In many Cuban homes, water is a scarce luxury that does not flow regularly from taps. Families organize their day around its unpredictable arrival, collecting every drop in available containers. This shortage impacts daily hygiene and mood, turning essentials into acts of saving.
In Havana, the supply of potable water is irregular, as described by Safie M. Gonzalez in her diary published in Havana Times on February 28, 2026. In her home and many others, water does not accompany the daily routine; it arrives unexpectedly, reorganizing the day's activities and the family's mood.
When its arrival is announced—if it is announced at all—everything stops. Buckets, bottles, and pots are gathered; any container will do. Priorities are calculated: first fill the essentials, then see if there is enough for washing clothes, dishes, or bathing. Not a single drop is wasted, and the family remains constantly vigilant.
The water that arrives is not always clear; sometimes it carries dirt, rust, and an indefinable smell. Even so, it is collected and given homemade treatment: it is left to settle, boiled, strained, and filtered before storage. There is no certainty about when it will return; in some apartment buildings, the lack can last more than a week, and in others, even longer.
This shortage does not only affect hygiene but also temperament. Exhaustion builds from carrying buckets up dark staircases, postponing showers, and rationing everyday gestures like handwashing. Bathing becomes an act of economy.
Despite being surrounded by water, the country faces this constant paradox: scarcity in homes leads to resignation rather than loud protests. Some organize with neighbors, others rely on water trucks, and many simply wait. The shortage has become normalized, shaping how one inhabits space, time, and one's own body. No realistic solutions appear on the horizon, and waiting for water will remain part of everyday life.
