Along the sweeping curve of Havana’s Malecón, the salty spray of the Atlantic Ocean still crashes against the stone seawall, but the vibrant soundtrack that once defined this historic waterfront has faded into an uneasy silence. For decades, the rhythm of Cuba was dictated by the bustling energy of its tourism industry—a kaleidoscope of vintage Chevrolet taxis, street musicians playing son cubano, and open-air cafes filled with guests from every corner of the globe. Today, however, that vibrant engine of survival has ground to a tragic, near-complete halt, leaving nearly three-quarters of the island’s hotels shuttered, dark, and empty. Inside the grand lobbies that once played host to international dignitaries and sun-seeking vacationers, the chandeliers are switched off to conserve precious energy, and dust settles quietly over reception desks that have no guests left to check in. For the ordinary Cubans who relied on this economic lifeblood to feed their families, the crisis is not merely a statistical downturn; it is an existential catastrophe that has stripped away their livelihoods, fractured their communities, and left them contemplating a future of unprecedented isolation. Behind the boarded-up windows of these sprawling resorts lies a human story of desperation, endurance, and quiet grief, as a proud nation finds itself choked by a devastating combination of relentless foreign policy and systemic internal collapse.
The origins of this modern tragedy are deeply rooted in a complex, shifting web of geopolitical maneuvering, most notably the escalating campaign of economic strangulation waged by the United States. During the brief, hopeful window of the mid-2010s, a wave of diplomatic normalization under the Obama administration brought a historic influx of American travelers, cruise ships, and cultural exchange, offering Cubans a tantalizing glimpse of sustained prosperity. However, this fragile golden era was abruptly shattered when the Trump administration implemented a “maximum pressure” campaign, rolling back travel permissions, banning cruise dockings, and ultimately placing Cuba back on the U.S. State Sponsor of Terrorism list. This designation has acted as a financial death sentence for the island’s hospitality sector, as it automatically voids the easy-to-obtain Electronic System for Travel Authorization (ESTA) waivers for any European citizen who sets foot on Cuban soil. Faced with the choice between a Caribbean holiday in Varadero or retaining their hassle-free entry into the United States, hundreds of thousands of European tourists have understandably chosen to stay away. The Biden administration’s decision to maintain this terrorism designation has institutionalized these barriers, effectively starving the island’s tourism infrastructure of the foreign currency required to import food, medicine, and basic maintenance supplies, transforming once-profitable resorts into expensive, idle liabilities.
Compounding this diplomatic blockade is a worsening domestic energy crisis that has plunged the entire nation into literal and figurative darkness. Cuba’s electrical grid, powered by decrepit, Soviet-era thermoelectric plants that have far outlived their operational lifespans, is in a state of terminal decay, made worse by a critical shortage of fuel. Historically subsidized oil shipments from Venezuela have dried up as Caracas grapples with its own economic crises, leaving Havana unable to secure the fuel needed to keep the lights on or the water running. For the hospitality sector, this means that even the hotels that remain nominally open are unable to guarantee the most basic standards of comfort that international guests expect. When the power grid collapses—as it now does on a daily basis for twelve hours or more at a time—the deafening roar of diesel-powered generators provides a temporary, smoky reprieve, but only until the fuel tanks of those generators run dry. Tourists who do brave the journey to Cuba frequently find themselves trapped in suffocatingly hot rooms without air conditioning, eating lukewarm meals in darkened dining rooms, and navigating elevators that do not work. As these horror stories circulate on social media and travel forums, the island’s reputation as a pristine tropical paradise is rapidly being replaced by that of a dysfunctional, high-risk destination, driving booking rates down to historic lows and forcing hotel operators to abandon operations entirely.
The economic devastation wrought by the collapse of this single industry has rippled outward, tearing through the lives of the millions of ordinary citizens who operate in the margins of the tourism trade. In the Cuban economy, where state salaries rarely exceed forty dollars a month, the tips and wages earned in foreign currencies by hotel staff, private chefs, and tour guides were the only shields against hyperinflation and the astronomical cost of black-market goods. Today, the private entrepreneurs—the cuentapropistas—who poured their life savings into converting their homes into cozy bed-and-breakfasts (casas particulares) are watching their dreams turn to ash as their guestbooks remain empty for months on end. Classic car drivers, who once earned enough in a single afternoon of chauffeuring tourists to feed their extended families for a month, now spend their days sitting idly in the shade, staring at polished chrome that no one is paying to look at. Without tourism dollars circulating through the informal economy, the scarcity of food, basic hygiene products, and medicine has reached levels not seen since the “Special Period” of the 1990s following the collapse of the Soviet Union. This profound lack of opportunity has sparked a heartbreaking, historic human exodus, as hundreds of thousands of Cuba’s youngest, brightest, and most talented hospitality professionals abandon their homeland, embarking on dangerous migratory routes to the United States or Europe, leaving behind a nation of elderly parents and hollowed-out neighborhoods.
This widespread ruin stands in tragic, agonizing contrast to the massive, state-directed investment campaigns of recent years, exposing a profound disconnect between the ruling elite and the realities of the Cuban people. For over a decade, GAESA, the powerful military-run conglomerate that controls large swathes of the Cuban economy, prioritized the aggressive construction of luxury, high-rise hotels in Havana and pristine keys like Cayo Coco, confidently anticipating a permanent tourism boom. Even as the pandemic raged, medical supplies dwindled, and the electrical grid began its public, spectacular collapse, the government continued to pour scarce capital into pouring concrete for empty five-star monoliths, ignoring urgent warnings from local economists and urban planners. Today, these towering monuments of glass and steel stand as mocking, empty symbols of mismanaged priorities, casting long shadows over crumbling neighborhoods where citizens must queue for hours under a blistering sun just to buy a single loaf of bread or a packet of powdered milk. The money that could have been used to repair the leaking water pipes of Old Havana, import spare parts for the power plants, or stock empty pharmacy shelves was instead locked away in unused suites and silent conference centers, leaving the population to bear the brunt of a hollowed-out economy with no safety net to catch them.
Yet, amid the shuttered high-rises and the long, sweltering nights of blackouts, the true essence of Cuba remains defined not by its empty structures, but by the quiet resilience and inextinguishable warmth of its people. The concept of resolver—to find a way, to invent a solution out of thin air—has become the daily mantra of a society that refuses to let adversity completely break its spirit. In quiet neighborhoods, neighbors gather on doorsteps by candlelight to share what little food they have, crack jokes to pass the long hours of darkness, and keep the ancient flame of community alive. While the heavy doors of nearly three-quarters of the island’s hotels may remain locked to the world, the doors of ordinary Cuban homes remain open, still offering travelers a level of genuine hospitality, intellectual richness, and human connection that no corporate resort could ever manufacture. The future of Cuba’s tourism industry is undeniably bleak, bound to the unpredictable tides of international diplomacy and the monumental task of rebuilding a broken national infrastructure from scratch. But as the island waits for the global political winds to shift, its people endure with a profound, quiet dignity, holding onto the hope that the dark lobbies will one day light up again, and that travelers will return to rediscover not just a geographical destination, but the generous, resilient soul of a nation that has survived against all odds.
