The Ordeal of High-Rise Buildings Outside Havana
HAVANA TIMES – In mid-May, a 19-year-old woman committed suicide by throwing herself from the 18-story building in the Montecarlo neighborhood of the city of Camagüey.
Her youth and the unexpected nature of the event made the news go viral on social media. Numerous photos and videos were published in the following days. The collective morbid curiosity reached the point of showing the young woman’s remains just minutes after she had taken her life, before they were even covered. The images were shocking—not only because of the tragedy itself, but also because of the contrast between her dramatic death and the piles of garbage and weeds surrounding her body.
Little has changed in that building, one of the tallest in the Camagüey capital. Trash continues to accumulate around it, the hallways and other common areas remain unlit and unguarded, and residents still face daily struggles with water shortages and power outages.
“This feels worse than a prison. Many of us are sick, some with diarrhea, others with dengue, without water, without electricity, surrounded by mosquitoes. Most of us cook with charcoal, because we don’t have gas,” complained a resident last September. The epidemiological situation was so serious that there were even rumors that the building might be quarantined to prevent the spread of diseases.
“In the end, they did nothing. The dengue, or whatever it was, only began to subside when practically everyone had already gotten sick. We became immune by force,” said neighbor Ormany Urriba. Now, he said, people fear “the ‘Matanzas virus’ (where a massive chikungunya outbreak has been recorded). With the poor sanitary conditions we have here, a disaster could happen,” he warned.
“Sick” Buildings That Are Hard to Manage
With twelve buildings taller than six stories, Camagüey has the highest number of such structures outside Havana. Among them stands out the “26-story” building—the tallest in Cuba outside the capital— inaugurated in July 1989, when the province hosted national celebrations for July 26.
It was in honor of that date—the most important in Cuba’s communist calendar—that it was decided to raise the building to 26 stories. The project was part of a broader plan that included a public plaza, two 18-story buildings, and the headquarters of the Provincial Assembly, now the provincial government.
The area had been envisioned as a new administrative center for the city, which meant it would receive “priority attention,” recalls a resident of the “26” who moved there in the early 1990s. “Living here was a privilege: every apartment received a quota of liquefied gas, and the buildings were connected to a special electrical circuit that never lost power. There was even a staff payroll for cleaning and minor repairs, and every three or four years the exteriors and common areas were painted. Nothing like the situation we’re in today. We’ve even gone without building administration, and apartments have been robbed because anyone can walk in as if they owned the place,” he lamented.
Taking advantage of the lack of access control, in 2014 two teenagers climbed to the rooftop intending to carry out a suicide pact. In the end, one of them threw himself into the void. Since then, a door has been installed at the main entrance, “but many times, the residents themselves leave it open—out of carelessness or convenience.”
“When the power goes out, it’s a domino effect. No electricity means no water, no elevators. In my building, one elevator has been out of order since the time of constant blackouts. The other one is in bad shape, patched together for the same reason. When unexpected power cuts hit, the surviving elevator breaks down or people get trapped, requiring rescue teams from the fire department. If we knew the blackout schedule, we could at least avoid those scares,” complained journalist Olga Lilia Vilató, who lives in one of the 18-story buildings near the plaza. The “sick building” condition she used to describe her home could apply to any other high-rise in the city.
Cuba’s Ministry of Construction classifies as “tall buildings” all structures six or more stories high, which according to national standards must have elevators and administrative staff.
During the 1970s and 1980s, the government built dozens of these across Havana and provincial capitals, mainly as housing. Their construction relied on prefabricated technologies imported from the European Socialist Bloc, which were not always well adapted to the island’s conditions.
In Cuba’s real estate market, apartments in the “high-rises of the Revolution” are typically priced significantly lower than those in “capitalist buildings” (built before 1959), but higher than those in “microbrigade buildings” (up to five stories, built with lower quality in working-class neighborhoods).
“There are many reasons—location, apartment size—but I think the determining factor is their state of preservation. Most high-rises built after 1959 have deteriorated plumbing and electrical systems, neglected common spaces, and abandoned green areas, often turned into garbage dumps. These are big, complex buildings that are very difficult to manage,” says Maykel Oliva, a real estate agent specializing in central Cuban provinces.
A report published in September by the official Sancti Spiritus newspaper Escambray supports his view. In Sancti Spíritus, the only high-rise building in the provincial capital—a 12-story completed in 1986, also in honor of July 26—shows severe deterioration. Municipal authorities admit they lack the resources to fix it, insisting that the residents’ council should at least handle minor maintenance. But the residents refuse to form such a body. “Even though we’ve called meetings, it’s been impossible to get them to participate,” officials from the municipal housing department told the paper.
The regulation governing the management of multi-family buildings dates back to 1991 and is no longer compatible with the country’s current conditions, officials acknowledged. Decades ago, the state could handle building maintenance without requiring much involvement from residents—but that’s no longer the case.
Nor can the cost be shifted to residents. In the midst of the deepest economic crisis in sixty years, it’s unthinkable that residents’ councils could gather the funds to maintain their buildings. “A sack of cement costs more than my monthly salary, and all prices are like that. How can anyone think we could keep the building up when most families can barely eat?” asked Ormany Urriba.
Until a few years ago, the central government occasionally launched repair and renovation programs for high-rises in Havana, focusing on roofs and elevators. Those efforts sometimes extended to other provinces, helping prolong the life of the buildings. But times have changed—and now, the government can barely ensure that the trash doesn’t end up surrounding them.