CUBA and the Refusal of Deference

Sovereignty is often discussed as a matter of law, borders, and recognition among states. Yet history suggests that sovereignty is not sustained by legal status alone. It is also a matter of posture—how a nation understands its own existence, how it narrates its place in the world, and whether it accepts or refuses the expectations imposed upon it by more powerful actors.

Across the Black Atlantic, sovereignty has often been forged under extraordinary pressure. Haiti’s revolution in 1804 declared the first Black republic in defiance of the colonial order. The decades that followed tested that declaration through indemnity, isolation, and repeated external intervention. Yet the deeper significance of Haiti’s revolution was not only the establishment of a sovereign state, but the refusal of a narrative that insisted such sovereignty was impossible.

Cuba presents a different but related case. Situated ninety miles from the United States, the island has long existed within the gravitational pull of a global power. And yet, since the revolution of 1959, Cuba has maintained a national posture suggesting that sovereignty may be something more than institutional control or international recognition. It may also be an act of self-authorship.

Haiti’s revolution marked the first great rupture in the Black Atlantic struggle for sovereignty. It demonstrated that a people once denied humanity in law and practice could overturn the colonial order and declare themselves a nation. The decades that followed would test Haiti’s sovereignty repeatedly, yet the revolutionary act itself permanently altered the political imagination of the Atlantic world.

The story of sovereignty in the Black Atlantic, however, did not end in 1804. In different forms and under different circumstances, other nations would confront the same fundamental question: whether sovereignty would be defined by external expectation or by a nation’s own act of self-authorship. At its core, the underlying question remains the same: who has the authority to author a nation’s existence?

In the twentieth century, Cuba would answer that question in its own way. Situated ninety miles from the United States and long entangled within the political and economic orbit of global power, the island’s revolutionary transformation in 1959 introduced another moment in which sovereignty would be asserted not only through institutions, but through posture.

Cuba’s Revolutionary Inheritance

Cuba’s revolutionary transformation in 1959 did not emerge in isolation. The island had long occupied a complicated position within the political and economic orbit of larger powers. Spanish colonial rule endured into the late nineteenth century, followed by a period in which Cuban independence existed alongside significant American influence over the island’s political and economic affairs.

The revolution led by Fidel Castro and his allies marked a decisive rupture in that trajectory. Beyond the overthrow of the Batista government, the revolution articulated a vision of national self-determination that rejected the assumption that Cuba’s future would be defined by external interests. In doing so, it reframed the island’s political identity—not simply as an independent state, but as a nation determined to author its own direction despite the pressures that would inevitably follow.

That decision carried profound consequences. Cuba’s revolutionary path would place the island in sustained tension with the United States and embed it within the geopolitical dynamics of the Cold War. Economic sanctions, diplomatic isolation, and persistent political hostility became enduring features of the relationship.

Yet the revolutionary inheritance of 1959 was not solely institutional or ideological. It also shaped a national disposition: a collective understanding that sovereignty would require persistence under pressure and a willingness to maintain political self-definition even when doing so carried significant costs.

The Psychology of Sovereignty

Sovereignty is often discussed in structural terms such as the control of territory, recognition by other states, and the authority of national institutions. These elements are essential. Yet the endurance of sovereignty frequently depends on something less tangible: the psychological posture of a nation and its people.

A state may be formally sovereign while gradually deferring to external expectations that shape its policies, priorities, and sense of possibility. In such cases, sovereignty exists in law but becomes diluted in practice. Conversely, nations that maintain a strong sense of internal authorship may sustain sovereignty even under significant structural pressure.

Cuba offers an instructive example of this distinction. The island’s history over the past six decades has been marked by economic strain, geopolitical isolation, and periodic crisis. Yet the revolutionary inheritance cultivated a national narrative that emphasizes dignity, endurance, and the legitimacy of Cuba’s independent course.

In that sense, sovereignty becomes not only a legal condition but a psychological orientation. It is expressed in the confidence with which a nation carries itself, and in the belief that its existence, choices, and future need not be authored by others. When that belief persists, sovereignty becomes something deeper than institutional independence. It becomes a form of self-authored existence.

During my visit to Cuba in the first year that travel reopened from the United States under the Obama administration, I encountered something that statistics, policy debates and ideological arguments rarely capture: an unmistakable national posture.

I observed a form of pride that did not appear vainglorious or performative. Instead, it seemed deeply rooted in a steady confidence in Cuba’s right to determine its own direction as a sovereign nation. Alongside this national pride was a distinctly irreverent personal pride, a disposition that seemed instinctively resistant to bending toward any will other than that of Cuba itself as a sovereign nation.

Among those who remained on the island, there appeared to be a collective willingness to stand “ten toes down,” as we might say, and face the future with seriousness, dignity, and clarity. There was hope, certainly, but it was not naïve hope. It carried the weight of history, resilience, and a firm belief in the legitimacy of Cuba’s sovereign existence—no matter the difficulty of maintaining it.

The confidence I encountered was not naïve optimism but something more durable. It was a belief that sovereignty, however difficult to maintain, remained rightful and deserved.

Those who did not embrace that posture in their hearts, for whatever reason, had the option to leave the country, and many did. What I found notable, however, was that I heard no ill spoken of those who chose that path. I recognize that sharing such sentiments in mixed company may be discouraged in certain contexts, but in my own experience I heard no condemnation of those who departed. That restraint suggested a certain discipline within the national ethos—a recognition that disagreement exists, even while a larger commitment to the nation endures and the forward movement of the nation continues.

And throughout it all, Cuban creativity was unmistakable. Music, art, dance, and intellectual expression flourished everywhere I looked. Cultural vitality seemed inseparable from the national character—a reminder that sovereignty is not only political or institutional, but also cultural and imaginative.

Cultural Sovereignty

Political sovereignty is often discussed through the language of institutions and state power, yet the cultural life of a nation frequently reveals how deeply that sovereignty is internalized. In Cuba, creative expression appears inseparable from the broader national character. Music, visual art, dance, and intellectual life flourish not merely as entertainment, but as expressions of identity, imagination and pride.

Throughout the island, cultural creativity is widely visible and deeply embedded in everyday life. That vitality reflects more than artistic tradition; it suggests a society that continues to narrate itself through its own cultural language. In this sense, culture becomes another arena in which sovereignty is expressed—not through diplomatic recognition or formal authority, but through the ongoing creative articulation of national identity.

Such creativity does not erase the material and political challenges Cuba has faced. Rather, it reveals how a people continue to express dignity, memory, and imagination even under constraint. Cultural expression becomes part of the broader posture of sovereignty. It is a reminder that a nation’s story is told not only through its institutions, but through the creative life of its people.

Sovereignty is often measured through institutions: borders secured, governments recognized, treaties signed. Yet the Cuban experience suggests that sovereignty may endure in another dimension as well. It lives in posture. It lives in the persistent conviction that a nation has the right to determine its own path, even under pressure. Sovereignty may also be existential. It is expressed through the confidence with which a nation carries itself and through the belief that its existence and direction need not be authored by others.

Across the Black Atlantic, the refusal of imposed narratives has shaped the political imagination of peoples whose sovereignty was once denied entirely. Haiti’s revolution declared that such sovereignty was possible. Cuba’s experience suggests that sustaining it requires something more than formal independence. It requires the willingness to continue authoring one’s national existence even when the costs are high.

In that sense, Cuba’s story is not simply a geopolitical case study. It is part of a longer tradition of narrative refusal—a tradition in which sovereignty belongs to those willing to claim it. When that conviction remains intact, sovereignty persists not only in law, but in the self-authored existence of a people.

The statue of Fray Junípero Serra in Havana, Cuba, stands in the Plaza de San Francisco de Asís in Old Havana, in front of the Basilica Menor de San Francisco de Asís. The bronze statue depicts the Franciscan friar with a Juaneño Indigenous boy, and it is a copy of a similar monument in Palma, Mallorca, Spain.

This photo is from my personal collection, taken during the trip to Cuba with “International Partnerships and Ventures in Education, LLC [www.IPAVE.us] in December 2015.