I was born in Havana in 1983, and I lived there for the first 26 years of my life. My story is one of contrasts—between pride and struggle, between collective unity and personal sacrifice. Cuba, for many of us, is a place of complex feelings. We weren’t always happy, but we always knew how to find joy. We weren’t always free, but we were always together. That duality defined my childhood.
The Hunger Years
The 1990s, often referred to as el Período Especial, were a time of immense hardship after the fall of the Soviet Union. Suddenly, the economic lifeline of the country vanished, and with it, basic necessities. As a child, I was always hungry. Not just “I could eat” hungry—but the kind of gnawing emptiness that settles into your bones. Real hunger.
We used to collect empty wrappers from the street—cookie and chip bags we had never tasted. We’d press them into notebooks, trade them like treasure. Doritos? I didn’t eat a Dorito until I was much older. That shiny bag was a fantasy.
Clothes were another luxury. Fashion didn’t exist. Everyone wore the same thing—faded jeans, threadbare shirts, second-hand shoes. I had one pair of boots that I wore to school, to play, and to events. Once, my mother made me wear girls’ shoes to school because we couldn’t find any others. The ridicule I faced from classmates still stings decades later. And yet, I wasn’t the only one walking around with mended rags, patched shirts, and hand-me-downs from cousins.
Lights Out, Camellos, and Survival
Power cuts were just a part of life. Entire nights would go dark, the fans would stop, and the city would become a quiet, hot void. Public transport was broken. Buses were rare, and when they came, they were dangerously overcrowded. The government even repurposed 18-wheel trucks as makeshift buses—called Camellos (“camels”) because of their hump-like shape.
Private taxis (boteros) emerged in the late ‘90s as a new alternative. But they were expensive and inconsistent. People would spend hours just trying to get to work or school.
School, Propaganda, and the Promise of Education
Education in Cuba is free, but that doesn’t mean it’s equal. Supplies were nearly non-existent. No pencils. No paper. No books. My daily school snack? A piece of bread with oil and sugar. Acidic, stale—but it was food.
Still, school carried a strong cultural weight. Education was part of the national mythos—Estudio, Trabajo y Fusil (Study, Work, and Gun). That was the slogan, printed on walls and repeated in school assemblies. We were taught to see ourselves as part of a revolutionary mission. And like any good mission, there were enemies: Los Yankees, the imperialists, capitalism. I didn’t question it—none of us really did.
Military Service and University
After high school, men were required to do military service—one year if you were headed to university, two if not. It was brutal. Eight-hour night guards alone with a rifle, standing in silence, waiting for something that never came. It felt like prison. I read books to pass the time, but nothing could erase the sense that I was wasting some of the best years of my life.
University was a bright spot—fun, passionate, and intellectually stimulating. My professors were sharp, even brilliant. But after graduation, reality hit: your job would pay next to nothing, and your freedom to choose your future was basically nonexistent. Most graduates either went into medicine (often to be sent abroad and have their earnings garnished by the government) or they left Cuba altogether.
Censorship and Control
Politics weren’t just on TV—they were in the walls of your classroom, the slogans on your street, the conversations you didn’t dare to have in public. Dissent was dangerous. People whispered. Self-censorship was the rule.
Under Fidel, Cuba lived in a state of psychological repression. Even as he grew older and weaker, that atmosphere never really lifted. To criticize the regime was to invite surveillance, expulsion from school, or worse. But strangely, he was still beloved by many. The charisma was real—he had the ability to move crowds. He was untouchable.
Survival Economics and the Black Market
Life after school was not about thriving—it was about surviving. Everyone knew someone. Sociolismo was the name of the game. You couldn’t get eggs without a connection. You couldn’t get diapers without favors. You couldn’t get medicine without black-market links.
Everyone broke the law. Not because they wanted to—but because you couldn’t live otherwise. The government kept people poor, and then punished them for trying to escape that poverty. Private businesses, when allowed, were hamstrung with regulations that made legal success nearly impossible. That’s still true today.
The Brain Drain and the Dream of Leaving
Cuba today is a place defined by loss. Families lose sons, daughters, friends, and lovers to emigration every day. Airports are full of tearful goodbyes. And yet, most people want nothing more than to leave. Inflation is outrageous. Food is scarce. The streets are crumbling. Education and healthcare—once the government’s bragging rights—are in crisis.
Still, we joke. We laugh. We survive.
But more and more, the jokes aren’t funny anymore.
Final Thoughts
I don’t hate Cuba. I don’t think of it as hell on Earth. But I won’t lie to you either: it is broken. And it’s been broken for a long time. Some of us carry that pain into new countries. Others stay and find ways to cope. Some adapt. Some break. And some—like me—remember the hunger, the darkness, the pride, the indoctrination… and the strange, undeniable beauty of it all.
Cuba is not easy to explain. It’s a country of contradictions. But it will always be my home.