Now you can find out who has family abroad and has sent them a rechargeable lamp, who bought a generator that hums when it starts up, and who achieved their dream of owning a solar panel.
14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, 17 March 2026 — I leave early. Dawn is my ally because I know Havana wakes up later and later. This Tuesday, there are additional reasons to stay in bed: the city is paralyzed because the National Power System went down yesterday afternoon. Offices have closed, the electric tricycles that transport passengers have run out of battery power, and internet access is a mere whisper, only available on a few very central corners or by climbing to higher ground.
Last night the darkness was profound, but the city no longer looks like it did during the Special Period, when the blackouts would hit and people wouldn’t even have candles. Now you can tell who has family abroad and has sent them a rechargeable lamp, who bought a generator that hums when it starts and fills the building with the smell of burning fuel, and who achieved the dream we all long to fulfill these days: a solar panel.
On the 15th floor of that building, it’s clear they have resources. The whole living room is lit up, and I even notice a television on. Over here, however, the 12-story building on the corner is quite dull. They’ve always been the poorest in the neighborhood because those apartments weren’t given to members of the Ministry of the Armed Forces, nor to pilots, and certainly not to foreign affairs employees. They were workers for an institution with fewer privileges, and even today, they bear more burdens of poverty than the rest of the community.
I go to bed early because there’s not much to do at night without electricity. No one in my neighborhood has parties anymore.
I go to bed early because there’s not much to do on nights without electricity. No one in my neighborhood has parties anymore. Before, there were rumbas on Saturdays, drumming for the saints that lasted for hours, and the get-togethers we used to have in our apartment, even though all the guests had to climb the 14 flights of stairs because of the power outage. But not anymore. Now nobody’s in the mood for celebrations. There’s a feeling of mourning everywhere, but this funeral drags on too long, and it seems like the deceased refuses to be buried.
I wake up, gulp down my unsweetened coffee, and head out. I walk down Ayestarán Street. A man follows me for a few blocks, but I can’t tell if he’s with the political police or a stalker. I speed up and lose him, while I’m inspired by the story of a skinny, hungry, and tenacious marathon runner. His face is not on any banknotes, he doesn’t receive any official tributes, but I remember him every day of my life. My family calls me “Andarina Sánchez” to tease me about our similarities. We’re both adept at the same language: walking; at a way of knowing the world: traversing it on foot.
I love persevering people, and Félix de la Caridad Carvajal y Soto—mailman, billboard man, and athlete—embodies the perseverance I try to emulate every day of my life. So, thinking of Andarín Carvajal, I venture into Los Sitios. A grandmother has taken her grandson to elementary school, and the principal tells her no, she has to take him back home because “there are no classes today; the teachers couldn’t come because they don’t have electricity or water at home.” I see a pout on the little boy’s face, and it saddens me. I’ve always been “punctual”; a canceled school day was a tragedy for me.
I progress on to the ruins of the ISDi. I continue along Belascoaín until I turn onto Zanja. An elderly woman grumbles, annoyed by the lack of electricity, and suddenly bursts into a shout: “But the communists do have electricity!” It’s just the two of us on that stretch of street, but she shouts that phrase again with a rage that makes her hair shake and her chin tremble. It starts to rain. Just what I needed.
They say that when Andarín Carvajal arrived in St. Louis, USA, to compete in the Olympic Games, he showed up at the starting line wearing long pants and the boots he used as a mail carrier. Today I went out without an umbrella and in a dress that has left my legs at the mercy of the mosquitoes. Big mistake. I can’t afford to let dengue fever cross my path again. The last time it almost killed me. I couldn’t sit down for weeks because of the pain. Just remembering it makes me shudder.
People talk about hard, unadulterated politics. There’s no time for everyday conversation; we’re all walking parliaments.
Near Galiano, a pedicab driver is explaining to another that “Marx was a lazy bum and never worked a day in his life.” In a city without electricity and almost no public transportation, I’m constantly surprised by the topics people discuss. And no, it’s no longer the weather or how bad the asphalt is. People talk about hard, unadulterated politics. There’s no time for everyday conversations; we’re all walking parliaments, all of us have graduated as leaders and orators these days.
I’m walking through Fraternity Park when the downpour announces, “Here I am.” I try to catch one of the electric tricycles that make the trip back to my house, but there aren’t any. After waiting a long time, one finally appears in the rain. It’s missing a passenger, and the driver asks me for 300 pesos to Boyeros and Tulipán. I get in, soaked, and apologize to the other passengers, whom I inevitably drench. Andarín Carvajal would have already stripped down completely naked and continued walking along Reina Street and then Carlos III, on his way back. But today I haven’t been a good disciple of the tireless adopted son of San Antonio de los Baños.
As I get off the tricycle, I wish the other passengers a good day—”if that’s even possible under these circumstances,” I add. A chorus of indignation erupts. A young man dressed as a firefighter raises his voice even more, saying, “In this country, I don’t see that happening.”
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