Inside Penitencia: Confessions That Are Breaking the Internet

Penitencia has done something disturbing: it has made people sit down and listen, in a nation where violence frequently becomes background noise. Politicians, no. To prosecutors, no. but to inmates. Usually, the camera is motionless. It’s fluorescent, harsh, and prison-issue lighting. And across from Saskia Niño de Rivera, a man who has been incarcerated for decades speaks in a tone that trembles and doesn’t.

During those interviews, it’s difficult to ignore how silent the room feels. No melodramatic music. Don’t take short cuts. Just a man or woman talking about the worst choices they have ever made. The format appears straightforward, almost defiantly so. Millions of people are watching, though.

In a recent episode, a man named Beto talked about how he was abducted and trained to kill at the age of nine after being abandoned as a baby and living in Mexico City’s sewers. Many people wrote variations of the same sentence in the comments section below the video: “I didn’t hear a monster.” I heard a child who was hurt. That response reveals something unsettling about the way we view crime. It’s possible that Penitencia is rearranging moral categories in addition to narrating stories.

Saskia Niño de Rivera, the host, is a well-known figure in the field of criminal justice reform. She has long supported reforming Mexico’s prison system. However, there is tension when you watch her interviews. At times, she sharply challenges the interviewee. At other times, she listens while leaning back. More often than not, viewers argue over her tone rather than the actual crimes. Strangely, that conflict might contribute to the show’s appeal. It doesn’t seem predetermined. It has a human feel. Not perfect.

Fernando, a former architect who lost both his job and his family after being found guilty of trafficking and corrupting a minor, is the subject of another episode. He talks about how nightclub culture normalizes exploitation and how wealth impairs his judgment. As one listens to him, regret and justification seem to be developing simultaneously. Whether transformation in prison is equivalent to redemption outside of it is still up for debate. However, the narrative is complicated by his candid admission of his crimes.

Sanitation is not achieved by penitencia. These are unvarnished testimonies. There are accounts of murder, betrayal, and abuse. Many episodes start with viewer discretion warnings, but the emotional impact usually comes later, sometimes in a quiet sentence about a childhood memory. A man remembers that when he had a fever, no one stayed with him. A woman recounting how she was turned in by her own family. More enduring than the dramatic details are these bits and pieces.

The overcrowding, corruption, and dearth of rehabilitation programs in Mexico’s prison system have long been points of criticism. Official government reports state that thousands of prisoners reside in overcrowded facilities. In light of this, Penitencia seems more like an intervention than amusement. The show seems to be asking viewers to consider the factors that contribute to crime, such as poverty, abandonment, and normalized violence, without absolving them of personal accountability.

The figures are astounding. Episodes are frequently viewed over a million times. People from all over Latin America and the United States are leaving comments. Some people show empathy. Others are furious, claiming that criminals should not be given microphones but rather silence. Under each video, the debate develops in real time, creating a parallel story. As this plays out, one starts to question if the audience—rather than the prisoner—is the true focus of Penitencia.

This phenomenon has a very contemporary feel to it. Storytelling has become more accessible thanks to podcasts, but Penitencia goes one step further by exploring areas that are typically off-limits to the general public. Typically, prisons are hidden away on the outskirts of cities and are not visible. They take center stage here. There is no roaming of the camera. It remains fixed. The pain is still there.

Despite its widespread popularity, the show doesn’t provide simple solutions. The idea of reintegration is still shaky. Some prisoners talk about developing their faith, starting prayer groups, and learning the law while confined in their cells. Others acknowledge that they no longer find it possible to imagine living outside of prison walls. There is a lingering sense of uncertainty. Is it possible for someone who has used violence to truly change? Viewers are not told what to think by the series.

It does, however, cast doubt on the reassuring notion that criminals are essentially distinct from the general population. The stories frequently start with minor wounds from abuse, neglect, or untreated trauma. Decisions then progressively get more complex. Not in a day. Slowly. As a result of hearing these stories, people are becoming more conscious of the fact that systems malfunction long before a crime is committed.

Penitencia could easily be written off as sensational. The titles themselves, such as “I killed my mom’s best friend,” seem to be intended to shock. The interviews, however, seem more contemplative than exploitative on a deeper level. They linger on responsibility. They inquire about guilt. They look into regret. Its tone sets it apart from other true-crime media, which frequently place more emphasis on spectacle than reflection.

It seems as though Penitencia is functioning in a cultural arena where Mexico is prepared, albeit grudgingly, to address more profound issues of justice. Does punishment suffice? Does empathy pose a threat? Does redemption exist? These tensions are not resolved in the show. It reveals them.