Cuba in Crisis: Are There Still Happy Children Here?
HAVANA TIMES – On the night of October 2 to 3, dozens of people blocked a stretch of Monte Street in Havana to protest the power outages and the lack of water and various consumer goods. Among those present were numerous children who enjoyed the demonstration as if it were a neighborhood party.
For many of them, the alternative was to stay home without electricity, in the heat, under the attack of mosquitoes—just as most children living outside the capital have done since 2018, spending much of their nights without power.
The presence of minors in the Monte St. protest sparked differing interpretations. For government opponents, it was a sign that the crisis on the island affects people of all ages and that discontent has become widespread. Pro-government supporters, on the other hand, criticized it for the potential dangers it posed to the kids.
“The protest is valid; whoever feels the need to protest should do so. But involving children is an enormous irresponsibility. What if, in the middle of the darkness, someone turns violent, throws a lit bottle as has already happened, starts a brawl, throws stones?” wrote university professor María del Carmen Hernández Carús on her Facebook profile the next day.
Her comment carried particular weight. María del Carmen is the mother of Leticia Martínez Hernandez, head of the Presidential Communications Office; she is also a friend of Miguel Diaz-Canel himself, dating back to the 1980s when he taught at the Central University of Las Villas. For years now, her reflections have been amplified by pro-revolutionary influencers, state media, and people aligned with the Communist Party’s political project.
The professor usually maintains a more critical stance than her daughter, and therefore one closer to the average citizen, something authorities exploit to convey an image of apparent tolerance. In this case, her remarks sought to divert attention from the deeper question raised by the children’s presence at the protest: how much is the current crisis affecting childhood in Cuba?
It’s a question to which the authorities themselves have no answer.
Selling Avocados
Many of the parents of today’s Cuban primary school students went through that same level of schooling during the 1990s, in the so-called Special Period.
In the collective vision, the current crisis is seen as a kind of repetition of that one—provoked by the disappearance of the Soviet Union and European “real socialism,” with which Cuba had enjoyed privileged economic ties. Cubans now in their forties experienced firsthand the long blackouts of the early ’90s, studying by makeshift kerosene lamps and wearing patched shoes and backpacks. In Havana and other large cities, the collapse of public transport forced people to walk or cycle long distances. Malnutrition led to diseases like optic and peripheral neuropathy becoming epidemic.
“Honestly, I never thought we’d see ourselves in such a situation again,” confesses Yanelis, a mother from Camagüey with a nine-year-old daughter. Thanks to her husband—who emigrated to the United States in 2022—both enjoy a privileged standard of living: their own home, a balanced diet, and most importantly, reliable electricity thanks to an inverter and battery bank. These are “luxuries” she could never dream of on her nurse’s salary. “When I quit, I was earning 4,800 pesos (today $11 USD) a month. That wouldn’t even be enough for my daughter’s school snacks,” she explains.
School absenteeism, once almost nonexistent, has multiplied since classes resumed after the pandemic. Several teachers interviewed for this report pointed to blackouts and the lack of clothing, food, and school supplies as the main causes—along with the increasingly common reality of child labor.
“A few years ago, people were shocked to see a child selling avocados on the street. Now, many consider it normal, even when it happens during school hours,” lamented an educator with more than forty years of experience. In her view, today’s crisis is worse than the Special Period because of the “weight of inequality” and the weakening of state protection.
“My sixth-grade classroom is a mirror of the country: a few children vacation in luxury hotels and have swimming pools at home, while others miss school when their only pair of shoes breaks. And in between lies a large mass of families living day by day. Many parents with steady jobs, even in the private sector, have to perform miracles to make sure their kids eat every day or to buy them backpacks and other school supplies. For example, this school year the Ministry of Education introduced something called an ‘adjusted quota,’ which basically means each student receives only half the notebooks they need; the rest must be provided by the parents. What happens to those who can’t afford them?”
Little Food and Fewer Dreams
In June 2024, for the first time, the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) included Cuba in its periodic report on child food poverty, estimating that 42% of Cuban children fall into that category. This figure slightly exceeded the average for Latin America and the Caribbean, where 38% of children were found to have difficulty accessing a balanced diet.
Even more alarming was the revelation that 9% of Cuban children suffer from severe food poverty, defined by UNICEF as the “inability to access more than half of the eight food groups necessary for a healthy life.”
Analyzing the study’s findings in an article for Horizonte Cubano (Columbia University), academic Tamarys L. Bahamonde emphasized that food insecurity is only one facet of the broader crisis gripping the Caribbean nation. Since 2015, Cuba has fallen 16 places in the global Human Development Index, surpassed by countries it once outperformed—such as the Dominican Republic. And short- and medium-term prospects are grim, especially for the most vulnerable groups: families with children, the elderly, and the disabled.
“Leave, if I could choose—leave… anywhere,” said in unison a group of teenagers I spoke with under the lights of a mipyme (small private business) in the city of Camagüey. The lamps, powered by solar-charged batteries, provided the only light in the dark, powerless night.
“When my parents were my age, the blackouts were the same as now. Am I supposed to wait until I’m an old man to keep living like this?” asked a thin boy of about 13 or 14.
More than half of his life has unfolded amid blackouts, a pandemic, and failed economic reforms. During the Special Period, he might have been one of the countless adolescents marching to revolutionary songs, proclaiming their determination to be “happy here.”
Much has changed since then.
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