Cuban writer and independent journalist Mario Ramírez was born in Camagüey in 1994, a few months before the massive Maleconazo protests against Castroism in Havana were silenced by blows from paramilitaries and police. For years, he has dedicated himself to rescuing Cuban historical and cultural narratives, “convinced that a people’s identity is sustained by its memory,” he affirms.

That is why, in 2024, he founded the independent platform Civic Memory with friends, where he pours his academic and experiential background producing books, articles, and podcasts about the Cuban past and its implications for a possible New Cuba.

“I grew up in a country where official history is manipulated and silenced, and that led me to seek out the voices that had been erased,” he laments.

In his hometown, he became involved in independent journalism because he understood, he tells me, that “the truth could not wait for authorization from the system.” State journalism in Cuba is subject to censorship, and Ramírez needed a space to narrate what is really happening, to bear witness to the struggles, absences, and hopes of Cubans.

Now, at this watershed moment in the island’s history, we spoke with him.

What is Civic Memory? Why and when was it created?

Civic Memory is a platform where reflection on the past converges with the thought and civic action of the present in Cuba. A book, a podcast, a documentary, an article… any of these can be the means to intertwine the nation’s history with the current testimony of a civil society that aspires to a democratic future. We want to be the archive and logbook of that society and that path toward democracy.

Officially, the project emerged in 2024, although several of its members had been carrying out — with some difficulty due to the repressive environment and censorship — various independent micro-projects before then. So, Civic Memory became a convergence of those personal aspirations we had already been developing.

Our mission is to promote civic education and democratic culture in Cuba, rescuing and valuing the nation’s historical, literary, and artistic memory, and fostering dialogue, critical reflection, and the active participation of citizens in building a just, informed, and free society.

An important part of what they do is rescuing the memory of the Republic of 1902, which died with the socialist Revolution of 1959. How has Castroism treated that historical period and other moments, such as when Cuba was part of Spain?

Castroism has reduced the Republic to a caricature of corruption and dependency, obscuring the fact that it was also a time of institutional development, political pluralism, and cultural progress. This simplification is deliberate: if the Republic is remembered in all its complexity, the myth that the Revolution was the only possible path collapses. Regarding the colonial period, the regime instrumentalizes it: it presents Cuba as an eternal victim of Spain and the United States to justify its own counter-power. But this narrative obscures the ethical struggles, intellectual debates, and experiences of citizenship that existed before 1959.

Now Cuba is at the center of many media conversations, and people are beginning to imagine, with the help of artificial intelligence, what a new Cuba free of socialism would be like. Why invite Cubans to look to the past, to find inspiration in what our ancestors built?

Inviting Cubans to look to the past is not an exercise in nostalgia, but in responsibility.

The history of the Republic, with its lights and shadows, reminds us that we were already capable of building institutions, of debating freely, of raising a nation with plurality and creativity. There are seeds of citizenship and democratic culture that we need to recycle today. Looking back is also looking forward: understanding that a free Cuba will not be invented from nothing, but a renewed legacy of the best that already existed. The inspiration lies in knowing that we are not starting from scratch, that we have deep roots, and that those roots can help us build the future.

Challenges and persecution for the flourishing of independent projects like the one you lead still weigh heavily on civil society. What have you personally experienced? What have your collaborators and colleagues experienced in recent years?

In my personal case, almost since I began collaborating with the independent press, I have experienced repression in its most vulgar form: direct or indirect threats — to family and friends, for example — as well as interrogations and travel bans. At this point, I don’t even have a passport, which has been invalid since 2019.

It must be said that the massive demonstrations against the regime that took place on July 11 and 12, 2021 (known as 11J) were a watershed moment, not only for civic struggles in Cuba, but also for the repressive apparatus, which has resorted to more violent methods of censorship and exclusion, such as imprisonment or exile. However, I believe that the work of the political police has increased fivefold, and now they must prioritize the repression of those civil society initiatives that connect directly with the public.

As I write this, I think of the young people from the independent audiovisual project El4tico and their arbitrary detention by the political police. At Civic Memory, we have faced less direct threats, and we thought that being outside the spotlight of the capital — almost the entire team lives in Camagüey — would lessen the impact of that Damocles’ sword. But that’s not the case.

For the regime, likes, views, and comments do count. On a critical video, these can erase the boundaries of the lack of freedom and challenge the power structure, whether in Havana or Holguín.

Society in general bleeds from the system’s closed-mindedness. What is it like to live in 21st-century socialist Cuba?

Living in 21st-century socialist Cuba means inhabiting a permanent crisis. Daily life is marked by scarcity: hospitals lack basic medicines, pharmacies are empty, and families depend on solidarity or the black market to survive. Blackouts are widespread and frequent. Public transportation is practically nonexistent.

Added to this is a silent crisis: the increase in drug use and the lack of opportunities for young people, who see their future slipping away. Society lives trapped between political repression and material deprivation.

To an outside observer, it may seem incredible that a country with such cultural and human wealth is reduced to this condition. But that is the reality: a system that promised dignity has ended up stripping citizens of the most basic necessities, from electricity to hope.

Totalitarianism attempted to erase the Christian heritage that had been preeminent on the island since the 16th century, to instrumentalize the family, and to exploit the rhetoric of influential figures in Cuban history such as José Martí. How has this permeated the culture surrounding the new generations of Cubans today?

Like any totalitarian regime, the Cuban one attempted, from its very foundations, a process of spiritual and cultural emptying of the nation it sought to corrupt.

It is difficult to understand from the outside, and with the distance of years, it seems unbelievable that our parents and grandparents did nothing to stop this corruption, but that is how this ruthless mechanism works, capable of annihilating even the most solid of democracies if responsible and prophylactic action is not taken. Those who held power in 1959 knew very well which points to exploit within Cuban society to achieve their purpose. It was unthinkable that a country with a strong Christian heritage, a powerful intellectual culture, and a robust concept of family would metastasize in the way that Cuba did in the 1950s. However, evil sometimes operates from the erosion of our own strengths.

When faith becomes ritual, thought becomes a statue, and family a political slogan, it may be too late. Understand this: it wasn’t socialism that created our miseries of recent decades, but rather our civic irresponsibility that gave rise to socialism, and with it, all the catastrophe that followed.

You have recently reflected on the possibility of a transition on the island. What ideas do you think should be essential in this new Republic?

A transition in Cuba must be guided by clear principles, not by improvisation. The new Republic cannot be limited to a mere change of names in power; it must guarantee a profound transformation of the political culture and institutions.

The first step is to ensure political pluralism: free elections, diverse parties, and a system where dissent is not punished. At the same time, it is essential to build a true rule of law, with independent institutions and a justice system that is not beholden to strongmen or partisan interests.

Historical memory must also occupy a substantial place. The future cannot be built on oblivion; we need to acknowledge what was achieved in the Republic and what was lost, in order to learn from those experiences.

Another key aspect is decentralization. Cuba has suffered too much from centralism, and it is necessary to return power to the provinces and municipalities so that communities have real decision-making capacity.

And, of course, the new Republic must guarantee basic social rights — health, education, and decent work — and protect cultural and spiritual freedom.