Yoani Sanchez – Translating Cuba

Havana Chronicles: Havana Smells of Gasoline and Sewage

While the fuel business accelerates construction in Ayestarán, garbage, ruins, and homelessness spread throughout the city.

At the service station near the Ministry of the Armed Forces, an excavator is digging a massive hole. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yoani Sanchez, Havana, October 8, 2026 / Havana, these days, smells of gasoline and sewage, of freshly transferred fuel, and of black water running through the streets. Two smells vie for control of the city: one heralds business, the other confirms neglect.

In Ayestarán, almost nothing is being built. No buildings are going up, no new houses are appearing, and no bags of cement are seen piled up in doorways. The exception is the service station near the newspaper printing plant and the Ministry of the Armed Forces, where an excavator is removing the earth and opening a massive hole. In the hole where the new fuel tanks will be buried half the city could fit, with all its needs,.

The gasoline economy that came from the United States, moves machines and awakens greed. The classified ads already seem to have more diesel than chicken, more fuel than flour. “Tell me how many liters you need” could be the motto of these times. Everyone wants to grab the pump while sidewalks crumble, septic tanks overflow, and police stations languish without medicine or personnel.

In the hole where the new fuel tanks will be buries, half the city could fit / 14ymedio

Near Carlos III and Ayestarán, a woman approached me carrying an orange cat in her arms. The animal was incredibly gentle. She asked me for money “for food for him and me.” I gave her a couple of bills. I’ve seen people beg with children, dogs, the elderly, prescriptions, and X-rays. With a cat, never. continue reading

In Reina, the prosperity enjoyed by those who control the pumps and gas stations has not arrived. There, the air reeks of the squalor of the sewer. Next to the Aldama Palace, another ruin threatening to tumble down towards Monte Street, a woman begs for money, accompanied by a child with beautiful curls. Further on, in front of the remains of the Isla de Cuba Hotel, two men sift through a mountain of garbage. Around the overflowing containers, people trade, scavenge, and survive.

I look for some shelf brackets at the market across from the old La Sortija shop, a hardware store . Those supports used to hold up bookshelves or hang plants aren’t on any of the many stalls at the well-stocked fair. Books and nature will have to wait.

I’m returning via Reina. There are Havana streets vying for the top prize in the championship of hell. This one is doing well, although Monte is ahead by a few points.

In front of the ruins of the Isla de Cuba hotel, two men are digging through a mountain of garbage. / 14ymedio

The parks, meanwhile, have become makeshift homes. The government organizes police raids to remove those sleeping among benches and weeds, but they always return. Curita Park, the recent site of one of these operations, will once again become a haven for the homeless this Thursday, a territory for petty drug dealing, and a breeding ground for dilapidated old cars and tricycles that seem ready to tip over on every pothole.

In the portals of Carlos III, objects salvaged from the trash form a mock recycling fair: sharing space are decade-old cell phone chargers, a kitchen heating element, and a black sequined dress. Ruin and glamour. Spoils and footlights. Further on, a woman offers guavas so green and stunted that my jaw aches just looking at them.

Outside Plaza de Carlos III, a man and a woman have set up camp. He has a bandaged foot; she sleeps curled up. In a city without shelters, public drinking fountains, or places to wash clothes for free, the elements end up clinging to your skin and smelling, smelling awful.

No tricycles appear going up Ayestarán, so I continue on foot. The smell of fuel returns at times. Havana smells of gasoline, yes, but there’s another stench that no bulldozer seems willing to bury.

The Border is at the Base of my Building

Díaz-Canel’s visit to the neighborhood brings police, plainclothes agents, and a stay-at-home order that disrupts even the most basic tasks.

Today someone decided I can’t go out to buy an avocado. And the avocado, suddenly, takes on an unexpected political dimension. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, Generation Y, October 6, 2026 / This Tuesday my house is still my house, but the boundary of my home has shifted to the ground floor of the building.

Miguel Díaz-Canel participated in an official event nearby, and, as so often happens when a high-ranking official is in this part of Havana, the neighborhood’s appearance changes. Unfamiliar faces appear: police officers, plainclothes agents, people who have been standing in the same spot for hours doing nothing a neighbor would consider normal. Some are watching the street; others, the entrance to the stairwell.

I could describe this day as a complaint about police surveillance, but that would only tell barely half the story. The other half is more mundane and, perhaps for that reason, explains better what it means to be locked up.

To live in Cuba today requires a very close relationship with the street. You don’t do a weekly shop and store everything neatly in the pantry. You go out because bread has appeared, because someone said eggs are being sold cheaper on the corner, because you need to find medicine, recharge your phone, sort out some paperwork, ask about something that wasn’t there yesterday and might not be there tomorrow either. Daily life is a series of small excursions into the outside world. continue reading

Preventing someone from leaving their home isn’t just about taking away a few hours of freedom. It is about disrupting a domestic routine held together by a thread.

That is why preventing someone from leaving their home isn’t just taking away a few hours of their freedom. It’s altering a domestic routine held together by a thread. What in another country might be postponed until tomorrow, here can become unavailable in the blink of an eye.

There is a miniscule dimension of control that barely surfaces in grand discourses about rights, repression, or authoritarianism. It is something much simpler. Today, someone decided I can’t go out to buy an avocado.

And the avocado suddenly acquires an unexpected political dimension.

Also the detergent that needed to be sought out, the pending visit, the dog that needed a walk, the conversation that could only happen face to face. Power enters life in this way, not always with a spectacular blow, but by disrupting a shopping list, postponing hugs, and reducing the food on our plates.

If I had a doctor’s appointment, one of those that can take months to get, I’d have to choose between missing it or trying to explain to an agent of the political police that my body also has its own agenda. If today were the deadline for some paperwork, I’d sit on the balcony watching the hours pass by while an office, just a few blocks away, opens, serves customers, and finally closes.

I also couldn’t get a fan essential for sleeping during blackouts repaired, or keep an appointment with someone who might have crossed half the city to see me. I couldn’t even take out the trash at its time. In Cuba, where almost nothing can be resolved with a phone call, a click, or a home delivery, being physically present remains an indispensable requirement for surviving the bureaucracy and shortages.

All because, just a few meters away, someone important needed to pass by. To ensure the movement of one, others are immobilized. The government motorcade moves along an unobstructed street; but behind some doors, life is on hold.

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Havana Chronicles: Havana is Moving Again, But it Remains in Darkness

The arrival of fuel is stimulating traffic and bringing vehicles back to the streets, while blackouts lasting more than 20 hours continue to affect life inside Havana’s homes

In front of me, a passenger is placing a huge, freshly caught marlin on the floor. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yoani Sanchez, Havana, October 3, 2026 / I cross Tulipán Street and immediately notice something different. There iss more traffic than a few weeks ago, sufficient to make me lose the habit of looking twice before crossing to the other side. A red Lada forces me to quicken my pace to reach the sidewalk before its wheels hit the enormous pool of sewage surrounding the 19 de Abril Polyclinic. The city seems to be moving again, even if it’s through pestilential waters.

I climb the hill. Below the two twenty-story buildings, the open-air garage sale begins to fill up. On improvised tables and clothes racks appear objects that summarize the needs of the moment: a suitcase for someone planning to leave, a folding chair for someone who needs to wait for hours in front of a bakery at the rationed market.

26th Street has also come alive. It must be the gasoline arriving in large quantities from the United States, injecting movement into the cavernous bodies of the Cuban economy. In doorways and private homes small hardware stores have sprung up; on one corner a restaurant shines with freshly varnished woodwork, and a new line of electric tricycles connects the Iron Bridge over the Almendares River with the Clinical Surgical Hospital.

26th Street has also come to life. It must be the gasoline arriving in large quantities from the US, injecting some life into the cavernous bodies of the economy.

However, there are few people walking. It’s Friday, and the weather has cooled down. A layer of clouds makes the journey more bearable, but what our legs appreciate, our batteries lament. Our solar panel hasn’t given us a single watt for two days. With blackouts that last more than 20 hours, a cloudy day is a curse: it cools the early morning and allows us to do without the rechargeable fan for a while, but at dawn there won’t be any sun to recharge it either. The entire Cuban energy dilemma is encapsulated in that paradox. continue reading

On the other side of the Iron Bridge, on 31st Street, a privately owned restaurant is packed shortly after 10:00 in the morning. Lined up outside are modern cars. Inside, customers sip smoothies, nibble on snacks, and take selfies. Another sign that fuel is flowing, although it is also a barometer of who can afford to convert that circulation into consumption.

After visiting a friend, I decide to head back, trying out the new tricycle route. A green one is about to leave. In front of me, a passenger is placing a huge, freshly caught marlin on the floor. The fish is wrapped from head to tail in successive layers of clear plastic bags, secured with strips of cloth and string, like a marine mummy. Only its long, dark, thin, and rigid beak remains exposed, pointing toward the back of the vehicle. Each new passenger carefully calculates where to place their feet to avoid stepping on the body, which occupies a good portion of the aisle. Hemingway would have been captivated by the scene.

The tricycle laboriously climbs up to 23rd Street. Then we pass by the wall of the Colón Cemetery and end up back on 26th. At Tulipán I get off, dodging the now rigid fish for the last time, which will probably end up distributed among several tables or sold in pieces.

I walk home and, upon arriving at the building, discover a small miracle: the little red lights above the elevator doors are on. There’s electricity. I step into an elevator for the first time in weeks and upstairs immediately start the washing machine. We have to take advantage of every minute of electricity like we used to make the most of a downpour by filling buckets. The anxiety to get things done when the power returns gnaws at us with the same intensity as the guilt we feel if we don’t manage to get everything done during those brief moments of illumination.

The wash cycle doesn’t even finish because the power goes out again.

Outside, the city is somewhat more animated: the red Lada, the cars in front of the restaurant, the tricycles climbing the hills, and even that needlefish voyaging through Havana. Gasoline has brought movement back to some streets, but not enough to light up the houses. Cuba is starting to move again, even if the end of the road remains dark.

Generation Y: Inflation in Cuba is Also Measured in the Empty Spaces in the Market

A purchase of just one onion and twelve chili peppers costs 1,000 pesos in a market in Nuevo Vedado

A silent negotiation begins in front of the stall: this yes, that no; the tomatoes can wait; I’d better buy fewer eggs; the fruit will have to wait another day. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, September 30, 2026 / There are purchases that it is better not to take out of the bag right away. Leaving them in it for a few minutes, as if to delay the moment of placing them on the table postpones the discomfort of doing the accounts. This Tuesday I returned from the Tulipán Street market in Nuevo Vedado, with an onion, and a dozen cachuca peppers. I stood looking at that little haul’ some green peppers, two already red, others starting to get their color and the golden onion to one side.

One thousand pesos.

I counted them again, not the pesos, but the chili peppers. Twelve. There was still only one onion. Nothing else justified the expense, no hidden tomatoes, no bunch of scallions, not even a couple of lemons adding zeros to the number. One onion and twelve chili peppers for 1,000 pesos in a country where the monthly minimum wage is 3,210.

An onion and twelve chili peppers for 1,000 pesos in a country where the monthly minimum wage is 3,210 pesos. / 14ymedio

Going to the market has long since become a series of renunciations for Cubans. One arrives thinking about what you need and end up buying what you can. In front of the stall, a silent negotiation begins: this yes, that no; the tomatoes can wait; better I buy fewer eggs; the fruit will have to wait for another day. The shopping list shrinks as the uncertainty of how much those same products will cost tomorrow expands. continue reading

Even memorizing prices is useless. That familiar domestic memory that for years allowed us to know when something was expensive and when it was worth taking advantage of a sale has now become worthless. A price we heard three days ago might seem cheap today. For example, I try to remember how much malanga cost last week, but I can’t. Everything goes up too fast.

With the dollar at 750 pesos on the informal market, we no longer measure the cost of living solely by what we manage to bring home, but by everything we have to leave behind in the market. Each bag weighs less in our hands and much more in our pockets.

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Havana Chronicles: The ‘Chemical’ Adds Collapsed Bodies to the Havana Landscape

In San Lázaro, a young man slumped against a wall barely manages to attract the attention of passersby.

On the wall, of the mutilated street name, only one word survives: “Persevere”. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, September 27, 2026 / In San Lázaro, you have to look both up and down at the same time. Up, to avoid the sight of gutted balconies, exposed beams, and pieces of buildings that seem to be calculating when to collapse. Down, to avoid tripping over the holes in the sidewalk and discovering, from time to time, someone else who has also fallen.

Next to a tree and against the blue wall of a house, a young man sits on the ground. He is strong, wearing a black T-shirt and shorts, but his body is slumped, his head bowed on his chest, in a posture that Havana residents have come to recognize. Lacking a diagnosis, those who pass by the area have a street word for situations like this: “on drugs.”

Life goes on just a few meters away. Pedestrians, classic cars, and tricycles pass by. No one seems too surprised. Perhaps that is the most unsettling thing: these scenes have ceased to be exceptional in some areas of Havana.

In the absence of a diagnosis, those who pass through the area already have a street word for situations like this: “enchemicado” (‘chemicaled’).

In the absence of a diagnosis, those who pass through the area already have a street word for situations like this: “enquimicado” [‘chemicaled’]. / 14ymedio

In a few years the “chemical,” as several synthetic cannabinoids are popularly known, has gone from being an issue that the authorities rarely spoke of, to become a problem even official television recognizes. In May 2025 , the Ministry of the Interior reported 342 people accused of drug trafficking and use in Havana and 810 cases opened by the Public Prosecutor’s Office related to these crimes. The police had identified 74 “complex environments” in the capital at that time and highlighted eight particularly problematic areas. continue reading

The list included neighborhoods in Playa, Marianao, La Lisa, Boyeros, Old Havana, San Miguel del Padrón, and Cerro. Central Havana needed no introduction: there, as even the official spokesman Humberto López admitted at the time, “drugs exist, everyone knows it, and they’ve existed for years.” Authorities also acknowledged their concern about drug use among minors.

Since then, the geography seems to have become less precise because the problem is now occurring in broad daylight and on busy avenues. Just a few weeks ago, at the corner of Reina and Galiano, two young men were collapsed under the influence of the drug. While they were incapacitated, a man took advantage of the situation to steal one of their backpacks and disappeared into the crowd. The incident happened the day after a drug raid on that same street.

San Lázaro Street looks like an open scar that runs through the city from Old Havana to Vedado. / 14ymedio

Now the scene repeats itself, with different coordinates: San Lázaro. Few avenues could offer a more fitting backdrop for this young man paralyzed by the drug, because the entire street resembles an open wound that cuts through the city from Old Havana to Vedado. On both sides, are buildings surviving with amputated balconies, walls without plaster, boarded-up windows, and supports that long ago ceased to aspire to elegance, focusing instead simply on not collapsing.

On a corner, an old yellow car drives past a facade riddled with rubble. On the wall, bearing the street name, also mutilated, only one word survives: “Persevere.” A little further on, the young man will remain, for hours, slumped against a wall.

Havana Chronicles: In Cuba the Electrical System Fails, But the Repressive System Never Does

Police in the building’s basement, accumulated garbage, lack of gas, and a Friday when even going to the market becomes impossible.

Friday has just become another day of repression. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, September 18, 2026 / Beans, onions, an avocado. I’m making a list to head out early to the Tulipán Street market, before the sun gets too hot and the inspectors start chasing away the vendors. As I walk down the hallway toward the stairs, a neighbor catches up to me. “There’s an operation underway down there. There are some men in civilian clothes, two women with backpacks, and at least one patrol car,” he details. Friday has just become another day of repression.

From the rooftop I confirm that a police car is parked on Conill Street, but not on the corner, under the leafy tree where they traditionally position themselves when they’re watching my house. The trash pile on Factor Street has grown so large that parking under those branches is now an assault on the nose and a danger to the immune system. A little further on, two uniformed officers are standing next to a vehicle with the number 059 painted on its body.

Today I really needed to get out of the house. The garbage has piled up in the apartment because of the long power outages that keep the elevator out of service. There is no salad left for lunch, and a friend had promised to copy a current affairs documentary onto a USB drive for me. But in Cuba, keeping a schedule and trying to accomplish even a few daily tasks is nearly impossible. When the day ends and I’ve managed to complete at least one thing, I feel lucky. Today, too, I’ll have to rethink my plans.

“But you have to come and get them because they won’t let me leave the building.”

Luckily, we have water in the sinks, but there’s no gas for cooking. I wash up a little take the opportunity to water the plants. A friend calls to ask if I have any oral rehydration salts. After the virus I had, I had a few packets left over that I can give her.

“But you have to come and get them because they won’t let me leave the building.”

I don’t need to say anything more. She doesn’t need any explanations either. Repression in Cuba is something everyone knows about, and a police operation around the home of an independent journalist sounds more like routine than anything new.

I put three envelopes in a nylon bag, and when my friend rings my cell phone, I go out onto the balcony and throw the small package from the 14th floor. I’ve added a stone so the wind won’t blow it too far away. The two police officers are still down there. They look bored.

A neighbor comes to my door and asks if I want him to bring me anything from the market. I give him the list I started writing this morning. I’m not sure how much money to give him because the prices change from day to day. continue reading

“With one of the new bills you can solve everything,” he jokes.

I don’t know anyone who has seen those colored papers worth 10,000 and 20,000 pesos yet.

Yesterday, when I passed by the bank on Marino Street, a retired woman told me that the new bills hadn’t arrived at that branch yet and that, in any case, the maximum they were giving out per customer was 5,000 pesos, so “nobody knows who they’re going to give the new ones to.” The woman has been trying to withdraw her pension for two weeks now, and nothing. “The day I was supposed to go, they didn’t have any cash and they rescheduled me for later, but every time I come, there’s no electricity.”

The whole house smells like garbage. I don’t know if it’s the stench coming up from the corner or if our own trash has started to rot after three days of not being able to take it out.

How many months’ salary for the police officers who watch over me down there could fit on a 20,000-peso bill, I wonder, as I try to light the stove for the umpteenth time. The gas company says they haven’t been able to finish the repairs and the service outage is getting worse and worse.

The whole house smells like garbage. I don’t know if it’s the stench coming up from the corner or if our own trash has started to rot after three days of not being able to take it out.

The phone rings. It’s my friend again. I imagine she’ll want some painkillers now, or that the rehydration salts haven’t been enough for her children and husband, who are sick with a viral diarrhea. But she doesn’t mention any medication.

“The national power grid has crashed,” she tells me, annoyed.

I look out again.

Down below, the police patrol with the two uniformed officers is still there.

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Read the Havana Chronicles series here.
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Generation Y: Artificial Intelligence Will Have to Wait for the Power to Come Back On

The new collapse of the National Electric System (SEN) leaves businesses closed and hits entrepreneurs already struggling with shortages and high costs.

This Saturday, many businesses woke up with their doors closed, their refrigerators empty, or their offerings reduced to a minimum. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Generation Y, Yoani Sánchez / “Closed” is the most prominent word this Saturday in the window of a private bakery on Ayestarán Street in Havana. Below, another sign promises much more ambitious hours: 9:00 am to 9:00 pm. in the glass the is also displayed the price of a bag of bread. There are hours, there is a price, and even a door waiting for someone to open it. What there isn’t is bread.

The image could serve to refute some of the many official meetings that have recently discussed Artificial Intelligence, digital transformation, innovation, and new technologies as tools to revive Cuba’s ailing economy. All that would be missing is a rather less sophisticated question at the bottom: with what electricity?

While officials and academics debate algorithms, automation, and the possibilities of AI, the average Cuban small business owner is waging a far more elemental technological battle. They need the freezer to cool, the oven to heat, the mixer to turn, and the lights to come on. Before ChatGPT, there’s the kilowatt; before the digital future, they have to make sure the milk doesn’t curdle. continue reading

For the proprietors of these businesses, every hour of blackout means merchandise at risk, reduced income, and lost customers.

The latest collapse of the national electrical grid (SEN) this Friday has once again dealt a severe blow to small businesses. This Saturday, many woke up to find their doors closed; others opened to empty refrigerators, warm drinks, or a selection of goods reduced to a minimum. For these proprietors, every hour of blackout means merchandise at risk, reduced income, and lost customers.

For the bakeries, the blow has again been double. In the face of the collapse of the national electrical grid (SEN), the lack of manufactured gas, due to the repairs announced by Cuba Petróleo (Cupet), have already compromised the production of bread in havana this friday. Without gas and then without electricity, the margin for performing miracles is considerably reduced.

Perhaps one day Artificial Intelligence will help forecast sales, manage inventory, and make these businesses more efficient. For now, in Ayestarán, the crucial technology remains much older: a switch that, when flipped, turns on a light bulb.
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Venezuela Unlocks Media Outlets, Cuba Maintains Its Restrictions

The reopening of several websites censored by Caracas serves as a reminder that on the island it is necessary to overcome blockades to access the independent media press.

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, September 17, 2026 / Some news stories, when read from Cuba, take on a different meaning. This Thursday, when I learned that Venezuela had begun unblocking digital sites censored for years, I inevitably thought of a mobile phone screen in Havana trying to open the newspaper 14ymedio. The scroll wheel spins, minutes pass, and finally nothing appears. We’ve been like this for twelve years, since that 21st of May 2014, when this newspaper was born.

In Venezuela, the telecommunications regulator began lifting restrictions on several websites. The organization VE Sin Filtro had counted approximately 200 blocked domains as of yesterday and confirmed that at least nine media outlets had regained access, including Efecto Cocuyo, El Pitazo, Runrun.es, and Crónica Uno. The organization described the measure, if it continues, as one of the first significant setbacks in Venezuelan digital censorship, although it warned that numerous sites remain restricted.

The news evokes a mixture of joy and envy in me from the island. I think of Luz Mely Reyes and her colleagues at Efecto Cocuyo, obliged for years to find alternative ways to reach their readers. Just last month, Reyes denounced the lack of transparency in the political dialogue between the government and part of the opposition, a dialogue to which journalists weren’t even allowed access to cover the initial greetings. This contradiction helps put today’s easing of restrictions into perspective: opening a few pages doesn’t mean that the restrictions on the press have disappeared.

How many readers have we lost because clicking a link leads to a page that won’t load? How many gave up after several attempts to access our site?

From Cuba we know all too well about this. The censorship against 14ymedio has had a cost that’s difficult to calculate. How many readers have we lost because clicking a link leads to a page that won’t load? How many gave up after several attempts to access our site? How many Cubans only learned of our existence after emigrating and being able to browse the web without restrictions? continue reading

But every wall forces you to find a crack. Over these twelve years, we’ve learned to distribute content through social media, newsletters, messaging apps, emails, and any other means that allows us to circumvent the barrier. Censorship deprived us of a potential audience, but it also forced us to become more creative.

Paradoxically, while the Cuban regime tried to keep independent media out of sight of the the national audience, its own press system was weakening. Official newsrooms have lost journalists to the mass exodus; there is a lack of transportation, fuel, and resources to send reporters to cover events, and reality has ultimately moved too quickly for the old mechanism of waiting for instructions before reporting it.

Independent media outlets have grown in this space, but so have Facebook, WhatsApp, Telegram, and other platforms where much of the information consumed by Cubans now circulates. A blackout, a protest, or an accident might be reported first by a shaky video from a neighbor rather than a news item in the official press. If there were a mass unblocking of independent websites, it is expected that they would displace the antiquated newspapers controlled by the Communist Party.

However, we agree not to confuse a half-open door with a house one can freely enter or leave. Venezuela maintains important information restrictions, and VE Sin Filtro is demanding that the lifting of these restrictions also extend to other media outlets, civil organizations, communication platforms, and VPN tools. Even the opposition participating in the dialogue with Delcy Rodríguez’s interim government has called for a complete and permanent unblocking of these resources.

Meanwhile, the Castro regime is taking note of what is happening in its former ally. Because controlling a country through a monopoly on information is one thing, but dealing with a free press is quite another.

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Living Among the Remains of What We Once Were

‘Cannibalized’ cars, collapsed buildings and abandoned structures accompany daily life in Havana

The cars are corpses stripped of doors, windows, engines, and every screw that might have kept another vehicle running. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, Generation Y, September 14, 2026 / In Havana, we don’t walk through streets, but rather through the interior of a shipwreck. Debris is everywhere: a propped-up building, a broken pipe that no one fixes, a mountain of garbage, the skeleton of a collapsed building. We have become so accustomed to the rubble that we hardly see it anymore. We sidestep around the gap, dodge the chunk of concrete, and keep going.

On Ayestarán Street, as on so many others, there is a great variety of ruins. Under a zinc roof and on the dry grass, several disassembled cars are piled up. One is missing its front end; of another, barely the body remains; a third conserves something resembling its former form. They are corpses stripped of doors, windows, engines, and every screw that might serve to keep another vehicle running.

The official entities seem to have lost the energy to remove the remains, because getting rid of a ruin requires resources that simply don’t exist.

It is difficult to imagine the moment when they were new. Perhaps one transported a reporter from the state-run press to a boring People’s Power assembly. Another might have had as a regular passenger a manager in a tight guayabera, with a chauffeur waiting at the door. There was a time when ministries, companies, and state agencies had enough fuel, spare parts, and cars to transport their officials and employees.

Of that spoilage remains these shells that form part of the landscape. The official entities seem to have lost even the energy to retire the remains, because dismantling a ruin requires resources that no longer exist.

The worst thing about living among the wreckage isn’t the hideousness, but the habit. We walk past it, incorporate it into our routines, and end up accepting it as an inevitable part of the scenery.

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Havana Chronicles: Three Weeks Later, I Return to Streets With Less Food and More ‘Closed’ Signs

The offensive against private businesses has reduced the offerings in a city where getting a package of chicken is a whole expedition

Faced with the option of opening and risking a fine of thousands of pesos, the owners prefer to suspend sales. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, August 19, 2026 / I went out into the street after almost three weeks of convalescence. I descended the 14 flights of stairs as if I was an 80-year-old woman. On reaching the ground floor, I took a deep breath and consoled myself with the thought that, by the time I returned, the electricity would surely be back on and I could take the elevator. Lost illusions.

I decided to take Conill Street, stopping first to say hello to the garbage dump on the corner. Although it had been cleaned once recently, it had grown back to the size of a country, with its own ecosystem, its habitual inhabitants, and the people who scavenge for food among the waste. The steps of the Ministry of Agriculture were crowded with people sitting and staring at their mobile phone screens. The internet connection is so bad that customers of the state monopoly Etecsa wander from block to block looking for a spot with a functioning data signal. At the entrance to the unproductive Ministry of Agriculture they’ve found a 4G hotspot.

I cross Rancho Boyeros with great cautioun. The last thing I need right now is to twist an ankle on one of the many potholes or get hit by one of the few electric tricycles that travel along the avenue. Upon reaching the other side, I come across the first of several signs I’ll see along this short walk. “Closed,” it reads in the window of a small shop that until a few days ago offered a limited selection of basic products. I turn onto Central. On the corner of Tulipán, another handwritten sign repeats the same word. Across the street, at a garage where you could buy everything from cold water to soda crackers, the gate is down.

“Closed,” reads the sign on the window of a small shop that until a few days ago offered a limited selection of basic goods. / 14ymedio

The offensive against on private businesses that don’t respect the price caps ordered by officialdom, or that refuse electronic payments has reduced the number of small markets in my neighborhood to just a handful of poorly stocked shops with long-faced employees. There is no chicken, sausages, vegetable oil, or ground beef, among many other missing items. Faced with the option of opening and risking a fine of thousands of pesos, the owners prefer to suspend sales and accumulate days of zero profit until the storm passes. “This is the land of the two-week break,” a neighbor I run into tells me. “Right now, the inspectors are giving up,” she adds.

Frustrated, I start heading home. The Tulipán Street market is still on my way. “I’m sure I’ll find something there,” I encourage myself. My body, at rest for so many days, is starting to show signs of continue reading

exhaustion. I sit down against a wall, take out a bottle, and take a long swig of the sugary guava juice I made before leaving. The dose of sucrose works quickly, and I manage to cross back across the wide avenue that connects El Vedado with the airport.

As I approach Tulipán Market, I notice the difference. There are fewer cart vendors outside, fewer sellers offering goods on the sidewalks, and much less of the usual hustle and bustle. The refrigerators are off, several kiosks are closed, and the butchers’ chalkboards display barely any lard complete the panorama. In the three weeks since I last visited, the place feels completely different.

I leave with my bag empty. In Estancia, a man and his son sit on the sidewalk calling out in low voices, “Chicken, chicken!” A package of about seven or eight small drumsticks costs 3,000 pesos. There’s no other option. I take out the money and pay. The teenager hands me a dripping plastic bag with the completely thawed meat. I hurry back to my building.

I call from downstairs to tell my husband to wait for me on the seventh floor and help me finish bringing up the groceries. My legs are stiff, and I feel like my fever has returned. I take another long gulp of guava juice and reach the halfway point of the stairs I have to climb. Reinaldo is there. I have to sit down and rest before limping on to the top floor.

As soon as we got home, we started cooking some of the chicken. There’s no time to wait: it’s thawed and we have no way to store it. We’ve been without electricity for almost 24 hours now.

The Havana Chronicles can be read here

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Havana Chronicles: What Kind of Country Will I Find When I Walk Its Streets Again?

After two weeks of illness, I contemplate a Cuba that seems to have plummeted even further.

The giant garbage dump at Reforma and Rodríguez, in the Havana neighborhood of Luyanó. / 14ymedio

Two weeks of convalescence is a long time. In those days, a body can become exhausted from fighting fever and pain, a neighborhood can sink even deeper into the health crisis, and a country can plummet even further than it was the last time I walked its streets. I feel like the end of July and the beginning of August have been stolen from me, bringing me back to a moment where everything is worse than when I left it.

From the rooftop, I can see the trash dump on the corner of Factor and Conill, which has become a veritable country. It has hollows, peaks, burnt areas, a growing ecosystem of flies, mosquitoes, and rodents, as well as regular visitors rummaging through the garbage looking for food. My sense of smell barely functions because of the virus that has kept me in bed these past few days. It is almost a blessing, because I’m told the air smells of rotting waste and burnt filth.

I haven’t dared to go down the 14 flights of stairs. I still don’t have the strength. Waiting for the electricity to come back on so I can use the elevator might be pointless. The most recent blackout lasted 28 hours. When the power returned, we were so exhausted we didn’t even have the energy to celebrate. With aching joints and eyes red from the illness, I rushed to connect the backup batteries, turn on the washing machine, and try to store water. This crisis doesn’t care about ailments.

With joint pain and eyes reddened by the illness, I rushed to connect the backup batteries, turn on the washing machine, and try to store water.

A neighbor says that we are being punished with long hours without electricity so that on August 13, the centenary of Fidel Castro’s birth, we can have electricity all day and thus give thanks for the gesture of allowing us to drink some cold water, bathe with a light bulb on, and even soften some beans in the electric pot.

My brain is still working very slowly, so I don’t get the irony. I’m numb, but I feel rage. The rage continue reading

hasn’t subsided, not even with the swollen joints or the headaches.

I read the news. There are demonstrations for the victims of earthquakes, calls to alleviate hunger in conflict zones, and appeals to ensure the safety of thousands of people caught up in surging migrations. I don’t read a single headline about the declaration of a national state of emergency in my country. No mention that the Cuban authorities have publicly acknowledged the catastrophic situation we are experiencing, which would allow for the implementation of urgent protocols to save our lives—the lives that are still standing.

There is a lack of field hospitals because the country’s healthcare facilities have neither the supplies nor the conditions, or sufficient staff to confront the epidemiological crisis we are experiencing. Food distribution points are urgently needed to curb the hunger that is claiming lives. It is also urgent to distribute drinking water, medicine, and basic supplies to alleviate the power outages and prevent those currently on the brink from succumbing in the coming weeks.

My friend died early this morning. It has affected me deeply. Always optimistic and always supportive, she passed away at a very dark time for Cuba. I think about her life, but also about all the difficulties her family will have to face now, after her death. Because dying doesn’t put an end to problems; rather, it begins another path of difficulties, from transporting the body in a city where a liter of gasoline costs around 3,000 pesos, to buying a bouquet of flowers amidst an official crackdown on private businesses that has kept many shops and businesses under lock and key.

Last night was the least bad of the last two weeks. The pain in my legs wasn’t too bad. Tomorrow will be better, I tell myself, though I don’t really believe it. When the numbness from the painkillers wears off, my nose is working properly again, and my feet can once more explore the streets, what kind of country will I find?

The “Havana Chronicles” series can be read here.

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Havana Chronicles: The Days of the Fever

A virus, an empty medicine cabinet, and the haunting image of those who grow old alone reveal the depth of Cuba’s health and demographic crisis.

There is no way to stop the virus in a city filled with mountains of garbage and without a vector control campaign to reduce the mosquito population. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, August 1, 2026 / Day One. I wake up with a tingling in my right shoulder. “I must have slept in the wrong position,” I tell myself. By ten in the morning, the discomfort has spread to my other shoulder and upper back. I keep hoping it’s just some muscle spasms, the result of all the acrobatics I have to do in bed during a night with a blackout and mosquitoes. But by the afternoon, it’s clear I have something more. I’ve caught one of those many viruses circulating in Havana, where the epidemiological situation worsens with each passing hour.

I start taking stock of the medications and medical supplies I have on hand. There aren’t many because the illness has hit my family and my neighbors hard in recent months, so a good part of the medicine cabinet is empty. There are two dipyrone tablets left, no thermometer, and the oral rehydration salts are gone. “It can’t be that bad,” I fool myself a little, although when night falls I know this isn’t the result of curling up in bed trying to find some air, nor a passing discomfort. The early morning will confirm it in the worst way.

The headaches are so intense I can’t sleep. They’re throbbing and seem to come from everywhere. Behind my eyes, in my forehead, on my cheek, and near my ears. Just when they reach a crescendo and I think I’ll get a few seconds of relief, they start up somewhere else. Sitting down is torture because then the throbbing becomes even more frequent. I’m irritated by sounds, lights, and the hum of the nearby Ministry of Transport power plant. When I try to get up, I realize I can’t speak or swallow. My entire neck, throat, and larynx are swollen and painful.

I resort to a Chinese ointment I found at the last minute. I rub it in until it’s all gone. Then the fever hits. I take a second dose of dipyrone and start crying for a thermometer. But my head hurts more as the tears flow, so I try to compose myself. What is this? Where did I catch it? Trying to answer these questions is as futile as it is agonizing. The hospitals lack the reagents to determine the name of what’s afflicting me, but I suspect it’s a virus I caught through a mosquito bite. continue reading

The hospitals lack the reagents to determine what the name of what’s wrong with me, but I suspect it’s a virus I contracted through a mosquito bite.

All the precautions I took were in vain. Finally, the insect carrying this infectious agent reached me. So many citronella incense sticks burned at night, so much repellent spray used before leaving the house, so many long-sleeved shirts and pants to avoid bites, and finally the virus entered my body. There’s no way to prevent it in a city overflowing with mountains of garbage, mired in an epidemiological crisis, and without an anti-vector campaign to reduce the mosquito population.

The second day is the worst. The fever sends chills through my entire body; I can’t get out of bed, but lying down is painful. Images race through my mind, chaotic and senseless. The rigidity spreads throughout the rest of my body. My family asks if it’s time to take me to the hospital. “To the hospital?” I reply, alarmed. There’s no electricity; in this condition, I’ll never be able to go down 14 flights of stairs, and just imagining that when I get back the power will still be out and the elevator won’t work makes my temples throb. Besides, the emergency rooms are overflowing with people like me: feverish, weak, and desperate. They can’t do much for the wave of patients arriving. They don’t have the capacity to run tests to determine what’s wrong with us, they don’t even have syringes to give injections, and the disputes with the desperate patients make the ER feel unsafe.

I decide to stay home. The following night is brutal. My fever is rising, but I’ve finally got a thermometer and can measure it; the chills are getting more intense, and new, very unpleasant symptoms are appearing, like diarrhea. I have no appetite at all, but I force myself to drink as much water as I can, even though it hurts terribly to swallow and the nausea isn’t helping me stay hydrated. In the midst of the darkness and the heat of the blackout, which I no longer feel thanks to the 39 degrees Celsius my body has reached, I start thinking about other patients in parallel situations, but under different circumstances.

Emergency rooms are overflowing with people like me: feverish, weak, and desperate. They can’t do much for this wave of patients arriving.

I imagine Matilde or Pancho, elderly people who live alone because their children have emigrated. They’ve been caught off guard by the same virus as me, but they have no shoulder to lean on and no way to buy, on the black market, the thermometer and dipyrone they need. In the delirium of fever, I can almost see them. In their beds, drenched in sweat, trembling, with the kitchen and dishes unwashed, with no one nearby to hear their faint voices pleading for help, with the power outage that has lasted for more than twenty hours, spoiling what little they had in the refrigerator and leaving them without water in the pipes.

Pancho and Matilde will keep me company for part of the time. I imagine them in their beds, with flies buzzing around and the stench growing. I manage to get a little chicken broth down my throat. It’s the last bit that survived the complete thawing after long hours without electricity. It soothes me, but I can barely swallow, so I only take a couple of spoonfuls. I go back to bed, where I’ll spend the next twelve hours in a continuous stupor, accompanied by the stories of those other patients who are going through the same thing, but with even more difficulty.

Where did I get infected? I’m obsessing again. Does it matter? I try to calm my mind. But there’s nothing more unproductive than trying to push away an obsessive thought. I remember a few days ago I was in a part of Central Park where I was attacked by mosquitoes. There were so many of them in such a short time that I can’t forget that moment. Several benches were occupied by homeless people. Are they sick too? How do you survive something so debilitating while living on the streets? People walk by and don’t notice that you’re shivering, that you’re moaning, that you’re sick.

The third night arrives. I convince myself that I’ll feel better when I wake up, that the worst is over. The fever subsides, the sore throat lessens, but sleep remains a struggle, plagued by aches and pains all over, the heat from the blackout, that affects me again, and the obsessive images that come my mind. I dream I’m beside the bed of an old woman with filthy sheets, pleading for help. There’s no one around.

A helping hand is needed to support the convalescent, someone to assist them to the bathroom, and that is very difficult to pay for from abroad.

Then I’m in an armchair in a dilapidated mansion where an elderly man tries to stand up and ends up falling to the floor because his legs won’t support him. Nor does anyone come to help. The number of elderly people living alone on this island has been growing due to the mass exodus. In times of health crisis, a remittance or a food package can hardly help; what is needed is a hand that comes to rest on the convalescent, someone to help with going to the bathroom, and that’s very difficult to pay for from abroad.

I wake up and try to get up, but the stiffness in my hips, knees, and ankles won’t let me. I diagnose myself with chikungunya. By then, I imagine Matilde and Pancho must be very ill. One must be on her way to the hospital after her neighbors noticed her absence; the other is perhaps still lying on the living room floor. Because, although the virus isn’t particularly lethal, going through it alone, in a country where even running water isn’t guaranteed and hospitals are lacking supplies and overwhelmed with patients, the chances of not surviving increase. The images of the shivering old woman in the room and the man collapsed on the floor no longer return.

I’m having my first coffee in many days, but it tastes bad. I’ll have to keep fighting this.

The “Havana Chronicles” series can be read here.

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Havana Chronicles: A Tour of the Ruins of the Gaesa Empire

A tour of El Vedado reveals the decline of the commercial network that the military built to control remittances, tourism, and foreign currency stores.

Fincimex office on 23rd Street in Havana’s Vedado neighborhood. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, July 29, 2026 / There are buildings that collapse with a crash, while others crumble in silence. The former Fincimex card processing center on 23rd Street in Vedado belongs to the latter category. I walk past its entrance and barely find a faded sign still proclaiming the grandeur of a company that once controlled a significant portion of the dollars entering the country. Behind the dusty windows, there are no longer lines, nor rushed employees, nor Cubans waiting to receive the magnetic card that unlocked the door to the remittances sent by an emigrant relative. Only the echo of a bygone era remains.

For years, that building was a funnel through which the money of thousands of families flowed. The prosperity within their homes fit on a plastic card with a magnetic strip and the Fincimex seal. You had to wait days to get one, but whoever left with the card in hand felt like they had conquered a lifesaver. Today, the building stands abandoned, the plaster is peeling from the walls, and silence has taken the place where impatience once reigned.

I cross the sidewalk and retrace my steps. The heat turns the asphalt into a griddle, and the shade from the trees is scarce. On the way, I enter one of those dollar markets that, just a few years ago, symbolized the power of Cimex, that immense business network of the Business Administration Group SA (Gaesa), the military conglomerate that wanted to control almost everything: remittances, hotels, hard currency stores, imports, ports, and even the last centavo a Cuban received from continue reading

abroad.

The bags of frozen chicken that some employees received as an incentive disappeared, as did the transportation that picked them up and took them to the door of the establishment.

The employee barely looks up when I walk through the door. She’s fanning herself with a folded piece of cardboard while she waits for her shift to end. Her face is tired, and her sour expression gives the lie to that self-satisfied image many Cimex employees used to project, when working there was considered a privileged position. I ask her about a product, and she answers listlessly. Before I can press her, she sighs, “I haven’t even had a snack.”

She doesn’t need to tell me more. Her very appearance tells the whole story. Gone are the bags of frozen chicken some employees received as a bonus, the transportation that picked them up and took them to the door of the establishment, the food rations that arrived punctually, and even the discreet tips left by customers grateful for having found a liter of oil or a package of detergent. Now, without US coins for change and giving change in bouillon cubes or candy, almost no one leaves them a cent, not even in Cuban bills.

Decadence has a peculiar way of equalizing people. Workers who once seemed to belong to a commercial elite now share the same weariness as the rest of the country. Their privileges evaporated as quickly as the products began to run out on the shelves.

I go down to the sea. The landscape around the Grand Aston Hotel is disconcerting. The facilities look impeccable, but a silence reigns that is unusual for a tourist establishment. The only sound is the persistent crashing of the waves against the nearby Malecón, the seawall. It is hard to believe that this was one of the most ambitious projects undertaken by Gaviota, owned by the Cuban military, and managed in partnership with a foreign partner who eventually left the island. Where a constant flow of visitors was once promised, now stillness and a sense of waiting prevail.

The sanctions imposed from Washington hit precisely the nodes where the conglomerate had accumulated the most influence

For years, Gaesa built an economic empire with the ambition of controlling every profitable corner of the country. Remittances ended up under Fincimex; tourism fell into the hands of Gaviota; stores selling goods in freely convertible currency sprouted like mushrooms under the TRD* [Tiendas Recaudadoras de Divisas] and Caribe umbrellas; imports and much of the logistics also came under its control. It seemed an impregnable model, a machinery designed to concentrate resources and power.

But that very concentration ultimately was converted into its greatest weakness. The sanctions imposed from Washington struck precisely at the nodes where the conglomerate had amassed the most influence. When the center of the system began to falter, the shockwave reached offices, shops, hotels, and workers who had built their lives around that gigantic structure.

While I retrace my steps, I look again at the Fincimex building on 23rd Street. I think that ruins aren’t always mountains of rubble. There are also administrative, commercial, and symbolic ruins. They remain standing, with closed doors and signs still hanging, as if awaiting an impossible return. Perhaps that is the ultimate fate of empires that wanted to encompass too much: to discover, when it’s too late, that size can also be a form of fragility.

*Translator’s note: TRD, Tiendas Recaudadoras de Divisas, translates literally to “Stores Collectors of Hard Currencies”

The “Havana Chronicles” series can be read here.

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Cuba: Living in Small Portions

Blackouts, shortages, and uncertainty have narrowed the horizon for Cubans to the point that planning for next week seems like a luxury.

Micro, small, and medium-sized enterprises (MSMEs) without internet access on Carlos III Avenue in Havana. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Generation Y, Yoani Sánchez, July 21, 2026 / “Can you sell me just one pound of chicken?” a woman asks pleadingly as she enters one of the many privately owned shops on Monte Street in Havana. But her plea falls flat: “Only the whole package,” the clerk says firmly. In a city where electricity is increasingly scarce, taking home several kilograms of food that needs refrigeration is like shooting yourself in the foot.

But these small offerings aren’t just affecting our plates and refrigerators; our lives are also being scaled down. I run into an old acquaintance who needs to undertake repairs so he can use his shower again. “What’s the point if we don’t even know if there will be water, or if we’ll even have a country left in a couple of weeks?” he asks, paralyzed by fear. Forecasts have become so unreliable that it’s best to plan only for a few hours; for tomorrow, if that.

We live in such a narrow present that any medium-term plan seems extravagant.

There’s a word that has become too big for our reality: future. It used to encompass buying a refrigerator, fixing up a room, or taking an August vacation. Now it barely allows us to decide whether it’s worth defrosting a package of sausages or saving our phone’s dwindling battery for an important call. We live in such a narrow present that any medium-term planning seems extravagant.

Uncertainty has ended up colonizing everything. Friends who postpone weddings, parents unsure whether to enroll their children in extracurricular activities, elderly people missing doctor’s appointments because they don’t know if there will be transportation or electricity that day. Everything has become provisional. The sensation that any decision could be overturned by a blackout, a breakdown, or a new crisis turns daily life into a kind of makeshift camping. continue reading

Perhaps the most profound damage isn’t the spoiled meat, the water that doesn’t come, or the shower my friend won’t repair. Maybe it’s having learned to live without plans. A nation that stops imagining next month, next year, or the next decade is a nation that shrinks every day. And when even hope has to be rationed in small portions, like that package of chicken that couldn’t be sold by the pound, the real scarcity is no longer in the markets, but in our dreams.

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Weary of Utopia

After almost seven decades of promises, the problem is no longer the horizon, but the distance between official discourse and everyday life.

To those who imposed this illusion on us without consulting us, we should say something very simple: we don’t want to live chasing what doesn’t exist, what will never exist. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana, Generation Y, Yoani Sánchez, July 23, 2026 / Miguel Díaz-Canel tried to get philosophical. In a recent interview, he spoke about utopia and attempted to repeat a phrase popularized by Eduardo Galeano, which he didn’t even manage to quote correctly. He said that “utopia is on the horizon. When we take two steps forward, utopia takes two steps back. And the horizon moves ten steps forward.” A strange mix that ended up sounding more absurd than inspiring.

And yet, perhaps the most revealing thing is not that he muddled the quote. What is truly revealing is that, after almost seven decades of this regime, the country’s top leader continues to offer us a utopia instead of a reality.

I, sincerely, am already tired of utopias.

Not because I’ve stopped believing in a better country. On the contrary. Precisely because I want a better nation, I refuse to continue living within a dream that belongs to others.

We inhabit a utopia that is not our own. Some who don’t even experience it try to convince us, from a distance, that we must conserve it intact.

We inhabit a utopia that isn’t ours. Some who don’t even experience it try to convince us, from a distance, from an office, or from the comfort of their privilege, that we must conserve it intact. They ask us for resilience, sacrifice, and faith. But they aren’t the ones who spend entire nights without electricity, who have to walk miles because there’s no public transportation, or who have to bring even antibiotics when a family member is hospitalized. They aren’t the ones who have to choose between buying medicine or putting food on the table.

It is profoundly alienating to live within the illusion of another person. To carry for a whole life the weight of a dream we never continue reading

chose. No one asked Cubans if we wanted to dedicate our lives to building that utopia. No one consulted us if we were willing to trade our youth for promises, our maturity for slogans, and our old age for speeches that always tell us the future will be better.

That future has been coming for almost seventy years.

And it never arrives.

Because the difference between a utopia and public policy is enormous. Public policy must produce results; it must ensure there is food, transportation, electricity, decent wages, functioning hospitals, and schools where teachers don’t abandon their classrooms. A utopia, on the other hand, always finds an excuse to postpone itself. It always lacks one more effort, there is always a little more resistance, always another step to take.

But while we walk toward that unattainable horizon, reality does the exact opposite: it regresses. The electrical system is deteriorating, transportation is decaying, and agriculture is shrinking. Hospitals are falling apart. The population is dwindling, with hundreds of thousands leaving the country. Even hope is fading.

Utopia can no longer be used as an argument to justify the persistent failure of a model. Because it is one thing to strive towards an ideal and another very different thing to use this idea to explain why even the most basic objectives are never achieved.

We don’t want to be governed by improvised philosophers. We want people capable of guaranteeing that there is running water, electricity at night, and food that can one can pay for with their wages. We want to live in a country where emigration isn’t the only option.

To those who imposed on us without consulting us, this mirage, we must say to them something very simple: : we do not want to live chasing what does not exist, what will never exist.

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