Police in the building’s basement, accumulated garbage, lack of gas, and a Friday when even going to the market becomes impossible.

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, September 18, 2026 / Beans, onions, an avocado. I’m making a list to head out early to the Tulipán Street market, before the sun gets too hot and the inspectors start chasing away the vendors. As I walk down the hallway toward the stairs, a neighbor catches up to me. “There’s an operation underway down there. There are some men in civilian clothes, two women with backpacks, and at least one patrol car,” he details. Friday has just become another day of repression.
From the rooftop I confirm that a police car is parked on Conill Street, but not on the corner, under the leafy tree where they traditionally position themselves when they’re watching my house. The trash pile on Factor Street has grown so large that parking under those branches is now an assault on the nose and a danger to the immune system. A little further on, two uniformed officers are standing next to a vehicle with the number 059 painted on its body.
Today I really needed to get out of the house. The garbage has piled up in the apartment because of the long power outages that keep the elevator out of service. There is no salad left for lunch, and a friend had promised to copy a current affairs documentary onto a USB drive for me. But in Cuba, keeping a schedule and trying to accomplish even a few daily tasks is nearly impossible. When the day ends and I’ve managed to complete at least one thing, I feel lucky. Today, too, I’ll have to rethink my plans.
“But you have to come and get them because they won’t let me leave the building.”
Luckily, we have water in the sinks, but there’s no gas for cooking. I wash up a little take the opportunity to water the plants. A friend calls to ask if I have any oral rehydration salts. After the virus I had, I had a few packets left over that I can give her.
“But you have to come and get them because they won’t let me leave the building.”
I don’t need to say anything more. She doesn’t need any explanations either. Repression in Cuba is something everyone knows about, and a police operation around the home of an independent journalist sounds more like routine than anything new.
I put three envelopes in a nylon bag, and when my friend rings my cell phone, I go out onto the balcony and throw the small package from the 14th floor. I’ve added a stone so the wind won’t blow it too far away. The two police officers are still down there. They look bored.
A neighbor comes to my door and asks if I want him to bring me anything from the market. I give him the list I started writing this morning. I’m not sure how much money to give him because the prices change from day to day.
“With one of the new bills you can solve everything,” he jokes.
I don’t know anyone who has seen those colored papers worth 10,000 and 20,000 pesos yet.
Yesterday, when I passed by the bank on Marino Street, a retired woman told me that the new bills hadn’t arrived at that branch yet and that, in any case, the maximum they were giving out per customer was 5,000 pesos, so “nobody knows who they’re going to give the new ones to.” The woman has been trying to withdraw her pension for two weeks now, and nothing. “The day I was supposed to go, they didn’t have any cash and they rescheduled me for later, but every time I come, there’s no electricity.”
The whole house smells like garbage. I don’t know if it’s the stench coming up from the corner or if our own trash has started to rot after three days of not being able to take it out.
How many months’ salary for the police officers who watch over me down there could fit on a 20,000-peso bill, I wonder, as I try to light the stove for the umpteenth time. The gas company says they haven’t been able to finish the repairs and the service outage is getting worse and worse.
The whole house smells like garbage. I don’t know if it’s the stench coming up from the corner or if our own trash has started to rot after three days of not being able to take it out.
The phone rings. It’s my friend again. I imagine she’ll want some painkillers now, or that the rehydration salts haven’t been enough for her children and husband, who are sick with a viral diarrhea. But she doesn’t mention any medication.
“The national power grid has crashed,” she tells me, annoyed.
I look out again.
Down below, the police patrol with the two uniformed officers is still there.
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