"It makes you want to cry." This is not a phrase thrown into the air. It is the raw reaction of Juan Carloz Aliaga as he walks among the underbrush, rubble, and the silence of what was once Hanoi, one of the most iconic entertainment venues in Guantánamo. The video he shared on social media has stirred up memories, pains, and questions that many Cubans have carried for years.
Where there were once lights, music, dancers, runways, and endless nights of entertainment, today there remains only a dense jungle, dangerous and nearly impossible to navigate. “I’ve had a tremendous struggle to get in here,” says Aliaga as he moves forward cautiously, fearing that something might come crashing down on him.
The audio booth, the stage, the areas where the audience gathered... everything is covered by vegetation and neglect. “This was Hanoi, sir. It’s a total ruin,” he said.
For many people from Guantánamo, the blow goes beyond the visual. The Hanoi was not just a recreational center; it was part of the collective memory of several generations. "Nothing to envy about Tropicana at its best," recalls the informant. There, people ate, worked, and enjoyed night shows that marked an era.
In the comments on the video, dozens of people reminisce about their youth, their first jobs, their nights of fun, and even family stories connected to that place.
"It was our favorite place," Aliaga himself wrote in another post, visibly affected. "It's a crime, it has no other name." Others recall how, after leaving factories or workplaces, the common destination was Hanoi or nearby spaces like Bayatiquiri. Today, returning and finding it like this feels "traumatic."
The reactions quickly began to multiply. Some claim they wept upon seeing the images. Former audio workers, dancers, and culinary staff speak of the pain of not recognizing the place where they spent a significant part of their lives. “You can't even locate the stage,” laments a former cast member. “It's as if they erased it.”
Amidst the sadness, many agree that the deterioration of Hanoi is not an isolated case. For them, it is a symbol of what is happening to a significant part of Cuba: cultural and recreational spaces, hospitals, schools, and historic sites consumed by neglect.
"That has nothing to do with any blockade, it's pure negligence," writes one user. Others point directly to the incapacity and indifference of local authorities, while comparisons with hotels and tourism projects that do receive investments grow.
Aliaga's video does not aim— as he himself clarifies— to provoke controversy, but rather to remind. To remind us of what was, what was lost, and what no longer exists today. However, the impact goes beyond nostalgia. For many Cubans both inside and outside the island, the state of the Hanoi serves as a thermometer for the country: a place that was once a cultural pride and now stands as little more than a forest of ruins.
"We let it be destroyed," says Aliaga with pain. And that phrase, repeated and debated in the comments, encapsulates an open wound: that of a Cuba witnessing its symbols crumble while memory insists on not forgetting.
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