symbol of revolutionary fervor, saw no crowds descending its famous steps. The epic of the revolution seemed to have been swallowed by chaos.
Rubio's message to Cubans was pointed: their suffering existed because those in power had stolen billions of dollars. He named Gaesa specifically, the military holding company that had long been run by Raúl Castro's former son-in-law, Luis Alberto Rodríguez López-Calleja, and now sits at the center of American pressure. But economists who study Cuba's power structure offer a more complex picture. Gaesa is a tool of Raúl Castro, not the system itself. The real control has always rested with the Castro brothers—first Fidel, then Raúl—and their military elite. Gaesa, which has existed for roughly two decades, is the most visible instrument of that control, but it is not the only one, and removing it would not automatically dismantle the architecture of power.
What the Trump administration appears to be proposing is a relationship that bypasses the Cuban state entirely. Rubio spoke of a new chapter in U.S.-Cuba relations, one in which American capital, tourism, and commerce would flow directly to private actors and independent sectors, avoiding any institution linked to the Cuban military. This is not merely an economic proposal. It is an attempt to reshape the distribution of power on the island itself, to strengthen those outside the state apparatus and weaken those within it. The question that hangs over everything is whether such a relationship is even possible under current law. The Helms-Burton Act requires regime change as a condition for lifting the embargo. Trump cannot simply suspend it as Obama attempted to do. The burden, then, falls on Cuba to make moves that would allow Rubio and Trump to justify normalized relations to Congress and the American public.
Díaz-Canel's response was defiant. Remove the embargo, he said, and then we can talk about the rest. But the Cuban government has oscillated between intransigence and collaboration, responding to each new threat from Washington with a different posture. The indictment of Raúl Castro, arriving on independence day, seemed designed to signal that the era of the revolution's founders was ending, that history itself was being rewritten, and that Cuba's future would be determined not in Havana but in Washington, in courtrooms, in the calculations of American power.
Citas Notables
Never has a U.S. government applied this much pressure to Cuba— Andy Gómez, former director of the Institute for Cuban and Cuban-American Studies at University of Miami
Gaesa is a tool of Raúl Castro, not the system itself. The real control has always rested with the Castro brothers and their military elite— Miguel Alejandro Hayes, economist who studies Cuba's power structure
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why indict a 94-year-old man for something that happened thirty years ago, and why on that particular day?
Because timing is part of the message. May 20th is when Cuba celebrates independence from Spain. By indicting Castro on that date, the U.S. is saying the revolution's era is over and a new one is beginning—one defined by American justice, not Cuban sovereignty.
But four people actually died in 1996. Isn't this also about accountability for those deaths?
Yes, that's real. The aircraft were shot down on Castro's orders. But the question is why now, why this administration, why this moment. The indictment serves multiple purposes at once—justice for the victims, yes, but also a political hammer.
What does Rubio actually want from Cuba?
He wants the state out of the economy. He wants American money and tourism flowing to private Cubans, not to military-controlled enterprises. He's trying to create a parallel power structure that answers to Washington instead of Havana.
Can that actually work? Can you just bypass a government like that?
That's the central question nobody can answer yet. The law requires regime change to lift the embargo. Trump can't simply decide to trade with Cuba. So either the Cuban government has to collapse, or it has to fundamentally restructure itself in ways that would amount to surrendering power.
What does the Cuban government want?
They're trapped. They say lift the embargo and we'll negotiate. But they also know that lifting the embargo without regime change is legally impossible for the U.S. So they oscillate between defiance and hints of flexibility, trying to find a way out that doesn't exist.
And the Cuban people in all this?
They're living without electricity, without fuel, without enough food. The pressure is working on them even if it's not working on the government. That's the real leverage—not the indictment, but the blackouts.