There are names that do not circulate in the Western public sphere merely as historical references, but as symbols imbued with moral authority. Tibet, Israel, Venezuela, and Cuba belong, in very different ways, to that constellation. They are not equivalent cases: they do not share the same history, nor the same political structure, nor do they occupy the same place in the international order. However, they share a troubling function: they can operate as privileged figures within the imperial grammar that distributes compassion, manages outrage, and legitimizes certain forms of violence.

I do not intend here to take a position on the Tibetan issue vis-à-vis China, on Israel and Palestine, on the Cuban exile community vis-à-vis Castroism, or on the Venezuelan exile community vis-à-vis Chavism. The point is another: to examine how certain experiences of suffering, exile, persecution, or loss are transformed, within the Western sphere, into credentials of political authority and moral justification. When that transformation is complete, the critical potential of those causes is neutralized: the wound ceases to disrupt the order and begins to be managed by it; its representatives, in turn, run the risk of becoming captive to the very power bloc that grants them visibility.

Tibet can function as the spiritual image of a nation oppressed by China. Israel can present itself as the living memory of persecution and return. The Cuban exile community can appear as a privileged witness against communism. The Venezuelan exile community can serve as living proof of the failure of Bolivarian socialism. In all cases, the suffering invoked may be real. But the reality of the suffering does not guarantee the innocence of its political use.

That is the crux of the problem. The empire does not need only armies, treaties, sanctions, or military bases. It also needs moral narratives. It needs authorized victims, exemplary exiles, wounded memories capable of organizing consent. It needs certain causes to appear “obviously” just, while other forms of suffering remain outside the framework of intelligibility. This is how compassion is distributed. This is how indignation is managed. This is how it is decided who can be mourned and who can be destroyed.

The literature on diaspora groups influencing U.S. foreign policy has shown precisely that certain exiled or diaspora communities can play a significant role in shaping U.S. foreign policy. The Cuban-American case has been studied as a classic example of that influence; the Israeli case regularly appears as one of the most established models; and recent studies on Venezuela show how exile can alter the language, strategies, and demands of opposition sectors, especially when the political struggle becomes internationalized.

But the decisive issue is not merely institutional. It is not reduced to lobbying. It runs deeper. It concerns the production of moral authority. There are exiles who, upon entering the Western political-media circuit, acquire a legitimizing force that exceeds their own history. They become available symbols: Tibet against China; Israel against the Arab and Muslim world; Cuba against communism; Venezuela against any form of criticism of dependent capitalism. Each of these names is thus inscribed in a larger narrative: that of the West against its enemies.

That is why we must be on guard. Not against the peoples, nor against the victims, nor against those who have suffered persecution. We must be on guard against the imperial use of those wounds. Because when a wound becomes a geopolitical credential, it can begin to justify new wounds. When exile becomes unquestionable authority, it can legitimize sanctions, blockades, interventions, occupations, or wars. When the memory of suffering becomes the property of a political camp, it ceases to open us up to justice and begins to organize our obedience.

The question, then, is not whether Tibet, Israel, Cuba, or Venezuela deserve sympathy, criticism, or defense. The question is what those names do when they enter the Western machinery of legitimacy production. What silences they produce. What violence they authorize. What enemies they help to manufacture. Which victims they leave outside the frame.

Perhaps a minimally lucid political ethic must begin there: by not accepting without scrutiny the moral authorities that the empire offers us. Because contemporary power does not rule solely by force. It also rules by teaching us to feel correctly: whom to be outraged by, with whom to identify, whom to fear, against whom to demand punishment, what suffering to acknowledge, and what suffering to leave out of the picture.

Tibet, Israel, Venezuela, and Cuba are, in this sense, dangerous geopolitical relationships. Not because their stories lack truth, but because their truth can be captured. And a truth captured by power can become one of the most effective forms of lies.