In March 2024, a wave of protests erupted across Cuba, with the epicenter in Santiago de Cuba, where the cries of “¡Comida y electricidad!”—food” and electricity—rang through the streets. These were not simply chants; they were expressions of desperation. They were not only political but existential, echoing the anguish of a people worn thin by decades of scarcity, isolation, and unfulfilled promises. These protests, the largest since the 2021 demonstrations, were not born overnight. They are the product of accumulated grievances in a society struggling to reconcile revolutionary idealism with everyday reality.
Cuba’s crisis did not begin with the protests. It is a culmination of structural inefficiencies, economic isolation, and the erosion of trust in state institutions. The COVID-19 pandemic devastated the tourism sector, once the lifeline of the island’s economy. In the years since, Cuba has struggled to regain its footing, hindered by outdated economic models and bureaucratic inertia. Despite the resilience of the Cuban people, the economic system has failed to provide the flexibility and innovation necessary to navigate these turbulent times.
The collapse of the energy sector is a symbol of the broader decay. As of early 2025, only six of the country’s fifteen oil-powered plants remain functional. Prolonged blackouts, some lasting 18 to 20 hours a day, have plunged entire communities into darkness, disrupted schools, paralyzed businesses, and, perhaps most tragically, led to massive food spoilage in households that already struggle to secure enough to eat. This breakdown in basic infrastructure is not merely a technical failure. It is a humanitarian crisis.
Fuel shortages have crippled transportation networks and agricultural production. Long lines at petrol stations stretch for blocks, and public buses have been slashed to a skeletal schedule. Farmers, unable to power irrigation systems or transport goods to market, have left vast tracts of arable land uncultivated. Meanwhile, inflation has spiraled, with staple items like rice, cooking oil, and powdered milk becoming unaffordable for most families.
Nowhere is the cost of this crisis more painfully felt than in Cuban homes. It is the voice of mothers, standing in the breadlines at dawn, comforting hungry children at night, that gives this moment its moral weight. In cities and rural areas alike, the burden has disproportionately fallen on women, who have historically borne the emotional and practical responsibilities of survival under hardship.
In the protests, women marched not for politics, but for milk and medicine, for light in their homes, and for food on their tables. One woman from Santiago de Cuba told a local journalist, “To live in Cuba is to fight a battle every day, with your stomach, your hopes, and your silence.” That silence, cultivated over decades through censorship and fear, is now breaking. The Cuban people are no longer whispering their frustrations behind closed doors. They are voicing them in the streets.
The protests were largely peaceful, driven by moral clarity rather than political ambition. Yet the government’s response was swift and repressive. Internet access was shut down to block the flow of videos and images documenting the unrest. Security forces were deployed. Rather than opening channels of dialogue, the state clamped down, attributing the unrest to external manipulation instead of acknowledging its internal roots. This approach, marked by suspicion and control, may quell dissent in the short term. However, it cannot erase the hunger or silence the dignity of those who speak out.
Cuba’s revolution promised equity, education, healthcare, and dignity for all. For decades, despite economic challenges, many of these promises were upheld to a remarkable degree. The literacy rate soared. Infant mortality fell. The state built an image of itself as a moral beacon in the global south. But today, the ideals of that revolution appear increasingly hollow in the face of daily deprivation.
The collapse of the sugar industry, the historical engine of Cuban economic life, symbolizes the broader breakdown. Once a titan of the global sugar trade, Cuba is projected to produce just 300,000 metric tons of sugar in 2025, a shadow of its former output. The implications are profound: not just economic decline, but the unraveling of national pride, cultural identity, and livelihood.
The centralized economic model that served Cuba during a different geopolitical era now hampers its ability to innovate and adapt. The bureaucracy that once ensured universal access to social services now often obstructs local initiative, private enterprise, and community resilience. There is a need for structural reform. Not a dismantling of the system, but its renewal through realism, responsiveness, and participation.
Cuba now stands at a moral and strategic crossroads. This is a moment that demands not just economic solutions, but a political and philosophical reorientation. To rebuild trust, the government must move away from deflection and towards dialogue. It must decentralize authority, empower local communities, and support small and medium-sized enterprises that can create jobs and stabilize neighborhoods.
Reforms must also address the agricultural sector, incentivizing production and modernizing logistics to ensure food security. Educational institutions can play a transformative role, not just in technical training, but in nurturing civic responsibility and leadership. Above all, the government must protect the dignity and rights of its citizens. Not by clinging to ideological purity, but by honoring the original spirit of the revolution, which was to serve the people.
Cuba does not lack for talent, culture, or courage. Its scientists have developed globally recognized vaccines. Its doctors have served across continents. Its music, art, and literature continue to inspire. What Cuba needs now is a state that listens and leads with humility. A government that is not feared but trusted. A future that is not rationed but imagined collectively.
The hunger protests of 2024 are not just a cry for bread. They are a demand for justice, transparency, and reform. They are the voice of a people who have endured too much for too long and who are no longer willing to suffer in silence. They ask not for charity, but for change. Not for handouts, but for a hand in shaping their future.
In remembering this moment, let us not reduce it to an episode of unrest. Let us recognize it as a reckoning. A moment when the revolutionary promises of the past confront the realities of the present. And let us listen, not just to the noise of protest, but to the quiet, unyielding desire of a nation that still believes in the dignity of its people.
“Revolutions are not made by hunger alone, but by the hunger for dignity.”
