operating at less than 30 percent of what the province needs
In Holguín, Cuba, a province of hundreds of thousands finds itself navigating an energy crisis that has reduced available power to less than a third of what daily life demands. The state electrical authority has responded not with promises of restoration, but with a frank triage — protecting hospitals, water systems, and economic infrastructure while the rest of the population absorbs the darkness. This is not a temporary disruption but a reckoning with limits, a society learning in real time what it cannot live without and what it must, for now, surrender.
- Holguín faces a staggering energy deficit — 70 megawatts available against 240 megawatts of peak demand — leaving the province perpetually short by more than two-thirds of what it needs.
- Hospitals, water pumping stations, and key industries consume nearly all available power, pushing ordinary neighborhoods into prolonged, unpredictable blackouts with no reliable schedule.
- Engineers achieved a dramatic efficiency breakthrough, slashing hospital power consumption from 35 megawatts to as little as 3.5 megawatts, buying the system precious margin — but not enough.
- When power returns, residents simultaneously reconnect appliances, triggering surges that destroy transformers and restart the cycle of failure, turning every restoration into a new emergency.
- Transformer theft, stripped oil, and stolen hardware — acts authorities are calling sabotage — compound the technical collapse, with single transformers in Moa now carrying double their intended load.
- The province endures without a credible timeline for improvement, its population rationing daily life the way a vessel at sea rations its last reserves, waiting for conditions to change.
Holguín province is running at less than 30 percent of its electrical capacity, with only 70 megawatts available against a peak demand of 240. Rubert Reynaldo González, director of the state electrical company, has been unsparing in his assessment: the old rotation schedules are gone, and the crisis is not temporary.
What has replaced normalcy is a strict hierarchy of survival. Hospitals — Pediatric, Surgical, and Military — are protected on a circuit that never goes dark. Water pumping stations, the airport, tourism infrastructure, the Felton thermoelectric plant, and nickel operations together consume roughly 46 of the available 70 megawatts. Fifteen thousand customers depend on these protected services. Everyone else receives what little remains.
The efficiency gains have been significant but insufficient. Hospital consumption was reduced from 35 megawatts to between 3.5 and 5 megawatts through rewiring and load management. Entire neighborhoods — including Pitaluga and the area near the University of Holguín — are being scheduled for disconnection to free capacity elsewhere. The Lenin Hospital is being reorganized across five circuits to distribute rolling blackouts more evenly.
The crisis has generated its own compounding disasters. When power returns after long outages, residents reconnect multiple appliances simultaneously, triggering surges that burn out transformers and cascade through the network. Worse still, transformers are being stripped of oil, and breakers and hardware are disappearing from buildings. In Moa, one transformer is carrying the load of six circuits when three is its limit. González named these acts for what they are: sabotage.
Water systems fail alongside the power. Hospitals lean on emergency fuel reserves that are themselves finite. Families live in darkness, then in the chaos of reconnection, with no reliable promise of improvement. Holguín endures at 30 percent, rationing electricity the way a ship in a storm rations fresh water — keeping the essential machinery alive and waiting to see if the reserves hold.
Holguín province is running on fumes. With a peak demand of 240 megawatts and only 70 megawatts available to distribute, the electrical utility is operating at less than 30 percent of what the region needs. Rubert Reynaldo González, director of the state electrical company serving the province, laid out the arithmetic plainly: there is no way to power the province as it once was, no way to maintain the old rotation schedules, no way to pretend the crisis is temporary.
What exists instead is a hierarchy of survival. Hospitals come first—the Pediatric, Surgical, and Military hospitals run on circuit 12, which never goes dark. Water pumping stations stay online. The airport stays lit. Tourism infrastructure, the Felton thermoelectric plant, and the nickel operations together consume roughly 46 megawatts of the available 70. Everything else gets what remains, which is almost nothing. The math is unforgiving: 15,000 customers depend on those protected services, and the province has chosen to keep them alive at the expense of everyone else.
The optimization has been brutal but necessary. Before, feeding those three hospitals alone required 35 megawatts. Through efficiency measures—rewiring, load reduction, careful management—that figure has dropped to between 3.5 and 5 megawatts. The savings bought time. But time is running out. The utility is now planning to disconnect entire neighborhoods: Pitaluga and the area around the University of Holguín will go dark to free up capacity elsewhere. The Vladimir Ilich Lenin Hospital, currently drawing power from three circuits, will be reorganized to draw from five, spreading the burden of rolling blackouts more evenly across the system.
The crisis has created a secondary disaster. When electricity returns after hours without power, families rush to plug in multiple appliances at once. The sudden surge overloads transformers, burns out infrastructure, and cascades through the network. What should be relief becomes another blow. On top of this technical strain sits something worse: theft and sabotage. Transformers have been stripped for their oil. Breakers and connection hardware disappear from homes and buildings. In Moa, a single transformer now feeds six circuits when three should be the load. These are not accidents. González called them what they are—acts of sabotage—and said they must be treated as such.
The human cost is diffuse but total. Water systems fail when power fails. Hospitals depend on emergency fuel reserves that are themselves limited. Families live in darkness for hours at a time, then in the chaos of reconnection. There is no schedule that makes sense anymore, no promise that tomorrow will be better than today. The province is rationing electricity the way a ship in a storm rations fresh water: keeping the engine running, keeping the crew alive, and hoping the storm passes before the reserves run dry. For now, Holguín endures at 30 percent, and everyone waits to see if that is enough.
Notable Quotes
The province is operating with barely 70 megawatts, less than 30 percent of what it needs to cover its usual consumption.— Rubert Reynaldo González, director of Empresa Eléctrica Holguín
There is enormous vandalism. These acts damage the network and prolong disruptions to entire communities.— Rubert Reynaldo González
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
How do you choose who gets power and who doesn't when there's only enough for a third of the province?
You protect what keeps people alive. Hospitals, water, the airport. Then you protect the economy—the nickel mines, tourism. Everything else rotates through blackouts. It's not a choice anyone wanted to make.
The optimization from 35 megawatts down to 5 for hospitals sounds like a technical miracle. What actually happened?
It wasn't magic. It was rewiring, removing unnecessary loads, running equipment more efficiently. But it only bought time. You can't compress a system forever before something breaks.
What happens when the power comes back on after hours without it?
Chaos. People plug in everything at once—refrigerators, fans, chargers. The surge hits transformers that are already fragile. They fail. Then you've lost infrastructure on top of the shortage.
You mentioned theft of transformer oil and breakers. Is that desperation or something else?
Both. Some people need the materials to survive. But some of it is deliberate sabotage. Either way, it cripples the system further. A single transformer in Moa is now carrying the load of three. That's not sustainable.
If this continues, what breaks first?
The water system. Without power, you can't pump water. Without water, hospitals can't function. That's the real edge we're walking.
Is there a way out of this?
Not quickly. You need fuel for the plants, parts for the infrastructure, and time to rebuild. Right now, Holguín has none of those things.