The predicament of the rapper known as ‘El Funky’ reveals the deeply conflicted anti-Castro and pro-Trump politics of South Florida.
In 2021, like many Cubans and Cuban Americans that summer, Florida Sen. Marco Rubio was jamming to “Patria y Vida,” the Grammy-winning protest anthem that became a rallying cry for dissidents in Cuba. The hip-hop song, whose title translates to “Homeland and Life,” directly rebuked Fidel Castro’s revolutionary slogan, “Patria o Muerte” — “Homeland or Death.” That was a cause that resonated with Rubio, the son of Cuban exiles, so much that in 2023, he introduced the “Patria y Vida Act,” “protecting against Tyrants” and expanding internet service in Cuba.
Now, one of the song’s central voices, Cuban rapper Eliéxer Márquez Duany — better known as El Funky — faces removal from the United States. Earlier this month, U.S. immigration authorities denied Márquez Duany’s residency application under the 1966 Cuban Adjustment Act. He has less than 30 days to leave the U.S. or face deportation and likely imprisonment in Cuba, since his music helped fuel the largest anti-government protests in Cuba in decades.
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Márquez Duany’s journey from resistance icon to deportation case began in February 2021, when he and other artists released “Patria y Vida.” The song, featuring rappers and musicians both on and off the island, denounced repression in Cuba and called for change. Two of its creators, Maykel Osorbo and Luis Manuel Otero Alcántara, are currently in prison in Cuba for their participation in the project and other protests. Meanwhile, the song’s banned status on the island only amplified its power: It became the de facto anthem of the unprecedented protests during the summer of 2021.
By then, Márquez Duany had already been under house arrest for months, kept from participating in the demonstrations by guards posted outside his home. When the Latin Grammy Awards sent him an invitation a few months later, Márquez Duany knew it was likely his only chance to escape. As is customary, a Cuban government official escorted him to the airport.
“What we want is for you to leave,” he says the official told him. “Go, but don’t come back because you’re not welcome here.”
Once in Miami, Márquez Duany married a Cuban American, found a maintenance job at a Christian school, and kept recording music. He applied to adjust his legal status under the CAA, which allows Cubans paroled into the U.S. to claim permanent residency after one year.
He assumed the law still stood firmly behind him. But the ground had already shifted.
