HAVANA, Cuba – When Yamila Argüelles received the final payment for the sale of her home, she decided to invest it in hopes of making it grow, rather than spending it all at once. She was now receiving the last $2,000 of the $6,000 she had asked for her small apartment in Santos Suárez, Havana, paid by the buyer in three installments as part of a mutual agreement.
Following the advice of an entrepreneurial friend—and without yet having the necessary license—Yamila opened a small shop selling basic goods in early August of this year, in a rented space in the Los Sitios neighborhood of Central Havana.
“I took a risk, not because ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ but because if you wait until all the paperwork is done, you and your merchandise will have aged,” says the 27-year-old IT specialist, who, like thousands of Cuban workers, moved into the private sector.
When she presented her project as a self-employed worker at the Municipal Labor Office, she was clearly told there were delays and that approval could take more than three months. “And I couldn’t wait that long,” she says. “I had already bought equipment and goods; I had made my small investment. So, I took the risk and opened without the paperwork,” she told CubaNet.
She feared that if she waited out the paperwork, she might end up spending the money elsewhere or giving up. And knowing that she wouldn’t receive a similar sum anytime soon, “it was now or never,” she explained.
Her friend had warned her about the risks—fines, bribes, and an exhausting “hunt” by inspectors. What she didn’t expect was that they’d show up so soon.
On the third day after opening, an inspector from the Municipal Directorate of Hygiene and Epidemiology appeared. Yamila is convinced a neighbor was behind that first visit.
“I’m more than sure,” she says. “On that block and in the surrounding ones, there are shops just like mine—even better stocked—but some Cuban entrepreneurs have communism so deeply ingrained that they think having more businesses around hurts their sales. In a country with shortages of everything, there’s enough market for all of us.”
Though the visit rattled her, Yamila says the inspector told her he wanted to help because he saw “a young woman eager to get ahead, and young people should be supported.”
“He said, ‘You don’t have paperwork. That alone is a fine, but I’m going to work with you.’ And what he did was show me how I should organize the merchandise in the storeroom and fridge, and give me a few of those absurd recommendations they always give,” she recounts.
He didn’t fine her, but advised her to speed up the paperwork—as if that were up to her—and warned that he would return in two or three weeks, assuming that by then the project would be approved.
However, two weeks later, it still wasn’t. That didn’t stop Yamila from continuing to sell, fully aware of the risk.
One month later, in September, another health inspector showed up. She asked for Yamila’s business license number, and when Yamila explained that she still hadn’t received it and was waiting for project approval, the official questioned how she could be selling without authorization. Yamila responded that she couldn’t afford to wait because her father, who was in very poor health, depended on her.
According to Yamila, the woman tilted her head and concluded that the violation wasn’t that serious, since “after all, everyone sells without a license.” She entered the shop, examined the merchandise, opened the fridge and freezer without asking, and gave a few recommendations.
“I realized she was snooping, trying to see what might interest her. When she finished, she crossed her arms and asked, ‘So, what should I do with you?’ — like a grandmother scolding someone. I told her, ‘Well, if you, being an inspector, don’t know…’”
The inspector informed her that she could fine her for not having a license. “‘Go ahead, fine me,’ I said,” Yamila recounts. “I just didn’t want to keep dancing around the issue.” However, the official told her that she didn’t intend to fine her, that “it didn’t have to come to that.” And at that moment, Yamila confirmed what she had already suspected.
Though she hasn’t had much experience with them, Yamila says the way inspectors operate is simple and well-known: they spot a violation, state what the fine would be, and indirectly hint that there are other ways to avoid it — like slipping them something.
After some back-and-forth and several implicit suggestions that Yamila ignored, the inspector left without issuing a fine and simply advised her to comply with the regulations, warning that she would return.
Yamila believes the woman had a moment of shame and backed down. “She could’ve been my grandmother; and at that age, when so much respect is expected, stooping so low as to openly ask for a bribe or allow yourself to be bought must cause at least a little embarrassment,” she reflects.
After getting lucky a second time, Yamila knew the third time wouldn’t be so forgiving. “You don’t get that lucky with these people,” she says. And indeed, the third visit was the one that got her. On September 22, three inspectors from Havana’s Provincial Directorate of Commerce showed up. While they expressed some understanding of her operating without a license—acknowledging the delays from the relevant agencies—they still fined her 5,000 pesos for not accepting bank transfers.
“Coincidentally — though I’m not sure it was a coincidence — they were passing by just as a woman on the street asked me if I accepted transfers, and I said no. That’s when they pounced,” she says.
Resolution 93/2023 from the Ministry of Domestic Trade (MINCIN) mandates that all sales establishments must provide customers with access to and use of electronic payment channels—in other words, they must have the capability to process payments through national gateways for goods and services.
For Yamila, it’s a serious obstacle to force small businesses to operate through a system that doesn’t guarantee stability or liquidity. “The ATMs are always out of cash. When there is money, the lines are endless. Sometimes, the only way to get cash is to pay someone outside the ATM a fee. And when you buy from wholesalers using bank transfers, they charge an extra percentage. It just doesn’t work,” she complains.
There are many reasons discouraging Cuba’s small business owners. While she doesn’t plan to give up on her project just yet, Yamila admits there are days when she feels like quitting. “I don’t have dreams of turning this into a big company. I just wanted something that could support me day to day, but I didn’t expect so many obstacles,” she says.
Before starting this business, Yamila had planned to emigrate to Brazil with her brother, following the sale of a house they inherited. But just as everything was falling into place, her father was diagnosed with cancer. She decided to stay—her brother left.
«The order to collect has been given»
In addition to the lack of economic incentives for the private sector and the absence of a formal currency exchange market, this year has been marked by an environment of increased fiscal control over private activity. The inspectors who fined Yamila on September 22—and who also visited other businesses in the area—weren’t there for a routine check, but as part of the “4th National Exercise for the Prevention and Confrontation of Crime, Corruption, Social Indiscipline, and Illegality,” which took place from September 22 to 26.
According to the Cuban government, the goal of the more than 4,000 inspectors deployed across the country was to crack down on illegal activity, “strengthen respect for public order,” and ensure “stability in the country.” But for Cuban entrepreneurs and vendors like Yamila, the reality looks different: “The order to collect has been given.” And she’s not wrong—state media seems to celebrate the detection of violations, the imposition of fines, the confiscation of goods, and the closure of businesses.
The three previous «exercises» in 2025 were no different.
For this one in particular, the Cuban News Agency (ACN) highlighted its effectiveness with a headline on September 25: “Some 7,500 fines in national exercise against crime.” The article reported that, according to the Ministry of Finance and Prices, this number of fines was issued the day before. It also stated that on that same day, 12,240 inspections were carried out, andirregularities were found in 9,612 establishments.
The most common violations were related to pricing policies, but others included “outdated information boards, violations of hygiene and health regulations, failure to use payment gateways, and frozen bank accounts.”
According to the report, 63 seizures took place across 11 provinces, and the total generated from fines imposed reached 23,888,000 pesos.
“A bloodbath,” Yamila says. “Just the way they announce it in the news shows the real goal of these campaigns is to collect money at all costs.”
Still, she believes she’s been “let off easy.” That wasn’t the case for Mayra, a 46-year-old woman who runs a small shop inside her home in Guanabacoa, Havana. On the same day Yamila was fined 5,000 pesos, Mayra was hit with a 16,000-peso fine for selling items that weren’t listed in her approved business plan.
“I’m about to shut it down,” Mayra says, distressed. “I can’t live just to pay fines. All my profits go toward that.”
For the rest of that week—the same week of the “4th National Exercise…”—Mayra kept her house closed out of fear of more inspectors. Now she only sells in the afternoons, when—according to her—inspectors are less likely to show up.
Also in Guanabacoa, a person who asked to remain anonymous told CubaNet what shoppers experienced during that week: “Imagine not having anywhere to buy anything. Everything’s shut down. They’ve given out fines of up to 9,000 pesos just because a storeroom wasn’t perfectly organized, or for a bit of trash on the floor.”
Since 2024, the government has increased the amount of the fines—today, many carry a minimum penalty of 15,000 to 16,000 pesos. While these sanctions boost immediate state revenue, economists like Pedro Monreal have warned that they do nothing to correct the root causes of inflation, which are defined by low domestic supplyand afiscal deficit that remains among the highest in the world.
Paradoxically, all these regulations, sanctions, and crackdowns on Cuba’s private sector are happening at the very moment it has become the backbone of a significant portion of the country’s supply of goods and services.
“They’re even more abusive with the elderly”
Very close to Yamila’s store is the busy Reina Street, where it’s common to see many vendors selling in the doorways. It’s also common, Yamila says, to see them running and hiding in alleyways when inspectors are nearby.
“They really go after them hard too, and they’re not hurting anyone. A vendor—no matter what they sell—is solving a problem. Especially now that the State can’t anymore. Most of them are older women just trying to make a few pesos to survive the day.”
Concha is one of them. She’s 68, has a leg affected by lymphangitis, and receives a pension check that doesn’t even cover most of her medications. “I can’t run,” she says. “If they catch me, they catch me. But it’s abusive. They fine you and take your little boxes of cigarettes and bars of soap—the little you’ve got.”
Maribel says she does run. She’s younger—53—but has a granddaughter whose father died and whose mother is in prison. She has to raise her. She can’t let them confiscate the merchandise she gets with so much effort. “I vanish as soon as I hear they’re nearby, or when inspections go on for weeks, I just don’t sell during the day. Around 5:00 in the afternoon, I go up to Reina or Monte and sit down to sell my cigarettes, condoms, and little cups of coffee.”
Yamila believes that while one shouldn’t be arrogant or aggressive with inspectors, you do have to stand your ground and speak up when necessary. Her most recent inspection happened just three days after her fine, and from the moment the two women showed up, something felt off.
It was past 3:00 in the afternoon. “At that hour, nobody works in Cuba. Nobody who works for the State, anyway. Especially not if it involves walking, visiting places and all that—unless you’re getting something out of it,” she says.
After presenting their inspector IDs, one of the women informed Yamila that she was selling sausages and cooking oil at prices above the maximum set by Resolution 225. Both products are among six whose prices were capped by the MINCIN (Ministry of Domestic Trade) in mid-2024.
According to the ACN, most of the violations found during the “4th National Exercise” — approximately 32% of all fines — were related to Decree 30, which defines offenses, penalties, measures, and procedures for individuals involved in the wholesale or retail sale of goods and services, and establishes when prices are considered abusive or speculative.
Other legal tools used include Decree-Law 91, which regulates administrative violations by non-state sector actors, and the aforementioned Resolution 225.
When Yamila explained that neither she nor most small vendors could afford to buy packs of sausages at 340 pesos to sell them at 355—as the regulation requires—one of the inspectors, the more vocal of the two, told her not to sell them at all.
«They’d rather see a product disappear from the market than allow a competitive one to exist,» Yamila says. “They don’t take inflation into account, or the rising dollar, and they don’t listen to economists. Even so, I made it clear that what I choose to buy with my money is my decision—and obviously, they didn’t like that.”
The inspector asked for her business “project,” and when Yamila said she didn’t have it, she told her she was “operating without papers and acting tough.”
A confrontation followed, during which the inspector threatened her with fines totaling 48,000 pesos, confiscation of merchandise, and closure of the business. She repeated that Yamila was selling illegally and said she was fully authorized to call a truck and have all the goods taken away. Yamila challenged her to go ahead and do it—and pulled out her phone to call her husband.
At that point, the two inspectors whispered something Yamila couldn’t hear. The quieter one told them to calm down, acknowledged that things had gotten out of hand, and informed Yamila they would not take any action against her—but warned her to follow the regulations, because other inspectors might not be as “generous” as they were. Then they left.
“My theory is that they weren’t as authorized as they claimed, or maybe they were off-duty, outside their shift. The moment I pulled out my phone, they got nervous and left,” Yamila says. That’s why she believes that, even though she still doesn’t have her self-employment papers, she can’t let any inspector walk into her shop arbitrarily with other motives. “The way I stood up to them—if they really had the authority—they would have seized my stuff and issued the fine.”
Although she acknowledges that in another country she’d also be committing a violation, Yamila points out that other markets offer different conditions and guarantees that simply don’t exist for Cuban vendors.
Julián, a 36-year-old who runs a small café on Monte Street, agrees that sometimes you have to talk tough: “People say it’s worse if you argue with them, but sometimes you have to stand firm, because they’re calculating. As soon as they walk in, they try to size you up—see how weak or vulnerable you are—to know how far they can push you. But it’s not the same with an old lady from Monte as it is with me. They’re way more abusive with the elderly.”
He says he greets inspectors with coldness and disdain. “They’re not my friends, and they’re not coming to offer me anything beneficial.” When they try to justify themselves by saying they’re just doing their job, he tells them that job is indecent.
“What kind of job is it to screw people over, take the little they have, and impose outrageous fines? I’ll pay them as long as I have the means; when I don’t, I’ll shut down my business and invest in something else. But I’m not giving them a thing—not even a cracker. And don’t tell me they’re just trying to survive too. That’s a disgraceful way to survive. Quit being an inspector for a parasitic state—set up a stand and start selling like the rest of us.”
By the end of the first quarter of 2025 alone, 425,012 fines had been issued, contributing over 1 billion Cuban pesos to the state budget.
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