Havana, Cuba is currently experiencing profound daily struggles, marked by widespread power outages, critical fuel shortages, and a scarcity of essential goods like food and medicine. Eyder Peralta, a correspondent with rare access to the island this week, described the situation as the most severe he has ever witnessed in the capital.
Peralta painted a stark picture of Havana, where life is increasingly defined by darkness. “Right now, the streets are completely empty. Yesterday, even the iconic capitol building was totally dark. You have to walk around with a flashlight,” he reported. Reflecting on his previous visit nearly a year ago, Peralta noted the dramatic deterioration. “The last time I was here was nearly a year ago, and it's just dark. I have to say that was really shocking. I went for a long walk around Old Havana yesterday, and you just walk blocks and blocks, and it feels like the day after a hurricane where it's pitch dark in the streets. People are walking around with flashlights. I mean, it's sort of stunning how much life light gives to a city, and this – it feels like a zombie movie.”
The current crisis has been exacerbated by a U.S. policy shift in January, when the United States moved to choke off Cuba's fuel supply. This action has led to frequent blackouts that often extend beyond a single day, compounding the critical shortages of food, fuel, and medicine across the island. Adding to the pressure are explicit threats from the Trump administration, which has declared that the days of Cuba's communist government are “numbered.”
Reporting from Cuba under these conditions presents unique challenges for journalists. Peralta, a radio reporter, highlighted the practical difficulties of his work. “I brought a lot of batteries. Yes. I have a lot of batteries,” he stated, underscoring the necessity of self-sufficiency. American sanctions further complicate logistics for U.S. citizens; Peralta, traveling on a U.S. passport, is prohibited from staying in the larger hotels. While many of these hotels are closed anyway, they are typically equipped with generators, providing light, hot water, and air conditioning—amenities largely unavailable elsewhere. Peralta explained his current setup: “Right now, I'm talking to you with a fan because I – there's no power, but I have – the Airbnb I'm staying at has a battery pack that… Powers the fans. So, you know, you get – I get to charge my laptop, and I get to charge, you know, like, all the other stuff I need.”
The frustration among ordinary Cubans is evident and multifaceted, directed at both the United States and their own government. Residents perceive the U.S. oil blockade as “inhumane.” However, they do not solely attribute the crisis to the United States. Many feel that their government has “let them down” and is “not negotiating” effectively.
Peralta recounted a poignant conversation with a man in his 60s in a Havana park. When asked what he would convey to a government official directly, the man responded, “You have to join the world. You can't continue thinking that you can do things your way and survive in this world.” He further elaborated, suggesting that the government should “do what everyone else in the world does – free political prisoners, have elections.” Peralta noted that a common sentiment heard on the streets is a plea to the Cuban government: “please Cuban government. Just do what the U.S. tells you so this ends.”
From the perspective of the Trump administration, such public sentiment might be viewed as validation for its pressure tactics. However, when Peralta presented this viewpoint to Cuba's deputy foreign minister, her response was unequivocal. While the man in the park believed that the government could implement changes without altering its political system, the minister firmly stated, “the problem is, they want us to change the political system, right? And… We're not going to do that. That's a red line for us, and it's never going to happen.”
Despite the government's firm stance and the inherent fear of retribution, Cubans are increasingly willing to speak openly with journalists. Peralta observed instances where people voiced opinions they knew were risky, often receiving disapproving glances from others. “They're like, I'm going to go to jail for this, right? But… But they always talk,” he explained. He added that while Cubans have historically understood and avoided crossing “red lines,” the current level of frustration is leading more individuals to “cross a red line that they didn't used to be.” To protect sources, journalists typically avoid using names, as “people fear retribution here.”
Peralta shared a particularly memorable moment from his trip that, while perhaps not making it into a formal story, deeply resonated with him. While reporting in a grand, old building in Old Havana—once beautiful but now a “spiderweb of… cables and hoses that take water up and down this building”—he frequently heard residents say, in non-English, “We'll see what falls.” He initially wondered if they were expecting something literal to fall from the sky. “Are you expecting this to come – something to fall from the sky, right? And they're kind of like, yeah,” he recalled.
Later, upon returning to the building, Peralta encountered one of the women he had spoken with, who was “thrilled because something had fallen from the sky.” This “something” was an unexpected opportunity: another woman had offered her seven blouses to sell on the street. The woman managed to sell five of the blouses, earning enough money to purchase a carton of eggs. This anecdote, Peralta explained, perfectly encapsulates the daily reality for many Cubans, who often say, “I live day to day.”
SCHMITZ: I mean, I would imagine the Trump administration would hear that and say, that's exactly why we're doing this.
SCHMITZ: Wait, something fell from the sky?
