In Cuba, the anti-anxiety pill is now sold retail, like a cigarette or a candy
To the shortness of “peanuts” and the cadence of “coconut candy” there has now arrived a harsher music: “alprazolam, alprazolam.” / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Havana, Natalia López Moya, May 28, 2026 — In the cardboard box, placed on the floor of a doorway as if it were an improvised counter, the blister packs of pills form an unsettling geometry. There are white, pink, green, and yellow tablets, lined up with pharmacy-like neatness, but without lab coats, prescriptions, or questions. Off to one side, a woman smokes while sitting on a low stool, her body slumped forward and her eyes fixed on the movement of passersby. She does not seem to be hiding. Nor does she need to. In today’s Cuba, even controlled medications have learned to sell themselves in broad daylight.
Alprazolam, internationally known as Xanax, a powerful short-acting benzodiazepine used to treat anxiety and panic attacks, has become part of the black-market landscape. It no longer appears only in discreet WhatsApp messages or whispered offers between acquaintances. Now it is hawked on the street alongside loose cigarettes, candy, lighters, and packages of adulterated coffee. What is also new is the retail sale: there is no need to buy the whole blister pack. For 50, 60, or 80 pesos, depending on the place and the buyer’s urgency, anyone can take a pill for the road.
“Take your little pill for the road, don’t leave without this, this helps you live”
The phenomenon is repeating itself in increasingly visible places. On Tulipán Street in Nuevo Vedado; beneath the arcades of Carlos III and Reina in Central Havana; or at the Tejas intersection in Cerro, where everything seems to converge — electric tricycles, street cries, exhaustion, and survival — drug sellers have found continue reading
their clientele. There are no signs or display cases, but neither is there much concealment. One only has to approach, look at the merchandise spread out over cardboard or inside an open shopping bag, and ask. Sometimes not even that: the sales pitch comes to meet you.
Chanting the name of a four-syllable product is not easy. To the brevity of “peanuts” and the cadence of “coconut candy” there has now arrived a rougher music: “alprazolam, alprazolam.” Or, with more salesmanship: “Take your alprazolam, one or two, however many you want.” Near Boyeros, a woman added an even more brutally honest hook: “Take your little pill for the road, don’t leave without this, this helps you live.” The phrase, spoken as casually as someone offering cold water or a croquette sandwich, sums up the country’s emotional state better than any statistic could.
Self-medication, which was always a risk, has become a refuge
There are no published official studies measuring how widespread the consumption of alprazolam bought through clandestine networks has become. Nor are many figures needed to notice that the drug has settled into the routine of a population worn down by blackouts, inflation, uncertainty, and the lack of specialized mental health care. Self-medication, which was always a risk, has become a refuge. A chemical sanctuary, cheap per dose but costly in its consequences.
Cuba has reached a point where, on the way to work or school, someone can buy a cigarette or a pill to endure the day with equal ease. And the gravest thing is not that alprazolam is being sold on the street, but that hearing the street cry advertising it no longer surprises anyone.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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Wasteful use of lighting and air conditioning in the new store opened in Havana by a state partnership associated with a Slovak company
Entrance to the ‘Hecho en Cuba’ [Made in Cuba] store, in Havana’s Cerro municipality. / 14ymedio14ymedio, Havana, Natalia López Moya/Juan Diego Rodríguez, May 28, 2026 – Brightly lit and with the air conditioning running at maximum power, the new Hecho en Cuba 100% store seems oblivious to the severe energy crisis the country is experiencing. The business, located in the Trimagen complex, the film division of the Revolutionary Armed Forces (FAR), in Havana’s Plaza municipality, was inaugurated this Tuesday with great ostentation.
The company’s social media accounts documented the event. The firm appearing to be in charge is Proxcor S.A., a joint venture formed by the Slovak company Proxenta and the Cuban Corporación Alimentaria S.A. (Coralsa), dedicated to the commercialization of food and beverages through companies such as Los Portales, Bucanero, Bravo, Papas & Company, and Stella. The post quickly filled with comments, mainly asking about prices and payment methods, but the replies were unclear.
“If everything is made in Cuba, they should sell according to the salaries we earn in Cuba and of course in national currency,” one user remarked with barely concealed irony. “Thank you for your comment, we will take it into account,” was the response.
The facilities are excellent, but they offer little product variety. / 14ymedio
It is worth remembering that Proxenta arrived in Cuba in 2019 through the creation of Proxcor S.A. in Villa Clara, with a 25-year contract for confectionery production, and later expanded its partnership with the Cuban State by founding Baracocoa S.A. for the processing and commercialization of local cocoa. The decision dealt a blow to local farmers who had temporarily been allowed to enter the cocoa business, a highly profitable sector in foreign currency.
During a visit to the new store on Ayestarán Street this Wednesday, 14ymedio confirmed what commenters feared: the store only sells in dollars, and payment can be made in cash, with foreign cards, or with the Clásica prepaid card. The place has the unmistakable atmosphere of state power, with some employees dressed in Cimex uniforms.
Beers for sale at Hecho en Cuba 100%. / 14ymedio
The facilities are excellent, yes, but they offer few products. “Of course, if they sell what is produced in Cuba, this little bit is all there is,” observed one customer passing shelves packed with the same product. Bravo cold cuts, Cristal and Bucanero beers, Findy mayonnaise, Ciego Montero soft drinks, flour from Unión Molinera de Cuba… The brands, indeed, were not lying: merchandise from the battered national production system.
A woman visiting the establishment for the first time was especially surprised by the variety of Cuban coffee brands, including Cubita, Arriero, and Regil, something unimaginable for a long time in other stores. The selection was completed with small black cups bearing the word Cubita. “It’s been years and years since I saw this for sale!”
The prices, meanwhile, are not for everyone. A tube of ham for 13 dollars or a one-kilogram package of coffee for 16 dollars gives an idea of the costs; an arepa mix costs 4 dollars, and six small cups cost 20.
At the Bazar A&M branch on Infanta and Carlos III in Central Havana, employees were sitting idle. The sign reads: There is no milk”/ 14ymedio
One cashier slowly and carefully wrapped a customer’s purchase. The customer told her: “Don’t take too long, in case the power goes out and I can’t pay with my card,” but the worker reassured her enthusiastically: “The power almost never goes out here, and when it does, they restore it very quickly.” “Do you have a generator?” the shopper asked. “No, but they almost never cut our electricity.”
In contrast to this privileged situation, the commercial heart of Central Havana looked gloomy that same day. At the Bazar A&M branch on Infanta and Carlos III, employees were sitting idle. “No milk,” “no milk,” “no milk,” repeated three signs discouraging customers from asking for anything.
Fress location on Carlos III, without electricity and therefore without cold soft drinks. / 14ymedio
At Plaza de Carlos III, the power went out in the middle of the morning rush of customers. The darkened stores, without cold drinks to relieve the heat of these days, were buzzing with complaints from the workers themselves. One single topic monopolized conversations: the sleepless night caused by the blackout. “We only had twenty minutes of electricity at two in the morning, and we had to start pumping water from the cistern to the tank,” one cashier told a colleague.
At Fress, the first private business established in Plaza de Carlos III, employees said they did not know if they would be able to continue working today. “There’s no fuel for the shopping center’s generator. They say the power went out last night and they couldn’t turn it on again.”
The blackouts, at least in principle, do not distinguish between state and private businesses: they affect everyone equally. Except for Proxcor’s new store.
Plaza de Carlos III in blackout since yesterday. / 14ymedio
Translated by Regina Anavy
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The first beneficiaries are regime militants who lived in overcrowded conditions for many years
View of the two new container homes in Nuevo Vedado, Havana / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya, Havana, May 8, 2026 – It is no surprise that Alina Hinojosa Cardona and Nerelys Madan Catalá are celebrating their new homes, containers converted into housing for “young working women, single mothers and heads of household,” as the official press presented them last Saturday.
The first was living, that report stated, in a “small room in poor and overcrowded conditions,” and the second, in a shelter “for more than 13 years.”
Compared to that, the two little container-houses, located in a good area of Nuevo Vedado, in Havana, near 26th Street and just a few meters from Tulipán Avenue, with a rear patio-garden that includes a wash area, a solar panel on the roof, and brand-new finishes and paint, are chalets.
In Granma’s report on the handover ceremony, carried out by none other than the ruler, Miguel Díaz-Canel, it was not specified whether the homes were privately owned or not.
In Granma’s report on the handover ceremony, carried out by none other than the ruler, Miguel Díaz-Canel, it was not specified whether the homes were privately owned or not, but 14ymedio confirmed, through one of the two brand-new tenants, that they belong to the State. The women and their families have use of them under usufruct rights.
A neighbor from the area informed this newspaper that the new houses were installed in 12 days and assures that “inside they are very beautiful.” They were delivered, she says, with several appliances, “a blender and everything.” In one of the windows, behind completely transparent glass, they placed a colorful scarf as a curtain, to avoid being seen from the outside.
No air-conditioning mechanism can be seen, however, and the iron of the containers has not been covered with any material, as happens in other parts of the world where this type of structure is converted into habitable spaces. They do, however, have a solar panel on top of the roof.
According to Granma, their construction used “leftovers from tourism investment projects and technologies developed by the Revolutionary Armed Forces.” The base consisted of maritime containers in which “parts and components for photovoltaic solar panel parks sent by the People’s Republic of China” had been imported.
No air-conditioning mechanism can be seen, and the iron of the containers has not been covered with any material. / 14ymedio
There are families living in the homes: Madan Catalá with her mother and child in one, and in the other, Hinojosa Cardona with two children. The official press presents the stories of both women while trying to offer a heroic narrative, but in reality revealing the impossibility of having decent housing even in the case of salaried employees and obedient servants of the Party. Alina, says Granma, leads the base committee of the Young Communist League at her workplace, “an organization she joined at 14 continue reading
years of age,” and Nerelys, besides being a secretary, “served as delegate for her district for two terms starting at age 22.”
Their stories, however, mainly aim to praise the virtues of recycling maritime containers into modular homes and to validate “the viability of this alternative to respond in the short term to the growing housing needs of our people,” which they insist “is an international practice.” Granma’s lengthy chronicle reported that the delivered homes “are proof that these can be built tastefully and aesthetically, integrated into communities and the urban environment, contributing to beautification, while also helping the neighborhood through induced works and serving as encouragement to women, many of them alone and responsible for their families.”
The program, they also claim, “generates enthusiasm,” but according to statements at the same event by Prime Minister Manuel Marrero, “it is not moving at the speed desired; it is being done, but it can be carried out faster.” The authorities indeed mentioned the housing deficit the country has, of more than 800,000 homes, and praised “the potential” represented by maritime containers, a “material that is generally an environmental problem,” as reasons to carry out the initiative.
Faced with this, several specialists have expressed suspicions, questioning above all whether, since they are metal structures—a strong conductor of heat—the insulation is adequate for a climate like Cuba’s. Thus, for example, engineer Yulieta Hernández, who wrote on her social media: “Even with designed passive solutions (real cross ventilation, air chambers, shading), the interior can become uninhabitable. In the colder months the opposite happens: thermal inertia is low and comfort is easily lost. An oven in summer and a freezer in winter.”
Image of one of the usufruct beneficiaries at the ceremony handing over the container homes conducted by Miguel Díaz-Canel. / Granma
The expert stated she was speaking from experience, “after having used several as temporary facilities on construction projects.” In her lengthy post she also questioned numerous elements, such as the quality of the electrical insulation: “the combination of metal structure, humidity, leaks, and improvised wiring can be dangerous if there is no proper grounding, differential protection, and rigorous execution;” the waterproofing: “critical points are visible at first glance,” “sheet metal undulations around the windows,” and “areas prone to leaks;” and the possible weakness of this type of housing against cyclones. “The roof looks like it will fly away with the first strong wind,” she states, and the materials are incompatible, since “metal is a material with high thermal expansion and contraction, so when combined with rigid finishes like ceramic or tiles, problems of adhesion, cracking, and detachment tend to appear.”
Other specialists, however, have spoken in favor, such as Abel Tablada. The architect offered his point of view, he explained, after visiting one of these container homes that form part of a group of 300 planned for installation in the area of the former Toledo sugar mill, opposite the José Antonio Echeverría Technological University of Havana (Cujae).
“We were able to verify that to reduce heat transfer, a second roof with an intermediate ventilation space was designed, and in the walls, the metal was insulated with an air layer and a plywood panel on the inside,” Tablada assures in a Facebook post that quickly filled with comments. In it he also says that “professors from Cujae measured the interior temperatures before the transformation and will return once the home is finished to validate the effectiveness of the thermal insulation measures.”
Regarding ventilation, he explains, “it is achieved through cross ventilation due to the narrowness of the container and the placement of louvered windows in each room”
Regarding ventilation, he explains, “it is achieved through cross ventilation due to the narrowness of the container and the placement of louvered windows in each room.” The home, he describes, “has a porch, a kitchen-dining room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a laundry area with a rear porch,” just like those observed by 14ymedio in Nuevo Vedado.
The architect states that he made several suggestions to improve this type of house, among them “completing the monitoring of interior conditions to determine whether the thermal insulation is sufficient,” “using the double roof to install solar panels so that this community not only becomes energy self-sufficient but can also feed energy into the grid,” and “painting the exterior surfaces light colors” to reduce radiation absorption, “since the eaves do not provide good coverage on the rear façade and the sides.”
His conclusion, in any case, reinforces the official narrative that the reuse of containers was not simply a temporary solution for hurricane victims, as the regime initially presented it, but was also something intended to remain permanently: “For families who have lost everything or for young people beginning adulthood without having been able to inherit anything, obtaining a container home is a considerable improvement in their lives, and this solution, despite any additional improvements it may need, is welcome.”
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.
From driving an almendrón [classic American car in use as a shared taxi] to managing a private fleet, he dreams of a modern bus network in a city trapped between fuel shortages and improvisation.
“The authorities see us as if we were the enemy, even though we are the ones who are keeping this city running.” / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya, Havana, April18, 2026 / The hustle and bustle begins early in Fraternity Park. Under the shade of the trees, a line of jeeps and pickup trucks adapted for passenger transport wait their turn while the drivers chat, check the engine, or lean against the open doors. The Capitol Building looms in the background, imposing, as if watching over this small universe where necessity, ingenuity, and daily survival intersect. In this private taxi stand, where each vehicle represents a story of hard work, Ricardo, a 48-year-old Havana resident, moves with a calm gait. He feels transportation as a vocation that runs in his veins.
Ricardo, a name changed to avoid reprisals, doesn’t wear a uniform or any special insignia. He dresses simply, speaks in a measured tone, and greets each driver by name. His role now is that of manager and supervisor of a small fleet he and his brother have built up over decades of work. However, as soon as he stops in front of one of the vehicles, a green minibus with a capacity for a dozen passengers, his gaze becomes technical, almost professional. He checks the condition of the tires, asks about fuel consumption, and reviews the day’s schedule as if he were inspecting a complex transportation network.
“I was born for this,” he tells 14ymedio, with a brief smile. And he doesn’t seem to be exaggerating.
When the boys were born, I couldn’t afford to continue studying without earning a penny. I had to find money as quickly as possible.
Ricardo studied Transportation Engineering at the José Antonio Echeverría Technological University of Havana, the well-known Cujae, until his fourth year. He didn’t graduate. Life, as it happens to so many young people in Cuba, forced him to take a more urgent path. He married young, had twins, and the need to support his family took precedence over books and classrooms.
“When the boys were born, I couldn’t afford to continue studying without earning a single penny. I had to find money as quickly as possible,” he recalls.
His entry into the world of almendrones — classic American cars operating as shared taxis — was almost a natural progression. His father had worked for the railroad for decades, and at home, trains, routes, and schedules were always a topic of conversation. Even his great-grandfather was involved in managing Havana’s old streetcar system, a family legacy that shaped his childhood. As a boy, while others played ball, he built imaginary cities with toy cars. That passion remains with him: in his living room, continue reading
he maintains a meticulous collection of miniature cars.
“Private transport operators know this city better than the Ministry of Transport.” / 14ymedio
The first vehicle he drove was his father’s old Chevrolet, a car that had already accumulated years and repairs when Ricardo decided to convert it into a shared taxi. Those beginnings, he says, were tough.
“There were days when I went out to work not knowing if I would be able to return home with enough money for food. The car was constantly breaking down and the parts were hard to find. But there was no alternative.”
On the route connecting Fraternity Park with Santiago de las Vegas, he learned to deal with impatient passengers, deteriorating streets, and a public transportation system that was already showing signs of exhaustion. That experience taught him to calculate times, costs, and routes with almost mathematical precision.
Over time they managed to build a small fleet that today includes six electric tricycles and five car-type vehicles, capable of transporting between 10 and 14 passengers each.
His brother, also a driver, joined the business, and together they began to grow slowly. They reinvested part of their profits in repairs, fuel, and the purchase of new vehicles. Over time, they built a small fleet that today includes six electric tricycles and five passenger vans, each capable of carrying between 10 and 14 passengers.
Ricardo no longer lives “glued to the wheel,” as he himself says, but he remains connected to the daily operation of the vehicles. He visits the taxi stand frequently, supervises the drivers, and reviews the day’s income and expenses. His presence, discreet yet constant, reflects a mixture of responsibility and pride.
At Fraternity Park, the flow of passengers never stops. Women with heavy bags, students with backpacks, and workers trying to get to their jobs gather around the vehicles, asking about destinations and fares. The sound of the engines mingles with the murmur of conversations and the metallic slam of closing doors.
Ricardo observes this scene with a critical eye. For him, transportation in Havana is not just a business, but a structural problem that requires technical solutions and political will.
There is no real coordination between the different modes of transport, and this leads to losses of time and resources.
As he explains, the principal obstacles facing passenger transportation in the capital are the lack of fuel, the deterioration of the vehicle fleet, the shortage of spare parts and the absence of efficient route planning.
“The whole system is improvised. There’s no real coordination between the different modes of transport, and that causes a waste of time and resources,” he says. “The authorities see us as if we were the enemy, even though we’re the ones keeping this city moving,” he points out. “They bombard us with fines and inspections, but what they should be doing is working with us, hand in hand.”
He also points out that current regulations limit the growth of the private sector. He considers it essential to create a legal framework that allows for the direct import of vehicles and parts in an expedited manner and “without so much paperwork,” access to financing, and the possibility of establishing stable contracts with the government.
“If we want to improve transportation in Cuba, we have to let those who know how to do it do their jobs,” he argues. “Private transport operators know this city better than the Ministry of Transportation; we’ve designed more efficient and comprehensive routes and connections than the Havana Bus Company.”
“If we want to improve transportation in Cuba, we have to let those who know how to do it do their jobs.”
His incomplete academic training hasn’t prevented him from maintaining a technical approach to the subject. Ricardo has dedicated years to studying route behavior, passenger flow, and operating costs. His notebook contains detailed notes on schedules, distances, and fuel consumption.
His greatest ambition is to run a bus route in Havana. This isn’t just a whim. He has developed a complete project that includes route planning, frequency calculations, and income and expense estimates.
In his mind, the city is divided into high- and low-demand zones, with stations strategically located to facilitate passenger access. He speaks of waiting times, cargo capacity, and preventative maintenance with the confidence of a professional.
“I have all the numbers done. I know roughly how many buses are needed, the municipalities that need to be connected because they are currently isolated, the type of bus that will best meet the needs of the conditions we have here, and something that is not allowed now, which is to turn the buses into rolling advertising options so that businesses can pay to promote their products in these display cases on wheels, which is a way to generate income,” he says.
At Fraternity Park, the flow of passengers never stops. / 14ymedio
His plan includes the use of modern technologies to optimize the service. It proposes the incorporation of electronic payment systems, the creation of rechargeable cards with special discounts for students and senior citizens, mobile applications for route tracking, and hybrid or electric vehicles that reduce fuel consumption.
“Cuba could skip stages if it adopts efficient technologies. There’s no need to repeat the mistakes of other countries,” he points out.
As he speaks, a group of passengers gets into one of the vehicles parked on the sidewalk. A woman in a red dress settles into the back seat, followed by two young men carrying their backpacks. The driver starts the engine and the vehicle slowly merges into traffic.
Ricardo watches the maneuver intently, as if evaluating every detail. His experience allows him to detect flaws and anticipate problems.
Despite the economic difficulties and uncertainty that characterize life on the Island, the entrepreneur insists that his future is in Cuba.
“I’ve never wanted to emigrate, even though almost all my friends are outside the country,” he admits.
He believes the island needs professionals willing to work for the recovery of public services and the development of infrastructure.
For him, transportation is more than a job. It’s a personal mission that combines family tradition, technical expertise, and social commitment. He believes the island needs professionals willing to work toward the restoration of public services and the development of infrastructure.
At Fraternity Park, the line of vehicles continues to grow. The sun illuminates the colorful car bodies and casts long shadows on the pavement. Drivers chat, passengers wait, and the city keeps moving with the precarious energy that characterizes Havana.
Ricardo walks among the cars with a firm step, greeting each worker and checking the details of the service. His presence conveys the feeling of someone who refuses to accept the decline, who believes in the possibility of organizing the chaos and building a more efficient transportation system.
In his mind, the maps and calculations keep turning like invisible gears. There, in that universe of numbers and routes, he envisions the future he imagines for the city: a modern, punctual, and accessible bus network, capable of restoring to Havana the dynamism it once had.
And although that project still belongs to the realm of dreams, Ricardo continues to prepare for the day he can make it a reality.
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This article was produced in collaboration with Cuba Siglo 21 as part of the project “Cuba: Stabilize and Develop.”
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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 silence that now dominates the batey is not only industrial: it is also electrical, economic, and emotional.
The Melanio Hernández sugar mill in Tuinucú, Sancti Spíritus, has been shut down for three weeks. / 14ymedio/Courtesy
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya/Mercedes García, Havana/Tuinucú, April 16, 2025 / The two chimneys of the Tuinucú sugar mill still stand out against the blue sky of the Sancti Spíritus plains, but they no longer emit smoke or announce the start of a new day of grinding. The silence that now reigns in the village is not only industrial: it is also electrical, economic, and emotional. Since the mill stopped grinding sugarcane a few weeks ago, daily life in this town of more than 5,000 inhabitants has changed abruptly, marked by prolonged blackouts and the feeling that the last bastion of the national sugar industry was defeated by the lack of fuel.
The Melanio Hernández sugar mill, as the Tuinucú mill is officially known, was much more than a sugar factory. Its generators produced electricity that supplied the town and contributed to the national grid, an advantage that for years made this village an exception within the province of Sancti Spíritus, even though some facilities had deteriorated over time due to a lack of state investment and the children had been transferred to another school. While in other municipalities the population suffered frequent power outages, in this town the residents became accustomed to a relatively stable supply, sustained by the energy that came from the very heart of the industrial center.
“The family whose sugar mill was taken away were the ones who sent the money to restore the Catholic church, which was in very poor condition.”
That tranquility vanished when the machinery stopped. Since then, residents have had to adapt to blackouts that exceed 12 hours a day, a situation they barely experienced before the closure of the colossus. On nights without electricity, the village is plunged into a darkness reminiscent of the worst moments of the Special Period in the 1990s. continue reading
“What little we had left they’ve taken from us too, because this town is so neglected,” says Eliécer, 79, who was born in the batey. The old man surveys the sugar mill facilities with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. For decades he worked in activities related to the harvest and saw how the sugar industry sustained the economic and social life of the community.
Eliécer recalls that the residents of Tuinucú have always been proud of their history. Even though many have emigrated to other provinces or abroad, they maintain ties with the town and contribute to preserving its traditions. “The family whose sugar mill was taken away sent the money to restore the Catholic church, which was in very poor condition,” he explains. With a firm voice, he adds that “the first shortwave radio transmission test in Cuba was conducted from this very spot, in 1912.”
The restored church still stands as a symbol of that past. Just a few meters away, however, the contrast is stark. The old school in the batey (sugar workers’ village), which for years educated several generations of children, has become an abandoned structure, with peeling walls and partially collapsed roofs. Vegetation is reclaiming the surrounding area, and the building seems to be hanging on by sheer inertia.
The school in Tuinucú “was seized, taken from its owners, and years later it was left in ruins.” / 14ymedio/Courtesy
For Nieves, an elderly woman also born in Tuinucú, this decline sums up the town’s fate. She sadly recalls the years when the school was full of students and the batey buzzed with activity at the sugar mill. “It was seized, taken from its owners, and years later it was left in ruins,” she says. Her voice breaks as she describes the loss of so many “beautiful things” that were part of community life. “The recreation center for the Tuinucú workers is also destroyed.”
The shutdown of the sugar mill comes at a critical time for the Cuban sugar industry. This year, there will be little doubt that the harvest has once again been the worst in history, a title the sector has held since 2021. The Melanio Hernández mill was the only one operating on the island, and even so, it has had to cease operations due to the energy crisis.
Last year, the mill met its production plan , reaching approximately 21,000 tons of sugar, even exceeding the forecast by 1,800 tons. This figure made it a source of pride for the authorities and an example of resilience within a declining sector. For the current harvest, the goal was more modest: around 14,000 tons. Milling began a month late but progressed at an acceptable pace until a fuel shortage forced the machinery to shut down.
According to sugar company executives, the mill had produced approximately 40% of its planned sugar output—around 5,600 tons—when the decision was made to close the tipper truck’s opening . The measure was presented as temporary, but uncertainty surrounding fuel supplies and the future of the industry raises concerns that the shutdown could last longer than anticipated.
“We felt privileged because here we defended ourselves with the power the mill gave us.”
Meanwhile, workers in the sector have had to find alternative ways to stay employed. In other provinces, sugar companies have redirected their efforts toward charcoal production and agricultural work, amidst the collapse of the harvest. In Tuinucú, however, these initiatives have not yet managed to compensate for the economic loss caused by the shutdown of the sugar mill.
“We felt privileged because while in other parts of Sancti Spíritus people only have makeshift electricity , here we managed with the power from the sugar mill,” Nieves explains. She acknowledges that the change has been abrupt and that the residents weren’t prepared to deal with prolonged blackouts. “We weren’t even ready for everything that came after; people have had to rush out and buy batteries, generators, and electric lamps.”
In the streets of the batey, uncertainty mingles with resignation. The houses remain silent during the hottest hours, and small businesses adjust their schedules to take advantage of the moments when the electricity returns. Daily life now revolves around waiting, as if each neighbor awaits the signal that the chimneys will once again begin to smoke.
But that signal hasn’t arrived. In Tuinucú, the shutdown of the sugar mill has not only turned off the lights in the workers’ village, but has also ignited concerns that this is the prelude to a permanent closure.
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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.
At the service station on Boyeros and Santa Catalina, the business is no longer filling tanks but supplying cooking stoves
The site designed to fuel engines has become a supplier of embers. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya, Havana, April 14, 2026 / At the intersection of Rancho Boyeros and Santa Catalina Avenues in Havana, where for decades the smell of gasoline dictated the rhythm of city traffic, now another aroma dominates, more rustic and persistent: that of charcoal. This Tuesday, the service station was deserted, with no cars in line and no attendants pumping fuel. The pumps remained motionless, like museum pieces, while on one side of the building, the one facing Rancho Boyeros Avenue, the real business of the day was taking place: the sale of sacks of charcoal at 1,700 pesos each.
The scene is a true portrait of the crisis. The site, designed to fuel engines, has become a supplier of charcoal. Where once the metallic click of hoses being inserted into tanks was heard, now the rough scraping of sacks as they are dragged along the ground echoes. A man carries one over his shoulder with the ease of someone transporting an essential item. It’s easy to understand: in a city where blackouts last for hours, charcoal has gone from being an emergency resource to an everyday commodity.
Charcoal for sale in Havana at 2,500 pesos per sack. / 14ymedio
The gas station, empty of both fuel and customers, seems to have adapted to the new times with pragmatism. The supply of gasoline and diesel is sporadic, subject to uncertain logistics that force drivers to join long virtual queues and pay in foreign currency for each liter. Many no longer even try to get fuel; they’ve left their cars parked indefinitely or use them only on exceptional occasions. Meanwhile, the need to cook cannot wait, and the electric stove becomes a useless ornament when the power goes out. That’s where charcoal comes in, transformed into a domestic lifeline.
From the sidewalk, the transformation of the gas station seems almost symbolic. The structure remains intact: high ceilings, aligned pumps, and the yellow and red paint on the walls, visible from afar. But the star product no longer flows through pipes; instead, it’s sold in black sacks stacked against a wall. Less fossil fuel to power vehicles and more solid fuels to sustain daily life.
A woman approaches, asks the price, and after a quick mental calculation, pays the 1,700 pesos without haggling. In other parts of Havana, it already costs 2,500. “This will last me for several days,” she remarks, before placing the sack on an electric tricycle. Her gesture reveals the resignation with which many Havana residents have incorporated charcoal into their daily routine. Because cooking with firewood, a practice that seemed relegated to rural areas or bygone eras, has once again taken root on balconies and rooftops throughout the city.
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The imposing building on Belascoaín Street has become a garbage dump and a public toilet.
The nearby bus stop has also been cordoned off with warning tape, and passersby are quickening their pace for fear of another collapse. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya, Havana, 15 February 2026 — The dust covers Belascoaín Street in Central Havana. Several strips of yellow tape block the section in front of the former Higher Institute of Industrial Design (ISDi) building. The umpteenth collapse of part of its structure had left a trail of rubble that prevents vehicles from passing and endangers pedestrians who venture to cross the blocked area. On Saturday, the image of this stretch of avenue without vehicles was a stark reminder of a city gripped by a fuel crisis and the deterioration of its infrastructure.
In the nearby line to enter a restaurant on the corner of Reina Street, the conversation was all about the loud crash heard last week when a piece of the building located between Maloja and Enrique Barnet collapsed. Even now, fragments of its walls and columns are scattered around the area. The nearby bus stop has also been cordoned off with warning tape, and pedestrians walking along the sidewalk in front of the windowless, doorless structure quicken their pace for fear of another collapse.
The building, which originally served as a military hotel and officers’ club for the Spanish Army, was also used as the headquarters of the Cadet School (1874-1878), a Widows’ and Orphans’ Home, the General Staff headquarters during the First American Occupation, and even the Ministry of Health before Fidel Castro came to power in January 1959. Graduates of ISDi remember it as a bright, welcoming space brimming with creativity. But for the closest neighbors, the building, which occupies an entire city block, has been a headache and a constant source of worry for years. continue reading
In a city with serious health problems, the former ISDi has become another “hotspot for infections” / 14ymedio
Carmita, a nearby resident, fears the destruction will continue for months or years without the authorities deciding to remove what remains of the structure. “It’s become a dump and a public toilet,” she laments. In addition to the danger of a piece of its walls falling on someone’s head, there are the epidemiological risks of ruins where mosquitoes, flies, and garbage all share the space. In a city with serious sanitation problems, the former ISDi has become another “hotbed of infection,” according to this Havana resident.
A flower vendor offers his wares to couples on Valentine’s Day. Carefully, he wipes down the glass containers where he keeps plastic roses and teddy bears. “This street is filthy,” the vendor laments as he dusts off the fine particles left in the air after the recent collapse of the once-colossal Belascoaín building.
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“If I work twelve hours, I can make more than 5,000 pesos a day, although it’s quite hard.”
Motorcycles and bicycles are trying to fill the gap left for transporting goods. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Havana, Natalia López Moya, February 14, 2026 – In a city that is practically at a standstill, some people never stop. You see them crossing empty streets, dodging the potholes along the Malecón or pedaling uphill on Tulipán with a backpack on their backs. They wear no uniforms and have no employment contracts, yet they carry much of Havana’s economy on wheels. They are the young delivery workers, a generation that in these days of fuel shortages has become indispensable in the movement of goods.
Yasiel, 26, delivers pizzas, medicines, and small packages. Orders reach him via WhatsApp from private businesses in the Cuban capital, desperate for the lack of messengers with cars or gasoline motorcycles. Sometimes they ask him for flowers, a cake, or even a plastic basin to bathe a baby. “Whatever can be strapped onto the rack,” he tells 14ymedio as he adjusts the bags on his bicycle that he will deliver to several points around the city. He has no self-employment license and does not belong to any small or medium-sized enterprise, yet he earns more than many professionals. “If I work twelve hours, I can make more than 5,000 pesos a day, although it’s quite hard.”
On Friday night, when only a few electric tricycles and some pedestrians who preferred walking on the asphalt rather than the neglected sidewalks were traveling along Rancho Boyeros Avenue, Yasiel was still making deliveries. An enormous backpack hung from his back and another, even larger, from his chest. He was coming from Playa municipality, near the Almendares River, heading to Nuevo Vedado. “I’m exhausted because I haven’t stopped pedaling all day. Could you give me a glass of water?” he asked one of his customers, nearly fainting.
The company Yasiel was delivering for, one of many that operate digital platforms where emigrants buy food and other basic supplies for their relatives on the Island, “is liquidating its merchandise ahead of what’s coming,” the young man says. The online shop has launched a 15% discount on all its products, and “if they’re frozen, you can get them for up to 25% less,” he explains. Fearing that blackouts will grow longer each day, “many people are avoiding buying anything that requires refrigeration.” continue reading
Some bicycle taxis have spent weeks transporting “more food than people.” / 14ymedio
This Friday, the deliveries Yasiel made were mainly canned goods, grains, and cookies. “There were jars of chickpeas that you could tell had been sitting in the warehouse for a while because of the dust on top.” Bags of flour, sardines, tuna, powdered milk, cereal, vegetable oil, and the ever-reliable cans of Spam rounded out the orders. “For the first time since I started this job, I didn’t move a single package of frozen chicken quarters today.” No one wants a power outage to turn their food into a stinking puddle of water and blood.
In Telegram groups with names like Delivery Habana 24/7 or Mensajeros de Plaza, workers share orders, routes, and clients. Sometimes they also share warnings: “Don’t go through Infanta, it’s pitch dark because of the blackout.” These are work forums, but also spaces of camaraderie. “Here we alert each other when a business is looking for workers, when the power is out, or if a street is closed for a march. We’re like a brotherhood, but without headquarters,” Yasiel explains.
Marcos, 34, nicknamed El Ruedas [Wheels], has spent weeks transporting “more food than people” in his bicycle taxi. Originally from distant Banes in Holguín province, he has spent five years running passenger routes between Central Havana, Cerro, and Old Havana. At the beginning of February, he got a call from a friend who works for a digital site that distributes everything from food to hardware supplies. “He told me they needed bicycles or electric motorcycles because they had fewer and fewer cars due to the gasoline problem.”
Since then, Marcos has “combed Havana” from one side to the other transporting sausages, soft drinks, butter, and whatever a Cuban emigrant in Miami, Berlin, or Madrid buys for family members on the Island. “I’ve been lucky, and besides what they pay me, I’ve received good tips because when people see me arriving in the bicycle taxi, they reach into their pockets to give me something.” Where others fear a worsening fuel crisis, the Holguín native sees his niche: “Now it’s our turn, the ones who don’t need oil or electricity.”
“These are times when you have to stay very alert because people know we’re delivering food and items paid for in foreign currency. We’re a target.”
The day he remembers most gratefully was last Monday, when he delivered “coffee and some of those tubes used so bedridden patients can urinate” to a house in Casino Deportivo. “The little old lady who received me tipped me a dollar,” he recalls. That same day, the U.S. dollar was approaching 500 Cuban pesos on the informal market. “It’s things like that that keep me in this job, though there are bitter moments too.”
In the darkness of a street in the Cerro neighborhood, Marcos watches over his shoulder while handing over one of the orders. Using his phone’s flashlight, he checks the sheet listing products that a digital store has processed for a Havana family. “These are times when you have to stay very alert because people know we’re delivering food and items paid for in foreign currency. We’re a target when we do that.” To avoid complaints later, each product must be verified against the list in front of the recipient, a process that takes time and increases the risk.
Beyond robberies, Marcos’s biggest fear until this week was “that the strong heat would come and it wouldn’t be so easy to pedal from place to place.” However, in recent hours he has had three orders canceled, raising new concerns. “Several of those digital sites are closing off orders from abroad because they can’t guarantee delivery anymore. This is getting ugly.” If online purchases grind to a halt, it won’t matter how strong the messenger’s calves are: “I’ll have to go back to moving people, and dealing with flesh-and-blood customers is more complicated.”
The boom in informal delivery grew alongside the energy crisis and the collapse of state transport, but it reached its peak during the covid-19 pandemic. Now, with the near disappearance of fuel on the Island, after the executive order signed by Donald Trump penalizing countries that send crude oil to Cuba with tariffs, gasoline- and diesel-powered vehicles are becoming increasingly scarce, and electric tricycles can’t keep up. In that vacuum, motorcycles and bicycles are trying to fill the gap left in transporting goods.
With each trip, the messenger earns between 1,000 and 1,500 pesos, depending on the distance. / 14ymedio
“I used to work in a refrigeration repair shop, but this pays better,” Landy, 30, tells this newspaper. He coordinates a network of ten messengers. His “headquarters” is a WhatsApp chat. “The small and medium-sized businesses write to me, I pass along the address and calculate the commission. There’s no boss and no fixed schedule. If there’s no connection, I disconnect, and that’s it.” With each trip, the messenger earns between 1,000 and 1,500 pesos, depending on the distance. “There’s no contract, but there’s trust,” the entrepreneur adds. “They pay me my commission at the end of the day, based on the trips completed.”
Most are young men, though there are women as well. Some are university students, IT specialists, or engineers. All are trying to earn money to support their families, and they prefer the independence of not being tied to a state job and being able to work with several businesses at once. “I don’t want anyone bossing me around. I take a job when I need to, and when I don’t feel like it, I stay home,” sums up a 23-year-old delivery worker with an electric tricycle. “My boss is the battery.”
The job is full of risks. “Sometimes it runs out in the middle of the darkness, and I have to push the tricycle until I find a place where I can charge it,” explains a young man from San Miguel del Padrón who makes deliveries in what he calls “a tough area.” Wearing gloves, a helmet, and a black jacket with “Rider” on the back, he distributes packages for small businesses in the municipality, but also takes jobs from larger digital platforms.
The leading online store has announced that it is canceling all its orders starting this Friday. Supermarket, which had managed to extend its deliveries across nearly the entire Island, informed customers that it will only process orders already received. “Due to the current situation regarding fuel availability in Cuba, our logistics operations have been temporarily limited,” reads its website.
Yasiel refuses to let such announcements paralyze him. For Saturday, he has a full schedule of deliveries. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m not going to stop pedaling. I’ll rest tomorrow.” The future is something he avoids thinking about in a country where announcements of cancellations, closures, and interruptions come one day after another.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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The rise of the application in contexts of censorship raises the question of its possible role in a Cuba with expensive, unstable and monitored internet.
Can the offline app Bitchat alleviate the limitations Cubans face due to censorship and poor infrastructure? / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya, Havana, January 17, 2026 – On a dusty sidewalk in Kampala, Uganda, a young man says there’s something that can connect him with his friends even if the government shuts off the internet: an app that works without mobile data or Wi-Fi. It’s called Bitchat, it was created by Jack Dorsey, the co-founder of Twitter, and it has gone from being a virtually unknown tool to a digital lifeline for many people living under governments that increasingly resort to internet blackouts as a response to internal crises.
What is happening in Uganda is similar to what recently occurred in Iran, where Bitchat downloads surged after massive internet outages during popular protests. Both cases raise questions about the tool’s usefulness in countries like Cuba. On the island, web browsing is also plagued by high costs, a deteriorating infrastructure, and recurring censorship.
Unlike apps like WhatsApp, which rely on an active internet connection, Bitchat operates through a Bluetooth mesh network. If one phone doesn’t have internet access, it can send messages to a nearby phone, which in turn relays them to another, and so on, until the message reaches its destination. There is no login, no phone numbers that can be blocked by the government, and no direct dependence on phone providers. This technology is reminiscent of old community radio stations, but adapted to the digital age.
That same pattern of blackouts to control information at critical moments for the regime is repeated in Cuba
In Uganda, this tool has become especially valuable in the lead-up to the elections held this Thursday. The government cut off web access, limited mobile services, and restricted communication precisely when citizen organization was crucial for monitoring potential fraud. In that country, Bitchat has rapidly climbed the download charts, with thousands of users turning to the app to continue reading
exchange text and voice messages, while social media has been silenced by the authorities.
A similar phenomenon was observed in Iran starting in late December, where internet blackouts during social protests forced citizens to seek alternatives to conventional platforms. Reports from several data researchers indicate that Bitchat downloads tripled in the Persian nation, according to Reuters, precisely during the days when the web browsing block was tightened.
That same pattern of blackouts to control information at critical moments for the regime is repeated in Cuba.
Internet access on the island has been, from its inception, a territory of political control, but also an unstable and expensive service. In 2025, following a price increase imposed by Etecsa, the country’s sole telecommunications company, many Cubans saw the cost of connecting skyrocket. The price hike meant that access to data packages went from being a moderate economic barrier to a serious obstacle for large segments of the population.
Beyond the costs, the infrastructure remains inadequate. Telecommunications towers suffer frequent outages; the signal degrades easily, and the browsing experience is often disrupted, even without direct state intervention. On key days, such as December 10, Human Rights Day, or immediately after the mass protests of 11 July 2021, the authorities implemented deliberate internet shutdowns that affected activists, independent journalists, and ordinary citizens.
Technically, Bitchat works well in environments where phones can get close to each other and form small community networks.
During those days, digital communication became intermittent or disappeared altogether, complicating the transmission of information and the coordination of those seeking to share photos, videos, or simple messages to reassure their families outside the island. In this context, the emergence of tools like Bitchat offers a glimmer of hope. Can this offline application alleviate the limitations Cubans face due to censorship and inadequate infrastructure?
The answer isn’t simple. Technically, Bitchat works well in environments where phones can be close together and form small community networks. In street protests, neighborhood meetings, or small towns dense enough for devices to relay messages to each other, its use can be effective. A student in El Vedado could send a text to a friend in the El Cerro neighborhood if there are enough intermediaries. A group of activists could coordinate the points of an agreement without relying on data or Wi-Fi.
But the app has clear limitations: physical distance remains a factor. The Bluetooth signal has a range of between 10 and 100 meters, depending on the power of each device. In sparsely populated urban areas, such as many neighborhoods on the outskirts of Havana and Santiago de Cuba, it would be impractical without a large concentration of users or a deliberate community strategy of “nodes” to relay messages.
Even so, Bitchat’s appeal lies in its simplicity: it doesn’t require personal accounts, it isn’t easily registered on servers that can be blocked, and its decentralized network makes it harder for a government to disrupt it through conventional internet censorship mechanisms. It is, in essence, digital resilience.
Perhaps Bitchat’s true value lies not in replacing the large global networks, but in rewriting the map of what is possible.
For many Cubans, however, the challenges aren’t limited to being able to exchange texts during a blackout or an intentional service interruption. The established groups and relationships on social networks like Facebook and Instagram make most of the population highly dependent on these channels for communication and less inclined to explore other options. In computer and gaming communities, the search for independent and less crowded paths is common, but activism and independent journalism need to explore less controlled tools more effectively and consistently.
On the other hand, while Bitchat might be useful during periods of total internet outages, it doesn’t replace more established methods for live video streaming and reporting on protests, which require higher bandwidths. “Being able to send messages without internet is better than nothing,” says a reporter from Havana, “but to document abuses, record interviews, or transmit visual evidence, we still depend on connections that are often unavailable.”
However, the examples of Uganda and Iran show that where authorities block the internet in response to political tensions, Bluetooth networks become part of the citizen response. In Cuba, with its combination of prohibitive costs, fragile infrastructure, and tactical censorship, tools like Bitchat could serve as a complement to maintain basic communication among close-knit groups.
Perhaps Bitchat’s true value lies not in replacing the major global networks, but in rewriting the map of what’s possible when the fragile threads of the conventional internet break. For a mother who wants to know if her son is alright in Marianao when the internet goes down across Havana, being able to send an offline text can be the difference between a night of anxiety and one of relief.
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Imported foods, more expensive and better, have displaced domestic products, which are increasingly scarce
Imported pork loin began the year at 900 pesos per pound and closed December at 1,200 / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Havana, Natalia López Moya, December 30, 2025 –If there was one thing Cubans learned in 2025, it was to read agricultural markets the way one checks the weather report: not to know whether it will rain tomorrow, but to calculate how much food might make it into the house before money evaporates. It was a year without respite for prices, and with a novelty that has ceased to be anecdotal and become part of the landscape: the definitive consecration of imported products in sectors that, until recently, were domestically produced.
Rice, pork, citrus fruits, onions, garlic, and even sugar finished the year having changed their accent. They went from homegrown to speaking English, Portuguese, or peninsular Spanish. The United States, Mexico, Panama, Brazil, and Spain made their way onto the Cuban table not out of gastronomic preference but from sheer necessity. Domestic products became scarce, irregular, or unviable, and the market responded with the logic it knows best: bring goods from abroad to take advantage of a desperate demand for food.
One product that sums up the year was rice, that household thermometer that determines whether there is lunch or only a single meal at night. At the Plaza Boulevard market in Sancti Spíritus, a pound of domestic rice started January at 150 pesos. By July it had reached 280 and, after a slight “breather” forced by state intervention attempting to regulate its price, December found it at 250 pesos. The price did not go down due to a production miracle, but because many private vendors chose to hide it or replace it with imported rice, conveniently outside any regulation. The result was simple: less domestic rice in sight and more sacks with foreign labels.
A pound of domestic rice started January at 150 pesos. By July it had already reached 280
That dynamic repeated itself over and over. Price caps, announced with the tone of a final order, ran into three hard-to-breach walls: the constant devaluation of the Cuban peso, unmet demand, and the obstinacy of merchants, who know full well that selling below costs is not altruism, but ruin. Faced with the choice of losing money or pleasing the authorities, many chose a third path: pulling their merchandise and selling it on the side, where there are no inspectors or ministerial resolutions.
A carton of 30 eggs, in private shops in Holguín, went from 3,000 pesos at the beginning of the year to 3,200 in December / 14ymedio
Black beans, another staple of the national plate, offer a similar lesson. At the La Feria de Los Chinos market in Holguín, they began the year at 400 pesos per pound. In August, supply briefly improved and the price fell to 320. But the relief was short-lived. December brought it back to 420 pesos, confirming continue reading
that in Cuba discounts are usually a parenthesis, not a trend. Imported beans, meanwhile, entered without asking permission from price caps and found their niche among those who prefer to pay more rather than never eat them.
Pork, historically the queen of the Cuban table, definitively lost its crown in 2025. In the Youth Labor Army markets in Havana, managed by the Armed Forces but with most stalls run by private vendors, imported pork loin began the year at 900 pesos per pound. By July it was already at 1,000 and closed December at 1,200. Domestic pork, battered by the lack of feed, theft, and the impossible costs of raising pigs, became a rarity. When it did appear, it did not always respect official prices, and when it did, it disappeared the next day.
Pork, historically the queen of the Cuban table, definitively lost its crown in 2025
Something similar happened with products that define daily cooking. Onions, for example, behaved like a financial asset. At the market at 19th and B, ironically known as La Boutique, in Havana, a pound began January at 350 pesos. By July it was already at 500, and December found it at 600. The smell did not change, but the origin did: increasingly imported onions, better presented, more attractive, and, above all, free of price caps.
A carton of 30 eggs, many households’ protein lifeline, also jumped. In private shops in Holguín it went from 3,000 pesos at the beginning of the year to 3,200 in December. It is not a spectacular increase, but it is persistent, and it adds to a context in which the average salary does not go up, pensions shrink, and any increase, however small, ends up hurting.
The reappearance of mandarins in private markets this year has been scandalous, not so much for their flavor, always pleasant and fragrant, but for their price: around 1,300 pesos per pound, equivalent to nearly half of an average monthly pension on the Island. The citrus fruit arrived from Peru after years of absence and provoked a mix of amazement, nostalgia, and disenchantment. Many Cubans, especially older ones, confessed it had been more than five years since they had seen mandarins for sale.
The scene became iconic: alongside U.S. onions and Panamanian garlic, imported mandarins are sold at central points in Havana with labels recalling their origin, attracting those who see them as a piece of lost flavor. Yet the price turns them into a painful paradox: what should be a return to freshness ends up being an almost unattainable luxury for many pockets.
Alongside U.S. onions and Panamanian garlic, imported mandarins are sold at central points in Havana.
Behind these figures lies a clear logic. The policy of price caps, applied selectively, ended up incentivizing precisely the opposite of what it intended. By regulating domestic rice and leaving imported rice untouched, a clear message was sent to the market: bring in what is not regulated. The result was an accelerated shift toward imported products, more expensive but available.
With bitter irony, many consumers learned to distinguish foreign brands without ever having left the country. Not out of cosmopolitanism, but because Spanish onions, U.S. rice, and Brazilian pork were, paradoxically, more stable than their national equivalents. In 2025, Cuba’s agricultural market did not just sell food: it sold a daily lesson in basic economics. And most people forcibly approved it.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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Cuban doctors in Angola spend Christmas without pay and with no date set for their vacations
Late payments, delayed flights and silence from Antex mark the end of the year for health workers and teachers on official missions in the African country.
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya, Havana, 25 December 2025 — Christmas once again finds hundreds of Cuban health professionals in Angola caught between family distance, job uncertainty and administrative silence. Hired by Antex, the state corporation that manages these official missions abroad, many doctors and teachers arrive at the end of December without having received their salary for this month and without minimum guarantees to organise a temporary return to the island. The scenario is not new, but it repeats itself with a regularity that erodes any institutional promise.
From Luanda, a Cuban doctor sums up present feelings among his colleagues: “This Christmas will be a little more painful.” In addition to being separated from their children, parents and partners, they cannot afford a dinner that is any different from their daily routine. “It is now usual for Antex to delay payments. Normally, salaries arrived around the 20th, but that’s just a memory now,” he complains, referring to the equivalent of $200 they should receive in Angola, while most of their salary is kept in a bank on the island.
Antex had announced that it would most likely only be able to pay half that amount, but as the days go by, the promise has been reduced to $50. “If that’s the case, they would have to guarantee us a New Year’s Eve dinner, at least, but I doubt they will,” says the doctor.
“If that’s the case, they would have to guarantee us a New Year’s Eve dinner, at least, but I doubt they will,” says the doctor.
In December, as in other months, payment has been delayed and questions remain unanswered: will there be a special end-of-year meal organised by the Cuban authorities, will the pattern of 2023 be repeated — when some went more than two months without being paid — or will we simply have to resign ourselves to another year-end in limbo?
This testimony coincides with other complaints received by 14ymedio in recent days, in which Cuban doctors in Angola report systematic delays in payments, unclear deductions and obstacles to accessing their statutory holidays. Not only does this situation persist, but it is worsening in a context of local inflation, rising food prices and declining purchasing power of wages.
Added to the economic uncertainty is the chronic delay in return trips for vacations in Cuba. Many professionals expected to return between August continue reading
and September, but that schedule was almost completely disrupted. “Antex has not even sent 10% of the teachers who should have travelled during that period,” explains the doctor. The domino effect is evident: mission time is accumulating, holidays for all staff are being postponed, and there are increasing numbers of colleagues who have been in Angola for 15 months with no clear return date. For some, the wait is even turning into a forced extension of their contract.
“There’s always a manager who manages to leave on the scheduled date,” he adds, adding to the perception of privilege.
The official explanation changes depending on the situation, according to those affected. When there are no TAAG Angola Airlines flights, the response is that there are no connections available and that chartering a flight would be too expensive. When there are flights, the argument is reversed: the airline has raised its prices and it would therefore be preferable to hire a charter flight. “But neither is true,” says the doctor. In practice, almost no one travels. “There’s always a manager who does leave on the scheduled date,” he adds, fueling the perception of privilege and arbitrariness.
The impact of these breaches goes beyond just economics. For many, the mission in Angola was presented as an opportunity to improve their income, help their families in Cuba and build up savings. However, wage arrears and travel restrictions have turned that expectation into frustration. Christmas, with its symbolic significance, accentuates the feeling of abandonment. With no money in hand and no certainty of return, even basic gestures—buying a gift, preparing a special meal, connecting with family—become difficult.
From a contractual point of view, professionals insist that the agreed conditions are not being met. Late payments, lack of information and “total silence”, as they describe it, contrast with the official rhetoric on international medical cooperation. Angola is one of the historical destinations for these missions and a significant source of income for the Cuban state, which acts as an intermediary and retains a substantial portion of the salaries. For workers, this intermediation should entail clear responsibilities: punctuality in payments, transparency and guarantees of rest.
Angola is one of the historical destinations for these missions and a significant source of income for the Cuban state.
The institutional response, however, remains elusive. There are no statements explaining the delays or public timetables for regularising salaries and flights. The lack of information fuels rumours and anxiety, especially on sensitive dates. “Will we not be able to have a New Year’s Eve dinner either?” some ask, no longer expecting a formal response.
In a context where medical missions are presented as one of the pillars of Cuban foreign policy, reports from Angola once again bring forward the human cost of the model. For professionals in Luanda, Christmas brings no respite: it arrives with unpaid bills, broken promises and the certainty that, once again, the the solutions are not keeping up wioth the problems
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.
At the 19 de Noviembre station, on Tulipán Street, the mixture of mud, grease and excrement has formed a quagmire that threatens both the nose and the metal.
As they dig, the smell becomes stronger in the midday sun. / 14ymedio
14ymedia, Havana, Natalia López Moya, November 16, 2025 — On Conill Street, in Nuevo Vedado, there is a smell that blots out the landscape. A thick stench that invades the sidewalk where every morning, almost in droves, the students of the José Miguel Pérez pre-university school pass by. For months now, the pestilence comes as a warning, a daily reminder that wastewater does not understand schedules or routines. The dark stream rises from a collapsed sewer and winds down the street.
The wastewater comes out through the gaps and edges of the metal lid, dragging bags and garbage along with it. In the course of its journey, the viscous liquid has been conquering ground until it has run into the tracks of the railway that leads to the 19 de Noviembre station on Tulipán Street. Along the way, the mixture of mud, grease and excrement has formed a muddy quagmire that threatens both the nose and the metal.
Ankle-deep in their boots in the fresh mud, they use their shovels to remove a dirt that smells like a public toilet. / 14ymedio
The image of the site this Saturday speaks for itself: a group of workers, with their boots sinking into the fresh mud, using their shovels to remove dirt that smells like a public toilet. Around them, the puddles reflect a blue sky that seems incompatible with the disaster under their feet.
One brigade embarks on what seems like an impossible mission to protect the iron tracks. They have no pumps, no new pipes or tools to rebuild the sewer system. They only have shovels, rubber boots and patience. Their “solution” — if you can call it that — is to open a trench under the rails to divert the water and prevent the tracks from ending up moving by losing solidity at the base. A kind of makeshift canal that, hopefully, will keep moisture at bay for a few days… or hours.
In a city facing a surge of viruses, this steady flow of wastewater seems like a direct provocation. / 14ymedio
As they dig, the smell becomes stronger in the midday sun. And the irony too: in a city facing a resurgence of respiratory and stomach viruses, with overcrowded hospitals and pharmacies without basic medicines, this constant flow of wastewater seems like a direct provocation.
The neighbors are no longer surprised. They have long since learned to coexist with “temporary solutions,” those patches that fill speeches and press reports but never get to the heart of the problem. The routine consists of patching, diverting, covering, filling, re-opening, recovering. As if the entire city lives under an endless cycle of cosmetic repairs that do not heal, but rather become chronic. A Havana where life passes between spills of wastewater and the slow passage of a train that, hopefully, will manage to advance without sinking into the mud.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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“Miscellaneous items,” promises a mini-shop embedded in the remains of a building
Everything is arranged with a mixture of care and urgency, as if each object were a soldier ready for the daily battle against scarcity. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Natalia López Moya, Havana, 15 November 2025 — From the sidewalk of Belascoaín Street, where the rumble of classic cars mingles with the smell of fried food and musty dampness, a small rectangle cut into a corroded wall catches the eye of anyone passing by. It is an irregular opening, as if forcibly torn out, embedded in the remains of a building that lost its splendor decades ago and, as of few years ago, also lost its upper floors. All that remains of that collapse are bare columns, layers of paint flaking away, and a faded mural where someone tried to paint a sun, perhaps to ward off so much ruin. But amidst the chaos, two words painted with a thick, clumsy brush offer an unlikely promise: “Miscellaneous Items.”
The phrase, written amidst rust and desolation, carries the touch of an inside joke between the city and its inhabitants. “Several,” yes: several collapses, several rainstorms without shelter, several decades of architectural neglect. But also “several” as an act of faith, as a declaration that, despite everything, someone resists the continued encroachment of emptiness. There, where there should be silence and dust, a small makeshift shop flourishes, clinging to life like the plants that sprout in the cracks of the balconies.
Behind the peeling paint, a table laden with merchandise creates an unusual collage of times and origins.
Peering into the alcove is like discovering another world. Behind the peeling paint, a table laden with merchandise creates an unusual collage of times and origins. In one corner rest packages of baby wipes—imported, smelling of another country—next to gleaming aluminum basins, brand new, as if they’d just rolled off the assembly line in some workshop in the Cerro neighborhood. A few steps further in, behind a makeshift counter made out of planks, the vendor arranges jars, funnels, ladles, and an assortment of continue reading
metal parts that could belong to anything from a kitchen to a 1970s Russian motorcycle.
Everything is arranged with a mixture of care and urgency, as if each object were a soldier ready for the daily battle against scarcity. A radio plays softly,
almost timidly, while a household fan stirs hot air that barely manages to dispel the smell of garbage wafting from the mountain of trash growing on the corner. Nothing here is comfortable, spacious, or new. But the whole thing works, pulsates, breathes. It is a fragile little venduta [shop] built on the skeleton of what was once a building and what could one day, in the distant future, be an empty lot.
The contrast is brutal and commonplace: disaster and entrepreneurship, collapse and the will to prosper coexist in a space barely three meters wide. This coexistence, so quintessentially Cuban, transforms Belascoaín’s makeshift stall into a small symbol of the entire city: what is about to fall and what insists on rising again. Between ruin and ingenuity, between precariousness and inventiveness, beats the same obstinacy that drives so many: to sell something, to survive, to not let life completely crumble.
At midday, a customer stops to look. He is not looking for anything specific; in Havana, nobody’s looking for anything particular, you look for whatever comes along.
At midday, a customer stops to look. He is not looking for anything specific; in Havana, nobody looks for anything particular, you look for whatever comes along. And in the small window opened among the rubble, something always appears: a screw, a sponge, a packet of detergent, a tired greeting from the vendor. Assorted products, just as the sign promises. Assorted and vital. Assorted and, above all, attainable.
Because here, in this fragment of ruin turned shop, the city reminds us that it is still capable of creating a tiny paradise where before there was only dust. And that this stubbornness, this will to survive among ruins, Havana’s strongest pulse remains.
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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 authorities advance a new payment mechanism to settle complaints, but the doctors still demand payment in dollars
Cuban doctors in Angola say the authorities have held onto their dollars for years / Cubadebate
14ymedio, Havana. Natalia López Moya, October 28, 2025 — “We are somewhat resigned, but not at all in agreement,” said Héctor, a Cuban doctor in Angola who participated in the meeting on October 23 between health workers and representatives of Antex, the Cuban company that manages the missions in the African country. The meeting, held in Luanda, served to announce a new payment mechanism through the Classic card, which maintains restrictions on access to dollars and thwarts the hopes of health workers to be able to recover their money in that currency.
The meeting took place in a tense atmosphere, albeit with fewer complaints than on previous occasions. “It’s not that we have given up, but people have now realized that these officials aren’t going to do anything; it’s like talking to a wall,”explains the doctor, using a pseudonym for fear of reprisals. According to his statement, the document read during the meeting had already been leaked days before, so the attendees arrived “more than informed.”
The official text stated that, beginning October 20, Cuban professionals in Angola and Algeria can transfer the savings accumulated in their accounts in freely convertible currency (MLC) to a Classic card, with which they will be able to buy in dollar stores, acquire a car and pay for fuel at foreign currency gas stations.
The change does not solve the main problem: the impossibility of withdrawing dollars in cash from Cuba
However, the change does not solve the main problem: the impossibility of withdrawing dollars in cash from Cuba. “This has changed nothing,” says Hector. The availability of dollars still depends on the bank, and the answer is always the same: we don’t have any.” continue reading
The measure was to be implemented in January 2026, but it was brought forward by growing unrest among the health workers, tired of collecting pay in a devalued currency. “All this prevents us from making plans for housing, investment or migration,” laments Héctor, who is about to finish his mission after more than three years. “The MLC is worth much less than the dollar, and the balance in a Classic card is also below. In the end we lose money on every transaction.”
The currency gap is confirmed by the informal market: while the dollar is quoted this Tuesday at 485 Cuban pesos, the MLC barely reaches 200, and the money in a Classic card equals 446. “We can forget about a part of our savings; that money evaporates in the many deals we have to do to get the cash,” he concludes.
For months, a number of health workers had been confident that the authorities would allow direct payment in dollars or kwanzas (Angolan currency), to later buy dollars in the local market. But the decision of the Cuban government, advanced this week, fell like “a bucket of cold water” on these expectations.
In September, the professionals received only half their monthly payment in kwanzas, about $200
The discomfort is aggravated by other failures. In September, professionals received only half their monthly payment in kwanzas -about $200- and in October the disbursement was further delayed. Some doctors have not yet been paid. ” People are demoralized, but also scared,” says another health worker in Luanda. “They have tried to divide us and scare us so that no one protests.”
The clearest warning came a few days ago from Cuba’s Ministry of Public Health, which officially called the doctors who criticize the system or report irregularities “ingrates and traitors.” It was like a direct message, says the doctor. Anyone who complains risks being sent back to Cuba and losing their savings.”
The discontent had reached such a point that a group of collaborators drafted a letter to the Cuban Public Prosecutor’s Office, on behalf of all, demanding payment in foreign currency and better working conditions. At the center of their complaints is Antex, a subsidiary of the military conglomerate Gaesa, sanctioned by the US Office for Foreign Assets Control (OFAC). Antex manages a wide range of businesses in Angola, from road construction, airfield repairs and travel agencies to managing medical missions.
The discontent had reached such a point that a group of collaborators wrote a letter to the Cuban Public Prosecutor’s Office
In July, the professionals also sent a letter to Miguel Díaz-Canel, denouncing “non-compliance with the form of payment established in the contract” and demanding access to their funds in dollars deposited on the island. There was no response. Instead of rectifying, says another doctor, “what they have done is give us another plastic card but no cash dollars, nothing.”
Most of them have lost hope of a change. “They don’t want to give up the money, says Héctor. They have kept our currency for years and will not return it, even if that costs them more complaints in the meetings.
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.
With each movement, the flies return, and the stench sneaks through the shutters of a nearby building
A few meters away, the door of a warehouse where food for the rationed market is stored remains open. / 14ymedio
14ymedio, Havana, Natalia López Moya, October, 23, 2025 — It was Wednesday, and at the corner of Factor and Conill, two workers from Communal Services are facing an enemy that already seems mythological: one of the many mountains of garbage in Havana, this time in Nuevo Vedado. Armed with shovels, they try to reduce what the blue containers can no longer contain: bursting bags, wet cartons, food scraps and even an old flip-flop poking through the blanket of flies.
The truck, which is older than the employees themselves, waits with its door open like a tired mouth. One of the men sighs before throwing in another shovelful, but the mass of waste is barely reduced on the asphalt. “This is hard,” he says, while the other one tries to scare away the flies buzzing around the debris. A few meters away, the door of a warehouse, where food for the rationed market is stored, remains open.
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.
14ymedio, Havana, Natalia López Moya, May 28, 2026 — In the cardboard box, placed on the floor of a doorway as if it were an improvised counter, the blister packs of pills form an unsettling geometry. There are white, pink, green, and yellow tablets, lined up with pharmacy-like neatness, but without lab coats, prescriptions, or questions. Off to one side, a woman smokes while sitting on a low stool, her body slumped forward and her eyes fixed on the movement of passersby. She does not seem to be hiding. Nor does she need to. In today’s Cuba, even controlled medications have learned to sell themselves in broad daylight.
