• On World Mental Health Day, 26 takes a closer look at the emotional challenges men face in Las Tunas.

It’s 5:00 a.m. Las Tunas smells of freshly brewed coffee and burning charcoal —and both are often a luxury. The teacher doesn’t need an alarm clock: his children’s demands are punctual. Before buttoning his shirt, he’s already put the rice on to boil —which he’ll mix with a little milk and sugar— to take care of pending errands and stretch the meager pesos he earns each month. From the shelf, the cinnamon stares at him with disdain…

The bicycle waits outside, leaning against the doorframe. Its inner tube has been flat since Tuesday. Replacing it costs five thousand pesos —more than half of what he earns in a week. In the meantime, he walks. He walks kilometers under the Tunas sun, in a city where buses don’t run, and power outages last for hours. He arrives at school without electricity, sometimes without water, and smiles. Because if he breaks down, who will hold everyone else up?

But there’s something you don’t see in the classroom or in the bread line. There’s a burden that isn’t measured in metric tons or megawatts. It’s the mandate to be a man —the one he was taught from childhood: to provide, to solve problems, not to cry, not to complain. That script that society repeats —and that he, like so many others, tries to live up to— even though the entire country is a constant distraction. And when the bike has a flat tire, when the coal runs out, when his paycheck vanishes before the end of the month, that mandate becomes a silent trap. Because he can’t be the provider everyone expects him to be, and that failure —even though it’s not his fault— eats away at him from the inside.

Every October 10th, World Mental Health Day is observed—a date established by the World Health Organization in 1992 to highlight emotional well-being as a fundamental human right. In Las Tunas, the issue has a concrete face: that of the doctor who performs miracles with very few resources, that of the mother who cooks with firewood in the courtyard, that of the man who pushes his bicycle uphill, thinking of the bedroom he cannot afford to buy. But it also has a face that many remain silent about: that of the man who feels inferior because he cannot live up to what was demanded of him.

The data speaks for itself. The suicide rate in Cuba rose from 10.2 per 100,000 inhabitants in 2023 to 13.8 in 2025, according to researcher Julio González Pagés. In 2023, between 75 and 83 percent of suicide deaths were among men, with a ratio of five men for every woman who died. The Statistical Yearbook of Health (Minsap 2023) revealed that Las Tunas was among the provinces with the highest incidence, with a rate of 23.7 per 100,000 inhabitants —well above the national average.

Added to this is the barrier of traditional masculinity. Experts warn that men who adhere more strongly to self-reliance and emotional restraint are 2.32 times more likely to attempt suicide over the course of their lives. Many do not seek help because they associate it with weakness, and instead turn to alcohol or drugs to cope with their pain.

The economic crisis also takes a toll on masculine identity, and let’s be clear: mental health is the foundation for personal, family, and community development. And in a context where money is tight, power outages are a daily occurrence, and a sack of coal costs 2,600 pesos, taking care of one’s mental health is not an act of selfishness, but of survival.

Experts emphasize that self-care doesn’t require a lot of money. Strengthening family and social ties acts as a shield against stress. Expressing our feelings without fear lightens the burden. Physical activity releases endorphins and protects against anxiety. Maintaining routines —even minimal ones— provides a sense of control that the crisis tends to strip away.

Talking to someone you trust brings relief, and asking for help is an act of strength, not weakness. Sleeping and eating as well as you can directly influence your mood, while setting boundaries and saying “no” is also a way to take care of yourself. And when distress persists, seeking professional help early on prevents suffering from becoming chronic.

For men, the challenge is twofold. Hegemonic masculinity punishes vulnerability. A man who fails to provide —even for reasons beyond his control— is a failure. That burden, combined with the economic crisis and the pressure to support a family, becomes a dangerous cocktail for mental health. Current studies warn that many men do not seek help because they fear judgment, because they do not know how to put their feelings into words, and because they were taught that toughing it out is the only way to be a man. And that silence, that stoicism, also kills.

The teacher puts his bike away when he gets home. The power outage began three hours ago. His children are doing their homework by candlelight. He sits down for a moment —just a moment— before going over the bills. There isn’t enough money. The bedroom is still in disrepair. Tomorrow he’ll have to get up early again. But he’s here. Safe and sound.

In Las Tunas, as throughout Cuba, education today faces the onslaught of the embargo and the global crisis. The mental health of those who educate others is the last line of defense. Taking care of it isn’t a whim. It’s the only way to keep pedaling, even when the bike can’t go any further. And it’s also the only way to break the script, to say out loud that being a man doesn’t have to hurt, that asking for help doesn’t make you weaker, that supporting others starts with supporting yourself.