(Read Part 1 and Part 2)

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 3 of my interview with Marcel.

What are the main challenges facing a communicator like you on the island?

The primary challenge is conducting interviews. In a country where people live in fear of expressing themselves — and where any expression of public opinion is, in itself, a political act — getting someone to agree to an interview becomes a difficult and often uncomfortable undertaking. This is especially true if you simply walk down the street and ask random passersby for their thoughts on a breaking news story. Most people will refuse, regarding you with a distinctly unfriendly glare. Those who do agree to speak — the majority of them, at least — offer only terse, tepid responses.

People know that making a statement the authorities deem “counter-revolutionary” could cost them their job, their career, or even their freedom. At times, self-censorship reaches absurd levels — particularly among those over the age of 40. It is not uncommon for a person to choose to remain silent when asked about problems that affect them directly — problems that aren’t even inherently “political” in nature.

Last year, I published a video exposing cattle theft — a scourge currently ravaging the Cuban countryside — but I eventually took it down due to pressure from the interviewees.

The video laid out — by way of context — how Cuba’s livestock industry had been systematically dismantled since 1959; it also suggested that cattle theft was running rampant across the country while the authorities looked on with indifference. That fact — combined with the video going viral in a very short time (racking up 15,000 views in just three days) — was enough to alarm some of the interviewed farmers. This occurred despite the fact that I had previously briefed them on the nature of the video I intended to produce, and even though they themselves were victims of the very cattle theft I was documenting.

I decided that the best course of action was to take it down. Tensions were mounting between these farmers and the family who had hosted me during the reporting trip — a batey (sugar mill village) in the province of Villa Clara. I ended up losing all the time and money I had invested in the video — which, incidentally, would likely have been my most successful piece to date.

In recent years, a swarm of influencers from all corners of the globe has descended upon Cuba to document the chaos — some offering a realistic perspective, others doing so with the tacit approval of the regime, such as Hasan Piker.

One thing that bothers me about the vast majority of foreign YouTubers who visit Cuba is that they fail to take into account the specific dynamic I just described when interviewing Cubans.

If you arrive in a place where people are afraid to speak their minds, your first priority must be to understand that context — and then to explain it to your viewers. You cannot expect to go out into the streets and ask random people questions of a political nature, only to then present their responses as a reflection of the general public sentiment — as if you were in a free country.

This is the very first thing I explain to the foreign journalists I work with: as a rule, interviewees will self-censor whenever a question carries political connotations or requires them to reveal their identity in their response. I tell them that if they truly want to know what people are thinking, they must earn their trust and speak with them off-camera.

You do, however, encounter exceptions to this rule — people who are fearless, or who simply have nothing left to lose. In such cases, I always ask them if they are absolutely certain they want me to publish everything they said, or if they would prefer that I cut certain parts.

As a filmmaker and documentarian, you also bear the responsibility of safeguarding your interviewees. The reach of a video can never take precedence over their freedom or their safety. You have the right to put yourself at risk, but not to put others at risk.

What other challenges do you have as an independent communicator in socialist Cuba?

As this is an impoverished country, I have to contend with numerous difficulties regarding transportation and connectivity.

The former — transportation — is currently the biggest problem, thanks to the chronic fuel shortages we are experiencing. At this moment, most of Cuba’s territory is inaccessible. There are hundreds — perhaps even thousands — of towns and rural communities that are literally cut off.

Just last week, I tried to reach the town of Minas de Matahambre in Pinar del Río, but there was simply no way to get there. For the few places you can reach, you have to do so by paying exorbitant fares.

As for internet access, in Cuba it is expensive, slow, and unstable — especially in recent months, due to the worsening power outages.

To upload a video to my channel, I have to go to the Hotel Habana Libre and buy an hour of internet access for one dollar, because the connection is much faster there. If I were to try uploading a video relying solely on a mobile data connection, it would likely take a full day — or even longer.

And, of course, there is also the inherent danger to which you expose yourself; after all, there is no truly safe way to conduct proper journalistic or documentary work under a totalitarian regime.

In fact, even if you aren’t producing explicitly political content, the simple act of depicting reality exactly as it is becomes a political act in itself. And let me be clear: politics is not a subject that interests me — neither personally nor as a documentary filmmaker — but I am deeply committed to telling the story of reality as honestly as possible.

You can take various precautions to protect yourself or cover your tracks in different ways, but ultimately, your freedom and physical safety lie in the hands of the State Security officer “assigned” to monitor you. This is a lawless country.

It is entirely possible that one day you could end up in a jail cell simply because that officer woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I suppose the fact that I collaborate with international media outlets offers me a modicum of protection. Although I have tried to keep a low profile since returning to journalism in 2023, in recent months I have put myself quite in the public eye due to the imprisonment of several friends and the very real possibility of political change.

Are you referring to your video about Ernesto Ricardo Medina and Kamil Zayas Pérez — the founders of the independent audiovisual project El4tico — who are currently in prison?

Yes. I also have a friend who is a political prisoner: Denis Hernández Ramírez.