Related videos:
By Miguel Coyula
Manuel Fernández was a neighbor of my building in Vedado. He lived in a small apartment in the garage. Before 1959, his father was the superintendent of the building. Manuel studied law, and since the 80s, it was said that he was involved with the Cuban Committee for Human Rights (CCPDH), founded by Ricardo Bofill, which gradually turned him into an outsider in the community.
The door of his house had his name embossed, written in black ink on a wooden plaque. It was said that he had a luxurious library. He was hardly noticeable. In recent years, his health had deteriorated to the point where he could be seen leaving with a feeble gait, in dirty clothes and with trembling hands, to have lunch at a church. His apartment had such serious plumbing issues that he sometimes had to go out to dump water into the garage drain.
His son, Javier, lived in Artemisa and visited him intermittently. Neither of them had a phone, and they had minimal interaction with society. Occasionally, Javier would greet us in the hallway to complain about the political and social situation. Years ago, he had been a swimming champion, and he lent my partner, Lynn Cruz, his gold medal to wear in the play Patriotismo 36-77.
One day we smelled a terrible odor when entering the garage. It didn’t take long for us to discover that it was coming from his apartment. The police contacted Javier and removed the decaying corpse of his father. The stench lingered for days. Javier returned and occupied the apartment intermittently. The pandemic arrived and he disappeared for more than a year.
Then a contingent of officials from the Plaza Municipal Housing Department arrived, intending to break down the door, claiming it was a basic necessity. Lynn stepped in and said that “they couldn't do that, as there was a person living there.” A housing worker stated that Javier was dead, but was unable to provide the date and circumstances of his death. Lynn replied that they should bring the police along with a death certificate.
A week later, we had gone out to film. Upon our return, the door to Javier's apartment had been forced open. A neighbor decided to unlock the garage gate so that Housing could enter the apartment. They reiterated that Javier had died. The wooden plaque bearing the name “M. Fernández” was ripped from the door, and the books from his library were violently thrown onto the bed of a truck, whereabouts unknown.
Elena, a woman who also works at the Municipal Housing Office of Plaza, has become the new tenant. Soon, a small table, flower pots, and clotheslines appeared in the common area of the garage, followed by a washing machine. To prevent her dog from escaping, she attached a light yellow plastic cover to the bottom of the main black gate of the garage. She often parks a three-wheeled motorcycle, obstructing the common internal transit area of the garage.
Days later, when returning from the fields, my mother met a woman who was asking about Javier. Upon learning what had happened, she called days later, outraged: Javier was alive. He had been taking care of his blind mother in Artemisa. Now he was imprisoned. The woman told my mother that she would look for a lawyer and transportation to take Javier's mother to Housing to file a claim. We never knew what happened next.
After a few days, Elena, the new tenant of the apartment, told a neighbor that she had recently found out that Javier was alive, but that she “didn't know anything.”
The unlawful occupation of a home is a crime that has increased in recent years and is punishable by six months to two years in prison. This case seems to be one of greater corruption, where Housing officials have committed a clear abuse of power. Nearly a year has passed.
Where is Javier Fernández? Will he be able to recover his apartment someday?
Filed under: