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