Cuba is going through one of the most decisive moments in its recent history. For decades, the public discussion about the country has been dominated by ideological narratives, geopolitical tensions, and old confrontations that no longer fully explain the magnitude of today’s challenge.
Today, beneath that political noise, a deeper and more urgent truth emerges: Cuba’s crisis is, above all, a human crisis. And the only way to begin reversing it is by creating real opportunities that allow Cubans to live, prosper, and dream within their own land.
Mass migration is one of the most visible consequences of economic stagnation, but it is not the only one—nor necessarily the most devastating. Behind every departure is a story of rupture: separated families, broken bonds, generations that stop sharing the same country.
That pain, accumulated over decades, rarely dissipates; on the contrary, it transforms. First into frustration, then into resentment, and finally into rejection toward Cuba’s institutions, which many hold responsible for having forced them to leave after finding no opportunities inside the country.
That resentment is not symbolic—it has a direct political impact in the United States. A migrant who is hurt, frustrated, and resentful is not only a professional Cuba lost; he is also a vote, a political stance, a public narrative that turns against Cuba. That emotional perception influences U.S. public opinion, the electoral dynamics of South Florida, and the way Washington designs its policy toward the island. It is a phenomenon that has shaped bilateral relations for decades.
This is why it is not enough to attempt to slow down emigration: Cuba has the responsibility—difficult but not impossible—to recover emotionally and symbolically those sons and daughters who left wounded. To recognize their value, their contribution, and their shared identity. Within that process lies one of the most important keys to achieving something that today seems distant but is indispensable: national reconciliation.
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In this context, to speak of the private sector is not merely to speak of the economy. It is to speak of the right to stay. It is to speak of family reunification, emotional stability, of a country that stops losing its people.
Despite all adversities, in recent years a surprisingly dynamic private sector has emerged in Cuba. More than 11,000 MSMEs already generate employment, sustain markets, mobilize supply chains, and demonstrate something essential: when Cubans are allowed to undertake, they create, innovate, and transform. This sector—often over-regulated or viewed with suspicion—has become one of the most important pillars of the country’s economic life.
Vietnam’s experience offers a crucial lesson. With the Doi Moi reforms launched in 1986, the country did not change its political system, but it did change its economic destiny. The key was trusting its human capital, opening space for private initiative, integrating into the global market, and guaranteeing legal certainty.
Cuba does not need to copy Vietnam to learn from its essence: prosperity begins when the State stops fearing the creativity of its own people.
Cuba could advance significantly if it adopted concrete and urgent measures: reducing bureaucracy that suffocates productivity; combating corruption, favoritism, and distortions that hinder development; granting real autonomy to companies—both private and state-owned; and perhaps most importantly, explicitly and strategically recognizing the role of the diaspora.
Few nations have, beyond their borders, such a highly prepared, successful, and emotionally committed pool of human and financial capital as Cuba. Integrating the diaspora is not a concession—it is a historical necessity.
The United States, for its part, also faces an important decision. For years, U.S. financial institutions have operated under a climate of fear toward any connection with Cuba, generating account closures, rejection of legal transactions, and a financial blockade that affects the private sector more than the State. The Biden Administration took preliminary steps, but without the determination or implementation needed.
The current Administration, with a more assertive approach and business instincts, could see opportunities where previous administrations saw risks. A strong Cuban private sector directly benefits the United States: it reduces irregular migration, contributes to regional stability, and creates spaces for economic cooperation that once seemed impossible. It does not require abandoning historical positions—it requires aligning policy with reality.
But this effort would not only transform the Cuban economy; it would also have deep effects beyond our borders. If the diaspora regains rights and begins to see itself as part of Cuba’s future, that shift would have a direct, positive, and constructive impact on U.S. policy toward the island.
For more than six decades, U.S. policy has not been designed in Washington in the abstract—it has been shaped, conditioned, and often determined by the emotional experience of the Cuban diaspora.
Because that policy, to a great extent, is the emotional and political echo of the diaspora. It is the institutional translation of accumulated pain, resentment, frustration, and personal stories that turned into public narrative. A wounded community pushes for punitive policy; a community beginning to heal can open the door to a more rational, more humane, and more effective policy for both nations.
If the Cuban diaspora begins to feel recognized by its country of origin—not as an adversary but as a legitimate actor; not as a suspect but as a partner—then the way it influences U.S. policy will also change.
The vote, the opinion, the media narrative, and the political leverage of Cuban Americans could move toward a more constructive approach—less reactive, more focused on tangible results that benefit everyone. And this is especially relevant for my city: Miami.
For decades, Miami has been the emotional battleground of U.S. policy toward Cuba. Here, wounds have been amplified, positions radicalized, openings halted, and personal tragedies turned into national agenda.
A Cuba that integrates its diaspora, that recognizes it, and that gives it a place in its future could transform not only its economy but the most complex bilateral dynamic in the hemisphere. Because when the diaspora changes, U.S. policy changes.
And when U.S. policy changes, a real space opens to move toward the stability, development, dialogue, and reconciliation that Cuba so urgently needs.
This is why I insist: a strong private sector is not ideology. Recognizing the diaspora is not a concession. Both are pillars of national recovery.
Because a country that can keep its people and reclaim those who left recovers its soul. And when Cuba prospers, economically, socially, and humanly, the United States also wins.
