In Havana, a brief surge of electricity has become a precious, unpredictable gift, often arriving in the dead of night. For residents like 72-year-old Leidis Rodríguez, these fleeting moments mean frantic activity, such as cooking beans at 3 a.m. after hours of darkness.

"The power has come back on, everyone go!" Rodríguez exclaimed, highlighting the urgency that defines daily life amid Cuba’s severe power outages. These widespread blackouts, sometimes lasting for days, are exacerbated by an oil blockade imposed by the Trump administration in January.

Such brief respites, lasting mere minutes or a few hours, dictate the rhythm of life, often disrupting sleep for Rodríguez and her 41-year-old daughter, Yaimara Matos. When the lights flicker on, all other activities cease as families rush to complete essential tasks.

Matos described the intense pressure: "You want to do everything at the same time — wash clothes, iron, cook, tidy the rooms, because it’s impossible in the dark, and even get a little relief from the heat. What we used to do in 10 hours, we now have to do in two."

Life transformed by crisis

Daily life for Cubans across the island has devolved into a complex web of crises, marking one of the most severe periods since the Cuban revolution. Families are grappling with a tangle of compounding challenges that have fundamentally reshaped their existence.

Public transportation has ground to a halt, cultural events are nonexistent, and the vital tourism sector, once the country's economic engine, has collapsed.

This withdrawal of tourism companies has left 25,000 hospitality jobs vacant. Flights to the island are frequently canceled, and workdays have been shortened to adapt to a Cuba increasingly without power. Medicine shortages have intensified, and food spoils in refrigerators due to persistent electricity cuts.

"If there’s no electricity, there’s no water because it doesn’t get pumped to the tank. When there’s water, there’s no electricity," Rodríguez said.

While power outages are not new to the Caribbean nation, endemic blackouts began to worsen five years ago, a consequence of a crumbling energy grid, decades of U.S. sanctions, and failed economic reforms by the communist-run government.

Quality of life deteriorated rapidly after Trump threatened to impose tariffs on any countries supplying Cuba with oil, its primary power source. This move, coupled with even more rigid sanctions, aimed to pressure Cuba's government into political change, though its most severe effects have been borne by average Cubans.

Previously, most blackouts were government-scheduled to conserve power, offering predictability with outages lasting two or three hours. Now, that certainty is gone.

A outage can extend for 12, 30 hours, or even longer, with the entire island increasingly plunging into darkness. Last weekend's grid collapse marked the sixth such incident this year.

‘I try to carry on with life’

Cubans like Rodríguez and Matos, long accustomed to adapting to crisis, have found ways to cope. The family bought a small power generator, which they're only able to run a few hours a day.

Others install solar panels — often sent by relatives abroad. Some purchase rechargeable fans or solar-powered vehicles since gasoline is also unavailable.

Lianet Barroso once cooked with a gas stove. Now she cooks over a wood fire. Unsure of when she will next get water when the power does go on, she fills up as many plastic bottles as she can.

“Life for Cubans has become difficult, harsh and sad,” Barroso said.

In several municipalities, particularly in Havana, residents staged neighborhood protests after blackouts lasting more than 48 hours, banging pots and pans and burning garbage piled up on street corners.

Meanwhile, with inflation surging as Cuba's currency is increasingly devalued against the dollar, many people are struggling to even pay for food that could later go bad in a blackout.

At 10 p.m. on Tuesday, 64-year-old Caridad Delgado was preparing food for her cat during a blackout under the light of a rechargeable lamp, something the family bought with remittances from her three children, who had emigrated from the island.

Months ago, at this hour, she said, “I’d probably be watching a soap opera. Now I can’t even dream of it.”

“There’s just too much anguish, too much desperation,” she added. “I try to carry on with life.”