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In today's times, in Cuba, even the most private or inconsequential gestures carry an explosive political weight. Distributing food on the street, for instance, is not just an act of charity in a country where basic necessities are scarce: it is also a reflection of how everything else works —or doesn’t work—.
In recent weeks, Sandro Castro, grandson of the dictator Fidel Castro, has tried to project an image of closeness with the people by distributing food to vulnerable individuals in Havana. "Let them know that they have us", said the influencer while handing out treats to poor children in the capital.
Videos on social media show him
But just by looking a little deeper beyond those videos, the scene takes on a different meaning.
A recent Instagram story posted by Sandro himself shows him congratulating a close friend, whom he refers to as the "vampire of Varadero." The image, seemingly harmless, captures him in a relaxed nighttime setting, filled with laughter and camaraderie.
That friend is Andy Biart Corzo, a name not well known to the general public, but whose activity on social media and digital businesses provides a glimpse into the environment in which the grandson of the dictator who laid the foundations of present-day Cuba operates: a country in the hands of Castro elites, mafia families, frontmen and privileged individuals, and corrupt leaders who concentrate all power and manage like overseers of the Castro estate.
Biart Corzo is connected to "Animal Nocturno," a sales platform that offers shipments to Cuba of food, beverages, hygiene products, and even appliances.
The catalog, sold in dollars, includes everything from chicken, beef, oil, and powdered milk to whisky, beer, cigarettes, and refrigerators. Everything you need to live—or survive—on the island, as long as you have access to foreign currency.
That is where the contrast ceases to be anecdotal and becomes structural.
While Sandro poses as a philanthropist and distributes free food in some neighborhoods, his closest circle operates in an economic circuit where those same products are sold in dollars, at prices that are inaccessible for most Cubans who rely on a state salary that barely lasts a few days.
Just taking a look at the offerings of “Animal Nocturno” reveals the contrasts that lead to the philanthropy of Sandrito and his friends: a kilogram of ground beef for $7.90 while the average salary in Cuba is $12.80 (6,930 CUP); a carton of 30 eggs for $8.90 (4,806 CUP); 10 pounds of chicken thighs (4.5 kilograms) for $14 (7,560 CUP); a kilogram of powdered milk for $9.35 (5,049 CUP).
In practice, daily survival in Cuba increasingly depends on remittances sent from abroad by relatives who emigrated precisely fleeing the lack of opportunities and the poverty imposed by an extractive and dictatorial regime.
The scene, then, shifts in meaning.
"Philanthropy" ceases to be an isolated gesture of solidarity and becomes part of a more complex narrative, where those who have privileged access to goods and foreign currency occasionally distribute the scraps that remain in their overflowing warehouses of unattainable products that are permanently out of reach for the majority of impoverished Cubans.
It's not about questioning the aid itself. In a country in crisis, any plate of food matters. The issue is the context in which it occurs.
Cuba is experiencing one of the worst economic crises in its recent history. The scarcity of food, prolonged blackouts, inflation, and the decline of basic services have pushed large segments of the population into increasingly precarious living conditions.
In that scenario, a parallel economy has emerged, dollarized, sustained by private imports and small businesses that operate beyond the reach of the average salary.
That new reality has created an increasingly visible inequality.
On one hand, a majority that survives on Cuban pesos with limited access to basic products. On the other hand, a minority that, thanks to connections, remittances, or businesses, can access a dollar market where everything—from a liter of oil to a box of chicken—has a price, but also availability.
It is in that second space where Sandro Castro's social environment is situated, this new star that captures the attention of international media, eager to put a microphone in front of him so he can speak about his grandfather's humanism and the need for change in Cuba.
The images on social media, both yours and those of close individuals like Biart Corzo (a "night owl" like Sandro), depict a lifestyle characterized by parties, imported drinks, cars, houses with pools, and consumption without the restrictions faced by the average Cuban. It's not a new phenomenon, but it is becoming increasingly visible.
In this context, the scene of distributing food takes on a symbolic weight that is hard to ignore.
Because solidarity that arises from shared scarcity is not the same as that which is exercised from a position of privilege. And when that solidarity is documented, published, and transformed into content, the line between aid and performance becomes blurred.
The question, then, is not whether Sandro Castro can distribute food or not. He can, and those who receive it likely appreciate it. The issue is what that gesture represents in the context of present-day Cuba.
Is it a genuine act of empathy or a way of managing one's image in a context of privilege? Is it charity or a symptom of a system where access to basic needs increasingly hinges on the ability to pay in dollars?
The very use of the term "vampire" to refer to his inner circle is, perhaps unintentionally, revealing. Not as an insult, but as an involuntary metaphor for a dynamic where a few seem to live outside — or above — the deprivations affecting most Cubans. In other words, draining their blood.
In the end, the issue is not that someone is distributing food in Cuba. The problem is that it is necessary to do so, and that it is being done by the heirs of those responsible for sinking the country's economy and ruining the lives of Cubans; the same ones who are now negotiating with the United States to see how much we can get.
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