In Guantánamo, Cuba, Good Eyesight Has Become a Luxury Due to Shortages at State-Run Opticians

This has led to the private market taking the place of official provision.

The few state-owned opticians that remain open are just urban decoration rather than a real service. / Screenshot

14ymedio bigger14ymedio, Guantánamo, 30 November 2025 — In Guantánamo, the word “optician” is now pronounced with a hint of irony or nostalgia. It is as if people were talking about a service that existed in the past—imperfect rather than efficient, but at least it existed—and that today survives only as a sign on a shopfront. In the city centre streets, where the sun mercilessly bounces off the pavements, more and more people walk around squinting, holding their phones inches from their noses or wearing glasses patched up with adhesive tape.

The lack of lenses and frames in state-run opticians affects the quality of life of those who have been waiting for years to get better glasses, or contact lenses or buy prescription glasses that allow them to walk down the street without straining their eyes in the glare.

In front of one of the closed opticians, a woman in her sixties holds a pair of broken frames and says with resignation: “I come whenever I can to see if they’ve got anything, but nothing,” she tells 14ymedio. “Sometimes they don’t have frames, and most of the time they don’t have the prescription I need, as I’m short-sighted.”

A man in a work uniform says he has been trying to replace his glasses for months: “They tell me to come back in two or three weeks to see if any supplies have arrived, but they’ve been saying that since last August.” The scene, repeated in various parts of the city, shows closed shops, empty display windows and employees who can only offer apologies.

No lenses, no frames, no screws, no hinges

“There are two in this area where only the guards are there because they have been without materials for so long that even the other employees no longer go to work. One of those premises has even been turned into an apartment,” complains the customer who needs glasses “to read and see up close”. His solution for the moment: to use his wife’s glasses, which, although they aren’t the same prescription, at least “prevent him from cutting his finger with a knife”.

In Guantánamo, the few state-owned opticians that remain open are more urban decoration rather than a real service. The furniture is there, and so are the cases and mirrors, but they don’t have the essentials: there are no lenses, no frames, no screws, no hinges. A woman points to the door of a shop that was once a landmark in the city: “This place has been closed for a long time. They took away the equipment. They tell people to go to another municipality, but there aren’t any there either.”

This has led to the private market taking the place of the official network. Just join any buying and selling group in the area to see an almost endless selection of modern frames, striking colours, children’s designs and lenses “for close-up vision” or “for reading”.

This abundance contrasts with the state’s poverty, but it comes at an exorbitant price: a simple pair of +1.75 glasses costs more than 900 pesos in Guantánamo. If they are of better quality or have a higher magnification, they can cost up to 1,800 or 2,000 pesos. The national average wage is around 6,500 pesos per month, so a worker has to spend between 15% and 30% of their income just to see clearly what is in front of them.

“I perform magic,” says one of these private technicians with a laugh, “but not miracles.”

My work is sewing, how can I do it without glasses?” asks a woman who proudly shows off a pair brought to her by her niece from Jamaica. Others agree: “Everyone depends on those who travel,” “if you don’t have family abroad, you’re lost,” “seeing well is a luxury now.”

For those who can’t afford a new pair, they can go to repairers: artisans of detail, guardians of an almost ritualistic skill. Few remain in Guantánamo, mostly older men who work at tiny tables, surrounded by magnifying glasses, recycled screws and worn tools. They can straighten an arm, put a piece of wire where the hinge broke, or tighten whatever is loose. But making glasses from scratch requires machinery that only the state has. “I do magic,” says one of these private technicians with a laugh, “but not miracles.”

The crisis has consequences that are not always visible. Not being able to use glasses affects productivity, learning and safety. A retired teacher explains that many older adults stop reading or doing other activities because they do not have glasses, and that this “closes them off”. Others mention frequent headaches, stumbling when walking, and difficulty performing basic tasks. In a city where many people work in manual labour, the inability to focus properly becomes an economic barrier.

Meanwhile, on the streets of Guantánamo, people can be seen squinting, enlarging the letters on their mobile phones as much as possible, or wearing frames patched up with adhesive tape. For those who cannot afford the high prices of glasses on the informal market, the city is becoming a blurry landscape.

Translated by GH

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