Minjus.gob.cu Solicitudes -

"I reviewed your claim," Fuentes said, not sitting down. "The 'temporary occupancy' was never legally renewed after 2002. That means the state's claim expired. The house is yours. But..."

A real person? Or a bot? She typed: "Necesito saber si mi solicitud #0047823 está en estudio legal o archivada."

Elena stared at the form. Then she picked up the pen.

Her grandmother, Abuela Clara, shuffled into the room with two cups of café cubano. "Still staring at that screen?" minjus.gob.cu solicitudes

"Bienvenido al sistema de asistencia MINJUS. Por favor, espere."

For three years, Elena had been trying to reclaim her family’s vivienda —the small house in Centro Habana that her father had built brick by brick in the 1950s. After he passed, a bureaucratic fog descended. The state had registered the property under a "temporary occupancy" clause during a renovation project in the 90s. That "temporary" status had lasted twenty-five years.

Then she went home and, for the first time in six months, closed her laptop. The blue glow of minjus.gob.cu faded to black. But the door, she realized, had finally opened. "I reviewed your claim," Fuentes said, not sitting down

Licenciada Fuentes pulled a single sheet from the file. It was a new form. Solicitud de Compensación Habitacional. "The new law allows two paths: eviction or co-solution. You can request a state apartment for the current occupants. It takes longer, but no one loses their home."

But she noticed something. The tracker had a new feature: a chat icon. A tiny blue speech bubble in the corner. She clicked it.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She had scanned her father's escritura (title deed), her birth certificate, her carnet de identidad , and a sworn statement from the neighbor who remembered the house before the change. The house is yours

A name. A real name. Elena wrote it on her palm with a pen.

Solicitud # 0047823.