The once bustling beaches of Varadero lie silent. In Havana, the vintage cars that ferried tourists along the Malecón have been parked up for weeks. Cuba’s vital tourism sector, already battered by the pandemic, is now facing a full-blown collapse as a relentless US pressure campaign tightens its grip on the island’s economy.
The numbers tell a stark story. Official figures show tourist arrivals fell by more than 60% in the first quarter of this year compared to the same period in 2023. The US embargo, hardened by the Trump-era designations that label Cuba a state sponsor of terrorism, has scared off international visitors and choked the flow of dollars. Hotels run at less than 20% capacity. Airlines have slashed routes. And the ripple effects are devastating a population that depends on the tourism dollar to buy food and medicine.
‘We used to earn enough to feed the family, even if it was tight,’ says Maria, a 45-year-old housekeeper at a hotel in Havana. ‘Now there are no guests. No tips. No work. The shelves are empty, and the pharmacies have nothing. This isn’t politics to us. This is survival.’
The government blames Washington. ‘The economic war is designed to starve our people into submission,’ President Miguel Díaz-Canel said in a recent address. But critics argue that Cuba’s own rigid state controls and a failure to diversify the economy have compounded the crisis. The country is also struggling with a severe shortage of hard currency, which has paralysed imports of basic goods, from cooking oil to medicine.
The collapse of tourism is a gut punch to an economy already reeling from the pandemic, which wiped out two years of revenues, and from long-standing US sanctions. The Biden administration has so far resisted calls to ease restrictions, even as humanitarian groups warn of a deepening crisis. According to the UN, Cuba is facing its worst food shortage in three decades. Blackouts are routine. Rationing is severe. And the exodus of Cubans to the US border has reached record levels.
But for those who remain, the pain is personal. In the coastal town of Cienfuegos, 56-year-old fisherman Carlos has watched his income dry up as restaurants and bars close. ‘I used to sell my catch to the hotels. Now I can’t even give it away,’ he says. ‘We are not political pawns. We are human beings.’
The US Treasury Department argues that its sanctions are targeted at the regime, not the people. But the reality on the ground is that the embargo, combined with the added terrorist designation, has made it nearly impossible for Cuba to trade, borrow, or receive remittances without severe restrictions. The Biden administration has cited human rights concerns as a reason not to engage. But for families scraping by, that argument rings hollow.
‘They talk about democracy, but we can’t even get aspirin for a child with a fever,’ says 62-year-old retired teacher Elena, waiting in line for a scant food ration outside a state store in central Havana. ‘This is not about politics. It is about our children.’
The tourism collapse is not just an economic statistic. It is a human tragedy unfolding in real time. As the sun sets over Havana’s faded grandeur, the streets are quieter than they have been in decades. And for millions of Cubans, the silence is deafening.
