As the sun sets over Havana, flickers of candlelight begin to appear through open windows and across apartment balconies. The city, once bustling with neon signs and the hum of old Soviet-era buses, is slowly fading into nightly darkness. Cuba, an island long burdened by economic hardship and political isolation, now finds itself entrenched in one of the worst energy crises in its modern history. Entire provinces are plunged into darkness for hours at a time, sometimes days. The blackout is not only physical but symbolic. It serves as a reminder of the grid’s decay, the nation’s limitations, and the resilience of a population that has become all too familiar with waiting, adapting, and surviving.
In the neighborhood of Bahía, just outside Havana, Marylín Álvarez moves carefully through her kitchen. The power has been out for four hours, and she has started cooking dinner using a small charcoal stove. A cosmetologist by profession, Marylín has adapted to a life where light, power, and even time must now be negotiated daily. Her children sit nearby, their faces dimly lit by a laptop screen powered not by a wall outlet but by a motorcycle battery her husband connected as a workaround. This improvisation has become standard practice in Cuban households. When there is no electricity, the rhythm of life does not stop; it merely shifts into a slower, more deliberate cadence. In the next room, an old electric fan stands still. On particularly hot nights, the family takes turns waving cardboard to cool themselves.
Throughout the island, similar scenes are unfolding with quiet repetition. In San Nicolás de Bari, residents report outages that last up to twenty-two hours a day. María Elena Veiga, a sixty-year-old grandmother, has not used a stove in months. She cooks with firewood gathered from a nearby grove, her meals accompanied by the ever-present smell of smoke. Edinector Vázquez, a skilled welder in a nearby town, has shifted his trade to meet the crisis. He now builds charcoal stoves for sale, turning metal scraps into lifelines for cooking and heating. Each unit he crafts sells for the equivalent of an average worker’s monthly wage. Despite the price, demand is constant. These stoves have become essential not only for preparing food but also for restoring a sense of agency in a country where many feel increasingly powerless.
The depth of Cuba’s energy collapse is rooted in more than just outages. The island’s electrical grid, built primarily in the 1970s and 1980s with assistance from the Soviet Union, has deteriorated steadily over the decades. Many of the country’s power plants still rely on oil-fired systems that require a constant and reliable supply of fuel; however, this supply has dwindled to a trickle. Imports from Venezuela, once a critical energy lifeline, have diminished sharply. Maintenance has been deferred due to a lack of spare parts and funds. International sanctions have cut off Cuba from credit markets and most international suppliers. Even floating power plants rented from Turkey, once a partial solution, have begun departing due to payment delays. As fuel stocks dwindle, Cuba’s capacity to produce electricity has dropped dramatically. At peak times, demand exceeds capacity by as much as 1,000 megawatts.
In early 2025, as temperatures rose and demand increased, entire regions faced scheduled outages every day. In Havana, where the government once attempted to shield residents from the worst power outages, even affluent neighborhoods are now experiencing them as well. Authorities have implemented nationwide conservation measures. Air conditioning in government offices has been restricted. In some towns, streetlights are dimmed or turned off entirely. And water, pumped through electrical systems, no longer reaches many households on higher floors. Without electricity to drive pumps, the taps go dry.
Despite the hardship, the Cuban people are not standing still. In both urban and rural areas, a quiet transformation is underway. Solar panels, once rare, now adorn rooftops in pockets of the island. Small systems imported through aid programs or private investment are being used to power lights, charge phones, and run small appliances. Chinese companies, responding to requests from Cuban authorities, have begun supplying panels and lithium batteries. At the national level, Cuba’s Ministry of Energy and Mines has committed to building fifty-five solar parks by the end of the year, aiming to generate over 1,000 megawatts of renewable power. Officials envision a future where thirty-seven percent of Cuba’s electricity comes from clean sources by 2030. That vision, while ambitious, remains distant. Today, only eleven solar farms are operational, and their impact is limited to small reductions in local outage severity.
The broader economic and political context complicates any hope for a quick recovery. Cuba’s state-controlled economy, already fragile, has struggled to attract foreign investment. The energy crisis has highlighted the need for more comprehensive reform, not just in technology but also in policy. Modernizing the grid will require billions of dollars and long-term partnerships. Yet existing laws discourage private participation. Investors who are interested in renewable development face regulatory uncertainty and delays. The economic embargo imposed by the United States adds another layer of difficulty, restricting access to credit and deterring potential collaborators. Without reform, the solar revolution may remain a patchwork solution rather than a systemic shift.
Social unrest is also beginning to simmer beneath the surface. In Santiago de Cuba, widespread outages earlier this year led to protests. Videos circulating online showed groups of residents banging pots and chanting for electricity and food. The government responded by deploying police and limiting internet access in affected areas. Arrests followed. While the protests were brief, they reflected a growing frustration with the lack of transparency and the slow pace of progress. For many Cubans, it is no longer enough to adapt. They want answers. They want plans that feel real. They want assurance that the lights will come back, not just tomorrow, but to stay.
In the absence of those guarantees, communities often rely on one another for support. Families gather in single rooms to share light and warmth. Neighbors take turns cooking. Entire apartment blocks coordinate their schedules to maximize the limited energy available. What emerges is a fragile but deeply human infrastructure built from trust, resilience, and necessity.
Cuba is at a crossroads, not only in terms of electricity but in how it conceives of governance, survival, and sustainability. The crisis is more than a technical failure. It is a reflection of systemic strain, of past choices echoing into the present and of a future that remains uncertain. Whether the island emerges from this moment stronger or more fractured may depend not only on solar farms and imported fuel but also on whether its leaders and people can chart a new course together in the light.
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