WHAT THE WORD “SOCIALISM” MEANS TO CUBANS

For a Cuban, the word “socialist” isn’t an idea. It’s a scar. It’s not a college debate or a trending slogan. It’s personal history carved into our families, our memories, our blood.

It’s the sound of a door closing behind someone who never came back. It’s the whisper of a mother warning her child not to speak too loud. It’s the silence of a father staring out at the ocean, knowing freedom is somewhere past it, but he may never reach it.

It’s ration cards that could never feed you. It’s the hunger that wasn’t just for food, but for truth. It’s fear stitched into every conversation, knowing one wrong word could cost you everything.

For Cubans, “socialism” means neighbors disappearing. It means
your priest was replaced by propaganda. It means your voice was erased, your art forbidden, your dreams reclassified as crimes.

So, when we see crowds in New York cheering for a man who calls himself a “socialist”, when we hear them celebrate what destroyed our homeland, we don’t hear progress. We hear pain. We hear ghosts.

You’re not watching politics.
You’re watching a people relive their trauma in real time.
You’re watching the children of exile watch history try to repeat itself, this time in the country that once saved them.

Socialism isn’t compassion in. It’s control disguised as kindness. It promises equality, but it delivers silence. It sells hope and hands you hunger.

Cuba was once beautiful. We had laughter, music, food, freedom. Then came the slogans. The “new dawn.” The “for the people.” And, within years, it all turned gray.

So yes, when we speak, when we warn, when we cry, it’s not because we hate. It’s because we remember.
We remember what it feels like to lose everything to those same words you now cheer.

Don’t make our pain your politics.
Listen before history repeats itself.