In 2016, Cuba’s government, which tightly controlled access to information and technology, set up state-run Wi-Fi hotspots across Havana. While news, culture, and trends from around the world had previously trickled in slowly, teenagers now had access to a wider array of information, trends, and ideas.
Though Cuba’s internet access has evolved, it remains tightly controlled by the government. Access to the internet has expanded, especially with the installation of public Wi-Fi hotspots in major cities like Havana. However, internet connectivity in Cuba is still relatively slow and expensive compared to many other countries. While more people, particularly in urban areas, can access Wi-Fi in public spaces, private home internet access is still limited and costly.
The Cuban government maintains significant control over online content, historically restricting access to websites and platforms that promote political opposition or dissent. Social media platforms, for example, are often monitored, and there have been instances where internet access has been temporarily cut off during protests or politically sensitive events.
With most homes still lacking internet access, teenagers flock to the city’s 35 Wi-Fi hotspots. As access to the internet expanded, it reshaped how Cuban youth form their identities. Even in the early 2000s, it wasn’t uncommon to encounter a group of „frikis”—a term used by French sociologist Michel Maffesoli to describe small cultural tribes—who drew all their cultural cues from a scratched Clash CD they passed around.
What differentiates these tribes today is their cultural consumption, largely based on musical preferences. The rockeros, for example, include metaleros, new metalheads, punks, hippies, and friques; the emos are fans of dark, emotional rock music; the mikis favor electroacoustic, disco, and Cuba’s native trova music; and the reparteros follow reggaeton, hip hop, rap, and timba.
Broadband remains slow, and even the $2-per-hour charge at Wi-Fi hotspots can be prohibitively expensive for teenagers. As a result, they gather in public spaces, talking face-to-face rather than through screens. They meet at places like G Street, the Malecón, Paseo del Prado, and John Lennon Park, where they can see and be seen. What do they do? They listen to hip hop, engage in rap battles, record TikTok videos, take photos and videos for Instagram, skate, teach skateboarding, dance, and talk.
„Here, there aren’t many options for young people,” said Max, a regular on the old Avenida de los Presidents. „You run into thousands of people, and they might not have much in common with you, but you build your social life with it.” By day, he works for a state-run transport company.
These gatherings are anything but political. The teens care mostly about their present lives, and many come from wealthy families, have relatives in the United States, or buy clothes from the black market. They look just like any other teenagers in the United States. Organized into informal groups, the first person to take charge becomes „The Boss,” deciding when and where they meet. They communicate through encrypted WhatsApp messages. They chat, drink, skate, sometimes smoke pot, and, more recently, they are being watched by the secret police, who view their gatherings as potentially dangerous.
700 meters—that’s the length of Calle G and Paseo del Prado where these kids typically gather. For them, this stretch represents not just freedom and joy, but a temporary escape from the constraints placed on them by society. As Cuba’s youth culture continues to evolve, these 700 meters could become a symbol of change.
@Installation photos: Simon Zsuzsanna, Good Morning Bro, INDA Gallery, 2024
Main Publications:
Fotóművészet, 2024.2 (12 November, 2024)
Main Exhibitions: Good Morning Bro, INDA Gallery, 2024, curated by Zsolt Kozma