Discussing remittances in Cuba often feels like addressing an open wound. This realization hit me after my previous post on the subject and the subsequent comments it received from different perspectives. It's not just about the topic itself; it's about the underlying pain, scarcity, blame, resentment, and helplessness that accompany it.
This is not merely an economic issue; it is existential. It reflects a nation where living has become an act of daily resistance.
In most countries, remittances serve as a supplementary income. In Cuba, however, they are a necessity for survival. This isn't because people are lazy or dependent, but because a governmental model has destroyed the fundamental link between work and livelihood. In today's Cuba, working doesn't ensure food, healthcare, mobility, or even the ability to dream.
Receiving remittances doesn't signify privilege; it's akin to having a lifeline amidst a shipwreck. Meanwhile, those who do not receive them are not less worthy; they are simply swimming in an ever-darkening sea without a flotation device.
The Psychological Divide
Both groups share a dilapidated vessel. Often, those without remittances are defended as if they are victims of those who receive them. Yet, this perspective is rooted in a deeper, sadder truth: a mindset cultivated over decades by the Cuban regime, and typical of communist systems, which fosters resentment towards those who manage to have a little more. Instead of questioning why nearly no one has the bare minimum, people are taught to distrust those who succeed, receive aid, or find solutions, as if they are to blame for a structural injustice.
Even those who don't directly receive foreign funds benefit indirectly from the flow: through small businesses, resellers, those bringing in medicines, food vendors, landlords, and service providers who exist because of the influx of external money.
A Fragile Economic Ecosystem
Today, much of what can be bought, obtained, or "resolved" outside of the state in Cuba exists thanks to remittances. Without them, there wouldn't be more justice; there would be absolute scarcity. The informal market, alternative medicines, small businesses, and support networks would vanish, leaving only emptiness.
Those sending money from abroad often do so without living in abundance themselves. They send from a place of sacrifice, guilt, and displacement. They send because, although they have left, they never truly left. Cuba and their loved ones remain ingrained in them.
Remittances aren't a luxury; they are a transference of pain. They represent money transformed into absence, familial separation, and lost years.
The Debate on Restricting Remittances
Another painful debate exists: those advocating for cutting off remittances as a form of punishment for the regime, and those opposing it, knowing this punishment doesn't affect the power structure but rather the ordinary people.
Those calling for the cessation of remittances often do so out of desperation, legitimate anger, and the belief that breaking the cycle of dependence created by the system is necessary. They are not monsters; they seek a radical solution to a radical problem.
Conversely, those who oppose cutting remittances do so not out of comfort but because they know that today, remittances don't support the state; they support families. Cutting off this flow weakens not the power structure but the sick, the elderly, the children, and those without alternatives. It also affects those who receive nothing but rely on this informal ecosystem to survive.
Ultimately, both sides share the same frustration: no one wants to continue supporting a country from exile, but no one wants to condemn their loved ones to hunger for an uncertain change.
This entire discussion occurs among Cubans, both inside and outside the country, yet they remain part of the same nation, the same history, the same wound. It is not a war between enemies but a painful conversation within a nation fractured by decades of poor political decisions.
This dilemma shouldn't exist. No healthy nation relies on emigration for survival. No legitimate model turns its citizens into its main export.
Remittances should neither be a political weapon nor a permanent lifeline. They should be what they are anywhere else: a gesture of love, not an economic structure imposed by institutional failure.
As long as work within Cuba doesn't provide a dignified living, any debate about remittances will always be a discussion among victims, never about the true culprits.
In the end, both those who wish to cut off remittances and those who defend them are trapped in the same tragedy: debating how to survive within a system that should never have forced its people to survive, and also how to enable those outside to continue sustaining their families inside, as well as friends or acquaintances in dire financial or health crises.
This is the most brutal aspect of the ordeal: not only a country unable to support its own but an exile unable to let go without feeling they are letting their loved ones fall.
Exploring the Complexities of Cuban Remittances
Why are remittances vital for survival in Cuba?
Remittances are crucial in Cuba because they fill the gap left by a failing economic system where work doesn't guarantee basic necessities like food, healthcare, or shelter. They have become a lifeline for many families struggling to survive.
What impact do remittances have on the Cuban economy?
Remittances significantly support the informal market, providing funds for small businesses, alternative medicines, and everyday goods and services that the state fails to supply. Without them, the country would face even greater scarcity.
How do remittances affect those who send them?
Those who send remittances often do so from a place of sacrifice and emotional burden. They contribute despite their own financial challenges, driven by a connection to their homeland and loved ones.