Havana experienced another power outage, leaving the neighborhood in darkness except for a vine‑covered house on a street corner, where bicycles are parked outside, a bar occupies the rear, and an eight‑piece band performs on the wraparound porch.
Twenty‑nine‑year‑old host David González wove through the packed dance floor of what was once his family’s living room, passing a mural that posed the question “How much longer?” before descending to the basement to tend to the party’s core.
A single 10 kWh battery he imported from Spain powered the lights, refrigerators, speakers, and amplifiers, still retaining 43 % charge at midnight. “Without him, we’d be lost,” he remarked.
That battery, combined with González’s energetic spirit, has transformed his childhood home into one of Havana’s most vibrant venues during the nation’s severe energy crisis, and has also become a testing ground for an emerging political movement.
For the past six months, the Trump administration’s oil blockade has plunged Cuba into darkness, while Mr. González’s weekend parties have illuminated Havana’s nights. From Friday to Sunday, his home serves as the preferred venue for the city’s young artists, activists, and intellectuals, a cultural initiative he refers to as El Proyecto.
In a country where citizens are monitored, government criticism is penalized, and political movements are suppressed, these gatherings constitute a form of resistance.
“There’s no better way to oppose this government than to be happy,” he said. “They seek to make you frustrated and angry; the less resentment you feel inside, the more effectively you can confront them.”
“That’s how we fight,” he added. “All good mood and positive vibes.”
Washington’s pressure campaign is pushing the Cuban government to the brink, causing it to cut power to most of the country for only a few hours a day, if any.
This has extinguished Havana’s renowned nightlife, including the recent closure of its premier cultural institution, the Fábrica de Arte Cubano — an art and music venue housed in a converted factory.
In its stead, El Proyecto has emerged. Starting with film screenings in August, it has expanded to include concerts, art exhibitions, lectures, dance parties, and increasingly, political debates and protests against the Cuban government. In the midst of blackouts, there is virtually no other venue like it in Havana.
“Imagine living in a desert: the sand burns you, you lack water, and you’re unsure which way to go,” said Fito del Rio, a 31‑year‑old musician who married on Mr. González’s porch in April. “Then there’s a place that offers everything you need — where you can arrive, drink water, and instantly feel the sand stop burning you.”
“That’s this space,” he added. “It’s an oasis.”
At the forefront of the movement — and occasionally collecting a 50‑cent admission at the front gate — is Mr. González. Gregarious and laid‑back, he moves among the predominantly Gen Z crowd with intense positivity, hugging regulars, welcoming newcomers, and playing ping‑pong on the porch. As the night wears on, conversations often turn to politics.
“There’s a Cuba that’s dying even as a new Cuba is being born,” he said. “Its symbols, culture, slogans, and older hatred and violence are fading. The new Cuba cannot be stopped, because so many people are resisting, creating, and dreaming.”
In a sense, Mr. González was prepared for this. He left Cuba for London in 2022 to earn a master’s degree in political communication, and has long studied nonviolent political movements and their success.
Now that El Proyecto has gained momentum this year, Mr. González aims to shift it into a more politically active phase. On July 11 — the fifth anniversary of the last mass protest against the Cuban government — he and his girlfriend organized an event themed around creating change in Cuba. The word “freedom” hung from the ceiling as a performer held knives to another’s throat and a graffiti artist inscribed on the wall, “The feeling of collapse is part of the system.”
Attendees banged pots and pans — Cuba’s most common protest form — and shouted, “Down with the dictatorship.” Mr. González said a government agent eventually arrived and warned him to be careful.
“I know I’m taking risks,” he said. “But I won’t self‑censor my dreams or actions out of fear.”
The Cuban government has long selectively enforced rules that limit most gatherings. This year, it has tolerated — and even acknowledged — the frequent banging of pots and pans in cities, yet it has also arrested some street protesters. Cuban officials argue the protests should target the United States, not the government.
Mr. González acknowledges that this article may draw more government attention. “I believe fearing them would mean letting them win,” he said. “And I’m tired of them winning.”
Attendees at his parties describe Mr. González as an inspiration.
“David is a dreamer. He doesn’t just sit on the couch and suffer with the rest of us; he wants to be part of the change,” said Charlie Barreras, 27, a Havana tour guide and regular at El Proyecto. “He’s a leader, and we all follow him.”
Mr. González bristles at the notion of formally leading a movement. “I don’t want power,” he said. “I just want to be useful.”
He admits that El Proyecto’s success offers an opportunity. “I want to capitalize on that,” he said. “To turn this happiness into change, I believe we must learn to articulate ourselves, organize, and transform.”
Still, he lacks concrete plans for the next steps. He has formed small partnerships with the British and French embassies but has no interest in collaborating with the U.S. government, which often supports Cuban activists. He questions President Trump’s intentions toward Cuba, believing the president would exploit the island for personal gain rather than empower its people.
“People are so desperate for change that they think Donald Trump will be their savior,” he added. “They haven’t realized that the saviors are themselves.”
A White House spokeswoman labeled Cuba a national security threat and said the Trump administration wants to help the country, but the Cuban government is obstructing that assistance.
Carlos Fernández de Cossío, Cuba’s deputy foreign minister, said in an interview: “The United States is the aggressor, and Cuba is the country under aggression.”
Mr. González and many attendees at his recent parties believe both sides share blame.
El Proyecto’s headquarters is a nearly century‑old house that once belonged to a wealthy family, Mr. González said. It was confiscated by the government after Fidel Castro’s 1959 revolution, and his grandmother — a teacher and fervent revolutionary — later purchased the first floor from the government over two decades.
Mr. González said that about a decade ago, two Florida women claiming to be descendants of the home’s original owners visited to photograph the property, suggesting their family might be the rightful owner and could someday reclaim it.
After Mr. González’s grandmother died in 2021 and bequeathed the house to his mother, the family contemplated selling it. Nearly all of them had already fled Cuba.
But Mr. González persuaded his mother to keep the house, and in 2024 he returned from London to move back in. He said abandoning his country would feel like submitting to the government. “I wanted to send a message that you can live in Cuba and accomplish things here if you truly want to,” he said.
Although many young Cubans have left the island, Mr. González says any event at his home demonstrates that many remain — and are ready for change.
“We don’t yet know how we’ll contribute to that change, but something inside us tells us not to leave,” he said. “They want to witness what’s about to come.”
