Cuban Regime's Duplicity Towards Its Emigrants: Deportation and Repatriation

In a recent broadcast by the National Television News (NTV), government-aligned journalist Oliver Zamora Oria dedicated his segment to discussing the immigration policies enforced by President Donald Trump, particularly focusing on the deportation of Cubans from the United States. Zamora Oria delivered a scathing critique of the U.S. administration, accusing it of cynicism, electoral opportunism, and disregard for the human rights of migrants. He lamented this "distressing reality" for those who, according to him, once believed in the Republican rhetoric.

However, his condemnation fell flat due to the glaring hypocrisy of Cuba's official narrative. The very regime that vehemently denounces foreign immigration policies is unable to ensure basic rights for its own citizens, including those who once left and then chose to return.

Indeed, what Zamora Oria termed as the "falling of masks"—a curious statement from a regime spokesperson seemingly seeking Spanish citizenship—regarding U.S. foreign policy, fits perfectly with how the Cuban State has historically managed migration: as a tool for social control, diplomatic leverage, and propaganda.

The Regime's Historical Use of Migration

Since the 1960s, migration has been manipulated by the government to dispose of dissenters, relieve internal tensions, or negotiate with other governments. During crises, it is encouraged; in times of calm, it is regulated. But it has never been treated as a natural human right: the right to migrate and return has always been contingent on ideological loyalty, political utility, or economic convenience.

This is the significant contradiction that the NTV report deliberately omitted. While the broadcast bemoans the plight of Cubans facing deportation in the U.S., those who return to Cuba are often punished.

Challenges for Repatriates

Repatriates, instead of being welcomed, must endure a cumbersome bureaucratic process: requesting permission, paying fees, providing medical and legal documents, and often passing a political vetting that decides if their return is "convenient." Even those who navigate this labyrinth and manage to repatriate do not automatically regain their rights.

Numerous accounts—some collected by CiberCuba in recent years—detail cases where repatriates have been denied voting rights, property access, business ownership, or even legal residency in their own family homes. In more severe instances, repatriates who invested in small businesses have been imprisoned for operating outside the narrow legal framework imposed by the State.

Propaganda vs. Reality

Zamora Oria spoke of a "long list of intimidations and repression" in U.S. policy. Yet, he failed to mention that in Cuba, such a list is also extensive and commonplace. It not only includes repatriates but also activists, journalists, artists, opponents, and ordinary citizens who criticize the system or simply demand respect for their rights.

The atmosphere of "fear" he attributed to the U.S. could just as easily describe the climate within the island, where differing opinions can lead to loss of freedom or basic services.

The critique of the "anti-Cuban machinery of Florida," another target of the official discourse, is equally contradictory. The regime condemns politicians who—according to their view—exploit the migration issue for electoral gain. However, the Cuban government itself has turned migration into a tool of political and diplomatic negotiation.

The Illusion of Reconciliation

In periods of bilateral tension, it has used the threat of a migration wave as leverage against Washington, while in times of greater openness, it has promoted remittances and investments from Cubans abroad under the narrative of "reunion with the motherland," without substantially improving living conditions or rights for those returning.

Ultimately, the Cuban regime leverages the migration issue according to its momentary interests. When it serves their ideological battle against the U.S., they pose as defenders of emigrants' rights. When emigrants wish to return, they become judge and jailor.

There is no consistency, only political calculation. There is no genuine desire for reconciliation, only economic necessity. The Cuban abroad is valued as long as they send dollars. The returning Cuban is valued only if they do not disturb the status quo.

The most troubling aspect is that this double standard is neither occasional nor accidental; it is a fundamental part of Cuba's political system. Citizens, both inside and outside the island, are treated unequally depending on their relationship with power.

Emigrants are useful when generating income but suspect when demanding rights. Repatriates are welcome if they remain silent but rejected if they question. This exclusionary logic not only violates basic principles of justice and citizenship but also reveals the true face of the Cuban State: one that does not tolerate individual autonomy, even when it manifests as a return home.

That the official television denounces deportations with indignation might seem, at first glance, a humanitarian gesture. But from a regime that doesn't allow its citizens to enter and exit freely, that criminalizes dissent and manages rights like favors, that gesture is pure propaganda. It is not genuine concern: it is cynicism.

And this is what both Cubans on the island and those living abroad need to understand. The real tragedy is not just the threat of deportation from another country. It is also—and more importantly—the inability to return to one's own country with dignity.

Because as long as the Cuban regime views its emigrants as negotiation pawns and its repatriates as second-class citizens, no discourse on human rights can be taken seriously. And no report can hide the underlying truth: that the Cuban State continues to fail in fully respecting the rights of all its citizens, no matter where they are.