Otro candidato al derrumbe
Los inquilinos de un edificio en la céntrica calle 23 sienten su vida
amenazada
martes, enero 5, 2016 | León Padrón Azcuy
LA HABANA, Cuba.- "Nuestras esperanzas están desmoronadas. La situación
de la vivienda en Cuba seguirá siendo uno de los más graves problemas a
enfrentar en este 2016", dice Cecilio Betancourt, uno de los cinco
propietarios que viven en el edificio situado en calle 23, número 1051,
en el Vedado. Con más de un siglo de explotación, el inmueble se halla
en estado ruinoso y es candidato a desplomarse en cualquier momento.
No es un hecho insólito el gran número de inmuebles así, que se
derrumban cada vez que aparecen los aguaceros en la capital habanera.
Decenas cayeron en el recién pasado 2015, algunos trayendo consecuencias
fatales.
"En el año 1995 mi esposa Belkis Benítez Rivera tuvo que ser trasladada
urgentemente hacia el Hospital Manuel Fajardo, cuando un escache del
techo de nuestro apartamento se desplomó sobre su cabeza, produciéndole
una gran herida que posteriormente devino en una tumoración cerebral que
le quitó la vida, dejando huérfano a su único hijo, autista por demás",
expuso Cecilio Betancourt, que trabaja como extra en filmaciones para la
televisión y cine.
Tras aquel fatídico accidente, el temor se apoderó de todos los
inquilinos del edificio, vecinos de Cecilio, cuya insistencia en
demandar una y otra vez el apoyo de las autoridades a todos los niveles
ha sido infructuosa.
Apunta Betancourt que "la desesperación colmó a todos cuando la Unidad
de Atención a Comunidades (UMAC) perteneciente a la Dirección Municipal
de la Vivienda, respondió a una de las tantas quejas firmadas por todos
los inquilinos y dirigida a la Asamblea Provincial del Poder Popular. La
grosera respuesta firmada por Tamara Álvarez Delgado, la directora, y
Mirna Velázquez, técnica en atención social, dejaba claro que no habría
reparación para este inmueble, sino 'aplicación del artículo 7', que
prevé el traslado forzoso hacia un albergue".
Sin embrago, según los testimonios de otros inquilinos, la decisión
chocaba con la opinión de varios amigos con experiencia profesional en
el área de la construcción, entre los que se encuentra el arquitecto e
ingeniero civil Boris Abel Mérida. Concluyeron que la situación más
aguda del edificio está en la azotea y en el piso del segundo nivel,
debido a las filtraciones por el deterioro de las instalaciones
sanitarias; y que la reparación no es tan compleja: solo se necesitan
los recursos adecuados y no un desalojo.
Así las cosas, enviaron otra misiva fechada en el 2013 y dirigida al
Departamento de Atención a la Ciudadanía del Consejo de Estado y de
Ministros de la República de Cuba. "Los que redactamos y firmamos esta
carta, cuando lo hacemos a esa instancia es porque ya en la base nos
desgastamos por la indolencia de algunos dirigentes y la justificación
de otros antes los constantes planteamientos, para que se ejecute una
reparación en nuestro edificio", dice el documento, y concluye:
"Sabiendo que nuestro Estado Socialista no nos dejará olvidados nunca,
apelamos a la solidaridad de nuestro gobierno".
Al respecto Antonia Limonta, otra de las inquilinas del mencionado
edificio, maestra de profesión y madre, cuenta: "La respuesta a nuestras
peticiones no han pasado de una que otra bolsa de cemento para
impermeabilizar la azotea, el apuntalamiento limitado de algunas partes
de la edificación, (el complejo de comercio en la planta bajas, bodega,
carnicería y puesto de venta de viandas). En contraposición a esto,
hemos sido amenazados de ser albergados bajo tétricas condiciones en un
lugar distante de nuestro municipio. Lamentablemente mi sueldo no me
alcanza para pagar los altos precios de los materiales de la
construcción que necesito, así que no queda otra que confiar en Dios".
Otro entrevistado fue el profesor de Facultad Justo Pérez Blanco,
residente de este edificio por más de 40 años: "En agosto del 2012
recibimos una intempestiva visita de una comitiva gubernamental
integrada por el delegado del barrio, la Dirección municipal de
Inversiones de la Vivienda y la jefa del poder popular del municipio
Plaza en ese momento. Todos pensábamos que nuestros problemas finalmente
se resolverían, pero no fue así. El objetivo de los susodichos
funcionarios era convencernos de que teníamos que abandonar nuestras
casas y albergarnos como samaritanos en una nave sin condiciones de
ningún tipo, del municipio de Guanabacoa, a lo que nos negamos
rotundamente" asistió.
Para Marlon Ramírez Limonta, un joven de 21 años que vive con su madre
en el edificio de calle 23, "lo de esta gente del gobierno es un
descaro. Sabemos que la situación de este edificio es crítica, pero
también tenemos la certeza que es reparable, lo que jamás han tenido la
voluntad de hacerlo. Es más, en la escuela nos enseñan que en Cuba se
acabaron los desalojos desde el triunfo de la Revolución y a todos
nosotros nos querían desalojar de aquí", afirmó.
A la pregunta de si esperan alguna solución para el 2016, las cinco
familias que residen aquí coinciden: "Muy poco. Nuestra incertidumbre se
acrecienta cada día al ver disminuidas todas las esperanzas para remozar
lo que fuera una hermosa construcción".
En los últimos años, su inmueble sólo ha visto pasar una brigada del
Consejo de Gobierno de Plaza, que facturó el apuntalamiento de algunas
zonas con vigas de hierro, prometiendo venir después para encargarse de
iniciar la reparación de los techos, de las instalaciones sanitarias,
los repellos de las paredes, el levantamiento del piso de la azotea para
eliminar las filtraciones y otras necesidades. Todo esto, luego de la
negativa de los propietarios para abandonar el inmueble, bajo la amenaza
de desalojo por parte de la Dirección municipal de la Vivienda.
Source: Otro candidato al derrumbe | Cubanet -
https://www.cubanet.org/actualidad-destacados/otro-candidato-al-derrumbe/
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
A socialist vision fades in Cuba’s biggest housing project
A socialist vision fades in Cuba's biggest housing project
Inequality is growing in Cuba, threatening the legacy of Castro's revolution
Story by Nick Miroff
Published on December 29, 2015
HAVANA — In the Alamar neighborhood on the outskirts of Havana, the
streets don't have names. To find an address, you need to know the zone,
the block number and the apartment, because all the buildings look the
same. Long and rectangular, five stories tall, their facades have been
stripped by the ocean air and re-pigmented in curlicue patterns of mildew.
Alamar is the largest public housing project in Cuba, if not one of the
largest in the world, with 100,000 residents. In a country sworn to
socialist equality, it is arguably Cuba's most equal place, because
everyone pretty much has an identical apartment.
Above: Horses feed near the Alamar coastline; the city's signature
buildings can be seen in the distance. (Photo by Lisette Poole for The
Washington Post)
"It was a model city," said Román Pérez, 76, a retired bus driver who
lives in Zone 8, block D52, apartment 21. He helped build D52 and two
others with his own hands, as a member of a communist worker
"micro-brigade." This was Fidel Castro's idea.
"We had everything then," Pérez said. "Everyone looked after each other."
That was 40 years ago. Today, with U.S.-Cuban relations on the mend,
this island has come to the edge of a new post-Castro era. The country's
ideological foundations are cracking, and new uncertainties are coming —
perhaps none larger than whether the egalitarian values of Castro's
revolution will be swept away by rising inequalities and the breakdown
of Cuba's socialist welfare state.
Communist Party elders want to keep a lid on market forces, but with
every incremental opening, yawning income gaps emerge. The owner of a
small private restaurant can earn hundreds of dollars a day, or more, in
a country where three-quarters of the labor force works for the state
and the average government salary is $20 a month. Tour guides and hotel
chambermaids make more than scientists and doctors.
Younger Cubans do not seem too troubled. But these disparities,
authorities fear, bear the seeds of social tensions, resentments and crime.
"Men Die, But the Party Is Immortal," says a billboard in Alamar, trying
to reassure residents who may wonder what will happen after Fidel, 89,
and current President Raúl Castro, 84, are no longer around.
Cuba remains a society of unusual social and economic parity in Latin
America, a region beset by deep class divisions and the world's worst
homicide rates. A fraying system of cradle-to-grave benefits keeps
Cubans living in a kind of state-administered, socialized poverty,
earning high scores on U.N. human development surveys but little for
Cuban wallets.
On the surface, Alamar looks like the kind of peripheral urban slum that
a visitor would not dare enter in Sao Paulo or Bogota or Mexico City.
Yet it is a place with no gangs, and essentially no guns or drugs, where
neighbors know each other and parents send children out to play in the
cracked stairwells and weedy lots. Social and economic equality — and
political conformity — have been reinforced by the monotony of the
architecture.
Old-timers such as Román Pérez say they would not want to live
elsewhere. But most of the other members of Pérez's micro-brigade have
died or moved away. Their children are impatient to get out of Alamar,
to somewhere better.
They see Cuba's model city, and the country's revolution, as running on
fumes.
'City of the future'
Before it was a neighborhood, Alamar was an argument.
In capitalist countries, governments built housing projects that gave
shelter to the poor but failed to fix the root causes of poverty and
marginalization. Fidel Castro's proletarian city would be different. It
would endow residents with a sense of ownership and belonging by
enlisting them in the construction of their own homes.
The idea came at a low point for Castro. In 1970, he had mobilized the
entire island in a drive to achieve a sugar harvest of 10 million tons.
Students, factory workers and nearly all other able-bodied males were
sent out into the sweltering cane fields with machetes.
The whole thing was a disaster. The sugar harvest fell short, shredding
Castro's veneer of invincibility.
The Cuban leader pivoted to a new fixation: Havana's housing shortage,
the product of a 1960s baby boom and the mass migration of Cubans from
poor rural areas to the capital.
There were few undeveloped spaces big enough for his ambitions. But the
completion of a road tunnel under the Bay of Havana in 1958 had opened
up the city's eastern coastline to developers. Their blueprints had
contemplated an American-style suburb. The rebels' takeover a year later
iced those plans.
"We were living in a one-room apartment," said Luis Castillo, who had
migrated to Havana from Santiago in eastern Cuba. He came to Alamar in
1979 on the promise that his family would receive an apartment in
exchange for his labor as a mason.
"We slept out in the open, in the foundation of the building," said
Castillo, 88, who still lives in the apartment he helped build. "We even
worked on Sundays."
Castro visited Alamar often in those years, dropping by to inspect
progress and show off the project to visiting foreign dignitaries. State
television reports hailed the rise of Cuba's "city of the future."
In an era of right-wing military rule in Latin America, at least one
apartment in every building was reserved for foreign revolutionaries and
activists who might need a refuge.
Alamar today is becoming a different sort of refuge, a destination for
rural migrants from Cuba's interior who can't afford to live anywhere
else in Havana. Four years after Raúl Castro allowed Cubans to begin
buying and selling property, Alamar apartments list for $5,000 to
$10,000, a tenth of what they would be worth in parts of the city that
attract tourists.
[$75,000 will get you a lot of house in Havana — if you're Cuban]
Like the great sugar harvest, Alamar's grand ambitions fell short.
Building materials and budgets were diverted to meet construction quotas
for residential units, leaving little or nothing for parks, recreation
areas and stores, let alone upkeep of the buildings.
The neighborhood's 25 "zones" are laid out in no particular order, and
the apartment blocks too were positioned in haphazard fashion. Open
areas between buildings have since been filled in by weeds and debris.
The disarray is compounded by the lack of a downtown or central plaza.
One part of Alamar is so remote it's known as "Siberia."
"Alamar became the reference point for what happens when you remove the
concept of architecture from the construction process," said Miguel
Coyula, a Havana architect who is an authority on the city's history.
Such criticisms sting for Humberto Ramírez, who was assigned to Alamar
in 1972 as a young architect. He eventually became the project's top
technical engineer. Despite the inexpert labor force, he said, most of
the buildings remain solid. The Alamar buildings did fail as an example
of urban planning, Ramírez acknowledges.
"But they achieved their goal," he said. "They provided housing. And
they created a place of equality for the socialist society we were
building."
Hard times set in
When Olga Mederos moved to Alamar in 1986, there were strict rules. No
pets. No exterior alterations. No religious believers. She tried to put
some potted plants on her balcony and got a reprimand.
"Alamar wasn't so run-down then," said Mederos, 55, who lives in Zone 8,
D54, with her adult son. "People followed the rules. They took better
care of the common areas. On weekends, everyone would volunteer to pick
up trash and sweep the stairwells."
Alamar was then like a gated community, except that the homeowners
association was the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR),
the Communist Party watch group found in every neighborhood on the
island. It enforced the residential rules and the political ones, too.
It aimed to create a community of model workers, devoted revolutionaries
and altruistic neighbors.
It worked, in a sense, for a while.
Cuba was more prosperous then, floating on generous Soviet subsidies.
Bus service to the rest of Havana was plentiful. So were the food
rations at government bodegas.
When the Soviet Union folded, Cuba fell on hard times, but Alamar fell
harder. The power blackouts were constant. Gasoline shortages meant
six-hour lines at the bus stop. Mederos remembers taking her children to
the rocky shoreline to cool off and watching neighbors push off on
makeshift rafts bound for Florida.
The apartment blocks of Alamar still have CDR watch groups, but
neighbors rarely volunteer anymore to pick up trash or work on Sundays.
After 25 years of economic austerity, a collective exhaustion has set
in, the toll of steady emigration, corruption large and small, and the
knowledge, from the impossible-to-filter influences of globalization,
that Cubans live better in almost any other country than their own.
Mederos came from a family of committed revolutionaries and had moved
her parents into the building adjacent to hers. Her father, Aldo, 82,
was a photographer for the Communist Party newspaper, Granma, and what
was then the Ministry of Communications.
He was the first Cuban to print the grisly photos confirming the death
of revolutionary icon Ernesto "Che" Guevara in Bolivia in 1967. "The
photos were still wet when they took them to Fidel," he said.
The egalitarian ideals of that era are lost today on Aldo's grandson,
Alejandro, 28. He has an American flag in his bedroom but little else.
Trained as a veterinary technician, he was laid off during Raúl Castro's
campaign to downsize the state bureaucracy. Sometimes he drives a taxi.
His mother says he is desperate to leave.
"He says to me, "I don't want to turn 50 in this country with no car and
no house of my own,' " Olga Mederos said.
Mederos's daughter, Wendy, 33, studied for a career as a social worker.
But she grew disillusioned a decade ago when Fidel Castro responded to
chronic pilfering at state gas stations by assigning young social
workers to operate them. She had not gone to university to pump diesel.
She works today in the sales department of the state telecommunications
company.
As elsewhere in Cuba, many of those who sacrificed the most for the
Castros' revolution are today struggling to survive. Mederos's
80-year-old mother, Olga Chang, earns $2 a day selling pastry and candy
in the street. Nearly half of her $15 monthly government pension goes
back to the state for her small-business license.
Olga Chang's husband, Aldo, keeps thick manila envelopes of old photos
that tell the story of a life in the service of Cuba's socialist dream.
There is one of him and Olga on a motorcycle in the early 1960s, when
his little photography studio also afforded them a Chevrolet coupe. Aldo
has photos of a youthful Fidel Castro speaking in Moscow, Hungary,
Brazil, back when Aldo traveled the world to document El Comandante's
sojourns.
A few black-and-white prints show Aldo with a machete in the cane
fields. He volunteered for 12 sugar harvests.
"When I show these to my grandson, he says, 'What good did it do? Look
at you now. You've got nothing,' " Aldo said.
He shuffled the image to the bottom of the pile, looking away. "Maybe
it's true," he said. "Maybe he's right."
Source: A socialist vision fades in Cuba's biggest housing project | The
Washington Post -
http://www.washingtonpost.com/sf/world/2015/12/29/a-socialist-vision-fades-in-cubas-biggest-housing-project/
Inequality is growing in Cuba, threatening the legacy of Castro's revolution
Story by Nick Miroff
Published on December 29, 2015
HAVANA — In the Alamar neighborhood on the outskirts of Havana, the
streets don't have names. To find an address, you need to know the zone,
the block number and the apartment, because all the buildings look the
same. Long and rectangular, five stories tall, their facades have been
stripped by the ocean air and re-pigmented in curlicue patterns of mildew.
Alamar is the largest public housing project in Cuba, if not one of the
largest in the world, with 100,000 residents. In a country sworn to
socialist equality, it is arguably Cuba's most equal place, because
everyone pretty much has an identical apartment.
Above: Horses feed near the Alamar coastline; the city's signature
buildings can be seen in the distance. (Photo by Lisette Poole for The
Washington Post)
"It was a model city," said Román Pérez, 76, a retired bus driver who
lives in Zone 8, block D52, apartment 21. He helped build D52 and two
others with his own hands, as a member of a communist worker
"micro-brigade." This was Fidel Castro's idea.
"We had everything then," Pérez said. "Everyone looked after each other."
That was 40 years ago. Today, with U.S.-Cuban relations on the mend,
this island has come to the edge of a new post-Castro era. The country's
ideological foundations are cracking, and new uncertainties are coming —
perhaps none larger than whether the egalitarian values of Castro's
revolution will be swept away by rising inequalities and the breakdown
of Cuba's socialist welfare state.
Communist Party elders want to keep a lid on market forces, but with
every incremental opening, yawning income gaps emerge. The owner of a
small private restaurant can earn hundreds of dollars a day, or more, in
a country where three-quarters of the labor force works for the state
and the average government salary is $20 a month. Tour guides and hotel
chambermaids make more than scientists and doctors.
Younger Cubans do not seem too troubled. But these disparities,
authorities fear, bear the seeds of social tensions, resentments and crime.
"Men Die, But the Party Is Immortal," says a billboard in Alamar, trying
to reassure residents who may wonder what will happen after Fidel, 89,
and current President Raúl Castro, 84, are no longer around.
Cuba remains a society of unusual social and economic parity in Latin
America, a region beset by deep class divisions and the world's worst
homicide rates. A fraying system of cradle-to-grave benefits keeps
Cubans living in a kind of state-administered, socialized poverty,
earning high scores on U.N. human development surveys but little for
Cuban wallets.
On the surface, Alamar looks like the kind of peripheral urban slum that
a visitor would not dare enter in Sao Paulo or Bogota or Mexico City.
Yet it is a place with no gangs, and essentially no guns or drugs, where
neighbors know each other and parents send children out to play in the
cracked stairwells and weedy lots. Social and economic equality — and
political conformity — have been reinforced by the monotony of the
architecture.
Old-timers such as Román Pérez say they would not want to live
elsewhere. But most of the other members of Pérez's micro-brigade have
died or moved away. Their children are impatient to get out of Alamar,
to somewhere better.
They see Cuba's model city, and the country's revolution, as running on
fumes.
'City of the future'
Before it was a neighborhood, Alamar was an argument.
In capitalist countries, governments built housing projects that gave
shelter to the poor but failed to fix the root causes of poverty and
marginalization. Fidel Castro's proletarian city would be different. It
would endow residents with a sense of ownership and belonging by
enlisting them in the construction of their own homes.
The idea came at a low point for Castro. In 1970, he had mobilized the
entire island in a drive to achieve a sugar harvest of 10 million tons.
Students, factory workers and nearly all other able-bodied males were
sent out into the sweltering cane fields with machetes.
The whole thing was a disaster. The sugar harvest fell short, shredding
Castro's veneer of invincibility.
The Cuban leader pivoted to a new fixation: Havana's housing shortage,
the product of a 1960s baby boom and the mass migration of Cubans from
poor rural areas to the capital.
There were few undeveloped spaces big enough for his ambitions. But the
completion of a road tunnel under the Bay of Havana in 1958 had opened
up the city's eastern coastline to developers. Their blueprints had
contemplated an American-style suburb. The rebels' takeover a year later
iced those plans.
"We were living in a one-room apartment," said Luis Castillo, who had
migrated to Havana from Santiago in eastern Cuba. He came to Alamar in
1979 on the promise that his family would receive an apartment in
exchange for his labor as a mason.
"We slept out in the open, in the foundation of the building," said
Castillo, 88, who still lives in the apartment he helped build. "We even
worked on Sundays."
Castro visited Alamar often in those years, dropping by to inspect
progress and show off the project to visiting foreign dignitaries. State
television reports hailed the rise of Cuba's "city of the future."
In an era of right-wing military rule in Latin America, at least one
apartment in every building was reserved for foreign revolutionaries and
activists who might need a refuge.
Alamar today is becoming a different sort of refuge, a destination for
rural migrants from Cuba's interior who can't afford to live anywhere
else in Havana. Four years after Raúl Castro allowed Cubans to begin
buying and selling property, Alamar apartments list for $5,000 to
$10,000, a tenth of what they would be worth in parts of the city that
attract tourists.
[$75,000 will get you a lot of house in Havana — if you're Cuban]
Like the great sugar harvest, Alamar's grand ambitions fell short.
Building materials and budgets were diverted to meet construction quotas
for residential units, leaving little or nothing for parks, recreation
areas and stores, let alone upkeep of the buildings.
The neighborhood's 25 "zones" are laid out in no particular order, and
the apartment blocks too were positioned in haphazard fashion. Open
areas between buildings have since been filled in by weeds and debris.
The disarray is compounded by the lack of a downtown or central plaza.
One part of Alamar is so remote it's known as "Siberia."
"Alamar became the reference point for what happens when you remove the
concept of architecture from the construction process," said Miguel
Coyula, a Havana architect who is an authority on the city's history.
Such criticisms sting for Humberto Ramírez, who was assigned to Alamar
in 1972 as a young architect. He eventually became the project's top
technical engineer. Despite the inexpert labor force, he said, most of
the buildings remain solid. The Alamar buildings did fail as an example
of urban planning, Ramírez acknowledges.
"But they achieved their goal," he said. "They provided housing. And
they created a place of equality for the socialist society we were
building."
Hard times set in
When Olga Mederos moved to Alamar in 1986, there were strict rules. No
pets. No exterior alterations. No religious believers. She tried to put
some potted plants on her balcony and got a reprimand.
"Alamar wasn't so run-down then," said Mederos, 55, who lives in Zone 8,
D54, with her adult son. "People followed the rules. They took better
care of the common areas. On weekends, everyone would volunteer to pick
up trash and sweep the stairwells."
Alamar was then like a gated community, except that the homeowners
association was the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR),
the Communist Party watch group found in every neighborhood on the
island. It enforced the residential rules and the political ones, too.
It aimed to create a community of model workers, devoted revolutionaries
and altruistic neighbors.
It worked, in a sense, for a while.
Cuba was more prosperous then, floating on generous Soviet subsidies.
Bus service to the rest of Havana was plentiful. So were the food
rations at government bodegas.
When the Soviet Union folded, Cuba fell on hard times, but Alamar fell
harder. The power blackouts were constant. Gasoline shortages meant
six-hour lines at the bus stop. Mederos remembers taking her children to
the rocky shoreline to cool off and watching neighbors push off on
makeshift rafts bound for Florida.
The apartment blocks of Alamar still have CDR watch groups, but
neighbors rarely volunteer anymore to pick up trash or work on Sundays.
After 25 years of economic austerity, a collective exhaustion has set
in, the toll of steady emigration, corruption large and small, and the
knowledge, from the impossible-to-filter influences of globalization,
that Cubans live better in almost any other country than their own.
Mederos came from a family of committed revolutionaries and had moved
her parents into the building adjacent to hers. Her father, Aldo, 82,
was a photographer for the Communist Party newspaper, Granma, and what
was then the Ministry of Communications.
He was the first Cuban to print the grisly photos confirming the death
of revolutionary icon Ernesto "Che" Guevara in Bolivia in 1967. "The
photos were still wet when they took them to Fidel," he said.
The egalitarian ideals of that era are lost today on Aldo's grandson,
Alejandro, 28. He has an American flag in his bedroom but little else.
Trained as a veterinary technician, he was laid off during Raúl Castro's
campaign to downsize the state bureaucracy. Sometimes he drives a taxi.
His mother says he is desperate to leave.
"He says to me, "I don't want to turn 50 in this country with no car and
no house of my own,' " Olga Mederos said.
Mederos's daughter, Wendy, 33, studied for a career as a social worker.
But she grew disillusioned a decade ago when Fidel Castro responded to
chronic pilfering at state gas stations by assigning young social
workers to operate them. She had not gone to university to pump diesel.
She works today in the sales department of the state telecommunications
company.
As elsewhere in Cuba, many of those who sacrificed the most for the
Castros' revolution are today struggling to survive. Mederos's
80-year-old mother, Olga Chang, earns $2 a day selling pastry and candy
in the street. Nearly half of her $15 monthly government pension goes
back to the state for her small-business license.
Olga Chang's husband, Aldo, keeps thick manila envelopes of old photos
that tell the story of a life in the service of Cuba's socialist dream.
There is one of him and Olga on a motorcycle in the early 1960s, when
his little photography studio also afforded them a Chevrolet coupe. Aldo
has photos of a youthful Fidel Castro speaking in Moscow, Hungary,
Brazil, back when Aldo traveled the world to document El Comandante's
sojourns.
A few black-and-white prints show Aldo with a machete in the cane
fields. He volunteered for 12 sugar harvests.
"When I show these to my grandson, he says, 'What good did it do? Look
at you now. You've got nothing,' " Aldo said.
He shuffled the image to the bottom of the pile, looking away. "Maybe
it's true," he said. "Maybe he's right."
Source: A socialist vision fades in Cuba's biggest housing project | The
Washington Post -
http://www.washingtonpost.com/sf/world/2015/12/29/a-socialist-vision-fades-in-cubas-biggest-housing-project/
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Cuban Middle Class Takes Over ‘Proletarian’ Neighborhoods
Cuban Middle Class Takes Over 'Proletarian' Neighborhoods / 14ymedio,
Lilianne Ruiz
Posted on December 23, 2015
14ymedio, Lilianne Ruiz, Havana, 22 December 2015 — "These buildings are
earthquake resistant," says the owner of an apartment for sale in a
Havana neighborhood. The potential buyer listens incredulous, looking
out from the balcony at other concrete blocks in the surrounding area.
What was once a working-class neighborhood, where work and political
"merits" were needed to get an apartment, is now becoming the scene of
an emerging middle class.
Across the whole country, especially in the provincial capitals, tall
buildings were erected in the decades of the seventies and eighties.
Twelve stories is most common, followed by those with 18 or 14 floors,
constructed from prefabricated pieces. The highest, at 26 floors, were
built using the then novel approach of sliding formwork technology.
The so-called Microbrigade* Buildings, have become synonymous with the
socialist architecture of Eastern Europe, transplanted to the tropics.
It came to be predicted that these giants would replace Cuba's
traditional architecture, and shelter the New Man. Today, despite their
exterior ugliness, many of the apartments are bought by an emerging
middle class that aspires to see Cuba "from above."
In 1979 Orestes Figueroa won a three-bedroom apartment he now wants to
sell for 25,000 convertible pesos. "I won it because I had spent almost
seven years working as a bricklayer and they awarded it to me based on
my merits," he says wistfully. Located near the Rancho Boyeros Avenue,
the colossus in which the home is located is still maintained with a
certain dignity, unlike others plagued by hydraulic problems, broken
elevators and deteriorating construction.
Now retired, Figueroa has never forgotten the moment when they read out
at an assembly the number of volunteer hours he had amassed to obtain
that apartment. It was an afternoon of questioning glances and whispers
among those vying for a roof. His Communist Party membership and
participation in political activities helped him to rise on the list of
those deserving an apartment. That night he couldn't sleep he was so happy.
Those were the days when "loyalty to the process" functioned as an
invisible currency with which one could acquire things ranging from
appliances, to the right to a vacation in tourist facilities, to the
allocation of housing. However, the happy owner had to pay 6,000 Cuban
pesos for their new home: 10% of a 250 peso monthly salary for 20 years.
With the legalization of the dollar in the early nineties and the
subsequent appearance of the convertible peso, a new form of "natural
selection" emerged, where money regained its value for transactions.
However, it was not until late 2011, when the buying and selling of
homes was legalized, that thousands of apartments in proletarian
neighborhoods hit the market.
The microbrigade members of yesteryear, like Figueroa, now weigh the
possibility of exchanging the homes they won for the hard cash that
would allow them to buy a smaller place and have something level over to
supplement their very low pensions. They dream of finding some nouveau
riche willing to pay cash for what was once acquired through labor and
ideological efforts.
Lizbeth is part of the growing sector of Cubans with access to hard
currency. She has always dreamed of living on a high floor, but does not
have enough resources to buy a property in one of the buildings built
"under capitalism" – i.e. before the Revolution. In a country that grows
more horizontally than towards the clouds, the number of apartments in
the heights is limited and there is not much to choose from. In 2014,
over the whole island, just 25,037 homes were built, of which more than
half were built by their residents' own efforts.
"I didn't want the Alamar neighborhood, east of Havana, because I don't
like the haphazard crowding of the buildings," says Lizbeth. With family
abroad and a thriving interior design business, the professional
inquired in Vedado, looking at the buildings constructed by the
microbrigades from the Ministry of the interior, the Cuban Institute of
Radio and Television and other state entities. However, prices are
higher in areas like Vedado, closest to the Malecon.
Her next choice was the Nuevo Vedado neighborhood, where most of these
piles that were built in Havana are concentrated. Properties built by
sponsors as diverse as the Ministries of Transport, the Armed Forces,
the Interior, Labor and Social Security, or Basic Industry, among others.
"This is neighborhood of bosses and Party fanatics," says the buyer
scornfully, looking at prices that start at 25,000 convertible pesos and
go up from there. She finally found something in Alta Habana that fit
her budget, between the Electric Company building and the National
Poultry Company. Despite the prejudices against housing constructed by
the inexperienced microbrigades, the young woman believes that, given
its recent construction, it is unlikely to collapse or be declared
uninhabitable.
Indoors, many residents have invested in redoing the bathrooms and
kitchens of what were once standard apartments, but most of the facades
show the inexorable passage of time, with chipped balconies, unsealed
aluminum windows and unpainted common areas with no lighting. In almost
all, the water supply lasts only a few hours a day, so the terraces and
small courtyards are filled with backup storage tanks.
These concrete giants, once the symbol of revolutionary architecture,
have not been maintained for more than three decades. Water pipes have
given way in several places and countless apartments are marked by
ceiling leaks, while neighbors complain that their new concrete colossus
has become "a great big tenement."
The initial inhabitants, like Figueroa, leave slowly. While Lizbeth
makes plans for what color she will paint the walls of her new home, the
LED lights she will place in the entryway, and the tub she will install
where now there is only an inconvenient shower. The earthquake safety
measures built into these tall buildings did not foresee the earthquakes
of the economy.
* Translator's note:
For more information about microbrigades see page 26 of this report by
Cuban architect Mario Coyula.
Source: Cuban Middle Class Takes Over 'Proletarian' Neighborhoods /
14ymedio, Lilianne Ruiz | Translating Cuba -
http://translatingcuba.com/cuban-middle-class-takes-over-proletarian-neighborhoods-14ymedio-lilianne-ruiz/
Lilianne Ruiz
Posted on December 23, 2015
14ymedio, Lilianne Ruiz, Havana, 22 December 2015 — "These buildings are
earthquake resistant," says the owner of an apartment for sale in a
Havana neighborhood. The potential buyer listens incredulous, looking
out from the balcony at other concrete blocks in the surrounding area.
What was once a working-class neighborhood, where work and political
"merits" were needed to get an apartment, is now becoming the scene of
an emerging middle class.
Across the whole country, especially in the provincial capitals, tall
buildings were erected in the decades of the seventies and eighties.
Twelve stories is most common, followed by those with 18 or 14 floors,
constructed from prefabricated pieces. The highest, at 26 floors, were
built using the then novel approach of sliding formwork technology.
The so-called Microbrigade* Buildings, have become synonymous with the
socialist architecture of Eastern Europe, transplanted to the tropics.
It came to be predicted that these giants would replace Cuba's
traditional architecture, and shelter the New Man. Today, despite their
exterior ugliness, many of the apartments are bought by an emerging
middle class that aspires to see Cuba "from above."
In 1979 Orestes Figueroa won a three-bedroom apartment he now wants to
sell for 25,000 convertible pesos. "I won it because I had spent almost
seven years working as a bricklayer and they awarded it to me based on
my merits," he says wistfully. Located near the Rancho Boyeros Avenue,
the colossus in which the home is located is still maintained with a
certain dignity, unlike others plagued by hydraulic problems, broken
elevators and deteriorating construction.
Now retired, Figueroa has never forgotten the moment when they read out
at an assembly the number of volunteer hours he had amassed to obtain
that apartment. It was an afternoon of questioning glances and whispers
among those vying for a roof. His Communist Party membership and
participation in political activities helped him to rise on the list of
those deserving an apartment. That night he couldn't sleep he was so happy.
Those were the days when "loyalty to the process" functioned as an
invisible currency with which one could acquire things ranging from
appliances, to the right to a vacation in tourist facilities, to the
allocation of housing. However, the happy owner had to pay 6,000 Cuban
pesos for their new home: 10% of a 250 peso monthly salary for 20 years.
With the legalization of the dollar in the early nineties and the
subsequent appearance of the convertible peso, a new form of "natural
selection" emerged, where money regained its value for transactions.
However, it was not until late 2011, when the buying and selling of
homes was legalized, that thousands of apartments in proletarian
neighborhoods hit the market.
The microbrigade members of yesteryear, like Figueroa, now weigh the
possibility of exchanging the homes they won for the hard cash that
would allow them to buy a smaller place and have something level over to
supplement their very low pensions. They dream of finding some nouveau
riche willing to pay cash for what was once acquired through labor and
ideological efforts.
Lizbeth is part of the growing sector of Cubans with access to hard
currency. She has always dreamed of living on a high floor, but does not
have enough resources to buy a property in one of the buildings built
"under capitalism" – i.e. before the Revolution. In a country that grows
more horizontally than towards the clouds, the number of apartments in
the heights is limited and there is not much to choose from. In 2014,
over the whole island, just 25,037 homes were built, of which more than
half were built by their residents' own efforts.
"I didn't want the Alamar neighborhood, east of Havana, because I don't
like the haphazard crowding of the buildings," says Lizbeth. With family
abroad and a thriving interior design business, the professional
inquired in Vedado, looking at the buildings constructed by the
microbrigades from the Ministry of the interior, the Cuban Institute of
Radio and Television and other state entities. However, prices are
higher in areas like Vedado, closest to the Malecon.
Her next choice was the Nuevo Vedado neighborhood, where most of these
piles that were built in Havana are concentrated. Properties built by
sponsors as diverse as the Ministries of Transport, the Armed Forces,
the Interior, Labor and Social Security, or Basic Industry, among others.
"This is neighborhood of bosses and Party fanatics," says the buyer
scornfully, looking at prices that start at 25,000 convertible pesos and
go up from there. She finally found something in Alta Habana that fit
her budget, between the Electric Company building and the National
Poultry Company. Despite the prejudices against housing constructed by
the inexperienced microbrigades, the young woman believes that, given
its recent construction, it is unlikely to collapse or be declared
uninhabitable.
Indoors, many residents have invested in redoing the bathrooms and
kitchens of what were once standard apartments, but most of the facades
show the inexorable passage of time, with chipped balconies, unsealed
aluminum windows and unpainted common areas with no lighting. In almost
all, the water supply lasts only a few hours a day, so the terraces and
small courtyards are filled with backup storage tanks.
These concrete giants, once the symbol of revolutionary architecture,
have not been maintained for more than three decades. Water pipes have
given way in several places and countless apartments are marked by
ceiling leaks, while neighbors complain that their new concrete colossus
has become "a great big tenement."
The initial inhabitants, like Figueroa, leave slowly. While Lizbeth
makes plans for what color she will paint the walls of her new home, the
LED lights she will place in the entryway, and the tub she will install
where now there is only an inconvenient shower. The earthquake safety
measures built into these tall buildings did not foresee the earthquakes
of the economy.
* Translator's note:
For more information about microbrigades see page 26 of this report by
Cuban architect Mario Coyula.
Source: Cuban Middle Class Takes Over 'Proletarian' Neighborhoods /
14ymedio, Lilianne Ruiz | Translating Cuba -
http://translatingcuba.com/cuban-middle-class-takes-over-proletarian-neighborhoods-14ymedio-lilianne-ruiz/
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
La clase media se apodera de los barrios proletarios
La clase media se apodera de los barrios proletarios
LILIANNE RUIZ, La Habana | Diciembre 22, 2015
"Estos edificios son antisísmicos", detalla el dueño de un apartamento a
la venta en una barriada habanera. La potencial compradora lo escucha
incrédula mientras mira desde el balcón los otros bloques de concreto
que se alzan en la zona. Lo que una vez fue un barrio proletario en el
que se necesitaban méritos laborales y políticos para radicarse, ahora
empieza a ser el escenario de una clase emergente.
A lo largo de todo el país, especialmente en las cabeceras provinciales,
se erigen estos edificios altos construidos en las décadas de los
setenta y ochenta. Los de 12 plantas son los más frecuentes, seguidos de
aquellos con 18 o 14 pisos, construidos con la técnica de piezas
prefabricadas. Los menos abundantes, de 26 niveles, se hicieron bajo el
entonces novedoso método de moldes deslizantes.
Los llamados edificios de microbrigada han pasado a ser sinónimo de la
arquitectura socialista de Europa del este trasplantada al trópico. Se
llegó a proyectar que estos gigantes sustituyeran a la arquitectura
tradicional, además de dar cobijo al hombre nuevo. Hoy, a pesar de su
fealdad exterior, muchos de sus apartamentos son comprados por una
naciente clase media que aspira a ver a Cuba "desde arriba".
Orestes Figueroa obtuvo en 1979 un apartamento de tres dormitorios que
ahora quiere vender por 25.000 pesos convertibles. "Me lo gané después
de haberme pasado casi siete años trabajando como albañil y me lo
adjudicaron por mis méritos", cuenta con nostalgia. Ubicado en las
cercanías de la avenida Rancho Boyeros, el coloso en el que se ubica la
vivienda todavía se mantiene con cierta dignidad a diferencia de otros,
azotados por los problemas hidráulicos, la rotura de los ascensores y el
deterioro constructivo.
Ya jubilado, Figueroa nunca olvidará el momento en el que leyeron en una
asamblea el número de horas de trabajo voluntario que atesoraba para
obtener aquella vivienda. Era una tarde de miradas de interrogación y
cuchicheos entre quienes se disputaban un techo. Su pertenencia al
Partido Comunista y la participación en actividades políticas lo
ayudaron a alzarse como merecedor del apartamento. Esa noche no pudo
dormir de tanta felicidad.
Eran los tiempos en los que la "lealtad al proceso" funcionaba como
moneda invisible con la que se podía adquirir desde electrodomésticos,
el derecho a pasar las vacaciones en instalaciones turísticas, hasta la
asignación de una vivienda. No obstante, el feliz propietario tuvo que
pagar 6.000 pesos cubanos por su casa: el 10% del salario de 250 pesos
durante 20 años.
Con la despenalización del dólar a principios de la década de los
noventa y la posterior aparición del peso convertible, irrumpió una
nueva forma de "selección natural", donde el dinero recuperó su valor
para hacer transacciones. Sin embargo, no fue hasta finales de 2011 con
la legalización de la compra y venta de viviendas que miles de
apartamentos en barrios proletarios salieron al mercado.
Los microbrigadistas de antaño, como Figueroa, sopesan hoy la
posibilidad de cambiar la vivienda de sus desvelos por dinero contante y
sonante que les permita comprar algo más pequeño y contrarrestar lo bajo
de sus pensiones. Sueñan con encontrar un nuevo rico dispuesto a pagar
en efectivo, lo que una vez fue adquirido con esfuerzos laborales e
ideológicos.
Lizbeth forma parte del creciente sector de cubanos con acceso a la
moneda convertible. Siempre ha soñado vivir en un piso alto, pero no
tiene suficientes recursos para comprar una propiedad en un edificio
construido "en el capitalismo". En un país que crece más en horizontal
que hacia las nubes, el número de apartamentos en las alturas es
limitado y no hay mucho para elegir. En 2014, se construyeron en toda la
Isla apenas 25.037 viviendas, de las cuales más de la mitad por esfuerzo
propio.
"No quería el reparto Alamar, al este de La Habana, porque no me gusta
ese amontonamiento de edificios sin orden ni concierto", relata Lizbeth.
Con familia en el extranjero y un próspero negocio de diseño de
interiores, la profesional indagó en el Vedado, alrededor de los
edificios construidos por microbrigadas del Ministerio de Relaciones
Exteriores, el Instituto Cubano de Radio y Televisión y otras entidades
estatales. Sin embargo, los precios son altos en la zona más cercana al
malecón.
Su siguiente opción era la barriada de Nuevo Vedado, donde se concentran
la mayoría de estas moles que se erigieron en La Habana. Inmuebles con
patrocinadores tan disímiles como el Ministerio de Transporte, el de las
Fuerzas Armadas y el del Interior, el Ministerio del Trabajo y la
Seguridad Social o el de la Industria Básica, entre otros.
"Ese es un barrio de pinchos y comecandelas", asegura con sorna la
compradora que se topó con importes que no bajaban de los 25.000 pesos
convertibles. Fue en Alta Habana donde finalmente encontró algo ajustado
a su bolsillo entre los edificios de la Empresa Eléctrica y el Combinado
Avícola Nacional. A pesar de los prejuicios que pesan sobre las
viviendas hechas por microbrigadistas inexpertos, la joven sostiene que,
dada su reciente construcción, es poco probable que se derrumben o sean
declarados inhabitables.
Puertas adentro, muchos moradores han invertido en rehacer baños y
cocinas de lo que una vez fueron apartamentos estándar, pero la mayoría
de las fachadas muestra el inexorable paso del tiempo, con los balcones
desconchados, los ventanales de aluminio sin juntas y las áreas comunes
sin pintura ni lámparas. En casi todos, el suministro de agua solo dura
unas pocas horas al día, por lo que las terrazas y los pequeños patios
interiores se han llenado de tanques.
Estos gigantes de hormigón, que una vez fueron el símbolo de la
arquitectura revolucionaria, no han recibido mantenimiento en más de
tres décadas y las tuberías de agua han colapsado en varios puntos, las
filtraciones marcan el techo de infinidad de apartamentos, mientras los
vecinos se quejan de que su flamante coloso de concreto se ha convertido
en "un solar muy grande".
Los moradores iniciales, como Figueroa, se van marchando poco a poco.
Mientras Lizbeth hace planes del color con el que pintará las paredes de
su nueva vivienda, las luces led que colocará en la entrada y la
bañadera que instalará donde antes solo había una incómoda ducha. Las
precauciones antisísmicas con las que fueron construidos estos edificios
altos no previeron los terremotos de la economía.
Source: La clase media se apodera de los barrios proletarios -
http://www.14ymedio.com/nacional/clase-media-apodera-barrios-proletarios_0_1912008791.html
LILIANNE RUIZ, La Habana | Diciembre 22, 2015
"Estos edificios son antisísmicos", detalla el dueño de un apartamento a
la venta en una barriada habanera. La potencial compradora lo escucha
incrédula mientras mira desde el balcón los otros bloques de concreto
que se alzan en la zona. Lo que una vez fue un barrio proletario en el
que se necesitaban méritos laborales y políticos para radicarse, ahora
empieza a ser el escenario de una clase emergente.
A lo largo de todo el país, especialmente en las cabeceras provinciales,
se erigen estos edificios altos construidos en las décadas de los
setenta y ochenta. Los de 12 plantas son los más frecuentes, seguidos de
aquellos con 18 o 14 pisos, construidos con la técnica de piezas
prefabricadas. Los menos abundantes, de 26 niveles, se hicieron bajo el
entonces novedoso método de moldes deslizantes.
Los llamados edificios de microbrigada han pasado a ser sinónimo de la
arquitectura socialista de Europa del este trasplantada al trópico. Se
llegó a proyectar que estos gigantes sustituyeran a la arquitectura
tradicional, además de dar cobijo al hombre nuevo. Hoy, a pesar de su
fealdad exterior, muchos de sus apartamentos son comprados por una
naciente clase media que aspira a ver a Cuba "desde arriba".
Orestes Figueroa obtuvo en 1979 un apartamento de tres dormitorios que
ahora quiere vender por 25.000 pesos convertibles. "Me lo gané después
de haberme pasado casi siete años trabajando como albañil y me lo
adjudicaron por mis méritos", cuenta con nostalgia. Ubicado en las
cercanías de la avenida Rancho Boyeros, el coloso en el que se ubica la
vivienda todavía se mantiene con cierta dignidad a diferencia de otros,
azotados por los problemas hidráulicos, la rotura de los ascensores y el
deterioro constructivo.
Ya jubilado, Figueroa nunca olvidará el momento en el que leyeron en una
asamblea el número de horas de trabajo voluntario que atesoraba para
obtener aquella vivienda. Era una tarde de miradas de interrogación y
cuchicheos entre quienes se disputaban un techo. Su pertenencia al
Partido Comunista y la participación en actividades políticas lo
ayudaron a alzarse como merecedor del apartamento. Esa noche no pudo
dormir de tanta felicidad.
Eran los tiempos en los que la "lealtad al proceso" funcionaba como
moneda invisible con la que se podía adquirir desde electrodomésticos,
el derecho a pasar las vacaciones en instalaciones turísticas, hasta la
asignación de una vivienda. No obstante, el feliz propietario tuvo que
pagar 6.000 pesos cubanos por su casa: el 10% del salario de 250 pesos
durante 20 años.
Con la despenalización del dólar a principios de la década de los
noventa y la posterior aparición del peso convertible, irrumpió una
nueva forma de "selección natural", donde el dinero recuperó su valor
para hacer transacciones. Sin embargo, no fue hasta finales de 2011 con
la legalización de la compra y venta de viviendas que miles de
apartamentos en barrios proletarios salieron al mercado.
Los microbrigadistas de antaño, como Figueroa, sopesan hoy la
posibilidad de cambiar la vivienda de sus desvelos por dinero contante y
sonante que les permita comprar algo más pequeño y contrarrestar lo bajo
de sus pensiones. Sueñan con encontrar un nuevo rico dispuesto a pagar
en efectivo, lo que una vez fue adquirido con esfuerzos laborales e
ideológicos.
Lizbeth forma parte del creciente sector de cubanos con acceso a la
moneda convertible. Siempre ha soñado vivir en un piso alto, pero no
tiene suficientes recursos para comprar una propiedad en un edificio
construido "en el capitalismo". En un país que crece más en horizontal
que hacia las nubes, el número de apartamentos en las alturas es
limitado y no hay mucho para elegir. En 2014, se construyeron en toda la
Isla apenas 25.037 viviendas, de las cuales más de la mitad por esfuerzo
propio.
"No quería el reparto Alamar, al este de La Habana, porque no me gusta
ese amontonamiento de edificios sin orden ni concierto", relata Lizbeth.
Con familia en el extranjero y un próspero negocio de diseño de
interiores, la profesional indagó en el Vedado, alrededor de los
edificios construidos por microbrigadas del Ministerio de Relaciones
Exteriores, el Instituto Cubano de Radio y Televisión y otras entidades
estatales. Sin embargo, los precios son altos en la zona más cercana al
malecón.
Su siguiente opción era la barriada de Nuevo Vedado, donde se concentran
la mayoría de estas moles que se erigieron en La Habana. Inmuebles con
patrocinadores tan disímiles como el Ministerio de Transporte, el de las
Fuerzas Armadas y el del Interior, el Ministerio del Trabajo y la
Seguridad Social o el de la Industria Básica, entre otros.
"Ese es un barrio de pinchos y comecandelas", asegura con sorna la
compradora que se topó con importes que no bajaban de los 25.000 pesos
convertibles. Fue en Alta Habana donde finalmente encontró algo ajustado
a su bolsillo entre los edificios de la Empresa Eléctrica y el Combinado
Avícola Nacional. A pesar de los prejuicios que pesan sobre las
viviendas hechas por microbrigadistas inexpertos, la joven sostiene que,
dada su reciente construcción, es poco probable que se derrumben o sean
declarados inhabitables.
Puertas adentro, muchos moradores han invertido en rehacer baños y
cocinas de lo que una vez fueron apartamentos estándar, pero la mayoría
de las fachadas muestra el inexorable paso del tiempo, con los balcones
desconchados, los ventanales de aluminio sin juntas y las áreas comunes
sin pintura ni lámparas. En casi todos, el suministro de agua solo dura
unas pocas horas al día, por lo que las terrazas y los pequeños patios
interiores se han llenado de tanques.
Estos gigantes de hormigón, que una vez fueron el símbolo de la
arquitectura revolucionaria, no han recibido mantenimiento en más de
tres décadas y las tuberías de agua han colapsado en varios puntos, las
filtraciones marcan el techo de infinidad de apartamentos, mientras los
vecinos se quejan de que su flamante coloso de concreto se ha convertido
en "un solar muy grande".
Los moradores iniciales, como Figueroa, se van marchando poco a poco.
Mientras Lizbeth hace planes del color con el que pintará las paredes de
su nueva vivienda, las luces led que colocará en la entrada y la
bañadera que instalará donde antes solo había una incómoda ducha. Las
precauciones antisísmicas con las que fueron construidos estos edificios
altos no previeron los terremotos de la economía.
Source: La clase media se apodera de los barrios proletarios -
http://www.14ymedio.com/nacional/clase-media-apodera-barrios-proletarios_0_1912008791.html
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
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