Category: Yoani Sanchez

Without internet, without public transport, and with appliances destroyed, Havana seems to be returning to its harshest origins.

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, May 18, 2026 — “You have to go straight on Carlos III,” a weary-looking state employee tells me when I ask for directions to shop that repairs electric pressure cookers. With no internet on cell phones and phone calls hampered, people have returned to using the most reliable “street map”: asking around. On the wide avenue that runs through Central Havana, that’s easy, because there’s always some activity. The difficult part is distinguishing when someone answers with just anything, without knowing, and when they actually have reliable information.

While I make my way toward Reina Street, a señora, sitting in a doorway tells me she has “Alprazolam, the good stuff,” a powerful benzodiazepine that sells in this city as if it was candy for children. An old man, who has placed some broken objects on the sidewalk to attract customers, gives me further directions, and a stray dog ​​keeps glancing at the vendor selling bread and suckling pig, stationed with his cart on a corner, begging him to throw at least a scrap of skin.

Carlos III Avenue has become a strip of makeshift stalls. The softdrink bottling plant that fascinated me with its sounds in my childhood is closed. The garden of the Economic Society of Friends of the Country, which I loved to wander through, has been fenced off for decades. The cultural center where I learned to draw and first stepped onto a stage barely plans any activities. But the worst is the Plaza, reconverted into a market in dollars as devoid of goods as it is of customers. From its dark interior, neither voices nor laughter ever emerge.

I walk past a sign advertising the Domestic Trade Knowledge Management Center (CGC). “What kind of information will be stored there?” I wonder. Will they teach us how to share our experiences regarding how many peas we consumers in the rationed market get every few months? Will the innovation they promote have to do with how to make smaller, worse-quality bread each day to sell through the ration book? What will future scholars find when they open the archives of this institution? Will they be as empty as the shelves of the corner store in my neighborhood?

These days I’ve been thinking about the planes of Ethiopian. I’ve never been there, but my fascination with every drop of water, every glimmer of light, and every step I take must be very similar to that of those early Homo sapiens, surprised and frightened by so many things they didn’t understand. I chase clouds with my eyes to see if it’s going to rain in my neighborhood so I can fill a bucket, I calculate how long cooked beans will last without refrigeration, and I gauge where the shade will be when I set off on the long walk from anywhere in the city to my house.

I have seen scenes in the streets of Havana that I only knew from ancient history books when they described the harsh survival of our ancestors.

The cave attracts the cave. I’ve seen scenes in the streets of Havana that I only knew from ancient history books, when they described the harsh survival of our ancestors. A couple of young men hunting laurel pigeons with clubs and sacks, just to eat. A young woman preparing, with sacks and bags, a space in a tree trunk to spend the night. A family lighting firewood right in the street to finish cooking their lunch. We’re all becoming somewhat feral, a little wilder every day.

We haveve returned to the origins of basic survival. Given that the elements of modernity that surrounded us are becoming ever more unstable, the wild animal that we are at our core emerges: the reptile that dwells within us. We go out during the day to try to “solve” whatever problems we can. At night, we must avoid setting foot on the street: the sidewalks are dark, muggings are on the rise, and recreational options are so depleted that it’s not worth paying thousands of pesos for round-trip transportation to a private club or bar.

The appliance repairman doesn’t mince words. “This rice cooker is beyond repair,” he tells me minutes after I finally find his small shop on Carlos III Street. A power surge after the electricity was restored sealed the fate of a pot we’d bought more than three decades ago, when my son was born. “It lasted quite a while,” I tell myself, and I leave it for spare parts with the busy entrepreneur, who already has a long line of customers. The blackouts leave a trail of victims in their wake: deep fryers, coffee makers, and pressure cookers that perish from “excessive current” when the power returns.

With my hands now free, I continue along Reina Street to seek the almendrón taxi stand at Fraternity Park. I hope that one day these people will have their own routes with comfortable and efficient buses that run throughout the city. If they’ve managed to create the most effective way to get around Havana under the worst conditions, they deserve to move up. With inspectors harassing them, police demanding ever-larger bribes, fuel shortages, and the old vehicles from the mid-20th century that they drive, the boteros have escaped the clutches of centralism. Many passengers complain about their prices, but we should be grateful that they exist.

You Havana residents are now experiencing what we have been suffering for years.

I climb into the “pisicorre,” an old Willys Jeep painted canary yellow. The young man who sits next to me is from Bejucal, a small town in what is now the province of Mayabeque, once famous for its brass bands. “You Havana residents are now experiencing what we’ve been suffering for years,” he tells me bluntly. “I can’t remember the last time I came home to electricity,” adds the man, who claims to be one of the few in his community who still commutes to the Cuban capital every day for work.

The scene he describes is depressing. “My wife has become an expert at lighting the charcoal for cooking, and many nights we take turns fanning the girls [ages five and eight]” so they don’t get bitten so much by the mosquitoes. What happens in his house is replicated throughout the town, and Bejucal “has become empty because those who didn’t leave through the Darién Gap left under the Law of Grandchildren.” I try to imagine what that place, which dazzled me with its festive rivalry between La Ceiba de Plata and La Espina de Oro, must be like at night, but I can’t quite picture it.

I arrive at my destination. I pass by Estancia Street to buy some basil. The vendor wraps the small bunch in a newspaper. The main headline is about the 2026 Economic and Social Program. Although only a few days have passed since its publication, the phrase seems like something from a distant past, when the State believed it had control over the present and future of every Cuban.

The reptile inside me stirs. It has heard the hum of the Ministry of Transportation’s generator. It’s the signal for the blackout, and it knows it will have to climb 14 flights of stairs. At the 10th floor, I close my eyes, hold onto the handrail, and imagine climbing a tree, crooked and with beautiful foliage, somewhere in the Ethiopian plains.

Previous Havana Chronicles:

Sleeping Is Also a Privilege in Havana

A Desperate Plea in the Middle of the Dark Havana Night: ‘Light!’

The Refuse of Disenchantment

Under a Picture-Postcard Blue Sky, the Country is Crumbling

Fatigue Barely Allows One to Enjoy the ‘Lights On’ in Havana

Dollars, the Classic Card, and a Havana Without Tourists

A Journey Through the Lost Names of Havana

The Shipwreck of a Ship Called “Cuba”

Havana Seen From ‘The Control Tower’

In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes

Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold

Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana

The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis

The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban

One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos

It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”

Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert

Havana, in Critical Condition

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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.

While hundreds stand in line to leave the country after sleepless nights, a class emerges capable of shielding themselves from blackouts and sleeping soundly.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, 12 May 2026 / Everyone on the street is talking about the same thing. “I couldn’t sleep even an hour last night,” a young woman tells an elderly woman she passes as she walks along Calzada del Cerro. I follow behind, with the clumsy gait of someone who spent the night awake, barely blinked the night before, and managed, if anything, a couple of hours of sleep. The constant sleeplessness imposed by the combination of blackouts and heat weighs heavily on all of us in this city.

Before five o’clock in the morning this Tuesday, I’d already had a couple of cups of coffee. By seven, my eyes were wide open, and I headed out, but I made a mistake turning right at Rancho Boyeros instead of going straight, and I ended up at the Ciénaga train workshops. I crossed the avenue and decided to walk to Esquina de Tejas. The oak trees were in bloom all over the city, so with every step I stumbled upon a tapestry of petals on the ground. A soft carpet that got me yawning. All I could think about were pillows, blankets, and a cool room where I could snore for hours on end.

The owner of the most powerful Ecoflow, the longest-lasting battery, and the generator with the most fuel is now the neighborhood ‘big shot’.

Several blocks before reaching the Immigration and Foreigners Directorate office, I see the crowd. There are dozens, most likely hundreds, of people who have spent the night there to apply for a passport. The exodus continues unabated. A woman boasts to others that she spent the night at a friend’s house who has a generator and that she slept “like a log with the air conditioning on.” The looks she gets from those who hear her bravado are like poisoned arrows.

The new class emerging is the one that can isolate itself from blackouts and enter the deep sleep stage, essential for physical recovery. People with resources are no longer identified so much by the designer clothes, the car they drive, or the drinks they toast with. Now, the deepest social divide is between those who can count on an energy supply that allows them to rest during the early morning hours, and those who experience that time of day amidst mosquito bites, sweat, and sudden awakenings.

Our status is written all over our faces. That woman with dark circles under her eyes; she probably doesn’t even have a rechargeable fan to keep cool in the dark. That young man with puffy bags under his eyes; he probably lives in a windowless tenement and has a small child he must fan all night. And those cheeks without a dark spot on their upper part; there we have the nouveau riche. The owner of the most powerful Ecoflow, the longest-lasting battery, and the generator with the most fuel is now the neighborhood dandy.

I arrive at the Esquina de Tejas. The park benches at the base of the two 20-story buildings are full of families. Some children sleep stretched out on the granite, while their mothers wave cardboard boxes close to their bodies. These towers, which I can see from my apartment, spend a good part of the night in darkness. When I feel that my building’s electricity is being mistreated more than the others, I only have to look toward the horizon at the windows of these darkened buildings to remind me that in this city there’s always someone who might be worse off, much worse off.

I turn onto Infanta Street. Several government offices have been ordered to clean up the mess in front of their buildings. So, several employees, brooms and dustpans in hand, are sweeping up a piece of paper here, some cardboard there, in the middle of an avenue overflowing with filth. As the sun begins to beat down, they retreat to their offices with a sense of accomplishment, while outside, mountains of garbage continue to dominate the landscape. One of the enthusiastic cleaners has forgotten the bin of accumulated waste, which a cart driver accidentally knocks over, and it all spills back onto the street.

She bought some coffee from a street vendor. She never drinks it after eight in the morning to avoid sleep problems later, but who cares about a little more caffeine in a city where you can’t sleep anyway? The small dose came with sugar, but she didn’t care; she just wanted to wake up and get to her destination. She reached Parque de la Normal.

In one corner, a woman has fallen asleep leaning against a tree trunk. It’s an oak. The blossoms have continued to fall, and her shoulders, skirt, and bag are covered in those fragile petals that wither as soon as they fall.

Previous Havana Chronicles:

A Desperate Plea in the Middle of the Dark Havana Night: ‘Light!’

The Refuse of Disenchantment

Under a Picture-Postcard Blue Sky, the Country is Crumbling

Fatigue Barely Allows One to Enjoy the ‘Lights On’ in Havana

Dollars, the Classic Card, and a Havana Without Tourists

A Journey Through the Lost Names of Havana

The Shipwreck of a Ship Called “Cuba”

Havana Seen From ‘The Control Tower’

In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes

Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold

Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana

The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis

The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban

One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos

It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”

Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert

Havana, in Critical Condition
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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 the crumbling doorways of Monte Street to the neighborhoods without electricity, the Cuban capital displays the physical and emotional toll of the crisis

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, May 9, 2026 — May doesn’t feel like May. It has the face of July and the temperament of August. I know this from the irritability I encounter at every step. Social fatigue often manifests as fights over anything, a shout here and a shove there that add a little more anxiety to the already harsh daily grind. A shoe unintentionally stepped-on, a phrase spoken to the wrong person, or an indiscrete glance can unleash anything.

But I’m lucky. Amid the widespread discomfort caused by the long blackouts that have returned with a vengeance, the lack of water that makes our skin sticky and our smells unbearable, I always find a helping hand. Like the man who helps me pick up the cachucha peppers I dropped on a corner because the plastic bag couldn’t hold them, or the young woman who helps me get onto the electric tricycle without stumbling, and the elderly woman who stands beside me and shields me with her umbrella because “this sun is unbearable.”

They’re barely turning on the electricity in my neighborhood anymore. Not in my neighborhood, not in the rest of Cuba. A neighbor says we have to eat everything that needs refrigeration this weekend because we won’t have any more power. We’ll have to say goodbye to the electrical outlets in every house, bid a well-deserved farewell to the light switches, hold a wake for all those wires strung between poles, all those silenced appliances, all those LED lights above our heads. We’ll have to close the door on modernity and swallow the key to begin the total return to darkness.

In our apartment, we open windows, doors, and cracks every night. We’re lucky to live on a high floor facing the northeast trade winds. The only thing left to do is peel off our skin to see if that cools things down a bit. In the middle of the night, I always think about the people who live in the tenement in Central Havana where I was born. With hardly any ventilation, living in tiny rooms with a wall from the neighboring tenement blocking any breeze, they have few options. If I’m like this, I’m afraid they must be slowly roasting in that tenement on Jesús Peregrino Street.

Last night a desperate voice cried out in my neighborhood. It said something like “light” and then a swear word. I was drenched in sweat and paralyzed after several nights with barely three or four hours of sleep. When I woke up, I didn’t know if that cry had been real, but a neighbor confirmed it. I feel guilty for not having supported the lone protester, but I was exhausted. The day before, I had been given a grueling task: to go to an area of ​​the city that stirs up memories.

Monte Street, now that’s a whole other story. So I had to take a deep breath before plunging onto its sidewalks after crossing Fraternity Park. The long inhalation wasn’t just because of the foul smells emanating from its doorways, but also to numb my emotions at the sight of one of the many routes from my childhood, now a ruin. “Let’s go there,” I told myself, not quite believing my own enthusiasm.

No Havana street is as dilapidated and its people as broken as Monte. Traveling along it is like stepping into a Cuba of gritty realism or ghost stories. There’s nothing to inspire optimism along this avenue that cuts through some of the most densely populated neighborhoods of the Cuban capital. They haven’t even touched the occasional fresh coat of paint applied to the facades where foreign dignitaries or popes pass by. Nor has the garbage been collected, unlike in those places visited by government officials for photo ops.

The faded names of former businesses are visible on the portals. The shop windows, their broken panes covered with boards, exhibit in the few pieces intact merchandise covered with dust and and containers of cleaning products that promise to fill the house with fragrance and shine. A store overflowing with imported trinkets has a long line of people buying to take all that single-use plastic and cheap silicone back to some small town on the island to resell.

If Monte is a cadver, the alleyways that lead into it are already dust. I venture into one of them. At the end of a passageway, I see a child playing with a flattened plastic bottle as a ball. Two women are arguing over who gets to fill buckets of water at a sink that’s practically touching the ground. Further on, a man sleeps on a damp piece of cardboard, and a portable radio blasts a song from the nineties, as if the whole place were frozen in time. Nowhere on my journey do I have internet service on my phone.

When I finally leave that avenue behind, I feel like I’ve returned from a war zone. But the truce is short-lived. As soon as I enter my neighborhood, I hear the hum of the Ministry of Transportation’s generator, announcing that there’s no electricity. I run into several neighbors with long faces. Could one of them be the one who, a few hours later, shouted “light!” in the middle of the night?

Previous Havana Chronicles:

The Refuse of Disenchantment

Under a Picture-Postcard Blue Sky, the Country is Crumbling

Fatigue Barely Allows One to Enjoy the ‘Lights On’ in Havana

Dollars, the Classic Card, and a Havana Without Tourists

A Journey Through the Lost Names of Havana

The Shipwreck of a Ship Called “Cuba”

Havana Seen From ‘The Control Tower’

In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes

Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold

Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana

The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis

The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban

One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos

It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”

Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert

Havana, in Critical Condition

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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.

Each mountain of garbage reveals a country where ideological books end up mixed with broken appliances.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, May 7, 2026 / I pass by yet another mountain of garbage I encounter on the road, and it’s as if each piece of trash speaks to me. The true national narrative emerges from this waste that rots under the May sun and is carried by the wind or downpours through streets and avenues. There are countries that tell their history through their shop windows and museums, but here ours are narrated by our filth.

Years ago, the garbage dumps were littered with vegetable peels, rice husks, and even Granma newspapers. Now, among the trash, boxes empty of rechargeable flashlights, Chinese batteries, small solar panels, and portable generators are appearing. The Island of Darkness has begun to leave its mark even in the garbage. Each abandoned package speaks of a family that saved dollars for months to escape the blackouts, but also of the sacrifice of the emigrants who help illuminate the dark nights.

The boxes often still have the product photos printed on them: a lightbulb in the middle of a spotless room, a smiling couple as electricity illuminates a kitchen where nothing is ever lacking. The advertising for these appliances has a cruel edge in Cuba. The images on their packaging don’t just sell energy—I’d say energy—they also sell normalcy. They promise a quiet fan, refrigerated food, mosquito-free nights, and children doing homework under steady light. They promise a country that doesn’t exist.

Even stray animals have learned to read the transformation of our waste. The dogs and cats that roam around the garbage know that people are throwing away fewer and fewer edible items. Before, they found bones, leftover food, pieces of stale bread. Now they rummage for hours through nylon, damp cardboard, and plastic containers to find barely anything to eat. Inflation has also emptied the garbage piles of the remnants of our daily rations. continue reading

In Cuba, being an independent journalist means resisting censorship and redefining the role of the press in a society in transformation.

14ymedio, Havana, Generation Y, Yoani Sánchez, May 3, 2026 —  Every May 3rd carries a different weight when you practice journalism in a country where press freedom is not a right, but a daily battle. This is not a date for celebration, at least not in the most comfortable sense of the word, but for taking stock: of what has been won through hard work, what has been lost along the way, and what still needs to be built. In Cuba, being an independent journalist is not just a profession; it is a form of resistance.

I’ve learned to measure time not just by the days that pass, but by the times the internet connection drops, by the messages that never arrive, by the calls that are cut off just as someone begins to share their story. The poor quality of communications isn’t just a technical problem; it’s a strategy. As are the operations surrounding our homes, the police patrols that appear on “sensitive” dates, the officers who watch, take notes, and intimidate. There are days when going out to report something means first having to get past a cordon.

Added to this are the more visible threats: summonses, interrogations, seizures, and legal proceedings that seek to criminalize the practice of journalism. They call us “mercenaries,” “enemies,” “destabilizers,” as if reporting the truth were a form of violence. But the truth is that the greatest fear of those in power remains that someone will observe, ask questions, and publish.

The greatest fear of those in power remains that someone will look, ask questions, and publish.

However, the challenge doesn’t end with repression. There is another challenge, quieter, and more complex that has to do with Cuban society itself. For decades, the country lived under an information monopoly that shaped not only what was said, but also how it was heard. Many citizens grew up with the idea that the press should confirm, not question; accompany, not investigate; embrace, not criticize. Today, as the cracks continue reading

Just as Villa Marista disrupts the cycles of detainees, the Island suffers its own sleep deprivation

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Generation Y, Havana, March 29, 2026 [delayed translation] — They say that detainees at Villa Marista, the feared headquarters of State Security in Havana, have their circadian rhythms disrupted, that biological rhythm that regulates sleep, wakefulness, body temperature, attention, and even one’s emotional state. Deliberately, jailers turn lights on and off in windowless cells and prolong interrogations to induce disorientation, false confessions, extreme fatigue, and cognitive impairment.

In Cuba, we all feel like we’re in Villa Marista. We get up in the middle of the night to wash clothes, cook, or carry water. At some point during the day, we have to try to catch a nap because we don’t know what chores await us after midnight. Even in the middle of that daytime rest, we might not be able to sleep because the stench of burning garbage wakes us up or the mosquitoes prevent us from taking a siesta. The result of this chronic lack of sleep is the constant irritation and confusion that we see on the streets.

In Cuba, we all feel like we’re at Villa Marista.

I ran into a neighbor in the elevator during one of those rare moments when we have electricity. She’d left for work and when she got to Boyeros Avenue, she realized she didn’t have her wallet with the money to pay for an electric tricycle. She went back home, picked up her wallet, and—surprise!—when she went to pay the taxi driver, it was empty. Another neighbor went downstairs as soon as a power outage ended to charge his electric motorcycle in a nearby parking lot, but when he was standing next to the vehicle, he realized he’d forgotten the charger and cable

These aren’t just random lapses in memory. It is the poor quality of sleep that leads to decreased concentration, memory lapses, and a higher risk of mistakes or accidents. We’re a country that barely gets any sleep.

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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 grass is encroaching on the train tracks and the children’s center is no longer open, but they are calling on us to “celebrate May 1st with joy.”

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, April 30, 2026 — The daycare center in my neighborhood is in ruins. Hardly any children are being born. Although no one has publicly decreed its closure, the gate has rusted since it was last opened, the building is starting to lose its blinds, and a neighbor tells me she hasn’t heard any crying or laughter coming from the center for months.

The place is called Los Pequeños Microbrigradistas (The Little Microbrigade Members) in homage to the thousands of workers who, needing a home, built their own houses in the high-rise buildings of this neighborhood. I can’t imagine a small child trying to pronounce such a phonetically complicated name. I remember how difficult the word “proletarian” was for me. There was no way. My tongue and my soul were all tangled up.

Hanging on the fence of the daycare center this Wednesday was a scribbled piece of cardboard that read, “We joyfully celebrate May 1st.” No one knows who wrote it. Has the old administration of the state-run center returned, among the ruins, to commemorate Labor Day? Is someone, driven by ideological fidelity, trying to divert attention from a space with a great potential to be occupied by homeless families?

Before reaching Los Pequeños Microbrigradistas, I had to cross the train tracks. Whenever I do, I stop for a few seconds, looking both ways, hopeful, to see if a fast, powerful locomotive is approaching, but nothing is heard. Grass has grown between the tracks due to the lack of activity. That vegetation would be the bane of my railway ancestors’ existence. “Don’t let it spread, Yoani, don’t let it spread,” they repeat in my dreams, but there’s little I can do. continue reading

Just a few meters away, the state-owned telecommunications monopoly Etecsa has dug a massive hole. In my building, almost no landline phone works. Something burned out, and the lines were cut. The problem is supposedly at the hole where employees in blue uniforms, with their disheartened faces, sometimes work. It couldn’t be more symbolic: a train line without trains and a telephone junction box without a connection. All of this framed by an amazing sky.

The problem with having such a blue sky is that many people can’t believe that beneath such beauty lurks such despair. Tourist postcards have done a great deal of damage. Many assume that living among palm trees and fine sandy beaches guarantees happiness. But beauty and horror, when combined, are worse than a kick in the teeth. Calm sea in Santa María, violence in Villa Marista. Not a cloud on the horizon, blackout behind closed doors.

In my house we haven’t had landline service for months. We barely have mobile phone service, and for a few moments each day, we get a signal that allows us to connect to the internet. Every day we wake up to a new cut, something missing, an amputation of our quality of life. Months ago, we gave up on regular garbage collection, we also said goodbye to the trains at Tulipán station, and tomorrow, we will probably have to say goodbye to something else.

We lose everything except the blue sky. An intense, vibrant hue over a city and a country that are dying.

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Previous Havana Chronicles:

Fatigue Barely Allows One to Enjoy the ‘Lights On’ in Havana

Dollars, the Classic Card, and a Havana Without Tourists

A Journey Through the Lost Names of Havana

The Shipwreck of a Ship Called “Cuba”

Havana Seen From ‘The Control Tower’

In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes

Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold

Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana

The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis

The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban

One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos

It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”

Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert

Havana, in Critical Condition

______________________

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.

A childhood friend assures me that this is like when the eye of the cyclone passes over us and it seems that calm has finally arrived.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, April22, 2026 —  I haven’t heard Caruso in days. The neighborhood rooster has stopped singing in the middle of the night, its discordant crowing starting long before sunrise. Did it finally end up in a cooking pot? I peer over the edge of the rooftop and see little lights here and there. Not a single blackout in all of Havana that I can see. That worries me more than the fate of the cheeky rooster on the block. What will come after so much electricity? I wonder.

They say that those who have lived through a war can suffer from what is known as “combat fatigue.” the physical and mental exhaustion, the disorientation, and the anxiety make up the trauma of a soldier who has experienced battle. But here nothing has ended; this is merely a brief respite. A childhood friend assures me that this is like when the eye of a hurricane passes us overhead and it seems that calm has arrived. People become complacent and leave their homes, but soon after the eye of the hurricane the worst winds and the most extreme tornadoes arrive.

It’s not like we’ve had time to let our guard down, because now we have electricity, but we still lack water. In Cuba, you always have to keep one foot in the trenches of precariousness. Last night I had to stay awake listening for the sound of the pipes. “Can you hear anything?” my husband asked me at three in the morning. I got up, checked, and pressed my ear to the thick pipe that runs from the enormous water tank above our heads. “Nothing yet.” I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I heard a gurgling stream that woke me up.

I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes I heard a gurgling stream that woke me up

My friend Abel, who works for a state agency, has assured me that this time he won’t be attending yet another petition drive to “defend the homeland.” He was just a teenager during that “constitutional mummification” of 2002 that made socialism an irrevocable option in this country. Forever and ever, Cubans are supposed to bear the burden of those pressures and those masks. Every dictatorship yearns for perpetuity, and Castroism believes that by scribbling on paper it will buy itself a “until forever.” continue reading

The employee at the state-run store checks each banknote and rejects it if it has any pen marks or is wrinkled.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, April17, 2026 — The approach of July and August is palpable. After ten in the morning, being out on the street becomes increasingly difficult. Insect repellent, sunscreen, a bottle of water, toilet paper in case I need to use the restroom, and patience—lots of patience. This Thursday the heat is unbearable, so I speed through Central Park with its collection of white marble slabs that reflect the sun. This time I’m not looking for a drain for my sink or some sandpaper. I’m going to do something more difficult: deposit dollars onto a Classic card.

A friend of mine finally got his turn to buy gas after waiting in the virtual queue for over two months. His daughter’s wedding depends on him being able to fill the tank of his old Lada, which is older than his bride-to-be, with 20 liters. As a gift, the couple has asked everyone who can to contribute some money to top up those little blue cards that are the magic bullet for buying gas at supermarkets and gas stations.

Before, people wanted for their wedding day to receive boxes of wine, bouquets of roses, perfume, or jewelry. But now we live in a stark world where simply turning the wheels of a car feels like receiving a multi-carat gold ring as a gift. Nor is rice thrown when the newlyweds leave the church after saying “I do.” A pound is worth over 300 pesos in the markets, and nobody’s going to throw that much money in the air. continue reading

The blackouts have wiped out the cinemas and the Coppelia ice cream parlor in El Vedado; life is now in the kiosks where it is advertised: “Here we have everything”

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, 12 April 2026 —  This time the route heads south. I need to get to the market that sprawls under the overpasses at 100th and Boyeros in Havana. My eternal quest for a part to fix leaky faucets leads me to one of the city’s main open-air markets. “We have everything here,” reads a sign I find at a kiosk at the entrance to the candonga [black market], where you can buy anything from antibiotics to soldering iron.

There is no internet connection anywhere along the route to the fair, and in some sections, you can’t even get a cell phone signal to make calls. We Cubans have come to accept that chatting with friends, watching reels, or posting on Facebook is becoming a thing of the past. It’s a shame that X no longer has the option to post via text messages (SMS) like was possible on the old Twitter. We have lost even our smoke signals.

Disconnected but walking briskly, I approach the overpasses. While along the entire route I had barely encountered half a dozen people, the scene changes as I near the market. At 100th and Boyeros, there are more people than at 23rd and L, the iconic corner of La Rampa in Vedado. The crowds that no longer surround the cinemas, clubs, or the Coppelia ice cream parlor seem to have concentrated around the stalls selling instant glue, clothing, and tools.

Even companionship is for sale. Stationed at certain points in the market are women and men in tight clothing with flirtatious glances. Here, rice cookers and caresses are traded; dishwashing liquids and sex. None of those prostituting themselves are over 30. This generation wasn’t even given an attempt to mold them into the “new man”, rather, they were left adrift in classrooms where television replaced teachers. They were the ones who fueled the majority of the Island-wide protests on 11 July 2021, and also the ones who were most frequently imprisoned after those demonstrations.

I slip between the kiosks. Above me, the bridges that once roared with the passing trucks and buses are now almost silent. Life is happening below. Tamales, soft drinks, motorcycle helmets, trash cans, plastic trinkets, and the cries of “we buy gold” or “we buy dollars” echo continue reading

everywhere. There are narrow passageways, lined with stalls made of zinc sheets and others, more sophisticated, built of brick. In a moment, I’m lost in this labyrinth.

I finally find the sink drain piping I need and decide to look for other parts. To avoid confusion, in a market where there are people from all over Cuba, I approach a vendor and ask him point-blank, “Do you have a sink-faucet-with-handles-for-hand-washing?” The mix of regional names and the many ways of referring to the same object across the island make me want to emphasize what I mean. The man bursts out laughing at my excessive specificity. “I’m all out, but I’ll get more tomorrow,” he replies.

I start heading back. On the way, I pass the Boyeros and Camagüey market, where food and basic goods are sold in dollars. Inside, the air smells of spoiled meat, probably thawed by the long power outages. The refrigerators are practically empty, and an employee asks me to run a calculation on my phone’s calculator because they’re not allowed to bring cell phones into the store where they work.

The cell phone we carry in our pockets is becoming increasingly useless. Workers at the hard-currency stores aren’t allowed to bring them inside, and when I continue on my way home, mine barely works. Near the Sports City, nostalgia hits me. On the same grounds where The Rolling Stones played live ten years ago, grass now grows, and a couple of stray dogs stare at me with eyes pleading for food. Only a few electric tricycles pass by on the avenue, and very occasionally, an almendrón — a classic American car.

I’m already crossing Cerro Avenue. From a nearby doorway, a man offers me “all kinds of medications.” While state-run pharmacies are practically empty, Havana’s streets have become a very well-stocked pharmacy. What customers are offering and seeking most are antidepressants, anti-anxiety medications, and mood stabilizers. It seems that three out of every five people walking the streets are under the influence of some drug.

It’s hard to believe that a regime that tries to control every aspect of life doesn’t know that in Havana it’s easier to get sertraline* [Zoloft] than pork, diazepam* than coffee, amitriptyline* than eggs. A friend says it’s “state policy” to keep people drowsy and sedated. Some people spend part of their salary on a good supply of pills that will transport them to another place where the garbage on the corner doesn’t pile up so much, prices don’t rise every day, and their children aren’t packing their bags to emigrate.

I turn left at Tulipán. I spot my building with its enormous water tank. I reach for my cell phone to call home. Three tries and nothing. Each time, the voice says, “The number you are calling is switched off or out of coverage,” but I have to keep trying. “We are having a blackout,” the voice on the other end finally tells me when I get through. Isn’t there some kind of pill that makes me grow wings so I can get to the 14th floor without climbing the stairs? I fantasize and start humming that song that goes, “cause I try, and I try, and I try, and I try.”

*Translator’s ntoe: All these drugs are anti-depressants

Previous Havana Chronicles

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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.

Rather than cleaning the corner of Factor and Conill, Cuban authorities prefer to prevent anyone from taking pictures of it.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Generation Y, Havana, April8,2026 — Employees of the state-run warehouse on Factor y Conill Street in Nuevo Vedado have been orientado [instructed] to cover the fence around the corner with sacks. The order aims to prevent neighbors from taking photographs of the immense mountain of garbage that grows there every week, with the bust of José Martí in the background and the Cuban flag in the gardens of the warehouse, products destined for the rationed market are stored, as a backdrop. However, clearly visible from the heights of my building is the triptych formed by the Apostle, the solitary star, and the garbage.

The scene has something of farce and unintentional comedy about it. While the sacks have been hung with diligence, as if it were a national security operation, flies continue to come and go without asking permission, and the smell of decay rises through the windows with a punctuality that public transportation could only dream of. The garbage, undisciplined and stubborn, doesn’t care about directions or makeshift curtains.

Sackcloths hiding the statue of Martí at the corner of Factor and Conill streets in Nuevo Vedado. / 14ymedio

One would think the problem is the pile of waste, but apparently not. The real enemy is the photograph. The image circulating on WhatsApp, leaking onto social media, and contradicting the official narrative seems to be the biggest concern for officials and bureaucrats.

From the balconies of our building, the view is complete: the sculpture of a head, reached by a path of stones that no one uses, the blue stripes with their red triangle and, a few meters away, a string of torn bags, damp cardboard, and plastic scraps spilling onto the sidewalk. An unintentional monument to neglect. An altar where patriotism coexists with abandonment. continue reading

“I can’t carry much, I only pick up skinny people,” says the motorcyclist who takes me through the streets of the capital.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, 4 April 2026 / “Put on your helmet,” the young man tells me before I get on the motorcycle. In Havana, almost paralyzed by the energy crisis, there are motorcyclists who serve as taxis. They assess you from head to toe before quoting a price, because body weight influences what you’ll pay. “I can’t carry much, I only pick up thin people,” the young man assures me. The vehicle is electric, and he bought it after a trip to Spain. He starts telling me wonderful things about Madrid as we cross the Iron Bridge.

“I’m going all the way to La Sortija,” I warn him. The famous store, a few meters from Fraternity Park, continues to be an important landmark even though it has been sinking into decay for years. We Havanans cling to the old names of places, as if by pronouncing them we could pull them up from the ruin. Thus, we still say Carlos III for the now rebaptized Salvador Allende Avenue, but hardly any of its former grandeur remains. No one refers to La Cubana hardware store by that name anymore, but rather with the catchy  “Feíto y Cabezón” [Ugly and Pig-Headed].

My grandmother always refused to call the House of Three Kilograms department store by its previous name, “Yumuri.” She repeated the old name and remembered the mannequins in their long dresses, but all I saw in the windows were the clunky briefcases that all the government officials carried. There were also some shirts that became the least ugly thing among the clothes the “new man” was supposed to wear. In those 1980s, I liked to go into the shop on Reina and Belascoaín to breathe in the air conditioning. That smell conveyed luxury, sophistication, and the future. Today it’s closed and exudes a musty odor.

Nobody refers to La Cubana hardware store like that, but rather with the catchy “Ugly and Pig-Headed”

The motorcycle is already on 23rd Street. To my right rises the former Havana Hilton. The building seems dwarfed by the colossus they’ve erected just a few meters away. The K Tower isn’t quite right. Too big, too cold, too lonely. The hotel inside is closed due to a lack of tourists. On the avenue in front of the 42-story giant, you could set up an impromptu casino rueda [dance party] without the traffic being a problem. Only occasionally does an electric tricycle or a classic American car pass by. “The only good thing about all this is that it’s unlikely you’ll get hit by a car,” the motorcyclist quips.

We headed down San Lázaro. We passed a bicycle taxi loaded with sacks of charcoal. The man pedaled hard to move the valuable cargo. Right now, lighting a stove is a headache for thousands of families in this city who don’t have piped gas or liquefied gas reserves. On balconies and rooftops, makeshift fires are visible where coffee is brewed and lunch is cooked. A smoky smell clings to the clothes and sheets hanging on the lines.

There are still many people in this city who call Galiano’s store the ‘Ten Cent’ and the building converted into the Computer Palace, almost always empty and dark, is still called ‘Sears’. Hardly anyone in Havana calls Revolution Square ‘Civic Square’ or the complex where the Yara cinema is located the ‘Radiocentro CMQ Building’. Those who used those names went into exile or died. But every now and then I run into someone who gives me directions, specifying that “you have to turn right at the La Marina newspaper building” or “go straight past Lámparas Quesada.” The map of what’s been lost remains alive in our memory.

After nearly seven decades of a system obsessed with renaming everything, it’s a miracle that any of those references still remain. Castroism never had much of a knack for naming things. The era of acronyms lasted an eternity. They say that among all the monstrosities spawned by that mania was Ecodictafo (Consolidated Company for the Distribution of Cigars, Tobacco, and Matches… or something like that). I don’t remember. Maybe it’s just a joke. What I know for sure is that since I was born, matches have always been bad in Cuba, no matter what the company that produces them is called.

The motorcycle trip ends. My destination is the informal vendors who display their wares in the doorways of La Sortija. A friend told me they have good locks. Thefts are rampant, and Havana is increasingly barred with security grilles and locks. The hallways of my building resemble prison cells. There are apartments where residents have to pass through up to three gates to get inside. Keyrings weigh a ton in our pockets. Everything outside these enclosed spaces is susceptible to theft or vandalism. Exterior light bulbs are gone. The glass in the stairwell windows disappeared years ago.

“What are they going to take from us that they’re giving us so much?”
My neighbors are very nervous. We’ve barely had any power outages lately. “What are they going to take away from us that they’re giving us so much of?” an engineer asks me when we’re alone in the elevator. The excessively long power surges make us uneasy. We experience every hour of electricity as a privilege that we’ll have to pay for with darkness upon darkness. Guilt gnaws at me thinking that my present self is consuming the megawatts meant for Yoani’s future self. I feel sorry for her: groping around, searching for a candle or a rechargeable lamp.

I go up to the rooftop as night falls to see if I can spot anything of the Artemis 2 building, but it’s cloudy. In the distance, I can make out the lights of the Focsa building. “It’s a miracle they didn’t change its name,” I tell myself, and I start thinking about all the possible variations they could have slapped on one of Havana’s most beautiful buildings. I go back inside. I check that the padlock is securely fastened on the first gate. And on the second. For the third, I use the one I bought across from La Sortija.

Previous Havana Chronicles:

The Shipwreck of a Ship Called “Cuba”

Havana Seen From ‘The Control Tower’

In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes

Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold

Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana

The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis

The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban

One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos

It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”

Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert

Havana, in Critical Condition

______________________

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.

Just as Villa Marista disrupts the cycles of detainees, the Island suffers its own sleep deprivation

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Generation Y, Havana, 29 March 2026 — They say that the detainees at Villa Marista, the feared headquarters of State Security in Havana, have their circadian rhythms disrupted, that biological rhythm that regulates sleep, wakefulness, body temperature, attention, and even one’s emotional state. Deliberately, jailers turn lights on and off in windowless cells and prolong interrogations to induce disorientation, false confessions, extreme fatigue, and cognitive impairment.

In Cuba, we all feel like we’re in Villa Marista. We get up in the middle of the night to wash clothes, cook, or carry water. At some point during the day, we have to try to catch a nap because we don’t know what chores await us after midnight. Even in the middle of that daytime rest, we might not be able to sleep because the stench of burning garbage wakes us up or the mosquitoes prevent us from taking a siesta. The result of this chronic lack of sleep is the constant irritation and confusion that we see on the streets.

In Cuba, we all feel like we’re in Villa Marista.

I ran into a neighbor in the elevator during one of those rare moments when we have electricity. She’d left for work and when she got to Boyeros Avenue, she realized she didn’t have her wallet with the money to pay for an electric tricycle. She went back home, picked up her wallet, and—surprise!—when continue reading

On an island that is sinking, the arrival of a Russian oil tanker dominates all conversations in the streets of Havana.

14ymedio,Yoani Sánchez, Havana, March 30, 2026 — “The ship is coming!” a flower vendor on Estancia Street greets me as I pass by his buckets of sunflowers and gladioli. After days of uncertainty, it is now known that the Anatoly Kolodkin has arrived in Cuba with a cargo of 730,000 barrels of oil. The tanker’s arrival has become a topic of conversation on the streets this Monday, in a country where the downpour of bad news hasn’t let up for weeks.

At the traffic light at Boyeros and Tulipán, the energy crisis is more noticeable than in previous days. I cross all the lanes without stopping, while thinking about another occasion when we were waiting for a ship. It was in September 2019, when President Miguel Díaz-Canel announced that we were entering a “juncture” and that we shouldn’t worry too much since an oil tanker was about to arrive. Seven years have passed, and, as a neighbor said, “this doesn’t even have a name anymore.” The ability to assign a bureaucratic label to what we’re experiencing has also been exhausted up there.

Until yesterday, Cuba seemed like an island perched on an electric tricycle, but today we’ve all climbed onto the bow of the Russian ship that’s coming here. “Do you think they’ll refuel the gas stations?” a friend asks me hopefully. She has a small shop in Alamar where she sells costume jewelry and other imported goods. Last year, this lawyer-turned-shopkeeper and her husband bought a used Volkswagen. “I could only use it for the first three months because the fuel ran out,” she tells me. Since then, the car has been “sleeping the eternal sleep” in the family garage.

For each person, the ship takes the shape of their desires. “It’ll go, and they won’t cut off our electricity so much after it arrives,” I overhear in a doorway on Carlos III Avenue as I venture deeper into Central Havana. Vendors of items salvaged from the trash have scattered their wares on top of the wall of a fountain that hasn’t flowed for years. Are there any working fountains left in Havana? In my long walks, I haven’t seen a single one. This political model seems to have a fight with water and cleanliness.

When I was a girl, before leaving the house, my mother would warn us not to use the bathroom or drink water in the street. This strict rule almost gave me a kidney infection, but I eventually came to understand: public restrooms in Cuba are a journey to hell most of the time, and the liquid that comes out of the pipes is best consumed only after being treated or boiled. To this day, I always carry a bottle of water with me to quench my thirst and hold my urine until I get home. The traumas of Castro’s regime last a lifetime.

“Do you think we’ll get any of that oil?” one employee asks another outside a government building, plunged into darkness by the blackout. The response is a grimace of sulking lips and raised eyebrows that sums up the people’s distrust of any official promise of improvement. “Let’s paddle! Let’s see who gets to that boat first,” taunts a cart vendor selling papayas and peppers near the corner of Marqués González.

Everyone wants at least a drop of the combustible brought in by the Anatoly Kolodkin. But skepticism casts a shadow over any celebration. “That oil is all for them; we won’t get a drop,” grumbles an old man in the long line outside a state-run bakery on Reina Street. “Today I’m going to bet big,” says an old woman, her ration book folded in her hands. Anything related to the sea will see a lot of betting these days on the illegal bolita, the lottery. Woe to the bookies if one of those numbers comes up.

A few meters from the bakery, the door to the Cuba cinema has been left open. Where the rows of seats once stood, where I used to sit as a child, there is now dust, rust, and the twisted machinery of a makeshift workshop. I can only make out an arch that, on the stage, marked the threshold where fiction began and reality ended. I was captivated by that place, so close to my house, where hardly a month went by without me going to see a movie. Scaffolding blocks my way, right where the lobby used to be .

The ship that the Cuba cinema needed didn’t arrive in time. Part of its structure collapsed, the sewer pipes burst, and one day it closed. Almost all the cinemas of my childhood suffered the same fate: Astor, Negrete, Duplex, and Rex. It wasn’t during this particular crisis. It happened with the previous one, or the one before that. I don’t remember exactly because we’ve spent decades lurching from one crisis to another, a long sequence of setbacks and collapses.

I approach the Aldama Palace. Several street vendors offer me medicine. One enumerates for me that he has antibiotics of every kind, painkillers, and pills to make me feel “nice and sedated.” I run into some friends in Fraternity Park who almost cut me off mid-sentence when they receive a call from home. “They’ve turned the power back on, and I have to go back and do the laundry,” she apologizes. “I have to finish some work on my laptop, now that there’s electricity,” he adds.

To get home, I manage to hitch a ride on a pisicorre, one of the few jeeps adapted for passenger transport that still makes the trip to Santiago de las Vegas. “It’s 400 pesos to Tulipán,” the driver explains. The fare has gone up 100 pesos since the last time I took one of these cars last week. But I don’t complain. Another passenger is going near the psychiatric hospital, and the driver specifies: “To Mazorra it’s one mile (1,000 pesos).” Nobody protests the price increase. There’s no point in complaining now.

Near Quinta de los Molinos, the driver tells us we’re lucky because he’s going to stop driving this afternoon. “I don’t believe that story about the ship,” he says. He says he’s stepping away from the wheel until “everything goes back to normal” and he can go to the gas station to buy fuel without waiting in line or being pushed around. I don’t remember what “normal” means. Was it a period before the current situation?

Previous Havana Chronicles:
Havana Seen From ‘The Control Tower’

In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes

Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold

Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana

The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis

The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban

One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos

It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”

Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert

Havana, in Critical Condition

______________________

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.

I imagine the Russians are tired of bailing out their Cuban comrades, but also in need of allies in this hemisphere.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, March 27, 2026 / In the mornings, Tulipán Street transforms into a Carthaginian market. I skirt the stalls where they sell everything from peas to soap, aspirin, and cigarettes. I’m lucky to live just a few meters from this commercial bustle, which, although informal, precarious, and with prices driven by inflation, keeps my neighborhood alive and allows me to find basil for pesto or Teflon tape to repair a leaky pipe.

This Friday, Tulipán is my starting point. If public transportation is dying throughout the city, here it’s practically nonexistent. An avenue without almendrones (old American cars operation as taxis), without bicycle taxis, and without tricycles carrying passengers, this street is only for two types of people: those who walk and those who have a car (and managed to find gas or electricity to run it). So I don’t even look to see if anything’s coming to give me a ride. I’m ready to tackle the hill ahead.

A sprawling garage sale has sprung up in the basements of two enormous Soviet-era concrete blocks I pass on my way. There are makeshift stalls, blankets spread on the ground, selling mainly pants, blouses, and shoes. It’s the “clothes of Cuban emigrants,” the countless outfits left behind in closets and drawers after their owners left the island. One of the many flea markets selling the spoils of the mass exodus that have opened up across the country.

A friend, heavily made up, at nine o’clock, at the market, wearing a sequined blouse: “If I don’t wear it to come here, it will get ruined without being used.”

The relatives left behind try to sell a baby outfit here, some little girl’s shoes there, a formal shirt “to wear with a tie,” an old man manages to tell me as he offers his wares near a tree trunk. But the secondhand market in Cuba is drowned under mountains of oversupply. Barely worn sandals, necklaces that were once someone’s jewels, leather wallets that held the money and identity card of someone who now has residency somewhere new or a passport from another country.

Another issue is that there is nowhere to show off your clothes. The other day I ran into a friend, heavily made up, at nine in the morning at the farmers’ market. She was also wearing a sequined blouse. “If I don’t wear it to come here, it’ll just go to waste,” she managed to say. In a city without nightclubs, without discos, with hardly any movie theaters open, and with restaurants that are out of reach for most people, “going-out clothes” have to be taken out for walks in the building’s hallways, to the corner where the garbage piles up, or to the nearest clinic.

I reach 26th Street. They say that Raúl Castro once lived in a penthouse I pass on my journey. I remember sometimes seeing guards with stern expressions and pistols on their hips when I walked by. Now everything looks neglected. The plants on the rooftop seem a bit withered, and I don’t run into the uniformed men of yesteryear. This neighborhood is no longer safe or glamorous enough for them. Peeling buildings, a ruined cemetery, and a movie theater with no movies complete the picture.

I cross 23rd Street and after a few minutes, I cross the iron bridge. A father and his son, about five years old, are looking at the dark waters of the Almendares River. “Don’t stop, hurry up,” the man tells the little boy. “Daddy, let me watch, I’m not going to jump in,” the child reassures him. “Yeah, I know, you don’t even know how to swim,” the man replies hurriedly. It’s a sad paradox on an island where many can barely stay afloat if they fall into the sea. The lack of swimming pools to learn in and the regime’s fear that we would become Aquaman and escape en masse condemned us to only splash around before they could throw us a life preserver.

Several turkey vultures circle above a garbage dump near the river. They are birds that like refuse. And heights. They are always visiting my building. I respect these birds. They do their cleaning work without complaint, constantly, even though they are often looked down upon for their appearance. They have a stately flight. Once, when I was showing a foreign student the views from the Plaza de la Revolución lookout, several of them landed near the window. “They are attracted to political carrion,” I told the astute German. From a corner, an official tour guide appeared and staged a small protest against me for “denigrating the country in front of a foreigner.” Some people don’t take metaphors well.

The tanker named after Captain Kolodkin set course for this island, but no one knows if it will ultimately dock in our ports.

Speaking of symbols. I continue my headlong Cuban pace, eager to fill my shopping bag, and arrive at the grounds of the Russian Federation Embassy in Havana. I’ve never liked that building. It looks like an airport control tower or a sword plunged into the side of this city. It’s eerie. As I walk past its ugly structure, I wonder what they think of us in the Kremlin. I imagine the Russians, tired of bailing out their Cuban comrades, but also in need of allies in this hemisphere.

A neighbor asked me if the Russian ship was finally arriving or not. The tanker, named after Captain Kolodkin, set course for this island, but no one knows if it will ultimately dock in our ports with its cargo of fuel. My neighbor got up at three in the morning today to, in a brief burst of electricity, do laundry and send a WhatsApp message to her daughter who lives in Madrid. “Don’t even think about coming,” she wrote briefly. Parents have a sixth sense for detecting dangers. “You don’t know how to swim,” one warned his little boy this Friday, looking at the murky waters of the Almendares River. “This is unbearable,” another wrote to her 35-year-old “daughter” when the power came back on in my neighborhood.

It seems we’ve run out of life preservers this time.

Previous Havana Chronicles:

In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes

Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold

Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana

The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis

The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban

One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos

It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”

Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert

Havana, in Critical Condition
______________________

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.