Newly arrived in the US, the artist reconstructed a broken Virgin Mary statue he brought from the island and stated that Maykel ‘Osorbo’ would be in Miami “very soon” as well.
At the Shrine of Our Lady of Charity in Miami, Otero Alcántara restores a broken image of the Virgin Mary as a symbol of Cuba’s reconstruction. / Telemundo 51
14ymedio, Madrid, July 19, 2026 — Just an hour after landing in Miami, USA, Cuban artist and former political prisoner Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara transformed his first act of freedom into a “spiritual and political” performance. At the Hermitage of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, before dozens of members of the exile community, journalists, and activists, he led an event to collectively reconstruct a broken image of Our Lady of Charity that he had brought from Cuba and presented as a metaphor for the “wounds” of the island, the exile community, and himself.
Faced with a barrage of questions from the press, Otero Alcántara repeatedly emphasized the same point: “What I want is to work. I’m here to work: every minute I waste is another minute of the dictatorship.”
Before beginning, he thanked the exile community for their support and dedicated a few words to the political prisoners who remain on the island, especially the rapper Maykel Osorbo Castillo Pérez, also a member of the San Isidro Movement. Regarding the musician, he stated that he would be in Miami “soon.” According to his contacts at the U.S. Embassy, the artist could arrive in that country “in less than a month,” although he clarified that he couldn’t guarantee it. “Maykel is a survivor and a fighter, and if I survived, he’ll be alright, as far as possible.” continue reading
Regarding ‘Osorbo’, he stated that he would also be in Miami “very soon.” According to his contacts at the US Embassy, the artist could arrive in that country “in less than a month.”
While applying glue to the fragments of the image, Otero Alcántara answered journalists’ questions. The artist reiterated that he will continue using art as a tool for political transformation: “There is a type of art that has the power to change things: a song changed things, a performance changed things,” he said, alluding to Patria y Vida and his own artistic actions on the island. But he insists that commitment is necessary, that art must be more than “a painting on the wall.” “I put my skin on the line, and I’m here to continue putting my skin on the line.”
He also sent a message to those who remain in Cuba. “We must continue fighting for freedoms, because it is possible.” Otero Alcántara maintained that “we must know what we are fighting for. We didn’t leave for chicken, for oil, or anything like that. We left demanding freedom, and freedom will bring all of that.”
The activist also claimed to have spoken with US Embassy officials about the situation of Cuban political prisoners. “They are putting pressure on,” he said, though he insisted that “to get them all out, the dictatorship must
be overthrown,” because “as long as the dictatorship exists, there will be political prisoners.”
“We need to know what we’re fighting for. We’re not out here for chicken, oil, or anything like that. We’re out here demanding freedom, and freedom will bring all of that.”
When asked about his time in prison, he said he felt “mentally healthier” thanks, in part, he said, to the international pressure exerted during those years. He explained that prison authorities allowed him to paint because they knew that this activity “kept him alive,” and he expressed his confidence in having been able to smuggle most of the artwork he created in prison out of the country.
He also announced that he is preparing a public exhibition of the more than 4,000 paintings he created during his imprisonment and managed to bring with him. He plans to hold an event where, as he unpacks them, he will talk about how he conceived them. “I’m going to keep making art; I have a lot of ideas in my head. All the works I’m bringing are about the feeling of confinement.”
Regarding the reconstruction of the Virgin of Charity statue, Otero Alcántara explained that it represents a meeting point for Cubans, transcending political or personal differences. “We are all broken,” he stated, alluding to families separated by exile and the consequences of repression. “The Virgin doesn’t restore herself. She is the culmination of all our collective energy.” He also maintained that spirituality is a space where “straight people, gay people, white people, black people, government supporters, dictators, State Security, opposition members, Mambises, and we, the artists,” all converge.
Otero Alcántara asserts that commitment is essential, that art must be more than just “a painting on the wall.” “I put my heart and soul on the line, and I’m here to continue putting my heart and soul on the line.”
While the performance was underway and many friends approached to embrace Otero Alcántara and celebrate his freedom, slogans such as “Patria y Vida” [Homeland and Life], “Down with the dictatorship,” and “Long live free Cuba!” were chanted. In addition, those present sang the Cuban national anthem.
The arrival of Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara in the United States generated immediate reactions both within and outside the Cuban exile community. U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio welcomed him with a statement declaring: “Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara faced years of repression and inhumane conditions under the Castro regime. His courage in appearing with the Cuban flag during ‘Patria y Vida,’ the anthem of freedom, inspired millions. It is a privilege to welcome him to the United States as a hero of the Cuban cause.” Rubio also called for the release of rapper Maykel Osorbo and the rest of the Cuban political prisoners, and reiterated the need for free elections on the island.
Republican Congressman Mario Díaz-Balart, for his part, maintained that Otero Alcántara and other opposition members “risked everything for the freedom of the Cuban people,” and reiterated his support for those who remain imprisoned for political reasons.
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The artist was taken by the political police to Havana’s José Martí International Airport.
Otero Alcántara after arriving in Miami on July 18, 2026. / 14ymedio
Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara, artist and leader of the San Isidro Movement (MSI), who State Security kept in whereabouts unknown for 11 days, arrived in Miami this Saturday, one day after the United States granted him special permission (parole). A crowd of friends and supporters awaited him at the airport and greeted him by singing the Cuban national anthem.
In his first statements to the press, the artist recalled that “right now Maykel Osorbo is in prison” and asked the exile community in Miami, Cubans elsewhere, “Donald Trump,” “all those who can help us, please contribute to making Cuba free,” concluding: “that one minute of work is one minute less of dictatorship.”
After learning that the political prisoner had boarded a flight from Havana, the artist’s loved ones reported on social media that during his time in the Guanajay maximum-security prison, he “survived in an environment that deprived him of his freedom for political reasons, prevented him from fully developing his work, and separated him from the people he loves.” The regime’s repression did not extinguish Otero Alcántara’s fighting spirit: “Today he arrives with the profound desire to live again, resume his creative projects, and continue working for the freedom of Cuba.”
They also announced that, upon his arrival in Miami, the artist will visit the Shrine of Our Lady of Charity “to leave an offering of thanksgiving.” Otero Alcántara, they explained, “brings with him from Cuba a broken Virgin. Like many of us. Like Cuba. It is a gesture that invites us to gather the fragments, to piece together what has been broken, and to believe that it is still possible to continue reading
heal and recover a country that has been taken hostage.”
Right now Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara is flying to Miami International Airport, on flight AA2706. el aeropuerto internacional de Miami, en el vuelo AA2706. Right now ¡Luis Manuel está libre! Date: July 18 2026….
The Cuban state media was quick to report the artist’s departure, and in an article describing him as “the mercenary Washington is looking for,” asserts that Otero Alcántara has “a criminal record, not a record of conscience,” adding that “he is neither a political opponent nor a human rights defender. He is a common criminal, convicted by the Cuban justice system for crimes defined in our laws: contempt, public disorder, and desecration of national symbols.”
Otero Alcántara was taken by the political police to Havana’s José Martí International Airport in an escort similar to that provided to opposition figures José Daniel Ferrer and Luis Robles, “the young man with the flag,” both of whom were also released in exchange for accepting exile. In the case of the MSI leader, arrested on July 11, 2021—before he could participate in the massive demonstrations of that day—and sentenced to five years for the crimes of desecrating national symbols, contempt, and public disorder, he completed his sentence on July 9. However, by then, his family and friends did not know his whereabouts.
Two days earlier, it was reported that the artist had been taken from the maximum-security prison in Guanajay, in the province of Artemisa, to an unknown destination. On July 9th, he contacted his friend Anamely Ramos, an art historian in exile and also a member of the MSI. According to a post by the activist herself on social media, Otero Alcántara called her “from a State Security cell phone, an unknown number, and the call was on speakerphone.”
When asked how he was, the artist replied “fine,” Ramos said, “with that tone we use to indicate that we’re doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” He couldn’t answer the second question: “Where are you?”
The activist explained that the parole request for Alcántara to travel to the United States was “still in process” and that the artist would be “in that unknown location until it is resolved.” According to a U.S. official who spoke to 14ymedio on condition of anonymity, by confining Otero Alcántara after he had served his sentence, the Havana regime intended to “turn the tables on Washington and make it seem as though the artist was still detained due to the Trump Administration’s delay.”
His case, along with that of rapper Maykel Castillo Osorbo, became one of the emblems of the repression after 11J.
Years ago, both expressed their willingness to accept “prison in exile,” but at no point did they participate in the releases carried out by the regime.
Three days after Otero Alcántara’s release, Castillo was transferred to the Guanajay prison from Kilo 8, in Pinar del Río, where he was serving his sentence, in his case nine years.
Despite being arrested at different times, and not on April 4, 2021, the date of the events for which the regime accused Otero Alcántara, and May 18 of the same year for Osorbo, both Cuban artists share the same prosecution file, which is yet another example of the arbitrariness of revolutionary justice.
Declared prisoners of conscience by various international organizations, both have received numerous awards during their years in prison for their fight for human rights in Cuba. The most recent was the 2026 Democracy Award, granted by the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) last June.
They have also carried out several hunger strikes at different times and have denounced the prison conditions they endured. Years ago, both expressed their willingness to accept the “prison for exile” exchange, but at no point did they participate in the releases carried out by the Cuban regime through agreements with the Vatican, one in January 2025 , days before the end of Joe Biden’s presidency, and another last March .
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The Spanish writer understood in 1971 that the imprisonment of Heberto Padilla was not an isolated mistake, but proof of the Revolution’s authoritarian drift.
Luis Goytisolo, in a 2017 photograph. / EFE/Luca Piergiovanni
14ymedio, Noemí Herrera, Miami, July 18, 2026 – The death of Luis Goytisolo, who passed away this week at the age of 91, invites readers to revisit a monumental body of work such as Antagonía, one of the greatest achievements of 20th-century Spanish-language fiction. An experimental writer, member of the Royal Spanish Academy, and a pioneer of contemporary narrative, Goytisolo leaves behind a literary legacy of enormous significance. But from Cuba, it is also worth remembering another aspect of his life, less frequently mentioned in obituaries and yet essential to understanding the intellectual history of the second half of the 20th century.
Luis Goytisolo was one of the writers who helped dismantle the immense moral prestige that the Cuban Revolution had accumulated among the European left. He was not the only one, nor even the most visible. But he was there when part of the intellectual community decided that the time had come to stop justifying the unjustifiable. His background included coming from a family of businessmen of Basque origin who made their way in Cuba, the Island that would once again cross his path.
Luis, by contrast, cultivated a more reserved profile, focused on literature and less inclined toward public exposure
It is important to distinguish between the brothers. Juan Goytisolo occupied a singular place in Spanish literature for decades and became a much better-known public figure internationally, especially because of his constant confrontation with the Franco regime and his cosmopolitan life. Luis, by contrast, cultivated a more reserved profile, focused on literature and less inclined toward public exposure. That difference in temperament has often led people to confuse the two when discussing the so-called Padilla Affair. However, both actively participated in the protest that permanently changed the relationship between much of the European intellectual community and Fidel Castro’s continue reading
regime.
Until 1971, the Cuban Revolution enjoyed extraordinary prestige within Western cultural circles. The romantic image of the Sierra Maestra continued to captivate writers, philosophers, and artists who saw Cuba as an ethical alternative to capitalism and the Latin American dictatorships. The Island was the laboratory where many wanted to believe a form of socialism different from the Soviet model could be built.
The imprisonment of poet Heberto Padilla shattered that illusion.
His “crime” had been writing uncomfortable verses and expressing criticism of the revolutionary bureaucracy. His arrest, followed by that humiliating public confession at the headquarters of the Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba (Uneac), a scene that evoked the Stalinist show trials, caused a moral earthquake among those who still defended the Cuban Government.
The Goytisolo brothers also participated in drafting a second letter, far more forceful, which openly denounced the regime’s authoritarian drift
It was then that the first open letter addressed to Fidel Castro and published by Le Monde appeared. Among its organizers and signatories were Juan and Luis Goytisolo, together with such prominent figures as Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Mario Vargas Llosa, Susan Sontag, Alberto Moravia, Carlos Fuentes, and Octavio Paz. They called for the poet’s release and warned that imprisoning a writer for expressing his ideas was incompatible with the emancipatory project that Cuba claimed to represent.
Padilla’s release resolved nothing. On the contrary. The spectacle of his public self-criticism deepened the scandal. That forced confession, in which the poet accused himself and denounced colleagues and friends, was far too reminiscent of the old Moscow trials. The Goytisolo brothers also participated in drafting a second letter, far more forceful, which openly denounced the regime’s authoritarian drift. For many cultural historians, that second document marks the true breaking point between the Cuban Revolution and a fundamental part of the Western democratic intellectual community.
Fidel Castro’s reaction was as predictable as it was revealing. The signatories ceased to be fellow travelers and became traitors, agents of imperialism, or victims of bourgeois manipulation. Cuba’s doors began to close to many of them. The so-called “Five-Year Gray Period” consolidated a cultural policy based on suspicion, ideological surveillance, and political obedience.
He was a writer who understood that there comes a moment when silence ceases to be a form of prudence and becomes a form of complicity
For decades, official propaganda attempted to minimize that rupture. It portrayed the Padilla Affair as a foreign conspiracy and turned critical intellectuals into personal enemies of the Revolution. Yet the damage was irreversible. Not because Cuba lost a handful of prestigious visitors, but because it lost something far more difficult to recover: the moral authority that had captivated much of the international progressive intelligentsia.
It is significant that Luis Goytisolo did not build a testimonial monument around that episode. He remained, above all, a novelist. He continued writing, experimenting with narrative forms, and producing a body of work whose summit is Antagonía, that extraordinary exploration of consciousness and of the very act of writing, which occupies a privileged place in contemporary Spanish literature.
Perhaps that is precisely why his role in that rupture deserves to be remembered today. He was not a professional activist or a permanent polemicist. He was a writer who understood that there comes a moment when silence ceases to be a form of prudence and becomes a form of complicity.
Today, more than half a century after the Padilla Affair, it is difficult to imagine the impact of those letters. They did not change the fate of the Cuban Revolution. Nor did they prevent the consolidation of the cultural apparatus that for decades punished dissent. But they did transform something equally important: they brought innocence to an end. After 1971, it was no longer possible to claim that no one knew. The spell had been broken. And Luis Goytisolo, together with his brother Juan and so many others, helped break it.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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In a Havana battered by power outages lasting more than 24 hours, offering a chilled drink has become a commercial oasis.
Store signs used to advertise “special offers,” “combos,” or “new arrivals.” Now, simply writing “ice cold” is enough to attract customers. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya, Havana, July 17, 2026 – By mid-morning, the stretch of Ayestarán where the Choco Alexo pastry shop is located looks like an island in the middle of the desert. While most businesses in the neighborhood have kept their refrigerators turned off after more than 24 hours without electricity, a handwritten sign hangs above the entrance with a message that would have seemed unnecessary just a few years ago: “Assorted beverages, ice cold.”
It does not advertise a sale or a discount. It promises something far scarcer.
In Cuba, where endless blackouts have become the norm, a cold drink has become an everyday luxury. What was once an insignificant detail—a beer just taken out of the refrigerator, a soft drink with condensation covering the bottle, or a glass of water with ice—is now reason enough to stop in front of a store and ask whether anything cold is still available.
Buying a package of chicken quarters means feeling the plastic wrapping in several places to check whether the meat is still firm or has already begun to thaw, releasing the sticky liquid that eventually soaks the bag and your hands. The same happens with hot dogs, hamburgers, and ground meat, not to mention ice cream. continue reading
Owners calculate every minute their refrigerators can run so they do not drain their batteries or run out of fuel for their generators
In many privately owned cafés, coffee is still served hot because it only takes a gas stove to prepare it, but ordering a soft drink that is not at room temperature has become almost an act of optimism. Owners carefully calculate every minute their refrigerators can operate so they do not exhaust their batteries or generator fuel. Others have simply given up offering products that need to be kept cold.
The shortages have even changed the language of advertising. Store signs used to promote “special offers,” “combos,” or “new arrivals.” Now, simply writing “ice cold” is enough to draw customers. What is extraordinary is no longer the product itself, but the temperature at which it has managed to stay.
The energy crisis has literally made everyday life hotter.
In another neighborhood, far from Ayestarán Street, a group of boys had just finished a game of street soccer under the blazing sun. Sweaty, with their shirts clinging to their bodies and their knees covered in dust, one of the children shouted loudly enough for the whole block to hear: “I want a little cup of water with ice!” He was not asking for an imported soft drink, a malt beverage, or an energy drink. Just water. Water with ice. He said it with such heartbreaking longing that several people looked up from their front porches.
No one answered. Everyone knew that such a modest wish could be just as difficult to fulfill as any other luxury.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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Residents of Zaza del Medio raised the money to restore communications to the town during the blackouts.
The blackouts kept the residents of Zaza del Medio, in Taguasco, Sancti Spíritus, cut off from communication almost all the time. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, July 18, 2026 – Faced with the lack of internet access, a group of residents raised $10,300 and 26,000 Cuban pesos to purchase solar panels and the rest of the photovoltaic kit needed to power the local radio base station of the state-owned telecommunications company Etecsa in the town of Zaza del Medio, in the municipality of Taguasco, Sancti Spíritus. The blackouts left residents cut off from communication almost all the time, as electricity returned for only a couple of hours between outages that could last more than a day.
According to residents, the initiative had its critics, who questioned why the residents themselves had to finance a state-owned company known for its abusive prices, poor service quality, and role in the government’s control of the internet. Even so, they raised the money to restore connectivity, above all so they could communicate with family members living abroad.
Installation of solar panels at Etecsa’s mobile radio base station in Zaza del Medio. / Radio Sancti Spíritus
The official press, however, in reporting on the installation of the photovoltaic system at the town’s radio base station, avoids explaining that the initiative originated with the residents themselves. The most it acknowledges is that “through a fundraising campaign carried out through different channels, all the financial support needed to obtain the solar panels was collected,” according to Luis Orlando Gómez Castro, president of the People’s Council, in statements to Radio Sancti Spíritus.
The official also admitted that much of the funding came from relatives living abroad: “We want to recognize those who, even from abroad, with Cuban blood still running through their veins, contributed the financial continue reading
support that was needed to restore communications in Zaza del Medio.”
“We want to recognize those who, even from abroad, with Cuban blood still running through their veins, contributed the financial support that was needed to restore communications in Zaza del Medio”
The state-run outlet acknowledges that the local government did not have the budget to finance “such a costly investment,” and while it highlights “the importance of public participation in securing the necessary funding,” it omits explaining where the initiative originated and how much money was contributed by the customers of a company that will continue charging them rates far above international standards for one of the worst internet services in the world.
Etecsa, Cuba’s only telecommunications operator, maintains a monopoly over telephone and internet services on the Island and is controlled by the military conglomerate Gaesa. The company has been the target of constant criticism for the poor quality of its services, its high prices, and its role in censorship and content filtering, as it is subordinated to the regime’s priorities rather than the needs of its customers. Numerous independent media websites and organizations critical of the Government remain blocked on its network, and users in Cuba can access them only through VPNs.
During periods of heightened political tension, the company has carried out Government orders to restrict internet access and block communications, as occurred during the massive protests of July 11, 2021, as well as through the selective blocking of the telephone lines of activists and opposition members.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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COLLABORATE WITH OUR WORK: The 14ymedio team is committed to practicing serious journalism that reflects Cuba’s reality in all its depth. Thank you for joining us on this long journey. We invite you to continue supporting us by becoming a member of 14ymedio now. Together we can continue transforming journalism in Cuba.
The CubanAmerican Voice, Julio M. Shiling, Jul 17, 2026 / In a landmark address before representatives from more than 70 countries at the U.S. State Department’s Ministerial Conference on the Resurgence of Political Terrorism on July 16, 2026, Secretary of State Marco Rubio delivered a clarion call. This marks a decisive shift in American foreign and domestic policy. The United States, Rubio declared, is formally committing to combat far-left extremist movements that have long endangered Western civilization and the American republic itself. For too long, terrorist and violent activities rooted in ideological extremism have received a troubling pass, shielded by sympathetic narratives in media, academia, and elite institutions. That era of indulgence is ending.
Rubio’s speech was both diagnostic and prescriptive. He emphasized that Marxist-inspired groups are not fringe actors operating in isolation but components of a sophisticated, well-coordinated international network dedicated to advancing variants of socialism and undermining democratic societies. Central to this network, Rubio noted—reminding his audience pointedly more than once—is the communist regime in Cuba. For decades, Havana has served as a hub for radical left-wing terrorism, recruiting, training, and backing Marxist and Third-Worldist movements across the hemisphere and beyond. Its “sprawling intelligence and ideological network” helped build the far left in the United States and remains inextricably linked to far-left groups and movements within and beyond the West.
This announcement represents a welcome structural offensive by America against communism’s ongoing war on the West. In many respects, it revives a policy approach that proved largely successful during the Cold War. From the outset of that existential struggle, the United States recognized the subversive threat posed by Soviet and allied forces. Castro’s Cuba stood at the forefront of this assault, exporting revolution through terrorist training camps that prepared continue reading
tens of thousands of Marxist guerrillas. Groups like the FARC, ELN, Tupamaros, Montoneros, Italy’s Red Brigades, and Germany’s Red Army Faction embodied the violent edge of this ideology. The West confronted these threats with resolve, intelligence cooperation, and ideological clarity.
Tragically, that vigilance waned with the fall of the USSR. A wave of triumphalism led to the mistaken belief that history had ended and that economic liberalization would inevitably produce democracy everywhere. The West, particularly under policies encouraging China’s integration into global markets, bet that market mechanisms would tame communism. That wager failed spectacularly. The Chinese Communist Party adapted, retaining totalitarian control while exploiting global trade. Meanwhile, Marxism reinvented itself through cultural and ideological channels rather than purely economic ones.
Intellectual architects like Antonio Gramsci and the Frankfurt School provided the blueprints. Gramsci’s concept of cultural hegemony urged revolutionaries to capture institutions—education, media, arts, and civil society—rather than seizing state power through confrontation alone. The Frankfurt School’s critical theory dissected Western society as inherently oppressive, laying groundwork for postmodern critiques that eroded confidence in objective truth, tradition, and national identity. These ideas flourished in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, finding expression in identity politics revolutionaries who rebranded themselves as antifascists, radical environmentalists, anticapitalists, and globalists. In some cases, these currents have even blended with strains of Islamic jihadism, creating hybrid threats that exploit grievances under the banner of “liberation.”
The result has been a sustained incursion into the cultural and political fabric of the West. What began as academic theory manifested in street-level violence, institutional capture, and policies that prioritize division over cohesion. Antifa networks, operating transnationally with encrypted coordination and shared propaganda, exemplify the modern face of this challenge. Rubio highlighted rising far-left violence in Europe, including a more than 40% increase in Germany and the dominance of extreme-left actors in Greek radical incidents. In the U.S., designations of violent far-left groups as Foreign Terrorist Organizations, alongside new sanctions on Cuban entities like the Ministry of the Revolutionary Armed Forces (MINFAR), the Cuban Institute of Friendship with the Peoples (ICAP), and others, signal concrete action.
This 21st-century policy reset arrives at a propitious moment. The Trump administration appears poised to advance regime change efforts in Cuba. Addressing this longstanding source of regional instability and ideological export is crucial. By targeting the financial and operational lifelines of these networks—through sanctions, intelligence sharing, law enforcement workshops (with the next co-hosted by Germany), and Rewards for Justice programs—the U.S. is rebuilding the infrastructure of victory.
Critics may decry this as partisan overreach or an exaggerated threat. Yet history and evidence tell a different story. From Shining Path’s atrocities in Peru to the Red Brigades’ executions and contemporary Antifa-linked disruptions, far-left extremism has consistently cloaked resentment and destruction in the language of justice and equality. Rubio captured it powerfully: it is “a poisonous resentment… an overwhelming need to tear down what greater men have built.” Far-left actors despise the West precisely because of its greatness—its prosperity, freedoms, and achievements.
America’s re-adoption of an assertive stance against these forces is not merely defensive; it is a reaffirmation of civilizational confidence. By forging coalitions across Europe, Latin America, and Asia, even amid skepticism from some allies accustomed to downplaying the threat, the U.S. is leading as it did in the Cold War. The battle is ideological as much as operational. It demands clarity about the incompatibility of Marxist-derived frameworks with individual liberty, rule of law, and human flourishing.
As Secretary Rubio’s address underscores, the United States will no longer tolerate radical Marxist regimes and their proxies exporting subversion. This offensive posture, linking historical lessons to present dangers, offers hope that the West can reclaim the initiative. The stakes could not be higher: the preservation of the civilization that has delivered unprecedented liberty and progress against ideologies that have repeatedly delivered tyranny and ruin. In confronting this networked challenge head-on, America signals that it stands ready once more to defend the principles that define it.
The transportation crisis and blackouts turn the trip home into another shift of endurance for healthcare workers in Matanzas
The bus designated to transport healthcare workers to different municipalities in the province should have already picked up the staff from the Maternity, Pediatric, and Faustino Pérez hospitals. However, no one knows when it will arrive.
14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, July 18, 2026 / At 10:30 in the morning, the sun is already beating down on the Versalles neighborhood, and the shade of a leafy tree becomes the busiest waiting room in the Public Health system in Matanzas. There, on a concrete wall, doctors, nurses, and technicians rest with the same posture as someone who has been awake far too long. Some have taken off their shoes to relieve swollen feet after 24 hours on shift. Others hold their mobile phones, hoping for news about a bus that should have left a while ago and which, once again, is nowhere to be seen.
The white coats are still on, but they are no longer a symbol of medical authority – only of exhaustion.
The bus meant to carry healthcare workers to different municipalities in the province should already have picked up staff from the Materno, Pediátrico, and Faustino Pérez hospitals. Yet no one knows when it will arrive. The scene repeats so often that few are surprised anymore. Only the level of accumulated exhaustion changes. continue reading
The delay is “a mess” that happens practically every week, one the authorities seem to have grown accustomed to ignoring
Maricela, a nurse with 31 years of experience, watches the clock with a mixture of resignation and indignation. She says the delay is “a mess” that happens practically every week, one the authorities seem to have grown accustomed to ignoring.
“Given how critical the transportation situation is, this is the only way to manage it for those of us who depend on a salary. I’m about to request a transfer to the Jovellanos Polyclinic, because with this uncertainty over whether the bus will come or not, it’s impossible to work,” she tells 14ymedio. The hours without sleep are still visible on her face.
Around her, the conversations all turn on the same subject. They are not talking about diagnoses or patients, but about missed schedules, endless routes, and broken promises. One nurse absent-mindedly checks a backpack full of belongings; another fans herself with a yellow folder while calculating how long it will take her to get home.
“Those of us who work at the Materno never know what time in the morning we’ll get out of here. It’s at our own risk,” Maricela sums up. For many, the problem doesn’t end once the bus finally shows up. A doctor who makes the trip to Limonar twice a week says the journey has become a real ordeal.
“This very day, if the bus doesn’t come soon, I’ll have to go to the taxi stand at the terminal. It’s 2,000 pesos to Jagüey Grande, an amount I can’t afford to pay more than once on my salary.” / 14ymedio
“At the hospitals themselves, there are already people off the street who, without any shame, ride comfortably seated, while those of us who are supposed to be the ones benefiting from the service have to stand, packed in like sardines,” he says. According to him, the vehicle makes stops all along the way to pick up private passengers who pay the drivers directly.
“It picks up anyone it comes across, with backpacks, sacks, or goods. Their business is pocketing the money, without caring that the contract between Public Health and Ómnibus Transmetro was meant to meet our needs, not create more problems,” he complains.
When he manages to get on, he knows he will probably spend much of the trip standing by the door, surrounded by bags and bundles that other passengers are carrying to sell in rural communities.
Breakdowns, fuel shortages, and blackouts affect the operation of state transportation and end up extending the workday well beyond official hours. After a night attending to births, pediatric emergencies, or critical patients, many healthcare workers must spend several additional hours simply getting home, or be prepared to pay a private driver to take them.
Not even Elena, a well-known nurse who has completed three international missions, can hide the discouragement and indignation the transportation crisis causes her.
“After a shift full of hardships, we don’t even have safe transportation to get back to our towns. That’s the bare minimum the Government should guarantee.”
“I’m going to do everything I can to keep just one shift a month whose departure isn’t on a Monday or a Friday, because those are the most difficult days to get transportation,” she says. She explains that many professionals from outlying municipalities no longer want to work at the provincial hospitals precisely because of the uncertainty of getting home.
“After a shift full of hardships, we don’t even have safe transportation to get back to our towns. That’s the bare minimum the Government should guarantee.”
Her motivation, she admits, has been wearing thin from all the waiting.
More than once she has thought about requesting leave and looking for any other job that would let her earn more money and live with less frustration.
She always carries cash in her purse in case she has to resort to private transportation. “Thanks to my husband, who’s self-employed,” she clarifies.
“This very day, if the bus doesn’t come soon, I’ll have to go to the taxi stand at the terminal. It’s 2,000 pesos to Jagüey Grande, an amount I can’t afford to pay more than once on my salary. If I do, how do I make it to the end of the month?”
The question hangs unanswered beneath the trees of Versalles. No one responds. Perhaps because everyone already knows the answer. It is the same one that has led so many doctors and nurses to hang up their white coats for good, worn out not only by the shortages inside the hospitals, but also by the endless wait, week after week, for a bus that almost never arrives on time.
Translated by GH.
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What Raúl Guillermo Rodríguez Castro fails to understand is something extremely basic and obvious: to desire ‘the people’ to live as he does, if taken seriously, requires the disappearance of the system that sustains his luxuries
Raúl Castro and his grandson, Raúl Guillermo Rodríguez, ‘El Cangrejo’, in a photo from 2009. / EFE / Alejandro Ernesto
14ymedio, Montreal, Karel J. Leyva, July 18, 2026 / Raúl Guillermo Rodríguez Castro (known as El Cangrejo, ‘The Crab’), Raúl Castro’s grandson, dressed in Hugo Boss, Hermès, and a steel Rolex, recently told USA Today that it pains him that the Cuban people cannot live as he does.
Criticism of his hypocrisy was not long in coming: a “revolutionary” who not only lives in luxury but flaunts it openly while the people live in the most abject misery; a mere bodyguard with communication difficulties who feels he is helping to improve the situation of a country destroyed and plunged into darkness by his most admired figures, whose initials he has engraved on his gold medallion.
Beyond the heir’s tasteless joke, beyond the moral lapse, beyond the deep revulsion his cynicism provoked, his “pain” reveals a paradox that perhaps not even he manages to grasp.
El Cangrejo does not live well despite Cuba living badly: he lives well because Cuba lives badly
El Cangrejo does not live well despite Cuba living badly: he lives well because Cuba lives badly. The misery, hunger, and darkness of the Cuban people, their physical and moral deterioration, are the very condition that makes his opulence possible. The same apparatus that lets him carry classified reports in a Ferragamo briefcase while plundering the country is the one that produces the shortages El Cangrejo claims to lament. continue reading
Beyond his absurd assumption (that it pains him that the people don’t wear Rolexes and thousand-dollar sneakers, as if that were the people’s aspiration, as if that were the standard by which to judge a nation’s wellbeing, as if his lifestyle were the measure of all things, as Protagoras would say), what El Cangrejo fails to understand is something extremely basic and obvious: wanting the people to live as he does, taken seriously, requires the disappearance of the system that sustains his luxuries and those of the entire elite that controls the country.
His “it pains me” is, in fact, a phrase with no possible referent: it points to no world that Rodríguez Castro could coherently want. And yet he said it, in an interview he gave while explicitly positioning himself as a spokesman representing the interests of the Cuban nation.
More than a confession of double standards, El Cangrejo was trying on the suit of a presentable successor before the only audience that today decides whether Cuba has a democratic transition or merely an inheritance. The message, translated, is: here is someone you can negotiate with, without touching the apparatus of oppression.
The people do not need to live like El Cangrejo. They need the system of privilege that sustains his luxuries to disappear, while millions of Cubans barely manage to survive amid scarcity
One could argue that he is at least more honest than some of his relatives, who are always in olive-green uniform, always denying their privilege, while he displays his to the entire world without the slightest remorse. But his stance is either a public-relations technique or simply the carelessness of someone accustomed to feeling and appearing superior to the rest of Cubans for the sole fact of having been born into the family that has oppressed them for decades.
If it truly pains him that the people don’t live as he does, is he willing to stop living as he lives? If his pain is genuine, would he sell his belongings to ease the hunger of the elderly, to buy electric generators? Would he sell his thick gold chain, his sneakers from the luxury French house Hermès, or his Ferragamo briefcase to relieve, even slightly, that pain? Would he also give up everything he would never dare show in front of a camera?
But there is a prior question, and a more fundamental one — the only one that determines whether his pain is sincere: would he renounce the apparatus itself (the conglomerate, the command, the place he occupies by blood rather than merit), would he accept ceasing to be the “presentable candidate,” would he give up the succession he so covets, and above all, would he disappear from the sight of Cubans forever?
The people do not need to live like El Cangrejo. They need the system of privilege that sustains his luxuries to disappear, while millions of Cubans barely manage to survive amid scarcity. But if that system disappeared, so too would the conditions that produced El Cangrejo. And that, precisely, is what El Cangrejo could never want.
Translated by GH
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The banging of pots was played by workers, government employees, and even officials who live in this area of El Vedado.
“Last night this neighborhood changed,” says Yoani Sánchez, after yesterday’s protest near the 14ymedio newsroom. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Generation Y, Havana, July 17, 2026 / On Thursday night, after 28 hours of blackout and a brief period with electricity, the people in my neighborhood reached a state of collective rage unlike anything I had never before experienced. The power was restored for barely 90 minutes, by which time the refrigerators were completely thawed, the water in the rooftop tank had run dry, and the heat had turned our bodies into dirty, sweaty surfaces.
Then, after that brief burst of light, the power went out again, and the banging of pots and pans erupted in indignation. I had never heard in this area of Nuevo Vedado, in Havana, banging pots and pans with such force, frequency, and duration. I couldn’t film the chorus of anguish spreading everywhere because my phone hadn’t managed to revive from the coma it was left in by the previous power outage. But it is enough for me now to recall that melody of social anger etched in my memory. I even heard the clanging from balconies, windows, and terraces where I had never before heard anything dissenting, not even a curse word thrown into the wind.
I even heard the clanging from balconies, windows and terraces where I had never before heard anything dissenting, not even a swear word thrown into the wind
The potbanging came from the workers, government employees, and even civil servants who live in this part of the Cuban capital. In a neighborhood of high-rise buildings, constructed under the microbrigade system and with apartments often awarded based on work and political merit, we find everyone from bureaucrats who share their workday with ministers and secretaries of the Communist Party to retirees who once helped build the repressive apparatus that subjugates us all. They, too, banged their pots and pans. Hidden in the darkness, without going out into the street, without even looking out from their balconies, they banged the pot hard, pounding on the pan as if it were the wall of the Electric Union or the facade of the Ministry of Energy and Mines.
Last night this neighborhood changed. Will my neighbors take to the streets to protest like they do in continue reading
San Miguel del Padrón, Regla, Guanabacoa, Luyanó, or Cayo Hueso? I don’t rule it out, although the geographical proximity to the Council of State, the Ministry of the Armed Forces, and the Ministry of the Interior might be a reason why many are still hesitant to take that step, for fear of a more violent repression than in other parts of Havana. But last night my neighborhood resonated, vibrated, and shouted through a long, furious banging of pots and pans, with moments of a symphonic anxiety that helped to dispel some of the fear.
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The artist and political prisoner has been missing for ten days after being removed from Guanajay prison by State Security.
Otero Alcántara was arrested on July 11, 2021, while trying to join the anti-government protests that erupted that day. / Facebook
14ymedio, Madrid, July 17, 2026 — The U.S. has approved the parole requested by Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara so that he may enter the country. A U.S. Embassy official in Havana confirmed the news to 14ymedio after the artist’s relatives and friends, who say his whereabouts have been unknown for the past ten days, announced it Friday through social media accounts in his name.
“If the Cuban regime allows it, Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara will travel to Miami on Saturday and enter the United States under humanitarian parole or Significant Public Benefit parole,” the consular source said.
The social media post from the artist’s relatives and friends states that the approval came “after several weeks of constant efforts.” “Since early 2023, Luis accepted exile as the only way to continue his work as an artist and activist after enduring all the repression directed against him,” the post says. His friends also reaffirm that his release is being granted only in exchange for exile: “State Security has left him no other option for being released from prison.”
A U.S. official, speaking anonymously to 14ymedio, said that by keeping Otero Alcántara confined after he had completed his sentence while awaiting parole to travel to the United States, the Havana regime intended to “put the ball in Washington’s court and make it appear that the artist remained imprisoned because of delays by the Trump administration.”
On July 7, Otero Alcántara’s relatives reported that the artist had been removed from the maximum-security prison in Guanajay, Artemisa Province, where he was serving a sentence with only two days remaining. Days later, the artist managed to contact continue reading
“If the Cuban regime allows it, Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara will travel to Miami on Saturday and enter the U.S. under humanitarian parole or Significant Public Benefit parole”
According to the activist and art historian’s own social media account, Otero Alcántara called her “from a State Security cellphone, an unknown number, and the call was on speakerphone.” When she asked how he was doing, the artist replied “fine,” Ramos said, “in the tone we use to indicate that we’re as well as possible under the circumstances.” He was unable to answer the second question she asked: “Where are you?”
The activist explained at the time that the parole application for Otero Alcántara to travel to the U.S. was still “being processed” and that the artist would remain “in that unknown location until it is resolved.”
Today’s post recalls: “Luis should have been free since July 9, when his unjust five-year sentence expired, yet he remains in the hands of the political police at a location we cannot identify.” It adds, suggesting the possibility of an imminent trip to the United States: “As soon as we have any clear information about his possible departure from Cuba, we will share it through this channel.”
Otero Alcántara was arrested on 11 July 2021, while attempting to join the anti-government protests that broke out that day in numerous Cuban cities. In 2022, he was sentenced to five years in prison on charges including insulting national symbols, contempt, and public disorder. His case, along with that of rapper Maykel Castillo Osorbo, became one of the most prominent symbols of the repression that followed the 11 July protests.
Three days after Otero Alcántara’s release from prison, Castillo himself was transferred to Guanajay prison from Kilo 8 prison in Pinar del Río, where he had been serving his own nine-year sentence.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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Dozens of protests over power outages continue across Havana.
The Government’s response remains repression: Cubalex warns of the enforced disappearance of six protesters in Guantánamo.
Stones and trash were left blocking the road after the protest on Avenida México, popularly known as Cristina, in El Cerro, Havana. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Juan Diego Rodríguez, Havana, July 17, 2026 – Power outages and protests now go hand in hand in Cuba. This Friday, on México Avenue in Havana’s Cerro municipality, 14ymedio came across the remnants of the previous night’s protest: large rocks, piles of garbage, and even a chair remained in the roadway, forcing vehicles to maneuver around them. As shown in videos shared on social media, dozens of residents took to the streets banging pots and pans and blocked the road after spending 24 hours without electricity. Several hours later, the barricades had still not been removed. When contacted by this newspaper, one resident declined to comment out of fear of police surveillance.
The sector chief went to speak with the residents, who were blocking the street with a sign demanding “Water and electricity.” / 14ymedio
This newspaper also documented another protest in Luyanó this Friday, in broad daylight. Residents who had gone more than 24 hours without electricity blocked several side streets with empty buckets, branches, and metal objects. Their main demand was summed up on a sign: “Water and Electricity.” According to one resident, the lack of water was what angered the neighborhood the most. “I’m about ready to go to the Malecón and drink salt water,” he said. The neighborhood police officer arrived to speak with residents, and shortly afterward electricity service was restored. Authorities promised to send a water tanker, but by midday it had still not arrived. Residents decided to keep one street blocked until it did.
Residents will keep the side street blocked until the water tanker arrives. / 14ymedio
On Thursday night, from the 14ymedio newsroom, loud pot-banging protests could be heard coming from several apartment buildings in Nuevo Vedado, near Boyeros and Conill. Residents had been without electricity for more than 28 hours. Service was restored for only about an hour and a half, by which time refrigerators had already thawed and the building’s water supply had been completely exhausted. When the power went out again, the largest and longest pot-banging protest the neighborhood could remember began, something unusual given that it’s inhabited mostly by government officials and state employees.
In some parts of the capital, blackouts now exceed 72 hours. The lack of electricity has also worsened the water crisis: residents in numerous municipalities report going weeks without water. The outages occur one after another, and the few hours of electricity available are barely enough continue reading
to recharge batteries, much less pump water.
The sector chief went to speak with the residents, who were blocking the street with a sign demanding “Water and electricity.” / 14ymedio
Along with the energy crisis, reports of illegal payments within the electric utility have also begun to surface. “Corruption in the National Electric Union is running rampant,” a Luyanó resident told this newspaper. “Not long ago, the neighbors here had to pay for workers to come repair a breakdown. We had been without electricity for almost 24 hours and had to pay them to do what is supposed to be their job.” According to residents, the practice of paying to be connected to privileged circuits in order to reduce blackout times has also become widespread.
Residents of San Miguel del Padrón voiced similar complaints during Thursday’s protests, which also took place in broad daylight. Neighbors alleged that some utility workers prioritize restoring power to certain circuits in exchange for money. “People pay them to come restore the electricity, and that’s why other neighborhoods are left without stable power,” one resident told Martí Noticias. “The workers know how desperate we are because of the energy crisis, and they’re charging money.”
Similarly, videos shared from Calabazar, in the Boyeros municipality, show several residents detaining two people who, according to witnesses, were electric utility employees negotiating to prioritize certain circuits in exchange for payment. According to accounts from local residents, the two individuals were later arrested by police. Other videos show dozens of neighborhood residents gathered in the streets chanting slogans demanding the restoration of electricity service and denouncing the lack of transparency in the operations of the state utility.
Barricades remained on the avenue after Thursday’s protests in El Cerro. / 14ymedio
Guanabacoa was another of the capital’s major flashpoints. There, residents marched through the streets in groups after three days without electricity and one month without water, chanting, “Water and electricity!” According to accounts shared on social media, residents from different neighborhoods joined the same protest. Those posts say that government officials arrived to try to calm the demonstrators and promised that service would be restored.
In San Isidro, Old Havana, videos show residents shouting directly against the Government and Miguel Díaz-Canel, denouncing that they have gone four days without electricity or water. One woman, shouting with a trembling voice, urged the “tough guys” of the neighborhood to bravely stand up to the police.
Engineer and private entrepreneur Yulieta Hernández Díaz also wrote on her social media profile this Friday that residents in her Playa neighborhood held a pot-banging protest that lasted an hour and only ended when electricity returned. According to her account, residents had accumulated nearly 100 hours without power, regained electricity for just two hours, and then endured another 31 hours in darkness. “I think we’ve gone 13 days without water and counting. I’ve already lost track; my neighbors tell me it’s been 16 days. We’ve even collected rainwater,” she wrote.
The Government’s response to the protests continues to be repression. Activist Gisselle Ordoñez, known on social media as Zea Gisselle, wrote a detailed account this Friday explaining that she had been summoned and questioned by State Security agents at a police station in Havana, where she was interrogated about her participation in protests and her social media posts.
“I have no President, no Homeland, and no country; what I have is the neighborhood where I was born, the place where I came into the world and where I grew up, an island, a piece of land”
According to her account, the agents accused her of “exercising leadership” during protests in her neighborhood, documenting police operations, and sharing content on social media that they claimed served opposition interests. The activist denied belonging to any organization or receiving funding but clearly expressed her position: “I have no President, no Homeland, and no country; what I have is the neighborhood where I was born, the place where I came into the world and where I grew up, an island, a piece of land.”
According to the activist, the interview ended with her signing a formal warning. In it, Gisselle wrote that she pledged “not to change her way of thinking” while trying not to commit offenses established in the Penal Code.
Pressure against those who take part in protests has also spread to other provinces. This Friday, the independent organization Cubalex reported the enforced disappearance of at least six people detained after a protest over power outages that took place Tuesday night in the Loma del Chivo neighborhood of Guantánamo. According to the organization, State Security and police officers filmed the protesters and later arrested them.
So far, two of the detainees have been identified: Yeansg Carlos Pérez George and Cristian Jesús Bergondo George. Cubalex says their relatives do not know the whereabouts of any of the six detainees and have remained outside the State Security Department’s Operations Unit in Guantánamo, where they report having been mistreated by authorities.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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COLLABORATE WITH OUR WORK: The 14ymedio team is committed to practicing serious journalism that reflects Cuba’s reality in all its depth. Thank you for joining us on this long journey. We invite you to continue supporting us by becoming a member of 14ymedio now. Together we can continue transforming journalism in Cuba.
‘The Economist’ tells the story of the ordeal facing Cuban doctors through the tale of two siblings who chose different paths: staying on the mission and leaving it
In May, the medical mission in Mexico was warned that doctors could be brought back to Cuba given the current situation. / Government of Michoacán
14ymedio, Madrid, July 17, 2026 / In the midst of the US State Department’s offensive against Cuba’s medical cooperation programs, the prestigious British weekly The Economist published an extensive report this Friday that portrays, through the cases – very distant in time from one another – of two siblings in the medical field, the human and economic fracture that this lucrative labor-export mechanism has bequeathed to the island.
The journalist, a correspondent based in Mexico, spent six months talking with about thirty Cuban doctors who have taken part in the government’s programs, at least half of whom have deserted, while the rest remain in Cuba. The story that anchors the report is that of two siblings, both doctors, who recount very different experiences, though both reflect a shared outlook: choosing a path that would lift them out of poverty, only to end up wanting to flee.
Jorge, 40, is the one who doesn’t manage to leave. He has been working since the start of this year – when he received a call from a Health Ministry official proposing it to him – in a rural enclave in Mexico. He was given only hours to pack his bags, but he didn’t hesitate. He would earn 1,700 dollars in the country, compared with the 14 dollars he receives in Cuba, where he lives with his partner, Bryan, in a province identified only as “far from Havana.” It wasn’t the first time he had done this either, but on this occasion what weighed most heavily was his exhaustion with the blackouts, with living off remittances and gifts from patients: tamales and beans. He recalls from the previous time, in Mexico City during the pandemic, how he would look at stores packed with everything. “I ate so much I felt sick,” the article states.
He now works in a remote region rife with violence, but one that lets him send all kinds of things back to Cuba: a small motorbike, a hard drive full of pirated content, and even solar panels. “I would rather be in Cuba with my family,” he says, admitting that what drives him isn’t humanitarianism but continue reading
money. He believes that is what motivates everyone, though the journalist notes that among those interviewed she found a bit of everything.
He recalls from the previous time, in Mexico City during the pandemic, how he would look at stores packed with everything. “I ate so much I felt sick,” the article states.
Jorge likes the work in Mexico. Patients appreciate him, he lives simply – he doesn’t pay rent – and he has hot water and internet, things that are impossible in Cuba. He also works fewer than 35 hours a week, since workers head home early before violence takes over the streets. Even so, he keeps turning over in his mind whether or not it’s in his interest to desert. He lives with the nagging doubt of whether, by staying calm and compliant, he is helping to prop up the regime.
In Cuba, the journalist meets Bryan, Jorge’s partner. He laughs when asked whether the doctors are slaves, as the US claims, or humanitarian heroes, as the regime portrays them. “Both things are true. Calling them ‘slaves’ is an exaggeration, especially in a country marked by slavery. Doctors should earn more, but it’s also fair that they contribute,” he says. He adds: “I’m the son of a poor Black woman who cleaned floors to make a living, but thanks to the Revolution I was able to become an engineer. I never paid a cent.”
Jorge, meanwhile, has begun to consider the idea of fleeing. But he is afraid. He recounts the insults hurled, in the brigade’s WhatsApp group, at one of the doctors who abandoned a mission. “We have a rat,” the group leader wrote, asking everyone to send in their opinions. “They wrote horrible things about him. They called him a deserter, a traitor, scum,” he says.
He has that experience within his own household. His half-sister Elisa is the other central figure in this story. She was 24 in 2013, when she joined the medical program to go to Venezuela. At that time there were about 32,000 health workers in the Barrio Adentro mission. She left immediately. “I didn’t have time to grasp how dangerous it was. I felt it was the only option,” she says. Her faith in the Revolution was far greater than Jorge’s, who was raised by their grandparents. She was influenced by her father, a state worker firmly committed to Fidelismo.
Elisa internalized “the idea that she was going to help the Venezuelan people” and left full of enthusiasm, but that wasn’t the only reason. She earned 200 dollars a month, ten times what she made in Cuba, though calm was in short supply where she was posted. Her schedule was 24 hours on duty and 24 hours off, she treated between 60 and 100 patients, and on one occasion a member of a local gang dragged in his unconscious leader, who was bleeding from a gunshot wound. “Save him or we’ll kill you,” he told her.
When she returned to Cuba on vacation she felt euphoric. She bought her mother an air conditioner, a washing machine, and a television, she had a debit card and a 30% discount on household goods purchases. She even put up a Christmas tree, her first “counterrevolutionary” act. But by the end of her vacation, back in Venezuela, she started to think. “I left Cuba with my mind caged. In Venezuela, I began to wake up,” she says.
What bothered her most was how well the Venezuelan elite lived while the population went hungry. There were also other conditions, such as the housing – the back room of a police station shared with 14 other Cubans – the curfew until six in the evening, being unable to leave the state, being unable to have relationships with local people and, of course, being unable to voice a different opinion. When her superiors discovered that a member of the group wanted to desert, they interrogated everyone. “It’s a horrible feeling. You start to distrust everyone, even your own countrymen.”
When her superiors discovered that a member of the group wanted to desert, they interrogated everyone. “It’s a horrible feeling. You start to distrust everyone, even your own countrymen.”
Elisa decided to take advantage of the Cuban Medical Professional Parole program, which was in effect between 2006 and 2016 and under which the United States allowed doctors who abandoned the island’s official missions to emigrate legally. More than 8,000 physicians did so. She left through Colombia via a dangerous route, guided by coyotes. In Cuba, her mother soon received visits from State Security, daily for three weeks. They withdrew 4,800 dollars from her bank account. Her friends insulted her on social media, her best friend stopped speaking to her, and, worst of all, so did her brother Jorge, upset because it derailed his own career.
Elisa now lives in Miami, where she works as a medical insurance broker – she chose not to have her degree validated – is married to an Iraq War veteran, and has two children. The whole family are ardent supporters of Donald Trump, even though she admits she fears for her current immigration status. She also doesn’t want to go to Cuba, afraid she would be identified as a doctor and not be allowed to leave again, amid a dire shortage of doctors and medical resources. The Economist also visited hospitals on the island and saw the collapse, amid total darkness.
In Mexico, Jorge admits he envied his sister – “She was so young when she left…” – and regrets the day he showed his contempt for her, though he still resents that she didn’t think of the rest of the family. In May, mission chiefs in Mexico warned the doctors in a video conference that they had to be ready in case they needed to return to Cuba “at any moment” because the island was “at war.” Jorge panicked and, although his colleagues assured him this was routine, he remains afraid. “I don’t want to go back,” he admits. His doubts are so great that, on one hand, he has consulted a lawyer about the possibility of staying in Mexico, but at the same time he has put his name on the list for the next mission, in 2027.
Teresa, Jorge and Elisa’s mother, lives in Cuba. The correspondent visited her there during her time on the island. The house still has the appliances bought with money from the Venezuelan mission, but the roof was torn off in a hurricane and is now covered with a tarp. She sums up her children’s story simply. “They’re good kids, but my daughter is braver than my son.”
Translated by GH.
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The limit will now be set by individual institutions, the Gaceta says, but that is already what was happening in practice
Branch of Banco Metropolitano at Belascoaín and Zanja, in Central Havana. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Havana, July 17, 2026 / As of Monday, the maximum limit of 5,000 pesos for cash payments and withdrawals, established in Cuba two years ago, will no longer be in effect. This is set out in the special edition of the Official Gazettepublished this Friday, in a rule issued by the Central Bank of Cuba (BCC, by its Spanish acronym) containing just two provisions.
The first repeals two articles of Resolution 111, which, on August 2, 2023, amid the country’s cash shortage, imposed a 5,000-peso ceiling on bank transactions and required that, once that amount was exceeded in a single operation, cards or electronic payment channels had to be used instead.
In its statement of grounds, the BCC refers to “the economic and social changes approved” – a clear reference to the 176 measures announced with the aim of liberalizing the economy – and to the “goal of making more efficient use of available cash,” for which reason “it is necessary to amend the aforementioned Resolution 111 by suspending the established limit, until conditions in the country allow for a more flexible scheme.”
As for the second provision, the Central Bank determines that the “petty cash fund for minor payments” will be agreed upon “between the commercial banks and the economic actor
This fund, it continues, will be “managed by mutual agreement between the commercial banks and state enterprises; higher-level business management organizations; budgeted entities; non-agricultural cooperatives; agricultural cooperatives; agricultural producers; individual farmers; commercial fishermen; micro, small, and medium-sized enterprises; local development projects; self-employed workers; artists and continue reading
creators; foreign investment arrangements and associative forms created under the Law on Associations, as well as natural and legal persons if they carry out legally authorized commercial and service activities, described as covered parties under Articles 2 and 3 of the aforementioned Resolution 111.”
As for the second provision, the Central Bank determines that the “petty cash fund for minor payments” will be agreed upon “between the commercial banks and the economic actor, taking into account criteria such as: income received into the checking account for tax purposes; cash deposits made; volume and proportion of transactions carried out through Online Payment; use of the extra cash-window service; nature of the economic activity; conditions in the local area; and cash availability at those banks.”
The new resolution – which takes effect three days after its publication in the Gaceta, that is, on July 20 – in practice simply puts on paper what was already happening: depending on how much cash was available, each branch set its own, different limit. “It was almost never 5,000 pesos,” says a retiree from Nuevo Vedado, in Havana. “The last time I went to a bank, the one at Marino and Conill, they were only giving out 1,000 pesos per person, in 20-peso bills.”
In Luyanó, a neighbor says, a few weeks ago they were only handing out 500 pesos per person. And from Sancti Spíritus people report an even more dramatic figure: a 200-peso limit per person. “That doesn’t even buy a soda,” the affected resident laments.
And that is only if you’re lucky – that is, if the bank branch has a minimum amount on hand, or if it even has power, which is even rarer these days. About thirty people were crowded into the Banco Metropolitano branch at Belascoaín and Zanja, in Central Havana, this very Friday, due to the lack of electricity. “You mean there’s not going to be a limit on withdrawals anymore?” exclaimed an elderly woman upon being told of the new rule. “Not that it makes any difference to me, since there’s no cash anyway.”
Translated by GH.
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COLLABORATE WITH OUR WORK: The 14ymedio team is committed to practicing serious journalism that reflects Cuba’s reality in all its depth. Thank you for joining us on this long journey. We invite you to continue supporting us by becoming a member of 14ymedio now. Together we can continue transforming journalism in Cuba.
Elías recounts how, at age 16, he came to wave the national flag at the corner of Toyo, standing atop an overturned police patrol car
Elías Rizo León visiting Madrid to mark the fifth anniversary of ’11J’ (11 July 2021). / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Luz Escobar, Madrid, July 16, 2026 / Elías Rizo León was just 16 years old on 11 July 2021, but his image -holding the Cuban flag as he stood atop a police patrol car that the crowd had overturned, amid the protest at the corner of Toyo, on Calzada de 10 de Octubre – became one of the most iconic images of that historic day of protest. Five years after that social outburst, and following a clandestine flight that took him through Russia, Serbia, and Greece, Elías now lives in Alicante, awaiting a ruling on his application for international protection. Visiting Madrid to mark the fifth anniversary of July 11, we spoke with him about memory, exile, forced maturity, and the certainty that Cuba’s path to freedom is one with no turning back.
Question: Let’s go back to the day before the outburst. Who were you then? How old were you, what were you doing, and what interested you on July 10?
Answer: The day before July 11 I was just an ordinary kid. I was enjoying my adolescence with my friends, listening to music, going out, meeting up with my friends. I had just turned 16; I had celebrated my birthday only a month and four days earlier, on June 7.
Q: By then you already had a phone with internet access. How did that shape the way you saw the reality of the island?
A: Yes, I already had social media. I got my information through independent Cuban outlets, and once the internet started reaching us, I began researching on my own on websites. I started watching underground documentaries about the erased chapters of Cuban history: the executions, the life of Pedro Luis Boitel, or that of Rolando Cubela, who had been a commander in the Rebel Army. Going through that history, you realized the Revolution had betrayed itself from within. There were Cubans who were patriots, nationalists, and anti-communists, but they were all lumped together under the 26th of July Movement, which in the end turned out to be a lie. That access to information opened my eyes.
Q: Were you aware of the digital campaign that preceded the outburst, the movement under the hashtag #SOSCuba?
A: Yes, I saw it all. The international community and artists began making that hashtag go viral on Twitter to denounce the Covid-19 crisis, the humanitarian collapse, and the repression. What came up most was the collapse of the healthcare system. Seeing popular artists join in was one of the biggest drivers, because ordinary Cubans felt backed up. We thought: “Damn, if these artists are saying it, it’s because continue reading
something big is happening here.”
Seeing popular artists join in was one of the biggest drivers, because ordinary Cubans felt backed up
Q: On July 11 you decide to go out into the street. What was your initial plan, and where did you end up protesting?
A: My mother showed me the first news of what was happening and I decided to go out. My initial goal was to head to the Malecón or the Plaza de la Revolución, because that’s where the core of Castroist power sits: the Central Committee, the Politburo, the Council of State and of Ministers, and the Ministries of the Interior and of Communications. But when I went out and reached Calzada de 10 de Octubre, I ran into the people in the street and decided to stay there. Thank goodness I did, because I believe Toyo was, of all Cuba, the place where the hand-to-hand confrontation and the repression were most intense. The Cuban people there were genuinely rising up and reclaiming their rights. If I had gone to the Plaza or the Malecón, where there were far more agents, I would have been captured immediately.
Q: In the images from that day you’re seen holding a Cuban flag. Where did that flag come from, and what did it mean to carry it?
A: At protests all over the world, citizens come out with their flag. In Cuba, people manipulated by propaganda believe the flag is a
symbol of the Communist Party, an icon of obedience to the dictatorship, but that’s not so: the flag belongs to all Cubans. I was one of the few civilian protesters carrying one. When the Party cadres showed up to stage the counter-demonstration, they also brought out Cuban flags. That made me furious. But there was a fundamental difference between us: ours had the blood of the wounded protesters on it, and theirs was clean.
But there was a fundamental difference between us: ours had the blood of the wounded protesters on it, and theirs was clean
I had that flag at home, hanging in my room. I had taken it two years earlier from my secondary school. I took advantage of a day when the staff left the entrance desk unattended and made off with it; it was the one used for the morning assembly and the national anthem. When my mother showed me the protests on 11 July, I took it down and hid it under my T-shirt. She was terribly afraid something would happen to me and asked me not to “mark myself,” but in the end I took it with me anyway.
Q: Do you still have that flag?
A: It’s in Cuba. What is no longer preserved is the blood; my mother washed it out of fear and for safety’s sake. I wanted it to keep the blood from that moment so that, in a free Cuba, it could be donated to a museum. Even so, it retains immense historical value.
Q: Many of those who were out in the streets describe a feeling of euphoria, as if the regime had already fallen. Did you feel the same way?
A: We all felt exactly the same thing. We thought it was going to end that very day. Before the outburst, people tended to be very guarded out of fear of informants and State Security; there was a lot of self-censorship. But that day I saw every sector of the population — children, women, men, the elderly — united, demanding one single thing: freedom and an end to the tyranny. It was a single voice, one single voice reverberating. That is true unity, the kind that is born around freedom, not the obedience the Party demands.
It was a single voice, one single voice reverberating. That is true unity, the kind that is born around freedom, not the obedience the Party demands
Q: At what point did you realize you were in real danger?
A: I realized it when we were behind a column on Calzada de 10 de Octubre, near the intersection with Vía Blanca. There the dictatorship set up a repressive cordon with officers from the National Special Brigade (the “black wasps”) and the National Police. They marched against us, set the dogs on us, and started shooting. They fired into the air, but also toward the front. State Security confiscated almost everyone’s phones and deleted the videos of the shooting, but they used the fragments that had already been uploaded online, along with facial recognition, to identify us. Even though I was wearing a cap, a mask, and glasses, they recognized me. Three days later they were already at my house.
Q: What was it like returning home that day, and how did your family manage the fear?
A: On the way back, the people fleeing with me were already scattering. I got home and was completely honest with my parents; I told them everything I had done. I have always believed that with your parents you have to be upfront, because if you stay silent out of fear and the dictatorship comes for you, they won’t have the information they need to respond to the repression.
Things turned very ugly just a few hours after the demonstration. Miguel Díaz-Canel gave the “combat order” at four in the afternoon. We held our ground in the street until six or seven at night, but the protest dissolved as massive repressive forces began to surround us. They were coordinated by radio and walkie-talkies; we only had word of mouth, and they had already cut off our internet. From that first moment, I knew I was marked.
Elías Rizo León holding the Cuban flag as he stands atop a police patrol car that the crowd had overturned during the July 11 protests.
Q: Your mother played a crucial role in deceiving State Security and buying you time to escape. How did she manage it?
A: When the authorities came to my house to question her, I was already hiding somewhere else. They asked her where I was and she told them I had gone outside Havana, to Santiago de Cuba. They wanted her to give them the exact address so they could summon me there, but my mother stood firm and told them: “I’m not giving you any address, because he is 16 years old, he’s a minor, and he needs the legal representation of his guardian.”
She used that same apparent trust the repressive apparatus tries to instill in you to win the agents over. She let them believe she would cooperate and would turn me in as soon as I came back, but it was all a strategy to buy time. On the very day I was supposedly due to report to the police station, I was boarding a plane bound for Russia.
If it hadn’t been for the coordination of the people who supported us inside and outside the island, my story today would be very different
Q: You spent more than a month in hiding inside Cuba before flying out. How do you remember that period?
A: It was a month or so in hiding, living like a fugitive. I even shaved my head to change my appearance; in my passport photo I’m completely bald. At that time I didn’t even have a passport, only my mother did. We had to pay for and rush paperwork at the last minute, in the middle of the bureaucratic paralysis caused by Covid. We had tremendous luck. If it hadn’t been for the coordination of the people who supported us inside and outside the island, my story today would be very different: I would be serving a sentence of somewhere between 15 and 30 years in prison, like so many other young people my age. I would have lost my life in prison for the simple act of asking for freedom.
Q: Your initial destination was Russia, where Cubans didn’t need a visa in 2021. What was the journey like from there to Spain?
A: We flew out of Varadero airport on August 25, 2021. We spent five months in Russia (with his mother, father, and sister). I kept close track of the news and warned my mother: “Russia is going to invade Ukraine, we need to leave before the war breaks out.” She worked her contacts, and in January 2022 we managed to leave for Serbia. From Serbia we crossed into Greece, where we spent two months. Since Greece is part of the Schengen area, we were able to take a direct flight to Madrid. At the airport they just checked our photo to confirm our identity. Once in Madrid, we went to an office and formally applied for political asylum, presenting press clippings, photos, and evidence of the persecution. That’s how we obtained the red asylum card for all four members of the family.
Q: What has it been like interacting with young people your age here in Spain? Do they understand what you went through?
A: Spanish young people my age are stunned when I tell them the reality of Cuba. Many of them, even if they’re not left-wing, have a romanticized or distorted view of the island; they think there are bad things, but that “at least you can get by.” When I explain what happened to me, they put themselves in my shoes, show empathy, and understand the real context, because I’m not speaking to them from ideological theory but from the human and moral suffering of what it means to struggle and be persecuted. Thanks to that, a lot of young people who didn’t used to care about politics now stand up for our cause.
The day I left my country I cried a great deal. I wanted to build my life there; my wish was to live and die in a free Cuba
Q: It’s often said that the great aspiration of Cuban youth today is to emigrate. Was that your goal before July 11?
A: No, I never wanted to leave Cuba. The day I left my country I cried a great deal. I wanted to build my life there; my wish was to live and die in a free Cuba. Forced exile is a banishment that tears away part of your soul, your culture, and your experiences. Activists and rebellious young people are put in a noose by the dictatorship, forcing us out. I know I had to leave to protect my life, but it wasn’t by choice. That’s why exile isn’t surrender, it’s transformation. Out here, you study, you educate yourself, you acquire tools for political communication, and you prepare yourself with greater strength for when the moment comes to return and rebuild the country.
Q: How do you assess the protests and pot-banging demonstrations, smaller but constant, that are happening on the island today?
A: That never used to happen. The dictatorship has driven the people to such an extreme and precarious situation that people already know protesting is the only way to at least get the power turned on or the water restored. Even so, we can’t limit ourselves to demanding basic resources. Those pot-banging protests are sparks of legitimate resistance. The dictatorship is very clever and manipulates language; it asks the people to “endure” the misery, but true political resistance is the kind used to confront and overthrow a totalitarian regime, like the French or Italian Resistance in the Second World War. The ultimate goal has to be the end of the Communist Party’s monopoly on power.
Q: What role does the exile community play at this stage of the struggle?
A: The best way to support Cubans inside the country is to expose the repression to multilateral bodies, to speak with human rights rapporteurs, and to demand the release of political prisoners through diplomatic channels. We also have to fight the media battle. The dictatorship accuses us of waging “cognitive warfare” or “information warfare,” but all we do is expose the truth, backed by evidence, against the Castro-regime propaganda that they fund throughout Europe and Latin America to silence the opposition.
Q: If the situation changes and Cuba becomes a democracy, under what conditions would you return?
A: I would go back, but only if the enforcers, the henchmen, and the senior communist officials are tried before the courts as they should be. I am not going back to negotiate with the enemy. We need to set up truth commissions and preserve official reports and evidence so that no one can hide behind the classic “I was just following orders.” A person of principle cannot be coerced into repressing their own people. The dictatorship must be surrounded and dismantled with the truth, since they survive on lies -because no legend can withstand the truth.
Translated by GH.
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COLLABORATE WITH OUR WORK: The 14ymedio team is committed to practicing serious journalism that reflects Cuba’s reality in all its depth. Thank you for joining us on this long journey. We invite you to continue supporting us by becoming a member of 14ymedio now. Together we can continue transforming journalism in Cuba.
In a country where the state no longer provides electricity, water, medicine, or bread, each family tries to survive however they can.
A boy has taken a small flock of goats out to graze among the grass that has sprouted on the ruins of a collapsed building. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, July 16, 2026 / Today I couldn’t take the trash down the stairs. It wasn’t any heavier than usual, but my body sent me a telegram, brief and forceful: “Don’t even try. Every cell is carrying too many days of accumulated fatigue.” So I left the bag by the door and went out with only my purse, umbrella, water bottle, mosquito repellent, and the garbage bags. I also threw my cell phone in my bag, increasingly useless in a country where connecting to the internet or making a call can take longer than delivering the message in person.
As I descend the building’s more than 120 steps, the greetings become increasingly brief, almost whispers. Few dare to say “good morning” or “good afternoon” anymore, because there’s very little goodness left. Conversations revolve around the accumulated hours without electricity, the unbearable heat that barely allowed anyone to sleep a wink the night before, or the problems with the water supply. One neighbor sums up the collective mood with a phrase that has become a greeting: “Here, surviving.” He says it as if we were all participating in one of those reality TV shows where you have to cross raging rivers, hunt for food, and find a cave to spend the night.
Few dare to say “good morning” or “good afternoon” anymore, because there’s very little good left.
I advance along Tulipán Street toward Ayestarán. The bakeries at the rationed market, which I pass every morning, remain closed. A woman warns another not to waste her time going back to the dark counter because today, she assures her, “they won’t even have enough to tie up the goats.” Coincidentally, just a few meters ahead, a young man has taken a small flock of goats out to graze among the grass that has sprouted on the ruins of a collapsed building. In this Cuban version of televised survival, that urban shepherd would have a good chance of becoming a finalist.
While some wage their daily battle in the streets and on the sidewalks, others have decided to barricade themselves indoors. Since no one places much hope in thermoelectricplants nor in the national energy system anymore, everyone is trying to construct their own island of stability. Those who can afford it buy a rechargeable battery; those with more resources install a generator or solar panels.
A friend, fed up with paying up to 640 pesos for a bag of bread at some private businesses, ended up buying a bread maker. To the initial investment, she’s had to add the price of flour, yeast, and the uncertainty of power outages. “I’ve used it three times,” she tells me. “Only once did it manage to complete the entire cycle.” The other two times, the power went out before baking, and the machine was left guarding a sour, inedible mass.
A friend, tired of paying up to 640 pesos for a bag of bread at some private businesses, ended up buying a bread maker. / 14ymedio
Another acquaintance has covered his roof with solar panels and designed an electrical system that allows him to power his entire house with a simple switch. “Now I run my electricity from the Indio, the Amarillo, the one whose boiler never breaks down or trips due to a fault,” he jokes, mocking the endless stream of explanations offered by the National Electric Union to justify each blackout. “I actually carried out an energy revolution,” he boasts, showing off the inverters and batteries that have restored something resembling normality to his life.
Even leisure activities continue to be organized independently. Faced with constant television signal interruptions, several young people in the neighborhood have improvised a small room in the basement of their building to watch the World Cup. An EcoFlow, a television, and some planks converted into benches are all that’s needed to gather the fans. From an apartment on one of the upper floors, a cable runs down to one of those satellite dishes that remain illegal, even though they’ve become almost as commonplace in Cuba as the daily insults hurled at Miguel Díaz-Canel.
After fracturing her collarbone, a former university classmate decided to prepare for a possible hospitalization. What she keeps in several boxes isn’t exactly a first-aid kit. There are urinary catheters, IV catheters, saline solutions, sutures, syringes, disposable gloves, and other supplies that any hospital should provide. “If I’m hospitalized again, I prefer to arrive with everything,” she explains. She, too, is trying to protect herself against shortages.
Every story seems different, but they all follow the same logic: to create, within the confines of the home, a small, functional country.
Every story seems different, but they all follow the same logic: to create, within the confines of their home, a small, functional country. A home bakery. A private electric company. An improvised cinema. A private medical supply store. As if each family were building a tiny republic where it was still possible to address what the State had ceased to provide.
But no house can become a country. There’s no bakery capable of replacing a network of bakeries baking every morning, nor enough solar panels to replace a national electricity grid, nor a dedicated medical supply depot to feed a healthcare system in ruins. Nor can we fit between four walls the hospitals, transport, communications, and much less the pieces of the nation we gather from the outside world each day.
When I got home, the trash bag was still by the door. Tomorrow, if my body allows it, I will try to take it down. In this competition, nobody wins a prize. The goal is simply to make it to the next episode alive.
COLLABORATE WITH OUR WORK: The 14ymedio team is committed to practicing serious journalism that reflects Cuba’s reality in all its depth. Thank you for joining us on this long journey. We invite you to continue supporting us by becoming a member of 14ymedio now. Together we can continue transforming journalism in Cuba.
14ymedio, Madrid, July 19, 2026 — Just an hour after landing in Miami, USA, Cuban artist and former political prisoner Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara transformed his first act of freedom into a “spiritual and political” performance. At the Hermitage of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, before dozens of members of the exile community, journalists, and activists, he led an event to collectively reconstruct a broken image of Our Lady of Charity that he had brought from Cuba and presented as a metaphor for the “wounds” of the island, the exile community, and himself.
