Category: Yoani Sanchez

Amid blackouts, protests, and empty bus stops, Cubans are receiving the 176 economic measures announced by the government with skepticism.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, June 20, 2026 / She carefully climbs onto the electric tricycle, while clarifying that she has had knee surgery. At 81, she says she dedicated her entire life to training athletes and that, many days, she has to choose between paying for transportation or buying food. “I won’t live to see any results from these measures,” she declares about the package of economic reforms announced this week by the Cuban government, which has failed to inspire hope or enthusiasm on the streets.

The days have become stifling in Cuba. By day, the sun beats down relentlessly; by night, the bonfires of the protests, fueled by mountains of garbage, dot the horizon with flames. I walk to the Faculty of Arts and Letters, where I graduated a quarter of a century ago. The dust accumulated on the windows and the silence that pervades the hallways reveal the academic paralysis that began last February. I turn to the right and begin to climb the hill that leads to the Calixto García Hospital. Next to the fence of the university stadium, more than fifty people try to share a tiny patch of shade.

“I won’t live to see any results from those measures.”

Some sweat under the sun; others seek refuge under umbrellas. They all share the same expression of annoyance while waiting for a bus to take them somewhere in a city where most of the stops remain empty. People have lost hope that any bus will ever come, and those images of passengers overflowing like bunches of grapes from the doors of the 22, the 30, or the 195 are a thing of the past. If during the Special Period passengers were practically hanging out of the windows, now many don’t even try to get around. They have given up on mobility.

Near the Physics Faculty, a woman and her teenage son sleep on the sidewalk. It’s evident they’ve been there for several days: they’ve improvised a bed, hung bags from a tree, and spread out blankets on which they display items salvaged from the trash, hoping to sell them. There are cables, a doll lacking one arm, and a few books. One of them is a manual of socialist economics, one of those texts that warned us continue reading

Havana has become a hostile and unsafe city, where it is increasingly difficult to sleep and bathe due to the lack of electricity and water.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, June 17, 2026 / I collapse into bed, exhausted. A stroll through the Miramar neighborhood can be worse now than sprinting along the uneven sidewalks of Reina Street in Central Havana. The once glamorous western neighborhood of the Cuban capital is as full of garbage as any corner of Cerro or La Lisa. Mansions with gardens on one side and mountains of trash on the other. Embassies with their national flags flying behind their gates, the stench of filth seeping through the bars.

I walked to 3rd and 70th from my house in Nuevo Vedado. There are fewer electric tricycles because the long hours of blackouts prevent them from charging the batteries of what has become the most common way to get around Havana. The journey submerged me in an zone I gazed at with wonder when I first visited it in my childhood. From that era, I remember gardens with impeccably trimmed hedges, the tranquility of its side streets, and the cleanliness of the central promenade on Fifth Avenue — a far cry from my neighborhood in Cayo Hueso. But none of that remains now.

My walk this Tuesday was through an area of ​​boarded-up, crumbling mansions, traffic lights out, old markets empty, and small businesses with refrigerators that weren’t cold due to the energy crisis. Life, what is life, I saw only outside a few consulates that receive dozens of visitors every day, desperate to leave this island. Returning to my building, I had the impression that a memory had been stolen from me, that memory of my first time walking down 3rd Street, visiting the National Aquarium, and passing through the tunnel under the Almendares River.

I go to bed early. It’s four in the morning on Wednesday, and I’m woken up by a strong smell of burning. I check the house, but the stench is coming from outside. A plume of smoke rises against the sky in front of our balcony, seeming to come from somewhere in the Cerro neighborhood. They’ve probably set fire to a garbage dump. My eyes are burning, so I grab a mask and put it on. There’s no electricity, so I use my rechargeable flashlight to get to the kitchen.

I make some instant coffee. The night has been long and the mosquitoes never give up. I’m more afraid of dengue fever than anything else. My self-esteem, like that of my neighbors, friends, and acquaintances, is at rock bottom. In the midst of speeches that extol national dignity, everyone I meet seems to have lost all their individual dignity or to have only shreds of self-respect left. Unwashed bodies, sleepless nights, and the smell of food on the plate, which seems to scream that it’s spoiled, are like corrosive acid poured on my self-respect.

The ten commandments of survival include not going out at night, remembering to apply insect repellent before going outside, and having as many bars and locks as possible to protect our homes.

Pride is also at odds with fear. Threats come from all sides. “Watch out for the mosquitoes,” a friend tells me, still unable to walk due to the aftereffects of chikungunya. “I don’t go out without this,” a neighbor tells me, showing me the machete he carries on his motorcycle to defend himself against the increasing number of robberies. “Don’t even think about going into that neighborhood alone,” a neighbor advises when I tell her I have to move south in a few days.

Fear has taken root in our lives. The ten commandments of survival include not going out at night, not forgetting to apply insect repellent before stepping outside, installing as many bars and locks as possible to protect our homes, and trying to calm our racing hearts when we repeatedly call someone and they don’t answer, all the while imagining some tragedy that is later explained away by the poor service of the telecommunications monopoly. We live in a constant state of anxiety, with news of fights, stabbings, murders, and robberies coming from all sides, rarely reported in the official press.

But the greatest fear is that nothing will change. The main terror is that this will drag on for weeks, months, and years, robbing us of what little dignity and peace we have left.

______________________

Previous Havana Chronicles:

A Circus Facing Off Against Power, and a City Growing Increasingly Lonely

Chronicle of a Monday That Feels Like Wednesday

“We Used to Complain About the ‘CUC’, But Now We Miss It”

The Roar of Despair of a Cuban Woman Returning to Her Country After Many Years

The Tulipán Market Closed: “They’ve Given the Order To Go to the March for Raúl”

Along Carlos III Street and towards Ethiopia

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

_________________

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 a tent is set up next to Revolution Square, blackouts and urban decay deepen the isolation of Cubans.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, June 14, 2026 / They’ve set up a circus in my neighborhood. A blue tent now stands just a few meters from the Council of State, and the tower of the Plaza de la Revolución blends into the horizon with the yellow stripes that crown its roo. Children wander around curiously, and the neighbors haven’t missed the opportunity to joke about the clowns and illusionists who always proliferate in the area. “If they’re the trainers, then we’re the animals,” an old woman warns me as soon as I approach the plaza where the hammering of preparations still echoed this Saturday.

I came here via Hidalgo Street. Earlier, I passed the bakery at the rationed market, with its endless line of people carrying empty bags. I had to dodge the stream of sewage that gushes from a drain and snakes for over a hundred meters. Garbage also stretches for entire blocks in what was once an area dominated by vegetation and tall buildings. Not anymore. Nuevo Vedado is, at this moment, like much of Havana, a succession of mountains of trash, broken streets, and weary faces.

“They didn’t cut off our power all night,” another neighbor tells me, relieved. He says it in a low voice, almost a whisper, as if afraid of alerting the electric company that our building had finally been able to sleep through the night for the first time in weeks. You almost feel guilty for having so many hours of electricity. When I woke up shortly after four in the morning and looked out onto the roof, I saw several buildings near Colón Street plunged into darkness. “Those are the victims of our left-on lights,” I thought to myself.

In my building, fewer and fewer people are using the elevator. The fear of being trapped in the middle of a power outage discourages anyone from entering that metal box, which transforms into a sauna as soon as the electricity goes out. Some neighbors spend entire days without leaving their homes because knee pain and other ailments prevent them from going up and down the stairs. The energy crisis has a less visible face: immobility and social isolation. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of Cubans across the island have lost contact with friends, acquaintances, and even family members because getting around has become too difficult.

A friend who lives in Central Havana tells me that an elderly man in her building died of “loneliness.” She says it just like that, abruptly, as if desolation had already crept into the Cuban medical lexicon as an official cause of death. continue reading

Packed onto an electric tricycle through the streets of Havana, the passengers reminisce about better times.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, June 5, 2026 / After waiting for ages, I manage to catch an electric tricycle on Carlos III Street. There are already five passengers, so I’m the last to get on, and my leg doesn’t fit. The only option is to leave it dangling to get anywhere in a city where every opportunity to get around shouldn’t be missed. So I travel to Fraternity Park with my thigh, calf, and foot hanging off the vehicle. I feel lucky to finally reach my destination.

Across from me, a woman with a worried expression says she can’t take it anymore. “I moved to the Isle of Youth more than 20 years ago, when it seemed like things were finally going to take off,” she reminisces, though we’re all caught up in our own dramas. Me, for example, took my first shower in three days at two in the morning this Thursday. I no longer know if it’s day or night, and sleeping at least five hours straight seems like a painful pipe dream.

“I made a little money buying good fish on the Isle of Youth for 18 pesos a pound and selling it here in Havana for two CUCs [Cuban convertible pesos],” the talkative passenger explains. The mere mention of those chavitos sets off a wave of nostalgia in the entire vehicle. “We used to complain about that currency, but now we miss it,” remarks a man sitting next to me. The times of the dual currency system looms as a new period of nostalgia, much like the 1980s once did. A decade some remember as one of abundance, but which I recall as one of strict surveillance and absolutely Orwellian. continue reading

I no longer know if it’s day or night, and sleeping at least five hours continuously seems like a painful chimera.

“With the little money I made selling fish, I bought a house in Nueva Gerona, even though I’m from here, from Cerro,” the woman adds. “Now my little house is locked up there because there’s no way to leave the island; it’s like being in a double prison.” The tricycle advances. A Lada behind us accelerates, and the driver lets it pass, but not before shouting, “Are you in a hurry?” Haste is a bad advisor in a city at a standstill. Even looking at your watch is considered bad form in a country where time is worthless.

I get off in front of the Aldama Palace. The entire area is boarded up, and sections of the roof on the upper floor of the once-imposing building have collapsed. A toothless man offers me a handful of hibiscus flowers in exchange for some money to buy food for his “little granddaughter.” I take out an Antonio Maceo, as the 50-peso bill is known, and exchange it for the bouquet of fragile petals. There was a time when I used to walk around Havana eating these flowers. It was a mixture of hunger and experimentation. I know the best part. There’s a fleshy area just below the pistil that you can chew with gusto; it has a flavor reminiscent of almond, but much milder. If the authorities at the Ministry of Domestic Trade find out, they’ll ration the hibiscus flowers too.

I jump off the tricycle, my leg completely numb. I limp like an undignified old lady crossing Fraternity Park as frail as I am. I run a few errands nearby, but almost everywhere I go, I find closed doors and a power outage. “No country can function like this,” mutters an old man as he passes me. “No country, no services, no people,” I add, amidst a yawn that reminds me I’ve been up for nine hours after barely three hours of sleep.

Returning home. There’s a green minibus at the taxi stand for the route along Rancho Boyeros Avenue to Santiago de las Vegas. In the back, a refurbished area for passengers, there are two low benches facing each other, each meant to fit ten passengers. It iss not the time to be overweight. Anyone who gets on the vehicle with a few extra pounds is looked at suspiciously. Where that man displays a broader frame, that young woman must be squeezed against the next passenger. Size matters, and so do pounds.

When we are about to depart, a woman appears carrying a framed picture, one meter wide by one and a half meters high. It’s one of those cheap prints, mounted on flimsy wooden boards, with a photo of a quinceañera. She asks us to make room for her to put the image on board, which ends up dividing the bathyscaphe in half lengthwise. The airflow between the windows on either side is cut off, the passengers are separated by the flimsy structure, and the rickety vessel starts moving.

I look at the flowing blue dress of the quinceañera in the portrait. It’s accompanied by a smaller painting of her in a swimsuit, smiling in profile at the camera. There are still people celebrating birthdays, baptisms, and weddings amidst the disaster we’re living through, I tell myself. The woman asks for help covering the large painting with a sheet and explains, “They were asking for 8,000 pesos to Mazorra, and I can’t afford that.” Once aboard the bathyscaphe, like any other traveler, she paid 1,000 pesos and treated us all to a surreal scene.

I arrive at Boyeros and Tulipán. I get down carefully so as not to spoil the image of the quinceañera that everyone inside the car is protecting, as if to safeguard this innocence that the harshness of reality will shatter. I get out, pay the driver. I turn right. I reach into my purse and find the withered hibiscus. The Ministry of Transportation’s generator is already whirring, a sign that there’s no electricity at my house. I take a bite of the bunch of flowers and head towards my own hill, towards the steep mountain that awaits me.

______________________

Previous Havana Chronicles:

The Roar of Despair of a Cuban Woman Returning to Her Country After Many Years

The Tulipán Market Closed: “They’ve Given the Order To Go to the March for Raúl”

Along Carlos III Street and towards Ethiopia

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

______________________

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 man who a decade ago shook hands with the US president at diplomatic ceremonies is today an old man cornered by the justice system of that same country and reviled in Washington

I walk by the corner of Carlos III and Rancho Boyeros Avenue in Havana. A few meters from the Faculty of Dentistry, a newly erected billboard interrupts the urban landscape. It doesn’t announce a campaign against Washington, nor a partisan rally, nor even any of those slogans that have survived the passage of time like old furniture that no one dares to take out of the house. It simply says: “Raúl is Raúl.”

The phrase, that purports to be a celebration of Raúl Castro’s 95th birthday on June 3rd, has a strange effect. Four stars, a dark green background, and the insignia of an Army general convert the sign into something much more like a death notice than a tribute. The message doesn’t convey vitality, but rather evokes farewell. As if those who ordered its placement knew that the end of an era was approaching.

It is difficult to look at that billboard and not think about the distance that separates the man who turns 95 today from the figure who for decades held the second most powerful position in Cuba. For much of his public life, Raúl Castro existed in the shadow of his brother Fidel. From the years of the insurrection to the consolidation of authoritarian power, his role was that of an indispensable companion, a disciplined executor, and the guarantor of the military and repressive machinery.

While Fidel Castro favored improvisation, interminable speeches, and epic campaigns, Raúl cultivated an image of a pragmatic administrator.

It was Fidel Castro who drew him into the revolutionary adventure and placed him in all the key positions of the system. But it was also Fidel who condemned him to a subordinate political existence. For half a century, Raúl was the eternal number two.

However, those who knew him well always insisted that there were important differences between the two brothers. While Fidel Castro favored improvisation, endless speeches, and epic campaigns, Raúl cultivated an image of a pragmatic administrator. While one seemed obsessed with history, the other was focused on the mechanisms of power. While one spoke to the masses, the other preferred continue reading

Leaving us out in the sun rather than allowing us into the air-conditioned room feeds the custodian’s authority and might even give him a dopamine rush.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, May 28, 2026 / After more than two decades in Stockholm, a childhood friend has recently returned to Havana. The death of her grandmother brought her back to an island where she had only spent a few days on vacation since emigrating. Acting as a guide for a Cuban living abroad is a bitter task. The first thing is to make it clear that the country she remembers no longer exists, that the nation she cherishes in her memory disappeared long ago.

For the first few days, my friend enjoyed everything. She told me she felt relieved to barely be able to communicate on the internet and hardly at all by phone, after years of overexposure to social media in Sweden. She savored a mamey and felt like she was in heaven. She tasted a cherimoya and fell into a trance. But that naive joy soon ended. Reality seeped like corrosive acid through the cracks of her illusion.

Empowered with a foreign bank card, my friend decided to go shopping for groceries to prepare a family dinner. I reluctantly accompanied her, knowing that frustration is the most common commodity found in those stores that operate in dollars. We walked up the hill on Tulipán Street and then down to La Mariposa. Inside, all the refrigerators were empty. There was no meat, no butter, no sausages, and certainly no fish. My friend pouted like a Swede in distress.

Then, with that indefatigable energy that comes from eating well for the last quarter of a century, she told me we should go to a market on 26th Street. “I read online that it has Spanish products and is well-stocked,” she explained to me. My face responded with a skeptical expression. We passed the Acapulco movie theater, and then she told me that’s where she had her first kiss with her high school sweetheart. The dark lobby, the marquee without advertisements, and a faint whiff of urine wafting from under the door brought her back to the present.

Near the Chinese cemetery, a man under 30, dressed in rags, caught up with us and gave each of us an azalea flower. “Something to eat,” he said immediately after handing us the fragile, purple petals. My friend didn’t have any cash, but she gave him a bag containing a can of soda and a ham and cheese sandwich. The young man started crying like a child, and she couldn’t tell if it was from emotion or because she had offended him by giving away her snack. “Those are the tears of hunger,” I had to explain continue reading

I can imagine the number of onions, potatoes, mangoes, and peppers that won’t survive another day to be sold this Saturday.

14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, May 23, 2026 / I need onions. I take advantage of the electricity and go down in the elevator, also carrying the garbage that has accumulated during the days of blackout on our 14th floor. On the corner, the bins are no longer visible because a mountain of waste has covered their blue plastic. Several wheels have also been ripped off to make wheelbarrows for hauling water. One has its plastic ripped lengthwise, the other has holes caused by the flames of some fire. Neither has a lid.

I continue along Factor and turn onto Tulipán Street. A cart loaded with plantains and papayas catches my eye and makes my mouth water. It belongs to a family who come every weekend from San Antonio de los Baños, in Artemisa. I calculate the distance, consider the work it must take to move the merchandise to Havana, amidst the fuel shortage. “Everything is brought here because this is where the money is; in our town, there’s not even enough room to tie up a goat,” the matriarch of the clan, who also sells guavas, confides in me.

There was a time when I used to go to San Antonio de los Baños a lot. I would take my German students to visit the Museum of Humor, we’d go boating on the Ariguanabo River, and we’d even sneak into the International Film and Television School. The last few times I’ve been to that small town, a bridge between so many other areas of “red earth” and old pre-university schools in the countryside, I’ve barely recognized the once beautiful village. After 11 July 2021, which erupted right in its streets, the small town has become a place of silence. “We don’t even have water,” the vendor tells me as she offers me a handful of tiny plantains.

They tell me that “they’ve given the order to go to the march for Raúl [Castro]” and that’s why the most important market in the area hasn’t opened.

I continue along Tulipán Street to the farmers market, but I came across a closed gate and other people, like myself, arriving and feeling frustrated to see the empty stalls and an eerie silence that hangs over the place, on a Friday that is traditionally bustling. No one knew what had happened. I turned around and approached the other gate, which opens onto Marino Street. Inside, two young men were dozing in a guard booth. At my insistence, they told me that “they’ve given the order to go to the march for Raúl [Castro]” and that’s why the most important market in the area hadn’t opened.

An elderly man approaches with perplexed  look upon hearing the justification. “So all this is because we went to support that old guy who shot down the planes,” he says angrily. Fury has taken hold here, where complaints used to be voiced with a touch of irony, a half-smile. Now anger has become the state in which we spend most of our time. We’re angry the 24 hours of the seven days in the week. There aren’t even jokes left to tell amidst a collapse that, according to one of my neighbors, “hasn’t hit rock bottom yet.”

Standing in front of the silent market, I imagine the countless onions, potatoes, mangoes, and peppers that won’t survive another day to be sold this Saturday. A single day of closure skyrockets spoilage, costs, and losses. Nor can I imagine the private vendors who fill these stalls, once run by the Youth Labor Army (EJT), crowding into the Anti-Imperialist Tribune to support a man they feel is both distant and responsible for the debacle we’re living through. There go the military personnel, the relatives of Castro, a fugitive from US justice, where he has been indicted on criminal charges including murder for the downing of the Brothers to the Rescue planes in 1996. There go the workers from the military conglomerate Gaesa, who can’t refuse these calls to action. There go those who haven’t realized, or don’t want to realize, the rage that throbs in these streets.

There go the military personnel, the relatives of Castro, a fugitive from US justice, where he has been charged with criminal offenses.

The onions will have to wait for another day. I’m heading home quickly before the blackout hits. Last week was terrible. One day we only had electricity for an hour and a half, divided into two 45-minute blocks. They couldn’t pump water to our building’s tank those days, and to top it all off, the Havana Water Company announced a break. One morning we only had one pitcher of drinking water left, but a sunflower I’ve been carefully cultivating absolutely needed some water.

You have to hold on to something. Waiting for those yellow petals to open in the middle of the rooftop gave me hope. Should I drink the blessed glass of water or give it to this spindly plant that won’t make it to tomorrow if I don’t water it now? I faced the dilemma. With its drooping leaves and limp stem, it didn’t have much of a chance. I’m definitely not prepared to survive by trampling over other lives. I poured the last of my water on it. That morning, miraculously, the electricity came back on and they were able to pump water into the tank.

This Friday, when I returned from the closed market, the sunflower on the rooftop was waiting for me in full bloom. I’m not ready to give up on beauty, not even amidst so much pent-up anger.

Previous Havana Chronicles:

Along Carlos III Street and towards Ethiopia

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

______________________

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.

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

______________________

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
______________________

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

______________________

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.

______________________

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.

========

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.