The Island in Darkness: Daily Life Amid Cuba’s Blackouts
HAVANA TIMES — It is two in the morning, and the heat makes sleep impossible. In an apartment building in the Cerro municipality, several families have placed their mattresses on the sidewalk and on the rooftop. A young girl fans her little brother with a piece of cardboard while the adults talk quietly. The electricity has been out for more than 50 hours, and no one knows when it will return.
The scene is repeated every night in numerous neighborhoods across Cuba. When the sun goes down, darkness transforms daily life into a test of endurance. Streets lose their familiar landmarks and become labyrinths lit only by the glow of a cellphone or a rechargeable flashlight. Those returning home late move cautiously, avoiding potholes, large urban garbage dumps, and obstacles that go unnoticed during daylight hours.
The first thing people feel when the power goes out is the heat. Concrete buildings retain the temperature accumulated under the sun for hours and release it slowly throughout the night. Inside apartments, the air feels motionless. Outside, on porches, patios, and rooftops, hundreds of people search for a bit of relief.
Sleeping has become a collective activity. Where there were once neighbors who barely greeted one another, there are now nighttime conversations, children playing before finally giving in to sleep, and elderly people recalling other difficult times. Many stay awake until dawn waiting for the electricity to return so they can charge phones, lamps, and batteries. Electricity no longer powers only household appliances; it also sustains communication with relatives, access to information, and much of everyday economic life.
The kitchen is another place where the crisis becomes visible. Without electricity and with difficulties obtaining liquefied gas, many families have once again turned to charcoal and firewood. In patios and tenements, improvised stoves made from concrete blocks, pieces of metal, and old grills have appeared. Smoke rises above the rooftops while beans, rice, or whatever food is available simmers in pots. Around these stoves, people exchange survival recipes: how to save cooking oil, how to preserve food when the refrigerator remains off most of the day, and how to cook for several households at once when only one family has fuel.
Getting around the city is no easy task either. Long waits have become a routine part of the urban landscape. When a vehicle finally appears, it usually arrives overcrowded. As a result, electric tricycles, bicycle taxis, and private transport operators have gained prominence. They provide an essential solution for many citizens, although their fares are difficult to afford for those who live solely on a state salary. For others, daily travel means walking—kilometers under the sun to get to work, attend a medical appointment, or complete an essential errand. Some workers admit they have had to miss work on several occasions simply because they could not find transportation.
The lack of electricity also affects something as basic as access to water. Without power, pumping stations and many distribution systems stop functioning. In several neighborhoods, residents store water in buckets, tanks, and any available container whenever they have the opportunity. Every liter counts. Water used for washing may later be used to clean floors or flush toilets. Managing water has become a constant exercise in calculation and conservation. Families organize schedules, set priorities, and adapt their routines to the uncertainty of not knowing when water will once again flow from the tap.
On some nights, when a blackout lasts longer than expected, the silence of the neighborhoods is interrupted by the metallic sound of pots and pans being struck. The banging begins in isolated spots and multiplies. It may last only a few minutes or continue for hours. For some, it is a form of protest; for others, it is a temporary release of frustration after hours of heat, darkness, and waiting.
Yet the image that appears most often is not one of protest but of cooperation. Neighbors share food before it spoils. Families lend chargers, batteries, and lamps. Young people help carry water to the upper floors. People cook for those who have no way to prepare meals themselves.
Amid the hardships, mutual support sustains much of everyday life. These mechanisms arise from necessity, but also from a culture of solidarity built through decades of successive crises.
Many elderly Cubans compare the current situation to the Special Period of the 1990s. Some say that resources were scarce back then as well, but there was an expectation that things would improve. Today, they say, the hardest thing is not merely the shortages but the uncertainty. Not knowing how long tonight’s blackout will last. Not knowing whether there will be transportation tomorrow. Not knowing when a sense of normalcy—one that seems increasingly distant—will return.
Meanwhile, millions of Cubans continue reorganizing their lives around an absence. They cook, work, walk, wait, and begin again the next day. On an island where darkness has become part of everyday routine.
Read more from the diary of Safie M. González here on Havana Times.