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Sandro Castro, grandson of the dictator Fidel Castro, once again stirred up social media with a statement that, while seemingly empathetic, reveals the disconnection, hypocrisy, and cynicism of a class that lives in abundance while the regime they inherited from their grandfather crumbles.
“The greatest thing is my homeland, it is humanity, where I grew up in everything. It’s a pity that it is going through such hard and difficult times. The worst part is that we don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel,” Sandro wrote on his Instagram, in response to a user who asked him what Cuba represents to him.
The phrase, accompanied by the Cuban flag and sad emojis, aimed to be compassionate, but it sounded hollow coming from the heir of a family that has ruled the island with an iron fist for over six decades.
Sandro, accustomed to luxury and ostentation, is unable to perceive the mockery in hearing him talk about "hardship" from the comfort of his life in Havana, surrounded by sports cars, exclusive parties, and businesses safeguarded by the very system that suffocates the people.
His comment, which could be interpreted as an implicit criticism of the "continuity" government of Miguel Díaz-Canel, actually reveals a gesture of arrogance: the awareness of impunity from someone who knows they can say whatever they want without consequences, even to play with incendiary words at a time when the darkness of power outages sparks protests among the population.
In a country where thousands of young people are imprisoned for their opinions, Sandro pretends to be the “harmless rebel” of the regime. His tone of feigned sadness does not seek to question the roots of the national disaster but rather to reaffirm his supposed moral superiority over the rulers of the so-called “continuity,” those bureaucrats who idolize the memory of his grandfather while he ridicules them with every word.
His delusions of grandeur became evident just a few weeks ago, when he responded to a follower who asked if he would like to be the president of Cuba. With a mix of naivety and arrogance, he claimed that “maybe” he would do it “when the U.S. blockade ends,” as if leading the country were an inheritance waiting to be claimed or a game reserved for his lineage.
That response, absurd in its content but revealing in its tone, was interpreted by many as a direct provocation to Díaz-Canel himself, whom Sandro seems to regard as merely a caretaker of the family estate. That verbal rant, disguised as humor, hints at a symbolic challenge to the power of "continuity": the grandson of the supreme god reminding the disciple that his throne is borrowed.
Behind the supposed patriotism lies a hollow populism, a rhetoric of "humanity" that serves to mask his overflowing ego. In each of his responses on social media, Sandro presents himself as a narcissistic and sociopathic character, incapable of genuinely empathizing with everyday Cubans.
His constant need for the spotlight—whether to deny being a communist, claim that he "has no privileges," or feign pain over the crisis—is part of a personal spectacle that thrives on provocation and disdain.
In this new production, Sandro not only mocked the Cuban people but also the very guardians of power.
His message, cloaked in false compassion, acted as a slap to the "revolutionary continuity" that insists on projecting a Cuba in resistance, while the "grandson" publicly admits that there is no light at the end of the tunnel. With a single phrase, Sandrito exposed the moral defeat of the official narrative.
That contradiction—between the rhetoric of sacrifice and the privileged lives of those who inherit power—reflects the harshest reality of present-day Cuba.
Sandro Castro does not speak for the people: he speaks about them, from a distance that can only be maintained by someone who has never gone hungry, never stood in line to buy bread, never endured an eight-hour blackout. His "patriotism" is as cheap as his empathy, but his words, paradoxically, accurately describe the state of a country without a future and without hope.
The "light at the end of the tunnel" that Sandro does not see is not a confession: it is a provocation. A way to remind Cubans —and the continuity government— that the disastrous surname Castro still has the license to say what others cannot, and to laugh afterward at the discomfort it causes.
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