Pablo Padilla Cruz – Translating Cuba

Matanzas, Cuba, Tries to Move With Electric Tricycles, But the Blackouts Slow the Route

The new fleet of vehicles partially alleviates urban transport, but the lack of electricity and inefficient journeys frustrate drivers and passengers.

Electrical cars are not charging, and gasoline cars are not refueling,” comment Matanzas residents. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Pablo Padilla Cruz, October 26, 2025 — The improvised stop in front of the pre-university school in Matanzas fills up quickly. A group of passengers are waiting their turn for one of the new electric tricycles that cross the city. Some watch the corner where the vehicles should appear; others comment that “they come when they want to.” The scene is repeated every morning since the 15 vehicles assigned to the provincial capital arrived as part of the plan to relieve urban transport.

“Almost none of them go all the way to the Faustino Pérez hospital,” complains Indira, her backpack resting on her knees. “At the beginning of the month I had to take a sick family member there, and neither the electric cars nor the gas cars go that far up. Private motorcycles ask for 400 pesos during the day and whatever they can get at night, up to 800. There is no pocket that can stretch that far.” She sighs and adds: “Luckily, the wide guaguas [buses] still save us for 20 pesos.”

One of the tricycle drivers, Ricardo, defends his reasons for avoiding that route. “These bikes are electric, and going up to the hospital consumes a lot of battery. If we reach the limit, we have to go back to the base to recharge, and that makes us waste time and money. We pay to rent the tricycles and also for fixing them when they break. Right now there are three tricycles out of use, and all indications are that their repair will come out of the pockets of those who rent them.”

He says that the problem is not exclusive to the electric ones. “It also takes more gas to go up there, and without a monthly quota, we can’t afford it. continue reading

That is why many drivers prefer to take short routes or charge more to go up there.”

Three months after the arrival of the tricycles, transportation officials acknowledge that “they don’t solve the underlying problem.” / 14ymedio

The Faustino Perez hospital, built on the outskirts of the city under an old development plan that never prospered, has become a hard-to-reach site. Its isolation is compounded by the prolonged blackouts, affecting both medical services and the transport system. When electricity is lacking, charging tricycles becomes a headache, a problem that 14ymedio has also documented in provinces such as Havana, Holguín, Villa Clara and Las Tunas.

In Matanzas, the arrival of tricycles was received with anticipation. But three months later, transport officials admit that they “do not solve the underlying problem.” In addition to the difficulties of getting to the hospital, residents question why the city received only 15 vehicles while Cárdenas, much smaller, got 10. “The routes to the bus terminal are also interrupted,” explains a sector employee. “Until the repair of the building is completed and the terminal returns to its original location, the Terminal-Pre route will not be able to operate.”

The Minister of Transport, Eduardo Rodríguez Dávila, admitted earlier this month that the project faces “concrete limitations that condition coverage and frequency.” According to the official, who is the most active on social networks of the entire Cabinet, the city’s slopes use up the battery charges, forcing some vehicles to return before noon to the charging base.

“The electric cars are not charged, and the gasoline cars are not fueled.”

Despite the justifications, the people of Matanzas agree that the State’s tricycle system barely alleviates the transport shortage. In a city where traditional bus routes are a thing of the past, the workers’ buses from the Varadero beach resort have also been reduced, due to the tourism crisis. “The new tricycles are not so new anymore,”says a neighbor, observing the traffic. ” Sometimes you see them outside the service hours, going empty, at the service of their drivers but not the people.”

The picture is aggravated by both the fuel and electricity crises. “The electric cars are not charged, and the ones that use gasoline do not have fuel,” summarizes Indira, as she finally climbs onto one of the tricycles that arrives at the stop just as rush hour begins and anxiety is at its peak.

The vehicle starts up with a slight hum and moves slowly down the avenue. Behind is the sidewalk, full of distressed passengers who have the feeling that, in Matanzas, every solution depends on the next cut off of the electricity.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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“Someone Said That There Would Be Gas for Everyone, and There Isn’t Any”: Indignation in the Line for Propane in Matanzas

“The same person decided 20 years ago that everything should be electric, and look how that’s going” with the Energy Revolution

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 9 September 2025 — It didn’t matter what time the gas truck arrived. Before the sun came up, Aimé and her son quickly lowered their propane tank from the 11th floor of the building where they live, hoping to reach their turn at the Peñas Altas depot. The population had not received fuel for three months, and families had to resort to makeshift strategies such as cooking in the early hours of the morning to take advantage of the electricity rotation or by using charcoal, with its health and taste problems. Finally, the propane returned this week, but the calm was short-lived.

“This situation is terrible,” says Aimé, a retiree in Matanzas. “One day you-know-who decided that everything should be electric, and look how that’s going” she recalls about Fidel Castro’s 20-year commitment to what he then called the Energy Revolution. “And another day he said that there would no problem getting gas for the population, and a couple of years later there is no gas, even though the Chinese and other companies are exploiting oil and gas just a few kilometers from here.”

The search for fuel has become an ordeal. The digital application Ticket, which organizes the sale of propane and fuel, “has not stopped sending me warning messages that it is now available, but one thing is the app and another is what happens on the ground,” explains Aimé. “A worker from Cupet told me in June, when the gas shipment stopped, that there was some, but they took it to other provinces and left us stranded, until today.” continue reading

Aimé had to wait for three hours before the truck made its entrance

The Peñas Altas collection and storage center became a scene of long waits. Aimé had to wait for three hours before the truck made its entrance. Along with her, some 200 people were waiting their turn, including 50 in the “disabled” line, designed for those who have physical difficulties or special needs.

Among the most difficult cases is Norelis, a resident of one of the buildings near the depot, whose mother, over 80 years old, lies in bed after breaking her hip. “I have been cooking with charcoal since April in the hallway of the building. The neighbors sometimes sit down to watch me cook in the style of Masterchef,” she comments, with irony and exhaustion.

“No one who is not in my situation can calculate how frustrating it is to have a sick family member these days. Now look: there are only ten tanks for special cases, and I was chasing Public Health and its committees for two months because they are the ones who give the approval to receive gas this way. I appear on the list but do not fit among the ten, so I missed the day here. The neighbors will continue to enjoy Masterchef in the hallway.”

There are two mechanisms for the care of vulnerable persons: one for special cases supervised by social workers and another for confined persons under public health regulations. “In theory it’s fine, but here we all know each other, and we know that the easiest thing is to give a gift [bribe] to someone who keeps the list. Automatically your name becomes the first, either here at the distribution center or with the social worker,” confesses a neighbor, unconvinced by the fragile legality of the processes and the discretion with which the lists are handled.

“Although the local authority announces that there will be a weekly supply, the uncertainty is constant”

The distribution in the depot is limited. On this day, 150 tanks were unloaded plus 10 intended for special cases. Andrés, who is retired and until recently earned some extra pesos as a messenger, was in the row with the number 2,545, while the distribution advanced barely to 2,190. “At this rate, three times more tanks have to come so that I get what I deserve. I’m afraid there will be trouble before my turn comes, in the meantime I’ll have to figure it out with the help of my children or do some work carrying gas to neighbors who contact me,” he says.

Although the local authority announces that there will be a weekly supply, the uncertainty is constant. Neighbors know that the situation changes from one day to the next and almost always for the worse. Maybe on Saturday or next Monday they can supply the area; maybe Norelis’ charcoal cooking show ends early; maybe Andrés will find another way to advance his shift. However, even those who manage the lists cannot confirm this with certainty.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood of Matanzas remains trapped in an endless wait, where every gas truck becomes an event and every available tank a treasure. The combination of unfulfilled promises, unreliable digital applications and local favoritism leaves many residents in a situation of vulnerability that, for some, now goes on for months.

Translated by Regina Anavy
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The Chic Area of Matanzas, Cuba, is Today Barely a Memory

The decline of Varadero along with Covid ended the dream of the “Athens of Cuba” becoming a “creole Miami Beach”

A park with an immense sign was built in the city, but no one goes there, not even to take selfies. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 30 August 2025 — Matanzas has two nicknames: the “Athens of Cuba,” earned centuries ago as a cradle of poets and artists, and the “city of bridges,” thanks to the dozens of structures that cross the Yumurí and San Juan rivers.

With the advent of the new century, however, another less flattering nickname began to circulate: “The sleeping city.” The lack of night life and central recreation places plunged it into a silence that many attributed to the proximity of Varadero, that tourist magnet that absorbed all the investments and projects.

It wasn’t until 2016 that an attempt was made to reverse the inertia. First with the development of the Narváez promenade, turned into a boulevard, and soon after with a more ambitious project: the transformation of the neighborhood of La Playa, especially the area of Peñas Altas. The plan promised nearly two kilometers of bars, restaurants, shopping centers and nightclubs interspersed with residences -mostly luxury- and access to beaches: a Matanzas version of a kind of “creole Miami Beach.”

The shops are out of stock and the menus are poor. / 14ymedio

It worked for a while. Whole families found respite there after the work week. Andrés, known as El Piti, remembers it like this: “I worked as a security guard in Varadero. There was more money circulating than now, and on Sundays we went out in groups to enjoy ourselves. I had never seen so much movement in the neighborhood.”

The illusion was short-lived. Shops began to run out of supplies, menus became poor, and several places were subjected to dubious renovations. The Bellamar pizzeria, for example, closed for a second renovation in continue reading

less than a decade. Marielis, who has been employed there for more than 15 years, suspects that these works were more in the interests of managers and contractors than the needs of the public.

“We lost a lot of time because of this absurd remodeling,” recalls Andrés. “They set up a bar that made no sense. It only opened once a week, with beer and chicharritas. Then the pandemic came and we never recovered,” he added.

The deterioration of the premises even reached the Caracol store. / 14ymedio

The deterioration was repeated in other places: the Caracol store, the Bellamar service center, the La Sirenita shopping center – with its cafe still inactive – and even the old Dimar, subjected to several renovations and today in private hands.

Irene de la Caridad, a resident of the area, remembers those years with nostalgia. “On Saturdays and Sundays people met in the parking lot of La Sirenita before going to the discos. Now there is a park with a huge sign with the name of the city, but no one goes, not even to take selfies. With the heat and the tiles they put down, the reflection of the sun is blinding. I miss sitting in the cafe of La Sirenita, drinking a soda, facing the bay. I would choose between the terrace or the bar’s air conditioning… although now I don’t know with what electricity it would work.”

The final blow was given by the Covid pandemic. Added to this was the lack of interest of the State, the meaningless renovations and the arrival of private investors who manage premises at prohibitive prices. In the cafeteria of Playa Allende, for example, a soft drink costs 300 pesos and a beer 350.

What at the time was “the chic area” of Matanzas is today barely a memory. The city may not be as “sleepy” as before, but as Irene says, “in the evenings and nights you get bored… and that’s the truth.”

In the cafeteria of Playa Allende a soft drink costs 300 pesos and a beer 350. / 14ymedio

Translated by Regina Anavy

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In Matanzas, Competition Is Fierce Between Licensed Pushcart Vendors and Illegal Sellers

“I can’t compete with their prices because I pay taxes,” complains a street vendor in Peñas Altas.

“Far from being bothered, it’s good that these vendors exist, because many offer more affordable prices,” says a local resident. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 12 August 2025 — Police officers and state inspectors evicted and imposed 5,000-peso fines on several street vendors of agricultural products who were operating without a license near the building known as 13 Plantas de las Panaderías, in the Peñas Altas neighborhood of Matanzas. The operation, which occurred last Thursday morning and included the confiscation of merchandise, has sparked controversy in the community over food shortages, prices, and the unequal competition between informal and licensed vendors.

“Far from being bothered, I find it convenient that these vendors exist, because many offer more affordable prices than the carretilleros [street cart vendors]. And if you arrive late, when they have little left, they offer ridiculously low prices; once, one gave me half a bag of mangoes,” says Minerva, a local resident, pointing to the exact spot where the makeshift stalls have been set up. For her, the presence of these vendors isn’t a public order issue, but rather a way out of the lack of options in the small public squares.

“And if you arrive late, when they have little left, they make offers.”

Not everyone shares her enthusiasm. El Chino, a licensed street vendor, says that unfair competition complicates his daily life. “I have taxes to pay and I fight against product losses, which are worse in the summer because of the heat. I don’t mind people fighting for their money, but when everything they sell is a profit for themselves, I can’t compete with their prices. My bunches of plantains are around 180 pesos, but theirs, which are sometimes larger, sell for 160 or less. So, I have to wait for them to sell first continue reading

and then start selling myself, or find a new place to park my cart. Everyone struggles in their own way, but these unlicensed vendors make things difficult for me.”

The Peñas Altas area, strategically located near bus stops to Limonar and other municipalities, has become a natural corridor for informal sales. From fruits and vegetables to cheese, yogurt, and smoked meats, these improvised vendors often come from rural areas where agricultural work is the main—and sometimes only—source of income. The lack of opportunities and the poor performance of state markets compel many to take the risk, despite the risk of losing their merchandise or receiving substantial fines.

“The only well-stocked plaza in Cuba was the one in Ciego de Ávila, which was reported on the news on July 26th.”

“You can go to the two nearby markets around noon and they’re already closed,” comments a group of neighbors who witnessed the operation. Another jokes: “Although it’s true that prices there are lower, they’re almost never stocked. The only stocked market in Cuba was the one in Ciego de Ávila, which was reported on the news on July 26th.”

A third adds, amid laughter and indignant gestures from the rest: “It’s true that those people were selling without a license, but how many do they help when Acopio and the State do nothing for the citizens? They think they’re doing enough with the Sunday markets. That’s why we yelled all kinds of things at the police and those two thieving inspectors who came to evict them.”

Thursday’s operation is not an isolated incident. For months, authorities have intensified controls on unlicensed street vendors, citing the need to “ensure order and combat hoarding.” However, for many residents, this policy does not solve the underlying problem: the lack of a stable and varied offering from the official channels.

State markets operate intermittently, with empty shelves and reduced hours.

In Matanzas, as in the rest of the country, obtaining agricultural products at reasonable prices is a daily challenge. State markets operate intermittently, with empty shelves and reduced hours. Prices at authorized points of sale often exceed what the average family can afford, especially after the inflation that followed the Ordering Task. In this context, informal commerce has gained a place in the neighborhood economy, offering a combination of lower prices and immediate availability that attracts loyal customers.

The tensions between authorities and informal vendors are also reflected in the social climate. While some see these raids as a way to maintain control over commerce, others interpret them as a punishment for those seeking to survive amid the crisis.

“The lack of food, along with the limited availability of water and electricity, is one of the main sources of criticism in the country,” notes another resident. “It’s possible that a group of individuals can lower the cost of agricultural products, even at the risk of severe fines, while the state entities intended to meet these needs are conspicuous by their absence.”

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Yankiel, 13 Years Old, Student by Day and Can Collector by Night

Poverty is growing in Cuba and many families depend on their children’s work for their daily sustenance.

At La Salsa, Yankiel waits for the closing time, leaning on his sack of cans, to return to his work. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 11 August 2025 — In the parking lot of the La Salsa nightclub in Matanzas, a teenager sleeps next to a sack half-full of cans. He’s waiting for the party to end before continuing his collecting work. His name is Yankiel and he’s 13 years old. His mother died a long time ago. “I remember her, but not enough,” he confesses.

Recent statements by the former Minister of Labor and Social Security, downplaying the extreme poverty suffered by thousands of Cubans, sparked a debate that many consider overdue. Even in the official press, cracks are beginning to appear. The Girón newspaper, the provincial newspaper of Matanzas and a smaller sister newspaper of Granma, published a two-part photo report on the plight of street begging.

In the images, the deterioration and precariousness can no longer be hidden. However, the editorial treatment maintained the usual script. Alongside each testimony of hardship, the government’s “efforts” to provide shelter for those without a place to live are emphasized—in bold and insistently—even if that shelter is 100 kilometers from their original place of residence or is a former school building converted into a damp and continue reading

corroded shell.

Beyond what the photos showed, it was striking that there were no children in the report.

Beyond what the photos showed, it was striking that there were no children in the report. The selection of images conveyed the idea that children in Cuba were safe, as if José Martí’s phrase, “Children are born to be happy,” had been strictly adhered to. Stories like Yankiel’s, however, contradict this sugary portrait.

His father does heavy labor: masonry, clearing land, collecting animal feed scraps, and, above all, the nighttime harvesting of raw materials. This task is a family business. To cover more ground, father and son split up. One walks through the city center and Narváez Street; the other goes from the El Tenis neighborhood to the Reinol García neighborhood, known as Pastorita. Together, they fill their sacks with bottles, plastic containers, and cans, which they then sell.

During school holidays, Yankiel takes advantage of the opportunity to harvest for longer hours. “I don’t have to get up early to go to school,” he says. But when the school year starts, the routine becomes exhausting. He combines classes with street work, a kind of childhood moonlighting, one he undertakes without fully realizing it. This year, he will enter eighth grade, although his priorities seem driven by a different logic: survival.

Beyond what the photos showed, it was striking that there were no children in the report. / 14ymedio

When asked what he wants to do when he comes of age, he hesitates for a few seconds. Then, with the sincerity of someone unaccustomed to embellishing words, he replies: “I want to work in something that makes money.” His straightforward answer reveals an urgent concern for the outcome, not the path to achieving it. When the goal is solely “making money,” the alternatives can be uncertain or dangerous.

In the park, someone gives him a cola. He drinks it slowly, with a mixture of shyness and relief. The empty container goes directly into the bag, along with the other collected cans. Yankiel’s case is one among many. Neither he nor other children in similar situations have ever appeared in the reports on Girón or in the speeches of ministers. They don’t fit the narrative of a protected and happy childhood. Childhood marginalization is rendered invisible, not only by media censorship, but also by political indifference.

The images in the official photo report showed adult faces, makeshift beds in doorways and vacant lots, stoves without fuel, and peeling walls. But the omission of children was not accidental. Showing a child sleeping on the street or carrying a sack of garbage would be an admission that the State has failed in one of its propaganda pillars: the care of childhood.

In Cuba, minors working in raw material collection, street vending, or animal care are not isolated cases. It is a widespread reality, especially in cities and the less developed surrounding areas. The economic crisis, inflation, the decline in purchasing power, and the inadequacy of social programs have forced many families to rely on their children’s labor to supplement their daily livelihoods.

The language used to define places softens the edges and dilutes the State’s responsibility

Extreme poverty is no longer an issue that can be hidden behind euphemisms. What was once denied or attributed to “isolated cases” now appears in the streets in broad daylight. The fact that a media outlet like Girón, controlled by the Communist Party, publishes a report on beggars in Matanzas indicates that even the official press has had to acknowledge that poverty exists and is growing.

But recognition is partial and conditional. Each complaint is juxtaposed with a justification: the promise of a transfer, a home repair, or the delivery of mattresses. The language used to define places softens the sharp edges and dilutes the responsibility of a State that, for decades, has presented itself as the absolute guarantor of social welfare.

Yankiel will continue walking the streets, his bag slung over his shoulder, while attending eighth grade. His father will continue working the toughest jobs, combining the hours of daylight with the early morning hours. Neither of them expects a sudden change. Poverty, for them, is not a temporary circumstance but a permanent context. And what is not published in Girón, nor mentioned in speeches, is what most defines today’s Cuba.

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American Evangelicals Provide Water to Dozens of Cuban Municipalities

In Matanzas, Living Waters has become a lifeline for hundreds of residents.

Living Waters is based in Texas and has been present on the island since 2006. / Courtesy

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 9 August 2025 — “Everyone is talking about itand getting outraged by the blackouts, and it’s true. Electricity is essential in modern life, it’s the first thing… until you run out of water. Then you realize how vulnerable we are.” The testimony of Lázara, a resident of Ayuntamiento Final Street in Matanzas, sums up the water supply crisis plaguing the city, which has gone from being merely difficult to critical.

Neighborhoods such as La Marina have not received drinking water since November 2024, forcing residents to resort to alternatives such as purchasing water trucks, collecting rainwater, or even using non-potable sources, such as the well-known Pompón, a natural water outlet near the Watkins Park Zoo in the capital located on the Yumurí River.

In the midst of this situation, which has been ongoing for months and is similar to what happens in other parts of the country, such as the East, the American religious organization Living Waters for the World has become a lifeline for hundreds of residents. Based in Texas, the NGO installs and maintains water purifiers in developing countries through a network of evangelical churches, primarily Presbyterian. continue reading

The Pompón is a natural water source near the Watkins Park Zoo. / 14ymedio

Present on the island since 2006, with the approval of the National Council of Churches, Living Waters for the World was officially established in 2012 and according to its website, its role is to “coordinate, train teams, and ensure the sustainability.” Currently, they report having 62 projects in Cuba—one of them “non-operational”—although they don’t specify where. From Matanzas, the Evangelical Theological Seminary, the Kairós Center—belonging to the First Baptist Church—and the Central Presbyterian Church are their focal points.

“It is worth all the effort when you see the acceptance and gratitude of the people who come from far away to fill their containers,” Julio César, head of the Kairós Center’s purification system, told 14ymedio. Despite Living Waters’ efforts, he doesn’t hide the difficulties of maintaining the equipment.

“It’s a complicated routine, even more so now that the power outage is hitting us hard,” a circumstance that, he says, “sometimes prevents the process from being completed.” Furthermore, he explains, the city’s water is rich in magnesium, so the purifier filters “don’t last more than six months.” The NGO, he asserts, “tries to make sure we don’t run out of filters, but even so, we’ve been visto apretados [stretched thin], as we say in good Cuban.”

The city’s water is rich in magnesium, so the filters in Living Waters purifiers “don’t last more than six months.” / Courtesy

Another problem is that they have to “rationalize” the amounts—that is, control how much water is distributed per person—”because we depend on pumping from the street, even though we have a large cistern and large tanks.” Even so, it’s the only alternative many Matanzas residents have.

Lázara is one of those who chooses to climb the steps of the Evangelical Seminary three times a week to fetch the water they purify there. “If there isn’t any, I know there are two other churches downtown that also provide the service.” Faced with this solution, she laments, she knows that “there are neighbors who drink the water they get from the gutters.”

Indeed, this newspaper has witnessed the lines at a gutter where someone, at some point, began haphazardly collecting water. Unable to pay for water trucks—which in Matanzas cost around 8,000 pesos—or unable to store water, some others resort to the Pompón — a natural water source near the zoo, even if it’s just to wash, clean, or flush toilets.

There are residents who draw water directly from a gutter. / 14ymedio

The city of Matanzas sits on Cuba’s most important urban water table, which extends from the Arcos de Canasí (Canasí Arches) on the border with Mayabeque to the Bello springs. This groundwater network, stretching over 70 kilometers, supplies water to a large part of the province and feeds a spring that runs underground through the historic city center, emptying into the aforementioned Pompón River, where it joins the Yumurí River.

This underground river, dubbed the “ghost river” by Ercilio Vento Canosa in his book Matanzas y sus secretos (Matanzas and its Secrets), has become one of the last resorts for many families who lack access to safe water.

Neighborhoods like La Marina have not received drinking water since November 2024, forcing residents to resort to alternatives. / 14ymedio

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Eleven Cubans Linked to the Cuban Armed Forces Are Detained in Matanzas for “Mercenary Activity”

The Cubans were recruited by an army officer to fight with Russia in the war in Ukraine.

Cuban mercenaries on the Ukrainian front. / Mario Vallejo/Facebook

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz. Matanzas, 23 July 2025 — On May 12, 2025, Eduardo was released after spending a year and four months in Combinado del Sur, a maximum-security prison in Cuba’s Matanzas province. His crime: having purchased a ticket to Russia for February 2024 from the same agency and on the same flight as a group of 11 people currently being prosecuted in total secrecy for the crime of mercenarism

All those detained are being investigated for their alleged intention to participate as soldiers in the service of the Russian Army in the war against Ukraine. In Cuba, mercenarism is a serious crime, punishable by up to 30 years in prison under the Penal Code. Although the government has officially denied its involvement in the Russian-Ukrainian conflict, it has also acknowledged—ambiguously—the existence of recruitment networks to send Cuban combatants to the war front.

Eduardo denied knowing anyone involved, but they didn’t believe him, and he ended up in a cell with three members of the group that was about to travel to Russia. Among those arrested was a former member of the Ministry of the Interior, originally from Bayamo but living in Havana. His name is Amaury. He trained as a sniper at the military school and had continue reading

worked as a driver in Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces (FAR) units.

Another detainee, known as Tasé, is from Baracoa and was part of an alleged mixed martial arts team.

Another detainee, known as Tasé, is from Baracoa and was part of a supposed mixed martial arts team. He was traveling, according to his version, to participate in a “cultural exchange” in Russia, an alibi repeated in similar cases.

All of the detainees, except Eduardo, had some connection to the Cuban Armed Forces or the Cuban state security apparatus. Several possessed military titles, combat skills, or specialized training. One of them, arrested after confessing that war was “a possibility,” became a key player in the case. Although the investigation has not revealed formal employment contracts, accounts point to an informal recruitment network operating under the command of an officer nicknamed “El Maestro.”

Identified as a FAR officer, El Maestro was known for leading a paramilitary martial arts team. At least one of those implicated was a member of that group. According to sources close to the case, he is identified as the operational center of the network, managing flights, connections, procedures, and contacts. Although he is not incarcerated with the other detainees, his trial is being conducted in parallel from the Canaleta prison in Jovellanos, Matanzas—not to be confused with the prison of the same name in Ciego de Ávila. This separation has fueled the theory that his isolation is a control strategy: to prevent leaks between defendants or preserve hierarchies within the prison system.

“The Maestro had everything squared with the Russians,” says one of those involved.

According to one of the detainees at Combinado del Sur, whose comments reached 14ymedio through a relative, there is a suspicion that El Maestro was sacrificed as a scapegoat to calm the waters and disprove any state involvement when the scandal broke regarding the involvement of Cubans sent to the war broke. There is also the hypothesis that the recruiter acted independently. “El Maestro had everything arranged with the Russians,” comments one of those involved.

Some testimonies from those who did reach the battlefields demonstrate the effects left on them by the war. Francisco García, a 37-year-old Cuban, says his “life ended” when he discovered that the promised job—repairing buildings in exchange for a Russian passport and $2,594 a month—was nothing more than a lie to turn him into a mercenary. After witnessing the deaths of dozens of Cuban and Russian soldiers, subjected to psychological violence to act as a “robot on the battlefield,” he deserted in October 2024. García paid nearly $13,000 to a trafficker to flee to Greece and now lives on the streets of Athens, without help, lamenting the price of having survived a war that “has nothing to do with him.”

There is also the case of three young men from Matanzas who were arrested months ago on the Russian-Finnish border. They were trying to leave Russia when they were detained by immigration police and taken to a detention center where they were pressured to sign a military contract. The Cuban Embassy, they reported, never intervened. Only thanks to the their story going viral—through a video sent to their families and shared on social media—were they able to return to Cuba.

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Artex Has a Lot of Income but Does Not Pay Cuban Musicians and Artists

The provincial branch of Matanzas collected 257 million pesos in 2024: “The money enters the box office and the talent is forgotten.”

If the profits were so significant, where is the salary of the artists? / Ricardo López Hevia

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas,15 July 2025 — Various voices of the cultural guild linked to Artex S.A. -the State trading company responsible for marketing Cuban culture- complain about delays of three to six months for delivery of their salaries. According to the statements of artists from different provinces, the payment they should receive for concerts in venues, hotels and festivals simply does not materialize.

“Three months of waiting, and they say the money is there, but it never arrives,” says José, a night club worker in the city of Matanzas. “There are colleagues with six months in this situation. Imagine, a salary is never enough to live on, much less without receiving tips.”

Joseph’s testimony is no exception. Efrén, a musician hired by a hotel in Varadero, says that he worked his shifts on time, but he has not been paid anything. “I started playing at the agreed time, but if I ask for my salary and they say ’not yet’. That’s how it’s been for two months.” continue reading

Artex’s branch in Matanzas closed the year 2024 with more than 257 million pesos in gross revenues.

In the annual balance sheet of the provincial Artex branch in Matanzas, it was announced that the entity closed the year 2024 with more than 257 million pesos in gross revenues. This positioned the territory as the second highest-earning branch in the country. For these results they received the status of “national vanguard” for the thirteenth time. If the profits were so significant, many question, where is the salary for the artists?

The same is true in Havana. The persistence of these defaults has led artists like Yanairis Fernández, director of the metal band Bonus, to warn that they will stop performing in centers such as Submarino Amarillo and Jardín del Mella if they do not receive their remuneration before July. His decision has also affected rock bands like Pyra and Green Beans, who have been claiming arrears since March. On social networks like Facebook, some directors have announced the sending of open letters calling on musicians to stop their performances until Artex complies.

The president of Artex posts more political propaganda on his social media than artistic promotion

Artex is a complex State trading company with headquarters, agencies, divisions and branches throughout Cuba. Its commercial network includes shops, cultural centers and promotion of products and services in both Cuban pesos and foreign currency. Its catalogue includes entities such as Bis Music (recording and publishing), Ediciones Cubanas, Clave Cubana, Musicalia, d’Arte, Paradiso (cultural tourism) and Soy Cubano (export of cultural products and services). Artex manages festivals, hotel events, tours and contracts with Cuban artists.

A glance at the X profile of Artex’s national president, Eladio Marrero Florido, reveals an extensive campaign to promote political figures such as Fidel Castro and Miguel Díaz-Canel, as well as attacks on Marco Rubio and Donald Trump. But it is almost impossible to find promotions, comments or allusions to the work of Cuban artists, much less a report on the fulfillment of payment dates for their work.

Artex “has money,” but the concept of “paying for talent” does not seem to be part of its priorities.

Musicians, sound technicians and artistic directors consulted by 14ymedio report that Artex “has money,” but the concept of “paying for talent” does not seem to be part of its priorities. “They promote festivals in Varadero paid in dollars and have huge advertising campaigns, but those of us who work directly at these events are waiting, without a clear explanation,” says Efrén. Sound technician Yoangel, in another hotel in the same area, says that signing a contract with Artex is like “playing Russian roulette.” After two months without pay, he decided to quit to avoid getting trapped in an endless wait.

“How many more months do you plan to leave us without pay?” asks a musician who threatens to boycott performances in venues linked to Artex. The proposal for a standstill is presented to a company which, without issuing official apologies or explanations, continues to operate and sell culture without paying the creators. The pressures extend to requesting the intervention of the Ministry of Culture and the Public Prosecutor’s Office, denouncing a supposed structural exploitation: “The money enters the box office and the talent is forgotten.”

In a country where the average wage barely covers the basics, these defaults are a daily tragedy. Artists like José, Efrén and Yoangel divide their time among concerts, private classes and informal jobs to survive. “I live on what I sell to tourists, records and tips; but I can’t go on like this anymore,” one admits. For families who depend on their work in culture, these unpaid months mean losing shelter, food and medicine.

Bars, restaurants and even small private cafes have become the alternative for artists.

Others have begun to present themselves in private venues, aware that the State is increasingly lacking in resources to meet its commitments. Bars, restaurants and even small cafes have become the stage for singers, magicians and comedians, who, tired of waiting for their salary, prefer to close a deal with an entrepreneur and support themselves with tips from customers.

Artex’s reputation is faltering under the shadow of this wage crisis. The question that resonates in the guild is clear: can a sustainable culture maintain itself on broken promises? Artists and workers demand immediate payments, transparency in financial management and a genuine commitment from the institution. If not, they warn, the silence could become louder than any song.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Etecsa’s ‘Tarifazo’ Forces Cubans To Return to Dangerous Parks with WiFi

In Matanzas, users recount the difficulties of connecting to the network and thefts of accounts by hackers.

The connection’s strength isn’t a reason to jump for joy. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 12 July 2025 — The ‘tarifazo’ [huge price increase] imposed by Cuba’s State telecommunications monopoly Etecsa has suddenly returned hundreds of Cubans to the past and the search for a Wi-Fi hotspot that would allow them an internet connection. But also, due to time, those places are no longer what they once were. Blackouts and the widespread increase in theft and violence make those who are forced to resort to this option vulnerable, due to a lack of effective connections at home and the expensive and poorly managed data.

“I study,” says Yusmari sitting on a bench in Paseo Martí, in the Versalles neighborhood of Matanzas. “It’s not that all I do on the internet is study, but most of the time the so-called 6 GB extra for students, at least in the university Camilo Cienfuegos, is slow,” she says. Homework doesn’t wait, explains the young woman, who points out how small the packages are. “The 500 MB per month that we are given in school expire in no time, because a PDF enquiry can use more than 50 MB easily, and you have to get a turn for time at the computer. The only thing left is the park wifi,” she says.

But Yusmari knows that the landscape is not the same as it was a decade ago. “Now there is an atmosphere of insecurity; in addition, the street lighting almost never works because of the blackouts, so you have to be careful about coming alone. Nothing has ever happened to me, but if someone can snatch your cell phone in broad daylight, what will they do at night?” continue reading

“Now there is an atmosphere of insecurity; in addition, the street lighting almost never works because of the blackouts.”

The connection’s strength isn’t a reason to jump for joy. “There are parks that are better or worse,” says Orestes, who uses the wifi to download files while waiting for his transport to Varadero, where he works as a musician. “Everything depends on the users; in my case it’s the worst since there is not much signal in this area, and people point their phones at the park so they don’t have to leave the house. Many times in less than an hour the phone is disconnected more than 10 times, and you have to restart the authentication process,” he says. The average download speed on fixed broadband is 2.73 Mbps with an upload speed of just 0.96. These results place Cuba in 159th place out of 159 countries evaluated, according to SpeedTest.

Orestes complains that it is sometimes impossible to even enter the Etecsa user portal. “And to top it off there are cloned portals that steal your account and password with total impunity. In the end, with patience, it is resolved, and at least something lets you upload, but it’s a constant struggle.”

The young musician says that the insecurity is not only physical but also due to the hackers. “Several people have complained,” says a worker from a nearby point of contact. “Mostly elderly people, but I can’t do anything, only raise their complaints to the managers. My functions as a company worker are only commercial.” Etecsa’s investment in cybersecurity appears to be nil, they both claim.

The great alternative to public wifi areas were, before data worked, the hotels. In the case of Matanzas, many people approached the Velasco and the Louvre, in the center of the city, for their good options to get online. Being service networks abroad, the speed was much better – up to 4 MB of data transfer – and all you had to do was create an Etecsa account, but that only worked in those hotels.

The great alternative to public wifi areas were, before data worked, the hotels. In the case of Matanzas, many people approached the Velasco and the Louvre.

“The option no longer exists, at least for those Cubans who used it,” says Reinaldo, who works as a freelancer. “One day, without further ado, they told me that they could not top up my account because the service was only for guests, even though we are the Cuban customers who fill the lobby and the bar, both at the Velasco and the Louvre.”

“And every day, I spent more than three hours there and consumed enough, even had lunch several times a week. But now that network is under-exploited, and many people who are creating new ways of bringing foreign exchange into the country have to look for other paths. We all lost in this,” he says with resignation.

One of the employees at the Louvre confirms that if you are not a customer, you cannot have an account to connect to the internet in the hotel. “I don’t know the reason, and it’s not that I personally want it, but one day that law came from above and remained,” he says. “As a worker, I must comply, although it seems extreme. More so now, with the controversy over mobile data.” The employee claims that before, under the pretext of connecting to the internet, the bar was filled with domestic customers who are now mad. “Sometimes, he recalls, we couldn’t even keep up.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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With Half-Empty Hotels and Deserted Restaurants, Varadero, Cuba is Bleeding

Many workers return to their hometowns, Cárdenas and Matanzas, to seek alternatives outside the tourism sector.

After the shock of the Covid pandemic, Varadero is experiencing its worst crisis in decades / EFE]

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Veradero, June 30. 2025 — In the 1990s, during the so-called Special Period, the Cuban regime bet on international tourism as a lifeline for its faltering socialist economy. The Hicacos peninsula, better known as Varadero, became in a few years the emblem of the new economic model: all-inclusive hotels, rum, tobacco and a low-cost tourist package that attracted mainly Spanish hotel chains.

But the boom is only a memory. After the shock of the covid-19 pandemic, Varadero is experiencing its worst crisis in decades. The decline in tourism has left half-empty hotels, deserted streets and thousands of workers on the verge of subsistence.

“There have always been ups and downs, but nothing like the last five years” / 14ymedio

“After Covid we had to reinvent ourselves,” says Maria Carla, a 30-year employee of the restaurant Floridita in Varadero. “There have always been ups and downs, but nothing like the last five years. All inclusive hotels have affected us a lot: tourists no longer leave the hotel, they leave a tip inside to ensure good service and they go away without stepping inside a shop or restaurant outside the complex.”

Maria Carla remembers with nostalgia the days when the city was a hotbed. Today, except for some places frequented by locals, such as the brewery on 43rd street or the bowling alley on 45th, “Varadero looks like a desert.” Many workers are returning to their home towns of Cárdenas and Matanzas to look for alternatives outside the tourism sector.

During the last decade, the official press claimed to have exceeded four million tourists per year, of which more than one million would have arrived in Varadero, but that figure has been questioned even from within.

“Every December they said that they had reached one million visitors, but there was still a long way to go to reach that figure” / 14ymedio

“At Radio 26, where I worked, everyone knew that the numbers were inflated,” says a former technician from the provincial radio station. “Every December they said that they had reached one million visitors, but there was still a long way to go to reach that figure”.

Competition has also played its part. Punta Cana, Cancun, Puerto Rico, Isla Margarita and the Bahamas offer modern infrastructure and better service. The comparison is humiliating.

“The hotels here look like campsites,” says Anthony, a buffet worker at the Los Delfines hotel. “Shrimp and lobster are almost invisible. And if they come in, we workers fight for them. Our salary is not enough, and when tourists see the environment, the toilets without seats and the leaks when it rains, they don’t leave a tip. If you don’t believe me, pass by Cuatro Palmas on a rainy day.” continue reading

“The hotels here look like campsites”

Anthony bitterly recalls a week he spent in a modest hotel in Punta Cana: “In Varadero, it would be in the top ten.” It is not surprising that the state-owned chains – Cubanacán, Gaviota and Islazul – are increasingly turning to national tourism.

“It’s the third year that we come here with the family,” says Elena, a habanera living in Marianao. “My husband and I work hard and give ourselves this luxury. But you can see the drop in service and offers. Still, we had a good time, although every year we think it will be the last. Just three days in a three-star hotel cost us more than 100,000 pesos, and with that we can eat at home for several months.”

For many Cubans from Mantanzas and Cárdenas who work there, Varadero is not just a beach, it’s their livelihood. Every tip, every bag of groceries and hotel leftovers ends up in their homes. “If Varadero is fine, Matanzas is fine,” is repeated as a mantra among those who live on what “falls off the truck.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Blackout for ‘The Little Prince’, Light for Cuban Communist Party Officials in Matanzas

Some neighborhoods barely suffer any outages, while others live among candles and silent refrigerators.

Members of the Teatro de las Estaciones, in Matanzas, with a poster announcing the suspension of the play. Sign: “Function suspended. Theater for children is not a priority of those who plan electricity service.”/ 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 20 June 2025 — “The essential is invisible to the eyes,” says the famous quote from The Little Prince. But when Antoine de Saint-Exupéry wrote it, he was not referring to the blackouts. In Matanzas, the children find it difficult to see the adaptation prepared by the group Teatro de las Estaciones. The city has become a dark pit, in whose abyss the light is distributed with diffuse and often arbitrary criteria. In that abyss, only some – the chosen few, the closest to power – receive the grace of constant electricity. As is often the case on this island, for some to win, others must lose.

“We know what is going on in the country. We know and understand that hospital circuits must have priority. What we don’t understand is how a circuit where there are only houses of Party officials and militants has ten hours more electricity than any other,” says a theater worker who prefers anonymity. While he brings a cup of coffee to his lips, he smiles with irony and adds: “The provincial headquarters of the PCC [Cuban Communist Party] is just there,” and he points to some lights a few meters away.

The comment is not isolated. Parents, artists, technicians and theater managers share the same frustration. It is not just the impossibility of rehearsing or presenting performances, but an implicit message: culture, childhood and art are not priorities. continue reading

It is not just the impossibility of rehearsing or presenting performances, but an implicit message: culture, childhood and art are not priorities

The children who came to the theater with the hope of seeing a puppet show, accompanied by parents who strive during the week to offer them moments of healthy recreation, found the doors closed, lights out, curtains down. “Then we and the kids put our heads in our hands. Places where children can grow up with sensitivity are not valued,” continues the same worker.

The Teatro de las Estaciones is not just any institution. Founded by maestros Rubén Darío Salazar and Zenén Calero, it has been for decades a quarry of creativity and sensitivity for generations of Cubans. Its members have taken the puppetry technique to unexpected levels, combining tradition and avant-garde, raising the genre to a level of respect and recognition. “I don’t say it only because I work here,” insists a woman from Mantanzas. “I say it because we have built it with a lot of effort, with every rehearsal, with every performance under the sun and under the blackouts.”

The work, entitled A Trail in the Stars (Invisible poems to say at twilight), started from the verses of Asteroid B612 by writer José Manuel Espino – a book that pays homage to Saint-Exupéry’s immortal classic. The company has had to suspend performances, adjust rehearsals and reinvent the calendar because of power cuts. But more than a technical contingency, what is perceived is a deep fracture: the lack of equity in the distribution of energy.

The authorities have implemented a rotation system that, according to the official discourse, seeks “equity” in the distribution of electricity. In practice, however, the perception is different. Some neighborhoods barely suffer cuts, while others live among candles, exhausted batteries and silent refrigerators.

Art, like the flower of the Little Prince, needs care. It does not survive without light, without attention, without a space to flourish

Art, like the flower of the Little Prince, needs care. It does not survive without light, without attention, without a space to flourish. And although the rulers proclaim from the grandstands the importance of culture and healthy recreation, administrative decisions contradict that discourse. “They talk about culture as a shield, like a sword, but here we feel forgotten,” says another member of the artistic collective.

And this is not just a cultural anecdote. It is a reflection of how the blackouts – that word so present in Cuban daily life – affect not only domestic life, but also the social fabric, the mood, the soul of the nation. Because when the theaters go out, it’s not just the light bulbs.

Artists don’t ask for privileges. They ask for minimum conditions to do their work, one that often fills educational, emotional and spiritual gaps. In a country where childhood is surrounded by scarcity and uncertainty, theater is something more than a respite.

“We are not a priority. That is clear. But at least don’t keep telling us that we are,” one of the actors concludes with resignation. While in some neighborhoods the air conditioning does not stop buzzing, in others, as in this theater, the heart of Matanzas, the only thing you hear is the silence of a performance that was not. A flower that could not be watered, a child who did not know the fox, an asteroid without light.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Lobito, the Star of Matanzas’ Narváez Promenade, Has Died

“Life is difficult for humans, what can we expect for stray animals?”

Lobito, like other stray dogs, was art of the environment of the Matanzas boulevard.

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 15 June 2025 — Lobito was a mixed-breed dog, a sato, without a pedigree. Even so, his death last week, when a door fell and struck him, dismayed the workers on Narváez Avenue in the city of Matanzas, who were accustomed to feeding him and watching him frolic with bar patrons.

Lobito arrived on Narváez Avenue after passing through several homes. The Animal Welfare (BAC) staff in Matanzas had taken him in as a puppy, covered in sores. They treated him, bathed him, and tried to put him up for adoption, but Lobito never adapted. “What he liked most was running around the streets and playing with the bar patrons, who gave him food and sometimes held his paw. Little by little, along with other street dogs, he became part of the Matanzas boulevard scene,” says Yordani, a bartender at one of the street cafes.

“A worker at the Artys bar, where the accident happened, told me about it. When I started working here, he was already here. Every day, we brought him his lunch and his dinner along with ours. He was part of the team, not just at this bar but at most of the bars in the area,” explains the young man from Matanzas.

Lobito, he recalls, had “free access” to a few establishments, where he took refuge from the heat and entertained diners. “Surprisingly, he didn’t bother the customers; on the contrary, they were the ones who most often called him over and even asked to take pictures with him,” he says. Tourists also photographed him, or he was seen playing with some children, trying to steal a ball from them. continue reading

The stray dog wasn’t the only one with a reputation on the boulevard either. “There was Firulais, who went viral when a quinceañera took some studio photos with him, and the story was reported in a Spanish magazine. We also had El Rubio and his girlfriend, who we weren’t sure if they were dating or not, but they always lay down together to take a nap in some shaded area along the promenade,” says Yordani. Little by little, some due to illness and others due to accidents, Narváez’s community pets began to disappear.

The city’s animal rights activists never stopped caring for Lobito. According to Yordani, “they always kept him clean and took care of his health” despite the lack of resources and institutional support they’ve suffered since the association’s founding a few years ago.

BAC members, mostly young people, not only make their own resources and pockets available to stray or abandoned animals, but were also the ones who pushed – with a demonstration in front of the Ministry of Agriculture in Havana – for the creation of an Animal Welfare law that was finally approved in 2021. However, interviewed by 14ymedio , some of the young people are not satisfied with the law.

“It’s already outdated and no longer serves the purpose for which it was created,” says one BAC activist. “It’s as if it was created to silence the demands of animal lovers,” adds another.

El Rubio and his girlfriend were also on the promenade.

The young people lament that the crisis the island is mired in, which leaves little room for anything but daily survival, has worsened the situation for domestic animals. “Life is difficult for humans, what can we expect for stray animals? Many of us activists take part of our wages to buy medicine, pay for surgeries, and transport not only our own but also these other animals in critical condition,” the animal rights activist explains. “An operation for a cat can cost over 20,000 pesos and is generally only performed in the capital.”

While acknowledging that many have become aware of the precarious conditions faced by stray animals, he also admits that Cuba is “in its infancy” compared to many countries around the world and on the continent. Lobito is proof of that.

The youth lament that the crisis the island is experiencing has worsened the situation of domestic animals.

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