The lack of electricity and internet connection turns a family call between Berlin and Villa Clara into an odyssey marked by distance and exile.
14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Berlin, August 2, 2026 / At five in the afternoon I finished my workday in Berlin. It had been a long day, but since I left home in the morning my body was in Germany and my mind in Cuba. That day was my mother’s birthday and I was only thinking about one thing: managing to speak with her before her birthday celebrations on the island ended.
During my workday, I checked the clock several times. Not because I wanted it to end, but because I was calculating the time difference. I knew it wouldn’t be just any call. In Cuba, a phone call depends on too many things: electricity, phones with batteries, available coverage and internet connection, and someone able to answer.
When I got home, I didn’t even change my clothes. The first thing I did was buy international calling minutes. I couldn’t call by WhatsApp, and the messages I sent couldn’t be delivered. Without electricity, there is no internet either, and when the power outages last almost all day, a video call is a virtually impossible luxury. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice, even if it was just for a few minutes, to know how she was and wish her a happy birthday in my own voice.
I dialed her home phone, it was off, and I kept waiting until 11:30 at night in Berlin, which was 5:30 in the afternoon in Cuba. I tried calling again, but no one answered. I called again. Nothing.
In Cuba, a phone call depends on too many things
It didn’t surprise me. I imagined the phones lying uncharged on a table, waiting for that single hour of electricity they often get during the day. In Cuba, nobody takes it for granted that a phone will be on anymore.
Then I dialed Yolanda’s number, the neighbor who, luckily, still has a phone with minutes, although it also has a battery.
She has become, without any intention, the bridge between my family and me when power outages leave my parents’ house without communication. I only have a few minutes, between three and five, since it’s for emergencies.
–Hello, Yolanda. How are you?
–Hey my boy! It’s so good to hear from you. How are you?
I explained that I was calling to congratulate my mother.
–Could I speak with her for three minutes?
–Sure, wait a moment. I’ll call her now.
I hung up and called back five minutes later.
While I waited, I thought about everything that had happened that day.
In any other country, traveling just over 250 kilometers would be a journey of a few hours. In Cuba, it can mean waiting for months.
My sister had traveled from Havana to celebrate my birthday. I hadn’t been able to visit my parents for six months. Not because I didn’t want to or because I was busy. Simply because there was no fuel, no way to get there.
In any other country, traveling just over 250 kilometers would be a journey of a few hours. In Cuba, it can mean waiting for months.
In the end, my sister, an aunt, and several cousins pooled their money to rent a car. Only then were they able to get to Villa Clara. It struck me that, living on the same island, my sister needed to plan a trip as if she were going to another country.
I was more than eight thousand kilometers away. She was just over two hundred and fifty. And yet, we both had almost the same difficulties in reaching our mother.
Suddenly I heard a voice on the other end of the line.
–Hello, Pipo?
It was my mother.
She tried to say something, but the words got trapped in her tears.
I felt a lump in my throat.
–Mom, congratulations. I wish you good health and many more years of life. I hope we can celebrate this day together very soon.
She didn’t respond for a few seconds.
I only heard her crying.
She tried to say something, but the words got stuck in her throat as she cried.
Then my father took the phone and they tried to hide it from me and divert attention from my mother’s crying, but I know her. My father and I spoke for barely a minute. He asked me how I was and how work was going. Then my mother came back.
I trepeated that I was fine, that she shouldn’t worry about me, and that I loved her very much.
I’m sure she tried to hold back her tears so I wouldn’t worry. She didn’t tell me. Nor did she need to. I’m her son, and I know my mother’s silence. I know when she’s trying to appear strong even though she’s falling apart inside. As I listened to her, I felt a lump in my throat and had to make an effort to keep my own voice from breaking.
Then the call was cut off.
At least I was able to congratulate her. It wasn’t a video call, and I couldn’t see her smile. I couldn’t sing “Happy Birthday” to her. I couldn’t hug her. I only got to give her three minutes.
The phone had run out of battery.
There was no time to say goodbye.
I stared at my phone screen for a few seconds, wondering if the call might come back, but it didn’t. I thought about the image that surely remained on the other end: my mother holding the phone, which was off, tears in her eyes, after hearing her son’s voice for just a few minutes.
At least I was able to congratulate her. It wasn’t a video call, and I couldn’t see her smile. I couldn’t sing “Happy Birthday” to her. I couldn’t hug her. I only got to give her three minutes.
That night I understood that exile doesn’t always hurt because of the distance. Sometimes it hurts because of the simplest things. Because you can’t call when you want to. Because you depend on the battery of a borrowed phone. Because you have to buy expensive international minutes since the internet disappears every time the power goes out.
While in Berlin the city was still lit up and the subway continued to function normally, in Cuba my family waited for the next moment when the electricity would return so they could charge a phone again.
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