I don't eat sovereignty. What good is it if you can't feed your family?
In Havana, a president defined more by his loyalties than his vision presides over a nation in slow collapse — a man who inherited a revolution and chose to preserve it rather than renew it, only to find that preservation itself had become a form of ruin. Miguel Díaz-Canel, caught between the enduring shadow of Raúl Castro and the exhausted hunger of ordinary Cubans, governs a country where blackouts last for days, families ration meals, and the language of sovereignty has lost its power to console. What unfolds in Cuba today is not merely an economic crisis but a reckoning with the limits of continuity as a political philosophy — the moment when a system outlives the faith that once sustained it.
- Cuba's economy has effectively collapsed under the combined weight of U.S. sanctions, the failure of a currency reform, the end of Venezuelan oil subsidies, and an accelerating energy blockade that leaves citizens without power, water, or affordable food.
- Díaz-Canel's authority is visibly hollow — he defends a 94-year-old predecessor against American indictment while real negotiations appear to run through an unofficial Castro grandson known only as El Cangrejo, exposing how little the president actually controls.
- The brutal crackdown on the 2021 protests — over a thousand arrested, demonstrators beaten in the streets — permanently damaged Díaz-Canel's standing with a citizenry that had briefly dared to demand something different.
- Ordinary Cubans have moved beyond appeals to revolutionary dignity: a taxi driver buying black-market gasoline at ten dollars a liter speaks for many when he says he cannot eat sovereignty.
- Washington has signaled it wants regime change, not merely reform, while the Cuban government appears to have no strategy beyond endurance — leaving the island suspended between external pressure and internal exhaustion with no clear path forward.
Miguel Díaz-Canel has spent his presidency performing loyalty. At rallies in Havana he raises his fist; in military fatigues near the U.S. embassy he defends Raúl Castro against an American indictment for the 1996 downing of two civilian aircraft. The gestures reveal a leader defined not by his own project but by his devotion to the order that made him — and that devotion, analysts argue, has become his political undoing.
When Díaz-Canel took office in 2018, expectations ran higher than they should have. He was younger than the Castros, shaped by the Revolution's institutions rather than its founding violence, and he arrived at a moment when Obama's diplomatic thaw had briefly opened a window. He chose instead to reassure the old guard. Continuity became his motto. That choice, made to secure his position, foreclosed the credibility he would later desperately need.
The Cuba he inherited was already fragile. Venezuelan oil had dried up. A currency reform he attempted — collapsing the dual peso system — backfired and deepened ordinary families' misery. Then Trump returned to the White House in early 2026 and tightened the embargo with new intensity. The result is something close to collapse: blackouts stretching for days, water cuts, food prices that consume an entire month's wages, parents skipping meals so their children can eat.
The political crisis runs deeper than the economic one. Raúl Castro, officially retired and now in his nineties, still appears to anchor Cuba's real power — the fact that Washington is negotiating with his grandson, a man with no formal role, makes the point unmistakably. When Díaz-Canel rushed to call Raúl a father figure after the indictment, he signaled once more that he would not break with the old order. That signal is precisely what prevents anyone from believing he can lead Cuba toward something new.
In July 2021, Cubans took to the streets in the largest protests in decades. Díaz-Canel's response — calling on revolutionaries to confront the demonstrators — became the image that defined him. More than a thousand people were arrested. The crackdown stripped away what remained of his popular legitimacy. Now, when he speaks of creative resistance, he addresses citizens who have stopped believing the Revolution can deliver anything. They speak instead of welcoming intervention, of hoping for collapse, of anything that might break the deadlock. A taxi driver rationing black-market gasoline put it simply: he cannot eat sovereignty.
Díaz-Canel is neither the architect of Cuba's crisis nor its master. He is, as one analyst described him, the administrator of the Revolution's remains — a man with little room to move, pressed from behind by an old guard that will not release its grip and pressed from in front by a population that has run out of patience.
Miguel Díaz-Canel stood before a crowd of left-wing activists in Havana's convention center, fist raised, as they chanted that Cuba was not alone. Two months later, he appeared again in public—this time in olive-green military fatigues at an anti-imperialist rally near the U.S. embassy, defending his 94-year-old predecessor Raúl Castro against an American indictment for ordering the downing of two civilian aircraft in 1996, which killed four people. The shift in tone and costume marked something larger: a president increasingly defined not by his own vision but by his loyalty to the shadow figure who still seems to hold the levers of power.
Díaz-Canel, now 66, has presided over Cuba since 2018 with a political motto that has haunted him ever since: continuity. When he took office, many expected reform. He was younger than the Castro brothers, educated within the Revolution rather than forged by it, and he came from the Communist Party apparatus rather than the military. The moment seemed ripe—Barack Obama had thawed relations with Cuba just years before. But Díaz-Canel chose to reassure the old guard instead of challenge it. He would be more of the same. That choice, analysts say, was his political suicide.
The island he inherited was already fragile. By the time Donald Trump returned to the White House in January 2026 and tightened the embargo with new ferocity, Cuba's economy was already hollowed out. Venezuelan oil had dried up. The currency reform Díaz-Canel did attempt—eliminating the dual peso system—backfired spectacularly, deepening the misery of ordinary families. Now, under the accelerated siege of Trump's energy blockade, the country has descended into something closer to collapse. Blackouts stretch for days. Water disappears. Food costs what a person earns in a month. The transport system has seized up. Parents skip meals so their children can eat breakfast.
Yet the deepest problem for Díaz-Canel may not be economic at all. It is political. The question of who actually decides anything in Cuba remains murky. Raúl Castro, now in his nineties, officially stepped back years ago, but the fact that the United States is conducting negotiations with his grandson—a man with no formal position, known only by his nickname, El Cangrejo—suggests where real power still resides. When Washington indicted Raúl this week, Díaz-Canel rushed to his side, calling him a father figure and a teacher. The gesture was unmistakable: I am not abandoning the old order. But that loyalty may be precisely what prevents him from being seen as capable of leading Cuba toward anything new.
The citizens of Havana have grown exhausted by appeals to resistance. In July 2021, they took to the streets in the largest protests in decades, demanding change. Díaz-Canel's response—his order to send revolutionaries into the streets—became the face of the crackdown. Over a thousand people were arrested. Police and security forces beat protesters with batons and bats. The image stuck to him. His political authority, already thin, wore away further. Now, when he speaks of creative resistance, he is speaking to people who have stopped believing in the Revolution as an economic or social model. They are speaking instead of welcoming American intervention, of hoping for the regime's collapse, of anything that might break the deadlock.
One taxi driver, rationing gasoline or buying it on the black market for ten dollars a liter, put it bluntly: "I don't eat sovereignty." What good is national independence if the state imprisons people for thinking differently? What use is dignity when you cannot feed your family? The regime's language of anti-imperialism and historical honor rings hollow against the weight of daily survival. Marco Rubio, the U.S. Secretary of State, has signaled that Washington wants not just economic change but the fall of the government itself. Yet it remains unclear what America actually intends to do, or whether Díaz-Canel's government has any plan beyond holding on.
The deeper irony is that the Revolution took sixty years to pass power to a generation beyond the Castros, only to discover that the system itself had become exhausted. The same logic that governed Cuba forty years ago still governs it now, even as the political capital of those early decades has evaporated. Díaz-Canel inherits a state apparatus designed for a different era, facing a citizenry that has moved on. He is neither the architect of the crisis nor fully in control of the response. He is, in the words of one analyst, the administrator of the remains of the Cuban Revolution—a man caught between the demands of the old guard behind him and the hunger for change in front of him, with little room to move in either direction.
Citações Notáveis
It's a fatal phrase. No politician in any country in the world will do well with 'I am more of the same.'— Michael J. Bustamante, Cuban Studies professor at the University of Miami
Díaz-Canel is not a puppet, he has great powers, but Raúl Castro has veto power over strategic policies. His great error is remaining in Raúl's shadow, because it has limited his projection as a man of change.— Arturo López-Levy, Cuban political scientist
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does it matter that Raúl Castro still seems to hold power, even though he's not officially in charge?
Because it means Díaz-Canel can't actually lead. He can't make the hard choices that might save the country because he has to check with the old guard first. That's not leadership—that's administration.
But couldn't he just break away from Raúl's shadow?
He could, but then he'd be seen as betraying the Revolution itself. And the military, which still runs everything, wouldn't allow it. He's trapped between two impossibilities.
What do ordinary Cubans actually want at this point?
They want out. They want change so badly that many would accept American intervention, even though that would mean losing sovereignty. That's how desperate things have become. Sovereignty doesn't feed your children.
Is there any scenario where Díaz-Canel survives this?
Only if he can somehow deliver economic relief and political opening at the same time. But he's shown no ability to do either. The regime's playbook from forty years ago doesn't work anymore, and he doesn't have a new one.
What's the most dangerous part of this situation?
The unpredictability. Trump wants regime change but hasn't said how. The Cuban government is betting on survival through resistance. And the people are so angry they might welcome chaos just to break the stalemate. Nobody knows what happens next.