The smell of fried plantains fills the kitchen at Le Cecilia as Alexy Dias Arcia works his usual shift. But his mind wanders far from this Montreal restaurant. He thinks of Cuba, where 11 million people sit in darkness. The latest power outage has left his homeland without electricity. Many homes have no running water either.
“I send money to some family members,” Dias Arcia says quietly. “But as I am cooking here, I keep thinking that some Cubans are now having a hard time finding ingredients to make soup.” His words carry the weight of someone caught between two worlds. One world offers comfort and stability. The other struggles to provide basic necessities.
Cuban flags hang at the restaurant’s entrance, greeting every customer who walks through. These small pieces of fabric represent more than decoration. They symbolize a connection that distance cannot break. Antonio Tang sits nearby, sipping strong coffee from a cup adorned with similar imagery. He has spent hours trying to reach friends back home. The phone lines are unreliable, but he persists.
“We are seeing the economic collapse of a country that has been deteriorating, step by step, for 67 years,” Tang explains. His voice mixes frustration with genuine concern. He left Cuba decades ago, but the island remains part of his identity. The current crisis feels different from previous hardships. This time, he senses something fundamental is shifting.
Tang believes the United States embargo on oil has delivered a crushing blow. The fuel shortage has crippled Cuba’s aging power infrastructure. President Donald Trump suggested Monday that he might have the “honour of taking Cuba.” He claimed he could do anything he wanted with the country. Secretary of State Marco Rubio called for new leadership on the island.
“They don’t have the support of the population, and this is why they are finished,” Tang states. “It’s not only the exterior pressure, it is the interior pressure that is building up.” He describes protesters filling the streets. The combination of international sanctions and domestic frustration creates a volatile situation. Tang predicts leadership change could come within days or weeks.
Montreal’s Cuban community watches these developments with intense interest. The city hosts thousands of Cuban immigrants and their descendants. They maintain strong ties to family and friends who remain on the island. Every blackout triggers a wave of worried phone calls and messages. People here feel helpless as loved ones endure hardship thousands of kilometers away.
“It’s really chaotic right now,” Tang continues. “The Cuban government has totally lost control of the economy.” His assessment reflects conversations happening in homes and restaurants across Montreal’s Cuban neighborhoods. The crisis has sparked debates about the island’s future. Some hope for rapid political change. Others fear the instability that transformation might bring.
Cuba has proposed opening its economy to foreign investment. Officials want those living in exile to invest in businesses back home. Tang dismisses this measure as too slow. “It won’t solve the immediate crisis,” he argues. The country needs immediate relief, not long-term development plans. When your lights don’t work and your taps run dry, future promises mean little.
Tang finally reaches a friend in Havana after multiple attempts. She answers from her darkened home. She has been without electricity for more than a day. Running water disappeared around the same time. This blackout is just the latest in an endless series. She has learned to accept them as normal life.
When Tang asks how she passes the time in darkness, her response cuts deep. “I am just waiting for a miracle,” she says. Those seven words capture the desperation millions feel. They also reveal the resilience that helps people endure impossible circumstances. What else can you do when systems fail repeatedly?
This marks the third island-wide blackout in four months. Cuban officials admit the electrical grid is crumbling. They warn it could fail again at any moment. The infrastructure dates back decades and lacks proper maintenance. Fuel shortages make repairs nearly impossible. Even when power returns, everyone knows another collapse is coming.
Back in Montreal, Dias Arcia continues cooking. The restaurant provides comfort food for a community dealing with collective anxiety. Every plantain he fries, every dish he prepares, connects him to his heritage. But the connection now carries painful awareness. He can access ingredients his relatives cannot find. He flips switches that reliably bring light and power.
The contrast between his reality and theirs creates a strange guilt. He built a good life here in Montreal. His business serves authentic Cuban cuisine to appreciative customers. Yet success feels hollow when family members struggle to make basic soup. The distance between Montreal and Havana isn’t just geographic. It represents a gap in living standards that grows wider each day.
Tang finishes his coffee and prepares to make more calls. Staying connected requires persistence and patience. Phone networks in Cuba function sporadically even during normal times. During blackouts, communication becomes nearly impossible. But he keeps trying because maintaining these bonds matters deeply.
Montreal’s Cuban community faces this crisis together. They gather in restaurants and homes to share information. They pool resources to send money and supplies to the island. They debate political developments and speculate about what comes next. Above all, they wait and worry.
The situation in Cuba affects people far beyond the island’s shores. Montreal’s diverse immigrant communities understand this truth intimately. When your homeland suffers, you suffer too, regardless of distance. The blackouts plunge Cuba into darkness. But their impact reaches into brightly lit kitchens across Montreal.
Dias Arcia returns to his stove, lost in thought. The plantains sizzle in hot oil. Outside, Montreal continues its normal rhythm. Inside Le Cecilia, time moves differently. Every meal prepared, every conversation shared, connects this small restaurant to an island in crisis. For now, all they can do is cook, call, and hope for better days ahead.
