The Hanoi's Legacy: A Once-Vibrant Venue Now a Forgotten Jungle

"It makes you want to cry." This isn't just an offhand remark; it's the heartfelt response of Juan Carloz Aliaga as he navigates through the overgrowth, debris, and silence of what used to be the Hanoi, one of Guantánamo's most iconic entertainment venues. The video he shared on social media has stirred up memories, pain, and lingering questions that many Cubans have carried for years.

Where there were once bright lights, music, dancers, catwalks, and endless nights of entertainment, now lies an impenetrable jungle, fraught with danger and nearly impossible to traverse. "I've had a really hard time getting in here," Aliaga remarks as he cautiously moves forward, wary of what might come crashing down.

The audio booth, the stage, the audience areas—all are engulfed by vegetation and neglect. "This was the Hanoi, folks. It's a complete ruin," he states.

For many residents of Guantánamo, the impact is more than just visual. The Hanoi was not merely a recreational center; it was part of the collective memory of multiple generations. "It had nothing to envy about the Tropicana in its heyday," the man recounts. It was a place for dining, work, and enjoying nighttime shows that defined an era.

Comments on the video are filled with people reminiscing about their youth, first jobs, nights of fun, and even family stories tied to that place.

"It was our favorite spot," Aliaga wrote in another post, visibly emotional. "It's a crime, there's no other word for it." Others recall how, after leaving factories or workplaces, the common destination was the Hanoi or nearby spots like Bayatiquiri. Today, returning to find it in such a state is "traumatic."

Reactions have quickly multiplied. Some admit to crying upon seeing the images. Former audio workers, dancers, and catering staff speak of the pain of no longer recognizing the site where they spent much of their lives. "You can't even locate the stage," laments a former cast member. "It's as if it had been erased."

Amid the sadness, many agree that the decay of the Hanoi is not an isolated case. For them, it symbolizes what's happening to much of Cuba: cultural and recreational spaces, hospitals, schools, and historic sites all succumbing to abandonment.

"This has nothing to do with any blockade; it's pure neglect," writes one user. Others point directly to the incompetence and indifference of local authorities, while comparisons grow with hotels and tourist projects that do receive investments.

Aliaga's video, he clarifies, isn't meant to spark controversy but to serve as a reminder. A reminder of what once was, what was lost, and what no longer exists today. Yet, the impact extends beyond nostalgia. For many Cubans on and off the island, the state of the Hanoi serves as a barometer for the country: a place that was once a cultural pride and is now just a forest of ruins.

"We let it be destroyed," says Aliaga with sorrow. And that phrase, echoed and debated in the comments, encapsulates an open wound: that of a Cuba watching its symbols crumble while memory insists on not forgetting.