I went to Cuba in 2006 and again in 2017. Two different years, two different experiences. Cuba always struggles, either because of the embargo or because of self-inflicted wounds.
In 2006, I saw firsthand the struggles that ordinary Cubans go through every day—the struggle to eat, to live under a non-collapsing roof, and, in general, to survive.
In 2017 (after some of the travel and economic restrictions were lifted) even though the living conditions hadn’t improved since my previous visit, there was a sense of hope. People believed that the future might be better—that it would be better.
What struck me every time was the grit and positive attitude I saw when I spoke to people in the streets. I was impressed by what has been called the “Latin American paradox” in happiness research. It refers to the surprising finding that people in Latin American countries report higher levels of life satisfaction and happiness than would be expected based on their relatively low GDP per capita and other economic indicators.
In short, people in Cuba seem happy, they laugh, they dance (nonstop), they have a sense of humor, and they are warm and welcoming. I loved interacting with ordinary Cubans.
I went back last year (2024), when conditions were as bad as I’ve seen. There were all-night lines of cars hoping to buy gasoline. Food was so scarce that people rummaged through garbage. People—for the first time—spoke openly about leaving Cuba for any country that would accept them. But the biggest impediment to anything close to a normal life was the rolling blackouts.
Electricity in Cuba has become a luxury, rationed and unpredictable. The once-reliable hum of old ceiling fans, the dim glow of bare bulbs, and the static crackle of radios have been replaced by silence and darkness. These blackouts are no longer anomalies—they are the norm.
The Cruelty of Uncertainty
In Cuba, the sun shines relentlessly. My daily early morning joy was waking in Havana’s Malecón and seeing ordinary Cubans going to work. Every day is beautiful. But at night, as power vanishes without warning, entire communities are thrust into paralysis. There is no schedule, no warning—just sudden darkness. No one knows when the electricity will disappear or when it will come back.
They cannot plan a meal. They worry that the refrigerator won’t preserve the precious little food they have. Mothers worry whether their children’s homework, painstakingly written by candlelight, will survive the humid night without a cooling fan. Elderly residents sit by open windows, battling mosquitoes and the oppressive heat.
Imagine a life where no day can be predicted. Where you hesitate to wash clothes because you might not be able to dry them. Where you postpone cooking, not knowing if the gas will run out before the gas tank is empty. Where meeting friends or keeping appointments becomes a cruel gamble. That’s the Cuba I saw in 2024.
Onwards
And yet, Cubans move forward, in their own Latin-paradoxical way.
As always, Cubans find ways to resist despair. Community solidarity is both a survival tactic and a defiance of hopelessness. Neighbors share batteries and cook together when one household’s stove fails. Musicians play guitars on darkened streets, their melodies weaving through shadows like threads of hope.
People find humor in absurdity, laughing when power returns just in time to interrupt sleep or shuts off during the last moments of a long-awaited TV show. Survival in darkness becomes an art form.
And as always with Cuba, there is a spark—a belief that someday the darkness will end, that the island will emerge once again into the light. Until then, Cubans live as they always have—balancing between despair and defiance, refusing to let the darkness define them.
I took these photos during the many blackouts, when the only light came from their smartphones—until the battery died—or from car lights that Cubans, creative as usual, use to see the happy faces of their friends and families sitting outside their dark homes, always smiling, always hoping for a better future.
