The Lines in Cuba: A Social Space
HAVANA TIMES – It’s not just a line. It’s an open-air popular assembly, a thermometer of scarcity, and a theater of survival. Lines in Cuba are more than a wait; they are a parallel social space where life simmers, dignity is negotiated, and Cuban ingenuity is tested. With COVID-19, they reached their ultimate consecration, transforming from a necessary evil into a national ritual.
The line didn’t begin with the coronavirus. Its seed was planted decades ago, during the Special Period crisis of the 1990s, when the collapse of the Soviet Union strangled the island’s economy. Scarcity became chronic, and access to basic goods—from chicken to a bar of soap—turned into a heroic feat. The ration book, designed to distribute supplies, normalized waiting. The line was already then the democracy of necessity: everyone, in theory, had the right to their little piece of nothing, as long as they had the time and patience to wait for it.
Time became a catalyst that turned the line into an omnipresent and agonizing phenomenon. The causes reached a point of no return with the circumstances brought by COVID-19. Tourism, the main link in the economy, dried up overnight. That meant fewer foreign currencies to import goods. At the same time, the already weak national industries slowed even further, reducing the availability of local products.
Suddenly, the line wasn’t for a specific item—it was for the possibility of an item. People lined up without knowing what would arrive, guided by rumor and faith. “They’re bringing in mincemeat!” someone would shout, and within minutes, a human snake of hundreds of people would spring from the asphalt.
The consequences of this boom are deep and have reshaped Cuban society. Time has lost its value. Losing six hours in line to get a box of chicken—if successful—is considered worthwhile. If not, it’s a wasted day. This creates a brutal distortion of productivity. On the other hand, the “professional liner” has emerged: people who stand in line for others, for pay. Grandmothers, the unemployed, or simply those with iron patience are paid by those who don’t have the time to wait. It’s an informal job born of desperation.
The tension is palpable. Arguments over places in line, people cutting in, uncertainty—all generate collective stress that undermines mental health. Solidarity is tested daily. Absurd events have become normalized. Waiting for hours for something that may not even exist is common. It’s a resigned acceptance. People plan their days, even their weeks, around rumors of incoming deliveries.
Today, the line is Cuba’s true public space. It is a microcosm of the island itself: there one finds resignation and inventiveness, rage and dark humor, solidarity and every-person-for-themselves survival.
It is the place where an entire country stands, under a scorching sun or a sudden rainstorm, waiting—not just for a bar of soap, a kilo of rice, or a blood pressure pill—but, deep down, for a future that always seems just about to arrive.