“They give us 15 minutes of electricity, several times like that over the last three days, but yesterday was too much, and everyone came out together to bang their pots.”

14ymedio, Darío Hernández, Havana, May 25, 2026 / “Havana wakes up with bags under its eyes,” says a resident of Regla, though he makes it clear he is not trying to be poetic. The bags under their eyes are not from a night out, nor from age, but from that sticky darkness that falls over homes when the power goes out and turns the night into a test of endurance.
In his neighborhood, as in so many other parts of the Island, residents came out to bang pots after 27 hours without electricity. The noise of the pot-banging is the way of raising their voices for people who no longer know what to do about the heat, the mosquitoes, the spoiled food, the children unable to sleep, and the rage.
“The pots were ringing out on every block,” the resident tells this newspaper. According to other residents of the Havana municipality, the neighborhood had been without service for more than a day. When it was supposedly time for power to be restored under the block rotation system, a fault appeared. Then came the “on and off”: a few minutes of power, another blackout, another attempt, another wait. Until patience went out too.
“In the end they were giving us 15 minutes of electricity,” says the man, with those same bags under his eyes. “Like that, several times over the last three days, but yesterday was too much, and everyone came out together to bang their pots.” continue reading
“What the Electric Union reflects in its Telegram messages does not come anywhere close to reality,” another witness says
“What the Electric Union reflects in its Telegram messages does not come anywhere close to reality,” another witness says. Out on the street, the crisis is not measured in megawatts, but in hours without sleep.
A woman from the same neighborhood sums it up without metaphors: “Sleeping in Cuba has become a privilege.” Sleep depends on having a rechargeable fan, on having been able to charge it beforehand, on the battery lasting, on having a generator, on having fuel, on living in a house where some air comes in, and on the mosquitoes granting a truce.
“The power went out at 4:30 in the afternoon and came back at 7:30 in the morning,” one Havana woman says. “The whole night without power.” She puts the rechargeable fan on the lowest speed to stretch out the battery. But the heat is already starting to bear down. She opens the windows. At one in the morning she wakes up because of the mosquitoes, even though she lives on an upper floor. She closes the windows again. She turns up the fan speed. Then another problem appears: the noise will not let her sleep. Two hours later, the charge runs out.
“Then you turn on the generator and put the fan to charge,” she says. “And that is how the whole night has gone until the power comes back, and you have slept only a couple of hours.”
At dawn there is no rest. The plans for the following day are cancelled before they even begin. “There is no way anyone can cope with this,” she says. And then she immediately qualifies it, with a mixture of guilt and clear-headedness: “I consider myself privileged. I have a fan and a generator. Most people have nothing.” The question hangs in the hot room: how do the others sleep?
A teacher gives a simple and devastating answer. Adults no longer sleep. They spend the night fanning the children with a piece of cardboard so the mosquitoes do not bite them. When the power comes back, nobody celebrates anymore. People run.
Adults no longer sleep. They spend the night fanning the children with a piece of cardboard so the mosquitoes do not bite them. When the power comes back, nobody celebrates anymore. People run
“When the power comes on, whatever time it is, there is a mad rush: to charge everything, to cook, to put the washing machine on, always with the fear that it will not last long,” says the teacher, who spent 15 hours without service. She speaks from a house that gets sun all day and where the heat clings to the walls. The night before she tried to sleep, but she could not either. “I fell asleep from exhaustion, an uncomfortable sleep, not deep at all,” she says.
“I now know almost as much as Lázaro Guerra,” the woman says ironically, referring to the official face who gives the daily report on the energy crisis. “Until a few years ago I was a complete novice when it came to megawatts, circuits, synchronizations, deficits. Now I could give the energy report myself if I set my mind to it.”
“I woke up about five times in the early hours,” the same woman says. “Each time I checked the Telegram channel, hoping to see: ‘Block 1 begins the gradual restoration of service.’” The bureaucratic phrase has become a kind of civic prayer. It is waited for the way one waits for a sign.
“Look what we have been reduced to,” she says. “I feel as though I am begging for crumbs of a service that is a right and that is not free, because I pay for it every month.” Electricity thus appears like an intermittent handout. A concession that forces people to live with body and soul hanging on a switch.
The material deterioration brings another, more silent one: damage to health. One of the accounts speaks of a stomach ache after ordering food for delivery. He suspects it was in bad condition because of lack of refrigeration. “Or who knows how many times that food was frozen and thawed,” he says. He has gone days without drinking cold water. He has no strength. He feels “wrecked.”
“After 12 hours of continuous blackout, my mood changes. All you think about is how to get out of this. You don’t feel like reading, going out, watching something. Nothing. The body goes into survival mode.”
“After 12 hours of continuous blackout, my mood changes. All you think about is how to get out of this. You don’t feel like reading, going out, watching something. Nothing. The body goes into survival mode.”
“Does anyone think about that, about the mental health of Cubans?” his partner asks. “The bags under my eyes are already part of my look, and with no cucumbers or potatoes to improve them.” The humor appears, but it does not save them. It barely lets them breathe amid the annoyance. “That is why people in the street are in a bad mood. The quality of sleep determines many things,” she insists.
“The worst thing is not the heat, or the mosquitoes, or the anxiety, or tossing and turning in bed at three, at four, at five,” the woman says. “The worst thing is opening your eyes and seeing everything dark, feeling that the night is swallowing you, along with the neglect, the lies of a Government that thinks about itself but not about its people.”
At seven in the morning, light begins to come in through a crack. But that is not a sign of relief either. It is the announcement of another day of work, queues, walking, finding something to eat, accumulated tiredness, and supposed normality. And, at the same time, the certainty that when night falls everything may happen all over again. “In Cuba you cannot sleep, much less dream,” says the resident of Regla, and he brings his fingers to the bags under his eyes, trying to rub them away.
Translated by GH
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🖋️Author Julio M. Shiling










