The Propaganda of the Aesthetic
The narrative is tempting. A mother in Havana, clutching a late-model iPhone, documents the struggle of finding powdered milk or waiting six hours for a bus. She’s framed as a brave truth-teller, a window into a nation stifled by external pressure. International media eats it up because it fits a tidy, decades-old script: the noble citizen versus the foreign blockade.
It’s a lie. Or at least, it’s a very curated half-truth.
What the "lazy consensus" ignores is the sheer technical and financial impossibility of the independent Cuban influencer. In a country where the average state salary is roughly $30 to $50 a month, and 1GB of data costs a significant chunk of a weekly wage, these creators aren’t just "getting by." They are the new elite, operating within a digital ecosystem that the Cuban government doesn't just tolerate—it monitors, taxes, and weaponizes.
If you are an influencer in Havana with a consistent 4G connection and a ring light, you aren't a victim of the fuel embargo. You are a beneficiary of a shadow economy that bypasses the very struggles you're posting about.
The Hardware Paradox
Let’s talk about the gear. You cannot buy a Sony A7III or the latest iPhone at a corner store in Vedado. These tools enter the country via "mulas"—couriers who fly in from Miami or Madrid with suitcases full of electronics.
To maintain the lifestyle required for "lifestyle content," these influencers rely on remittances and hardware "donations" from the outside. The irony is staggering. The content focuses on the scarcity caused by the U.S. embargo, yet the very ability to produce that content relies on a constant, illicit flow of American technology and capital.
I have watched digital agencies try to "disrupt" emerging markets for a decade. The first rule of thumb: follow the bandwidth. In Cuba, bandwidth is a political lever. The state-run ETECSA (Empresa de Telecomunicaciones de Cuba S.A.) controls every bit and byte. If these influencers were truly a threat to the state narrative, their SIM cards would be deactivated before the first reel finished uploading.
Instead, they are allowed to flourish because they provide a "human face" to state talking points. They focus the viewer’s anger on the external "blockade" rather than the internal mismanagement, the centralized shipping failures, or the decay of the domestic agricultural system.
The Fuel Embargo as a Convenient Ghost
The competitor article leans heavily on the fuel embargo. It’s the perfect villain. It’s invisible, it’s monolithic, and it’s "over there."
But let’s look at the mechanics of the energy crisis. Cuba’s power grid is a museum of Soviet-era thermal plants that have passed their expiration dates by thirty years. Even if tankers were lined up from Havana to Varadero, the infrastructure to process and distribute that energy is crumbling from the inside.
- The Myth: The U.S. prevents Cuba from having fuel.
- The Reality: Cuba’s primary supplier, Venezuela, has seen its own production crater. Cuba has failed to diversify its energy matrix for sixty years, choosing instead to rely on ideological subsidies that were never sustainable.
When an influencer posts about a blackout, they are participating in a performance. They use their remaining battery life to blame a policy in Washington, rather than asking why the Cuban government spent the last five years building luxury hotels in Havana—which have power—instead of fixing the Antonio Guiteras power plant.
The Remittance-Industrial Complex
The secret engine of the Cuban mom-influencer isn't brand deals. There is no domestic market for "sponsored content" when the average viewer can't find toilet paper.
The money comes from the diaspora.
These creators are effectively "poverty tourists" in their own lives. They monetize the struggle for a global audience, receiving "stars," "gifts," or direct Zelle transfers to accounts held by relatives in Florida. They are the 1% of Cuba. They eat in "paladares" (private restaurants) where a single meal costs more than a doctor's monthly paycheck.
By framing their lives as a struggle against the embargo, they maintain their "authentic" branding while living a life that is fundamentally decoupled from the reality of the Cuban masses. It is a brilliant, if cynical, business model.
Stop Asking the Wrong Questions
People often ask: "How can we help the Cuban people get better access to the internet?"
That is the wrong question. The internet is there. The question is: "Why is the Cuban government charging 100 times the market rate for data while using that revenue to fund a repressive security apparatus?"
If you want to understand the "struggle," stop looking at the polished feed of a Havana mom with 50k followers.
- Look at the "Coleros": The people who stand in line for 12 hours to buy chicken, only to be told the shipment never arrived.
- Look at the Doctors: Who are exported like commodities to foreign governments while Cuban clinics lack basic aspirin.
- Look at the Offline: The millions of Cubans who don't have a smartphone, who don't have a VPN, and whose voices never make it to a "trending" tab.
The influencer isn't the voice of the people; she is the camouflage for the system.
The Brutal Truth About Digital Activism
True digital disruption in a closed society doesn't look like a high-production video about fuel shortages. It looks like the July 11th protests, where the internet was used to coordinate mass dissent—and was promptly shut down by the state.
If an influencer is still online, still posting, and still blaming the "Yankees" for the lack of gasoline, they aren't an activist. They are an unpaid (or indirectly paid) press secretary for the Ministry of Communications.
We need to stop romanticizing the "rare view" offered by these accounts. It isn't rare. It’s a scripted aesthetic designed to elicit sympathy without demanding accountability from the people actually holding the keys to the warehouses.
The embargo is a factor, yes. But it is a convenient shield for a regime that has perfected the art of blaming the neighbor for the holes in its own roof.
The next time you see a reel of a Cuban mother cooking over charcoal because the power is out, ask yourself: who sold her the phone, who provides the signal, and why is she allowed to complain about everything except the people in charge?
Log off the feed. The truth isn't trending.
