Lis turned three years old in the Pediatric Ward of Cuba’s Cancer Institute. And although birthdays in a hospital carry a different weight, joy managed to sneak through. The celebration was complete with cake, balloons, ice cream, and juice.

Lis was already undergoing treatment on January 31, when Trump announced the new measures against Cuba that would further deprive it of fuel.

Today, over two months later, Lis turns 3. She remains in the same ward. Her treatment has not been interrupted; doctors work miracles with what they have, but the “asphyxiation” we documented back then remains intact. The energy situation, already critical, has persisted, with or without the Russian ship (that arrived on March 31). Pediatric oncology equipment runs on generators that consume expensive, scarce fuel. A power outage during chemotherapy can be fatal. So far, it hasn’t happened. But the threat breathes next to every bed, like an animal waiting.

But that morning, on her birthday, the threat stayed outside. Because Lis’s mother lit the candles, and that light depended on no generator. It was an older light, more rebellious. The children in the ward who could get up gathered around, some dragging IV poles and smiles.

And then they appeared: the therapeutic clowns, those women with red noses and enormous shoes who bring laughter every week, stronger than any chemotherapy.

Clowns in hospital in Cuba. Photo: Naturaleza Secreta

Children with cancer, like Lis, not only fight their disease but also an external stranglehold that limits every breath.

But Lis’s birthday demonstrated something that wasn’t in the headlines. Three years is a fragile milestone in pediatric oncology, but it is also a victory. Her mother lifted her onto a chair, and the girl gathered all the air her tiny lungs could hold. She blew. All three candles went out at once, as if a child’s wish could overpower all the laws of the blockade.

Outside, the neighborhood prepared for another night without electricity. Inside, the cake was shared, and every child got a piece. Lis’s mother saved many photos of her daughter laughing among clowns and little warriors in hospital gowns. There is always the uncertainty about whether there will be cake next year. But today, there was. And the candles burned. And hope, that fragile, tenacious thing, remains alight.

The current moment in Cuba is not just about the lack of energy, the suffocation. It is also this handful of children who refuse to stop breathing. And Lis’s birthday, that small and enormous day, is a reminder that as long as there is a candle burning, and a clown willing to make a fool of herself, and a mother preparing birthdays, and a child applauding from a bed, hope will remain the most rebellious political act of all. Because in a hospital, any party is the biggest party in the world.

Naturaleza Secreta is a platform of Cuban journalists covering stories of daily life.

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