We have absolutely no fuel and absolutely no diesel
In a moment where darkness has become the daily condition of Cuban life, CIA Director John Ratcliffe traveled to Havana to sit across from officials of a government that has just admitted its fuel supply is entirely exhausted. The meeting — quiet, unacknowledged by Washington, announced after the fact by Havana — speaks to the strange persistence of diplomacy even when the material conditions it is meant to address have reached a breaking point. Cuba, caught between a tightening American blockade and the collapse of its energy infrastructure, is attempting to reframe itself not as a threat but as a suffering nation seeking to be seen clearly. Whether words exchanged in private rooms can reach the people banging pots in the dark remains the oldest and most unanswered question in the history of these two neighbors.
- Cuba has crossed from crisis into collapse — the energy minister confirmed the island has zero fuel and zero diesel reserves, leaving millions in blackouts stretching beyond twenty-two hours.
- The announcement broke something in Havana's streets: residents poured out in the dark, banging pots, lighting fires in garbage heaps, demanding light and relief in a protest born of exhaustion rather than ideology.
- Washington's blockade, tightened in January with new sanctions, has effectively severed Cuba's ability to import energy, while offers of aid — like Rubio's hundred million dollars routed through the Church — arrive wrapped in conditions designed to humiliate.
- Cuba's government is attempting a diplomatic pivot, using the Ratcliffe meeting to argue it poses no security threat and should be removed from terrorism sponsor lists, while quietly addressing allegations of Chinese military presence on the island.
- Despite the deterioration, both governments are still talking — a U.S. delegation landed in Havana in April, the first American government plane to do so since 2016, suggesting a fragile back-channel survives the public hostility.
CIA Director John Ratcliffe met with Cuban officials in Havana on Thursday in a quiet diplomatic exchange announced not by Washington but by the Cuban government itself — a detail that says much about the asymmetry of the moment. The meeting came one day after Cuba's energy minister made a stark admission on state television: the country had run out of fuel entirely. Not rationing. Not running low. Gone.
That evening, Havana's streets filled with people who had reached their limit. Residents banged pots and pans in the darkness, set fires in garbage piles, and shouted for the lights to come back on. Blackouts had already stretched past twenty-two hours in some parts of the island, but the minister's words — "we have absolutely no fuel and absolutely no diesel" — transformed a chronic hardship into an acute emergency.
The American blockade, tightened by the Trump administration in January, had strangled Cuba's ability to import energy. Secretary of State Marco Rubio offered a hundred million dollars in aid, but only through the Catholic Church, bypassing the Cuban government — a gesture that Cuba's president Miguel Diaz-Canel met with a public plea on social media: lift the blockade, he urged, and the humanitarian damage could be eased far more quickly than any conditional aid package.
The Ratcliffe meeting was Cuba's attempt to reframe the relationship — to argue that it poses no threat to American security, that it has never supported hostile action against the United States, and that it should be removed from terrorism sponsor lists. Cuba also wanted to address allegations of a Chinese military presence on the island directly, pushing back against the idea that it serves as a proxy for Beijing.
The CIA offered no comment. But the meeting happened, and that fact alone carries weight. A U.S. government delegation had already landed in Havana in April — the first American government plane to do so since 2016. The talks continue, quietly, even as the lights stay off and the fuel does not return. What remains unresolved is whether diplomacy conducted in private rooms can reach the people sitting in the dark, waiting for something to change.
John Ratcliffe, the CIA director, sat down with Cuban officials in Havana on Thursday. It was a quiet diplomatic move, announced after the fact by the Cuban government as an effort to rebuild some semblance of dialogue between Washington and the island. The meeting happened "in a context marked by the complexity of bilateral relations," according to a Cuban statement—diplomatic language for a relationship in free fall.
The timing was not accidental. A day earlier, on Wednesday, Cuba's energy minister Vicente de la O Levy had made a stark admission on state television: the country had run out of fuel entirely. Not running low. Not rationing. Gone. "We have absolutely no fuel and absolutely no diesel," he said, describing the national grid as "critical" and acknowledging there were no reserves left to draw from. Fuel oil, the heavy petroleum product that powers generators and heats buildings, had vanished from the island's supply chain.
That evening, Havana erupted. Residents poured into the streets as darkness fell, banging pots and pans, shouting demands to turn the lights back on, setting fires in piles of garbage to illuminate their anger and despair. Blackouts had become routine on the island—stretching past twenty-two hours in some cases—but this announcement felt like a breaking point. The fuel crisis was not some distant threat. It was now.
The blockade imposed by Washington in January had strangled Cuba's ability to import energy. President Trump had added fresh sanctions and, in moments of apparent whimsy, suggested the United States might simply take over the island. Secretary of State Marco Rubio had dangled a hundred million dollars in aid, but with a condition: the money would flow through the Catholic Church, bypassing the Cuban government entirely. It was a gesture wrapped in an insult.
Cuba's president Miguel Diaz-Canel responded with a post on X that mixed plea and pride. Lift the blockade, he urged Washington. The humanitarian damage could be "eased in a much simpler and faster way" if the embargo were relaxed or removed. But if the United States showed "true willingness" to provide assistance, he added, Cuba would meet it without obstacles or ingratitude. The message was clear: we are suffering, but we have not broken.
The Ratcliffe meeting, then, was Cuba's attempt to reframe the conversation. The Cuban statement emphasized that the island posed no threat to American security, that it had never supported hostile activity against the United States, and that it should be removed from the list of countries accused of sponsoring terrorism. There were also veiled references to allegations of a Chinese military presence on the island—Cuba wanted to address that directly, to show it was not a proxy for Beijing.
The CIA did not comment on the meeting. But the fact that it happened at all suggested something: even as relations deteriorated, even as ordinary Cubans sat in darkness and rationed what little fuel remained, both governments were still talking. In April, a high-level diplomatic delegation from Washington had landed in Havana—the first U.S. government plane to touch down there since 2016. The meetings were continuing, quietly, in the background of the crisis.
What remains unclear is whether dialogue can bridge the gap between a blockade that is strangling the island and a Cuban government that refuses to capitulate. The fuel is gone. The lights are off. And two governments are trying to find words for a situation that words alone cannot fix.
Citas Notables
We have absolutely no fuel and absolutely no diesel. The national grid is in a critical state, and we have no reserves.— Vicente de la O Levy, Cuba's energy minister
The damage could be eased in a much simpler and faster way by lifting or relaxing the blockade, since it is known that the humanitarian situation is coldly calculated and induced.— Miguel Diaz-Canel, Cuba's president
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did Ratcliffe go to Havana now, of all times? It seems like odd timing.
It's not odd at all—it's precisely because of the timing. Cuba wanted to show that even in crisis, it could still engage diplomatically. The fuel announcement made them look desperate, so they needed to demonstrate they were still a rational actor worth talking to.
But the U.S. imposed the blockade. Why would they send the CIA director if they're trying to strangle the economy?
Because the Trump administration is not monolithic. Ratcliffe going suggests someone in Washington thinks dialogue is worth exploring, even if other officials are tightening the screws. It's a way of keeping a door open without admitting the blockade isn't working.
What does Cuba actually want from these talks?
Removal from the terrorism sponsor list, recognition that they're not a security threat, and implicitly, relief from the blockade. They're trying to separate themselves from any Chinese military presence and show they're a sovereign nation, not a proxy.
And the people in the streets—what do they get out of this?
That's the hard part. They get nothing immediately. The blackouts continue. The fuel stays gone. Diplomatic talks move slowly, and ordinary Cubans are living in darkness right now. The government is betting that negotiation will eventually ease the pressure, but that's a long bet when you have no electricity.
Is there any chance this actually leads somewhere?
There's a chance, but it's narrow. Both sides are talking, which is better than silence. But Trump has shown no inclination to ease the blockade, and Cuba won't capitulate just to get aid routed through the Church. They're at an impasse, and the people are paying the price.