(Read Part 1)

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 2 of my interview with Marcel.

When and why did you start producing content for your YouTube channel?

My foray into YouTube came about following the Trump administration’s 2025 freeze on funds designated for foreign aid. During those months, the entire independent Cuban press sector was severely impacted. Many of us continued reporting on Cuba without pay, but at the same time, we had to seek out alternative sources of income.

Creating a YouTube channel where I could portray the reality of life in Cuba — on my own terms — was an idea that had already been bouncing around in my head for some time; I decided that this was the right moment to take the plunge. It also struck me that there was a distinct niche for telling the story of Cuba — in all its breadth and complexity — through a journalistic and documentary lens. I apply my knowledge as a photographer to my videos — something that sets me apart slightly from other creators. I always try to integrate photography into them in various ways: whether through the way I compose the shots, by including still images, or by sharing the experience from my perspective as a documentary photographer.

And it bore fruit faster than I expected. Within two months of starting, I was already monetizing the channel — whereas the global average is around six months.

There are many users eager to watch content about Cuba that is authentic and firsthand. Although Cubans on the island don’t consume much YouTube — due to slow connectivity and the high cost of mobile data packages — there is a strong interest in this type of content among other demographics.

First and foremost, there are Cubans living abroad, but there are also many foreigners who are interested in Cuba yet remain skeptical of the information circulating about the island in the media — whether from state-run, independent, or international mainstream outlets.

The demand is certainly there, but the supply has dwindled as many YouTubers have emigrated as part of the current exodus. If you offer high-quality material, success is virtually guaranteed.

I recall a video of yours about the “Aquatics”[1] community in the Sierra de los Órganos mountains. It came to my attention because you incorporated a piece of reportage I had published back in early 2015. Why did you decide to embark on this path of travelogue and exploration — seeking out the exotic, the world beyond the capital?

Foreigners — and indeed many Cubans — often hold a distorted perception of what Cuba truly is, believing they can reduce the entire country to just a few specific neighborhoods in Havana.

I recently produced a photo essay titled “Cuba Is Not Old Havana.” This distorted perception — which is so widespread — stems from the fact that all the spotlights in Cuba are focused squarely on the capital, and more specifically, on just a couple of its municipalities.

However, if we venture beyond those neighborhoods, we encounter a completely different reality — one that encompasses everything from race, religion, and aesthetics to lifestyles and cultural idiosyncrasies. It is the sum of this entire diversity of aspects that constitutes the Cuban identity — not the marginal stereotype so often exploited by the media.

One could say that I aim to reclaim Cubanía — Cuban-ness — in its finest form.

Moreover, there are countless stories in Cuba waiting to be told, issues waiting to be brought to light, and people waiting to be given a voice — all of whom go unnoticed because they lie outside the epicenter represented by Havana. One of the first things that must change in Cuba once it is free is that capital-centric centralism, which has worked to the detriment of the rest of the country and has distorted the perception of our identity.

Rural life and religion are among the themes that personally interest me the most. The story of the Acuáticos (water people) that you mention fits into both categories and is, moreover, quintessentially Cuban — one could even consider them an indigenous religion. From the moment I first heard about them in 2024, the subject became an obsession of mine. For a year, I conducted research and figured out how to reach these peculiar people.

I first visited the group in Viñales, located in the Sierra de los Órganos, where getting there proved relatively easy. Much has been written about these particular Acuáticos — there are a few videos out there as well (though no video documentaries other than my own) — but very little is known about the other group: those residing in the Sierra del Rosario.

Unlike their counterparts in Viñales, this second group of Acuáticos has managed to survive as a cohesive community. One reason for this is their location: a highly rugged, remote spot deep within the mountains that is extremely difficult to access. To get there — after making stops in several towns — you have to hike 10 kilometers across hilly terrain along a rocky embankment. The return proved even tougher, as it was entirely uphill and I ran out of water halfway through. Fortunately, the sky was overcast, allowing me to endure the fatigue and thirst until I finally came across a house and was able to ask for water.

The two videos I produced about the Acuáticos represent a source of great joy for me — especially the second one, which focuses on the group in the Sierra del Rosario. This holds true both because of the experience of meeting and documenting such extraordinary people, and because of the success the videos achieved — the second one, in particular, has garnered more views than any other video I have ever uploaded.

[1] The Acuáticos are a rural folk-religious movement that emerged in Pinar del Río in the 1930s, centered around Antoñica Izquierdo — a healer who claimed to cure illnesses through water, prayer, and faith. They syncretized elements of Catholicism, Marian visions, and Spiritism.