In Venezuela, catching a bus to catch the news
- Written by Shaylim Castro Valderrama
- Illustration by Ludi Leiva
- Edited by Ankita Anand
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Key strategy: Reclaiming public space
Reclaiming public space is a strategy for democratic movements to evade censorship and engage directly with people. Using public space as a forum for exchange between citizens creates a “public sphere,” which is crucial for civil society, enabling citizens to engage in informed debate.
Key tactic: Live journalism
In live journalism, reporters present their work to audiences in person, directly connecting with citizens and exposing themselves to public scrutiny. Live journalism can take the form of straight narration or theatrical performance.
Key tactic: Virtual private network (VPN)
A VPN (Virtual Private Network) can mask an internet user’s location by is rerouting internet through remote servers. State-imposed restrictions on internet access be bypassed by connecting via server in a different country.
It’s a sunny Thursday in Chacaíto. With office buildings, shopping centres, banks, restaurants and hot dog vendors, it’s one of the busiest areas of eastern Caracas, Venezuela’s capital. You can catch a bus from here to almost anywhere in the city, and chaos is routine. Passengers queue for hours, or dodge motorbikes and honking cars as they leap aboard. Drivers listen to salsa music, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee as their buses fill up.
Isabella Montagna, Luis Hernández and Victor Alviarez weave through the mayhem carrying a cardboard frame with the word “Chacaíto” in white letters. They’re looking for a bus that isn’t playing loud music. Once they find one, they get on. Montagna stands in the aisle facing the passengers and begins to read aloud from her phone: “This is the BusTV newscast of Chacaíto on July 18, 2024.” Alviarez frames her face with the cardboard TV-like frame. From the back of the bus, Hernandez films his friends on his phone.
The trio, aged 23 to 25, are communication students at the Jesuit-run Universidad Católica Andrés Bello (Andres Bello Catholic University), one of the country’s leading universities. Every week, wearing white t-shirts emblazoned with a bus logo and their names, they board buses as reporters for BusTV, an offline Venezuelan media outlet delivering news directly to people on the streets.
Passengers are used to ignoring people begging for money or selling snacks on buses. So, when the broadcast begins, most remain glued to their phones and barely notice the reporters. Undeterred, with the cardboard framing her face, Montagna announces upcoming Children’s Day events and explains how to volunteer at polling stations for the upcoming election.
A fight against censorship
“This offline broadcast is a way to overcome censorship. We will keep you informed."
By transforming cardboard into television, BusTV has become a source of information defying government censorship in a country where at least 400 media houses have closed in the last 20 years, according to Espacio Público, a Venezuelan freedom of expression advocacy group.
In its 2024 Press Freedom Index, Reporters Without Borders said that since President Nicolás Maduro took power in 2013, he has continued the “communication hegemony” established by his predecessor Hugo Chávez. The report describes Venezuela as “very restrictive for the news media, with policies that threaten the existence of independent journalism.”
Reporters Without Borders ranks the oil-rich country – which has suffered a catastrophic economic and humanitarian meltdown under 25 years of socialist party rule – 156th of 180 countries. Following the presidential election in July, Venezuela’s pro-government electoral institution proclaimed Maduro president for a third term without publishing the final results. Protesters across the country called the election fraudulent.
“This offline broadcast is a way to overcome censorship. We will keep you informed,” Montagna reads, ending her address. People applaud timidly as the group get off and head for the next bus to repeat the script. Sometimes, they cannot get onto buses because hawkers are on board.
An idea whose time had come
Three Venezuelan women – Laura Castillo, Claudia Lizardo and Abril Mejías – founded BusTV in 2017. Lizardo, a singer of melancholic songs with music project La Pequeña Revancha, first conceived of public transport as a public platform while fleeing tear gas during a protest in Caracas.
At the time, police were violently suppressing anti-government demonstrations across the country. The regime-aligned Supreme Court had just attempted to revoke the power of the then opposition-controlled Congress, as well as parliament members’ immunity. The country was also facing sky-rocketing inflation and a chronic shortage of food, medicine and hygiene products.
Lizardo and her boyfriend escaped the police abuse and general chaos and got on a bus. She was struck by the contrast between the tear gas, military vehicles and hail of pellets a few blocks away, and the upbeat salsa serenading passengers on their way home from work. And she was outraged. She felt people didn’t know what was going on – not because they didn’t care but because of the lack of information.
Meanwhile, Castillo, who had 20 years’ journalism experience, including at El Nacional when it was still considered Venezuela’s newspaper of record, was deeply concerned by the lack of information in vulnerable communities. National television, newspapers and radio were cautious about covering the demonstrations because of the risk of being shut down. Internet providers were blocking online media that livestreamed the protests. After attending events focused on non-violent protest strategies, a friend introduced Castillo to Lizardo so they could brainstorm ideas. Together, they decided to create BusTV.
“It feels so human seeing people’s faces, and it feels that despite people who do not pay attention, others are looking at you and saying thank you, or asking you for more information. It’s rewarding (…) I feel I am contributing to something,”
Getting BusTV on the road
Lizardo put her creative talents to use designing the distinctive cardboard and paper mâché TV frame. Castillo reported, wrote and structured news items. With the support of Mejías and other friends, they launched BusTV in May 2017 at Francisco de Miranda Avenue, a main street in Caracas and frequent site of anti-government protest.
By that time, Venezuela’s once-respected El Universal and Últimas Noticias newspapers were under new ownership. They adopted a supportive tone towards the country’s ruling parting. Raúl Gorrin, a government ally accused of money laundering by the US Justice Department, had bought the only national TV news channel, Globovision.
“We were born with the idea of seeking a place to deliver content to people instead of waiting for them to reach the content. Another clear idea is that BusTV is a way of exposing censorship, and we said it explicitly,” Castillo says.
The first BusTV broadcast went viral after the team posted a video on YouTube and X, then known as Twitter. High-profile showbiz personalities, politicians and journalists retweeted the video.
People across the country came forward to volunteer as photographers or reporters, or wanting to replicate the project in their own communities. Through partnerships with universities and other organisations, BusTV expanded to eighteen cities and towns across eleven states, run by around seventy reporters and undergraduate students.
Isabella Montagna and her two friends joined BusTV last year. “It feels so human seeing people’s faces, and it feels that despite people who do not pay attention, others are looking at you and saying thank you, or asking you for more information. It’s rewarding (…) I feel I am contributing to something,” the 23-year-old student says. Sometimes, she notices people writing the information down, especially when the bulletin shares contact details for useful organisations, such as health services.
A former radio worker words
Forbidden words
Castillo stresses that BusTV aims to reclaim the streets as a legitimate space for journalism and civic engagement. She says instilling a fear of taking to the streets “has long been a government strategy of social control.”
After many years of repression, violence, and even deaths, many people are afraid to protest. After the elections in July, people took to the streets to protest against the results, but heavy repression and repercussions resulted in protests decreasing. Across the country, citizens, journalists and opposition politicians have been arrested for dissenting from the government.
During a July public hearing of the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, Special Rapporteur for Freedom of Expression Pedro Vaca said his office had received reports of Venezuelan radio stations being pressured to avoid certain “forbidden words”. Uttering these words on air, he said, could lead to inspections, visits, calls or messages from Conatel, the state-controlled telecommunications regulator.
A former radio worker interviewed by Unbias the News, who preferred to remain anonymous citing fear of reprisals, said “regimen” or “dictatorship” were among the forbidden words. Espacio Público reported that between 2022 and 2023, at least 93 radio stations were shut down, mainly on orders from Conatel in conjunction with security forces. Conatel did not respond to our request for comment.
While social media is the primary source of information for many Venezuelans, 35 percent of the country’s 28 million inhabitants don’t have internet access, according to DataReportal. Those who do have access find that internet providers have repeatedly blocked independent news outlets on Conatel’s orders. The problem increased during the presidential campaign when fact-checking platforms were blocked.
Virtual private networks (VPNs), which encrypt an internet connection to hide the user’s location, are one way to access blocked websites, but many citizens don’t know how to use them.
Marysabel Rodríguez, coordinator of Espacio Público’s social observatory of freedom of expression, describes government restrictions as “deliberate and systematic” in undermining the traditional media ecosystem, leading to fragmented public debate and lack of awareness about current events. “The intention is to have no alternative narratives that challenge the government’s position on certain issues.”
On buses, in communities
Despite this authoritarian environment, BusTV operates as a resilient news platform. Each week, teams of three reporters gather hyperlocal news about the areas or communities the buses pass through. They talk to community leaders, gathering updates on events, health issues and services. The editorial team verifies the information, and adds it to national news items, including features and investigations from blocked media outlets. The final script is sent to reporters who read the news on ten buses each week.
Lizardo is no longer part of BusTV, but she remembers post-broadcast reactions fondly: “In a small space, on a bus, a civic exercise of discussion and debate took place. After or even during the broadcast, passengers engage in discussion or express their opinions, in which reporters do not participate.”
As the same three-person team goes often to the same bus stops, drivers recognize the reporters’ faces and what they do. Sometimes they even ask the reporters to get on their buses to read the bulletin.
Castillo says a woman once thanked a group of reporters because their bulletin provided the phone number of an organization preventing gender-based violence. She looked for its support after realizing she was facing domestic violence. “This happens because reporters often see again the people they inform,” Castillo says.
In the working-class neighbourhood of La Cruz, east Caracas, neighbours chat in front of their homes or on motorbikes. It’s 6:00 pm on a Tuesday, and Luis Mata and Marilyn Figuera are preparing to broadcast another bulletin of Ventana TV (Window TV), a BusTV project where residents read national and hyperlocal news to their communities.
Mata, a 54-year-old DJ, sets up a large speaker at the neighbourhood entrance where people gather and, microphone in hand, begins reading the news. Some continue their conversations, while others point to their ears to call attention to the broadcast.
The reporter describes a new VPN-encrypted app called Noticias sin Filtro (No Filter News) that allows readers to access censored news outlets. He offers to help his audience install it on their phones. Broadcast over, residents gradually return to their conversations while a group of children play football nearby. Mata and Figuera, who captures photos and videos of the broadcast, have been Ventana TV reporters since 2019 when BusTV won a community integration contest after pitching the idea to create the project, which now operates in three low-income Caracas communities.
“We read news blocked by the political system in which we live. Many of our neighbours know what’s happening through us because it is impossible to hear the news in any other place,” Mata says.
The BusTV team trains community reporters in public speaking, photography and writing news reports. The reporters then identify local news stories of interest, such as community services, events and birthdays.
Erick Davila lives in La Cruz and usually listens to the broadcast from his home. “I think this is good because of the information. I am someone who avoids saying something against the government. The news [on national TV] makes Venezuela seem like everything is great, and we know it is not like that,” he says.
Espacio Público’s Rodriguez says censorship has created a climate of mistrust: “People are afraid to speak openly about their opinions because they fear repercussions.”
Continuing to innovate
"The news [on national TV] makes Venezuela seem like everything is great, and we know it is not like that."
BusTV isn’t the only project to hit on innovative ways of getting around censorship. In the western Venezuelan state of Zulia, news outlet Mediosur produces a weekly PDF newspaper, El Progonerito (The Town Crier), to distribute its own news articles and features, as well as those from other censored media.
In southern Amazonas state, whose population is predominantly Indigenous, Carolina Azavache leads the radio program Radar Informativo. It airs on a radio station belonging to a Catholic vicariate that reaches remote Indigenous communities, and provides news about national and local situations. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Radar Informativo’s five-person team produced short audio stories on healthcare in indigenous languages.
BusTV’s work, meanwhile, extends beyond buses and community hubs. When the pandemic quarantine began in 2020, it created PapelógrafoTV (FlipchartTV), where reporters handwrite news items on large sheets of paper and display them in public spaces.
Veniuska Valán, a BusTV reporter in the Andean state of Trujillo, is involved in the Flipchart project. She says older adults are particularly engaged with the handwritten news, which often includes contact information for domestic violence and mental health services. “They are always there [near the walls where the sheets are put up], paying attention. They tell me this is their only news source.”
In 2023, Venezuela’s Institute for Journalism and Society reported that at least 15 million people did not have adequate access to information. The organisation has described some regions as “news deserts” with little or no media presence.
Censorship isn’t the only challenge to reaching these audiences. BusTV faces financial challenges, and they are not alone: “It’s complicated, not just for BusTV but for all media. This year hasn’t been easy,” Castillo says, citing reliance on donors and the country’s unstable political climate.
In future, she hopes the project will be financially sustainable. But the team is also working to ensure their unique use of public space as a forum for dialogue has a future by integrating their approach into an optional module in a journalism degree program at the Universidad Central de Venezuela (Central University of Venezuela), the country’s top university.
“It’s important to take over the street not just as the place to seek information and stories, but also as a distribution point,” Castillo says. “We believe that the hyperlocal information we seek and read on the streets strengthens people’s capacity to participate in the public debate, which sustains democracy.”
About the Author
Shaylim Castro Valderrama is a Venezuelan journalist who has written human-centred stories on migration, human rights, political, and economic issues in Venezuela for Crónica Uno, Reuters and The Associated Press. She holds an MA in Journalism and Documentary Practice from the University of Sussex (UK).
