Cuban polarization in Miami as an electoral manipulation tool (perspective from the other shore)

Miami, the epicenter of the Cuban exile, is not just a geographical space, but a theater of operations where nostalgia, historical trauma, and political ambitions are masked through a well-oiled network to perpetuate a colossal manipulation machine with electoral purposes.

Under the rhetoric of “freedom” and “anti-Castroism,” calculated strategies hide to exploit ideological divisions, rewrite biographies, and capitalize on the pain of a fractured community.

Figures like Alexander Otaola, Eliécer Ávila, or “Cuban Paparazzi” embody a cynically modern phenomenon: the selective rehabilitation of ambiguous pasts. Their historical ties to the Cuban regime—whether for survival, collaboration, or calculation—are now minimized or reinterpreted as “resistance tactics.” This narrative does not emerge by chance, but results from a media and political orchestration that turns them into useful symbols to mobilize anti-Castro bases.

These new-type leaders, turned political influencers, serve as emotional bridges between candidates and voters. Their public “redemption”—financed and amplified by interest groups—legitimizes figures like Carlos Giménez, who, by aligning with them, presents himself as the “pragmatic savior” of a community thirsty for vindication.

The constant accusation of “traitors” or “Castro infiltrators” is not merely ideological debate, but a control mechanism.

By keeping paranoia alive about “regime agents,” the exclusion of critical voices is justified, consolidating a captive electorate willing to vote for whoever promises to “cleanse” the community.

Initiatives to expel alleged Cuban repressors in the U.S., though wrapped in justice rhetoric, operate as electoral weapons (gaining attention and acceptance).

They politicize victims’ pain to project an image of “firmness” against communism, ignoring that many accused are scapegoats in a broader game.

Carlos Giménez and other Cuban-American politicians promise “unity,” but their rise depends on exploiting fragmentation—they need fragmentation as living organisms need earth, water, and oxygen.

Presenting themselves as mediators between generations—the historical exiles and youth less anchored to traditional anti-Castroism—these leaders build careers on a paradox: they need division to persist to sell themselves as the solution.

The more radicalized the anti-Cuba discourse (even with unrealistic proposals like military interventions), the more a key electoral sector in Florida, a swing state where the Cuban vote and the intentions of employees of the “prosperous industrial and entertainment bourgeoisie” can sway elections, mobilizes.

The Cuban exile carries unresolved grief: the “voluntary” loss of the homeland, the divided family, the identity crisis. This trauma is systematically monetized:

Anger is channeled toward abstract enemies (“Castroism,” the “woke left”), diverting attention from local issues like inequality or housing access in Miami.

Any attempt at dialogue with Cuba or criticism of extreme anti-Cuban policies is labeled “treason,” suffocating democratic debate and ensuring votes align with ultraconservative agendas.

The answer is clear: power intermediaries. From think tanks to congressmen, a network of actors converts the diaspora’s suffering into political capital. Meanwhile, Cuba remains a useful scapegoat, a ghost blamed for all ills, from failed migration policies to invented disqualifications and delegitimizations.

This polarization industry does not seek Cuba’s freedom but perpetuates a status quo where political and media elites harvest benefits, while the Cuban community—torn between loyalty to an idealized past and distrust of its own present—remains trapped in a cycle of anger and despair.

The real betrayal is not in Havana, but in Miami, where pain is commodified to win elections and favors.