Marcel Villa does not come from academia; he holds no formal degree certifying him as a journalist or photographer. Perhaps that is precisely why he is, today, one of the most intriguing communicators on the island — someone who does not take for granted the postmodernist dogmas prevalent in state-run higher education or in courses designed for the independent press. And that stance has come at a cost.

He recalls his teenage years as those of an undisciplined youth, “without much sense of future direction.” At age 21, he sat for the entrance exams and enrolled in law school through a special program for working students. He admits he chose the major “more out of family influence than any true vocation.”

In 2018, while in his third year of studies, his older brother — who has lived in Spain for the past 20 years — gifted him a camera. Almost simultaneously, he discovered the small world of the non-state press in a Havana that was experiencing the ultimately fruitless apertura (opening) initiated by Barack Obama.

The profession he chose is not an easy one. Practicing independent journalism in Cuba remains a pursuit subject to a level of persecution rarely seen elsewhere in the hemisphere. The Cuban Institute for Freedom of Expression reported that in the month of March alone, there was a surge in internet outages, arbitrary detentions, incarcerations, attacks, threats, and both psychological and physical assaults.

On the island — currently a focal point of international attention due to the potential for political change under pressure from the Trump administration — Villa uses video interviews, travel chronicles, and photojournalism to document a fractured nation that continues to survive despite socialism.

Here is Part 1 of my interview with Marcel.

How did you get your start in the world of the independent press?

It was in 2018, when I submitted a feature story to Play-Off Magazine — an independent Cuban sports publication. The piece was about a Dominican priest living in Havana who was using soccer as a tool for social change.

At the time — alongside my studies — I was working as a pizza maker at a cafeteria in Alamar; I would spend 12 or 13 hours there, working non-stop, for $10 a day. It was exhausting. I was just at the café when I received the news that Play-Off Magazine had accepted my feature story and that I would be able to contribute to them on a regular basis. Immediately afterward, I feigned a stomachache, hung up my apron, and walked out — never to return. That day, Play-Off became my job.

I wasn’t a photographer yet, nor did I aspire to be one; I was barely just learning how to use a camera.

My intention was to become a journalist, so I focused on writing the text, treating photography more as a supplement. Lacking formal professional training, I had gaps in my theoretical knowledge and errors in my writing — flaws I gradually corrected as I studied journalism manuals and my editors provided feedback. In that sense, Play-Off served as a school for me.

And when — and why — did you shift your focus to photography?

In 2019, I watched the film “The Pirates of Somalia,” and it sparked the idea for me to travel to the Isle of Pines. I thought: This will be my Somalia. Once there, I sought out stories that I could later turn into feature articles, chronicles, or even — I considered — an investigative piece. I laugh about it now, looking back, because the whole trip was incredibly ill-prepared. I hadn’t even arranged a place to stay.

I arrived on the island and knocked on the door of the very first house I saw that was renting out a room. I spent a week in the city of Nueva Gerona, burning through my savings; as a consequence of my journalistic wanderings around the city, I ended up being interrogated by State Security (SE — the political police) just hours before my scheduled departure.

The day after I returned to Havana, State Security contacted me again — but this time, they tried to recruit me as an informant within Play-Off. I refused, and for months afterward, I lived in fear that they would retaliate against me.

During that period, the era of openness in Cuba — sparked by the “thaw” under the Obama administration — was drawing to a close, and with it, the boom in independent media. Some magazines went on hiatus; many others simply didn’t survive. My trip to the Isle of Pines had been a complete fiasco. I was never able to land any actual journalistic assignments during my time there. Photography — both as an art form and a craft — was captivating me more and more.

All of this, combined with the apprehension left over from my run-in with State Security, led me to dedicate myself to photography full-time. Although I became a professional photographer and focused on more commercial genres, I continued to collaborate occasionally with Play-Off.

I dropped out of law school, knowing it was a profession I would never actually practice, and devoted myself full-time to studying and honing my skills with my camera. I completed a basic course at an excellent private institution called the Havana School of Creative Photography; everything else I learned on my own — through books, articles, and videos.

From that time until 2023, I shot Quinceañera celebrations, music videos, still photography, theater productions, fashion shoots, special events, nightlife scenes, and more. To make a living as a photographer in Cuba, you have to be extremely versatile, as the market is quite limited.

But then you returned to independent media — and not merely as a contributor, but by founding a publication of your own.

Yes. In 2022, together with three friends, I founded POB Magazine, an independent photography journal. We kept it running for a year using our own resources. Its editorial line was largely inspired by Play-Off; we used photography — along with the testimonies of photographers — as a window onto the reality of life in Cuba.

A series of cyberattacks on our website — occurring just days before our one-year anniversary — forced us to cease publication. We decided to put the project on hold until we could secure the necessary funding. While it was active, the magazine was very well received within the Cuban photography community; being its co-founder and director gave me significant visibility within the independent media landscape.

In that same year — the year POB Magazine went on hiatus — I returned full-time to the world of journalism, this time working as both a photographer and a video producer. I gradually began to move away from the more commercial genres of photography and video, shifting my focus instead toward photojournalism and documentary photography.

Since then, I have collaborated with most of the independent Cuban magazines and newspapers currently in existence — almost always anonymously. I also contribute regularly to El País, and on a couple of occasions, I have worked with El Confidencial — both based in Spain.