The prolonged power cuts gripping Cuba have created a new geography of uncertainty, one that is most acutely felt in the island’s high-rise residential towers. For those living above the fifth floor, the daily blackouts are not merely an inconvenience but a fundamental disruption of basic survival.
In Havana’s Vedado district, residents of a 15-storey block described the daily ritual of checking their phones for the scheduled outage, only to find it unreliable. The state electricity company, Unión Eléctrica, publishes rotating blackout schedules, but implementation is erratic. One resident, a 68-year-old retired teacher, said she had not used her lift in three weeks. The climb to her 12th-floor apartment takes 20 minutes. She carries her shopping in a small rucksack, one bag at a time.
The blackouts, which can last up to eight hours a day, are the result of a deep structural crisis. Cuba’s power grid, reliant on aging Soviet-era generators and imported fuel, has been strained by the tightening of US sanctions and the collapse of key allies. The government has acknowledged the system’s fragility but offers no timeline for resolution.
For high-rise residents, the practical consequences are severe. Water pumps, which depend on electricity, fail during outages, leaving upper floors without running water. Residents stockpile buckets and bottles, but the weight of water makes transport impossible for those unable to climb. The elderly and disabled are effectively trapped.
The psychological toll is equally significant. The constant uncertainty erodes trust in institutions and fuels a sense of abandonment. One man, a 45-year-old engineer, said he now sleeps in his ground-floor car on nights when the blackout is scheduled for his building. He keeps a bag packed with essentials: water, a torch, and his medication.
International observers note that the blackouts are a symptom of a broader economic collapse, not a temporary glitch. Cuba’s GDP contracted by 11% in 2020 and has not recovered. Tourism, a key source of hard currency, remains depressed. The blackouts compound the crisis by disrupting small businesses, from bakeries to clinics, which rely on refrigerators and computers.
The government has tried to project control, announcing investments in solar farms and floating power plants. But these are years away from completion. In the meantime, the blackouts are reshaping daily life in ways that are poorly understood by outsiders. For those in high-rises, the uncertainty is not just about when the lights will come back on. It is about whether the country can ever return to a state of normalcy.
The silence of the streets during blackouts is punctuated by the sound of generators, owned by the few who can afford them. For most, the darkness is a reminder of their vulnerability. And for those who climb the stairs, each step is a negotiation with gravity, time, and hope.
