Emigration Procedures in the Civil Registry of Cienfuegos, Cuba, Take Forever and Provoke Anxiety

“Three months ago I requested the registrations I need to process my Spanish citizenship. Since then, I have come six times”

Cienfuegos Civil Registry Office, in the historic center of the city / 14ymedio

14ymedio bigger14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Cienfuegos, 12 January 2024 / The sun has barely risen and the line already extends to the outskirts of the Cienfuegos Civil Registry, in the historic center of the city. Some stand in front of the large entrance gate; others look for accommodation on the sidewalk or under the overhang of a nearby facade. Among the eyes that remain fixed on the number 2309 of Santa Cruz Street are those of Natalia, who must request the birth registrations of her parents. “I am completing my file to apply for Spanish nationality,” she explains.

She is another face of the Cubans who escape, not only on the rafts that are launched into the sea, crossing the Darién jungle or opting for the route to the south, but also in every Civil Registry office. Most of those who apply for a birth, marriage or death certificate in Cienfuegos have the same goal: to get out and leave behind the crisis, the long blackouts and the hopelessness.

Each person waiting in line has a story in which boredom and illusion are mixed. There is the retiree who has has come four times to correct an error in his mother’s death certificate. “If I don’t make the transfer and have her house in my name, I can’t sell it.” The reason for his rush is similar to Natalia’s: “I want to meet my son who is in Miami and take part of the money from the sale.”

“You get here and think it’s going to be easy but then go from frustration to disgust,” laments Natalia

The office receives an avalanche of applications. According to the Provincial Directorate of Justice in Cienfuegos, in January 2023 almost 20,100 certifications were issued, about 11,600 more than in the same period last year. The entry into force, in 2022, of the Democratic Memory Law in Spain has led thousands of Cubans to dust off their origins to obtain a European passport. During 2024, the trend was maintained, also egged on by the Humanitarian Parole Program implemented in 2023 by the United States.

“You get here and think it’s going to be easy but then go from frustration to disgust,” laments Natalia. An employee has opened the main door of the Civil Registry and begins to shout directions to those waiting in line. In a few minutes, the line is restructured according to each type of procedure, and some go to the central courtyard to line up. Others occupy positions in the access corridor in front of the office of a bored-looking receptionist.

“Three months ago I requested the registration I need to process Spanish citizenship. Since then, I have come six times, and the unthinkable has happened to me. My dad supposedly did not appear registered until the end of the working day due to lack of electricity,” Natalia tells this newspaper. Each new visit is “a bitter drink” and a test of her nerves.

“The employees of this place now know me and even treat me kindly, but I don’t end up with the documents.” Like the office furniture, Natalia feels that she has become one more object between those walls without solving her problem. “All I need is a couple of pieces of paper; that’s what separates me right now from my new life.”

Although announcements of digitization of archives and records are frequent in the official press, in the place on Santa Cruz Street nothing seems to have changed in two centuries with respect to the way in which certifications are written and issued. “An employee made a mistake when transcribing my divorce certificate. He changed one letter in my last name and now I have to start the whole process again,” says a young man who arrived at dawn to “be one of the first to enter.”

“Right now we are just a little busy; two of the five employees we had last year have left. We are also emigrating, all day we have to be in contact with people who leave. It’s like working at an airport; all the time you are thinking about a trip,” says an employee who prefers anonymity. “Everything falls on us, the requests that are made here and also those that are made on the internet, through digital platforms.”

“One of the biggest problems we have is that with this ’law of grandchildren’ many people are requesting documents that are a century or more old and that are not digitized,” she adds. “You have to immerse yourself in a lot of very old books, full of dust, fragile and sometimes with a level of deterioration that it is difficult to read a name or surname clearly.” The woman has had several health problems related to her work.

“Allergies, skin problems are very common, and a few years ago I got a staphylococcus infection that I caught here and was on sick leave for three months,” she explains. Salaries don’t help either. Normally, employees don’t earn more than 10,000 pesos a month, a little more than 30 dollars at the informal exchange rate. “That’s why what happens happens: many people survive by taking orders from special customers,” she adds.

“Right now we are just a little busy; two of the five employees we had last year have left”

The “special clients” that the employee talks about are people who, unlike Natalia, have enough resources to skip the line outside the Civil Registry. They are those who slip a certain amount of money into the right hands to speed up the time to obtain a birth certificate, an old record of their grandparents’ marriage or proof that a brother died in that city almost half a century ago.

In the intricate networks of the Cuban black market, notary services, bureaucratic procedures and access to the oldest archives also have their price. “I manage powers of attorney, bachelorhood, criminal records, death registrations, marriage and birth certificates, titles and notes, in addition to legalizations in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” reads an advertisement on a digital classifieds site.

“The prices vary according to the trouble you have and the complexity of the procedure,” clarifies the solicitous seller after a query from this newspaper. “For 20,000 pesos we get the certification of his two grandparents and he has them in his hands in less than a month, with all the data verified and without errors, nothing to be corrected because all the work is done impeccably, without typos, each surname with its correct spelling and the accents where they go.” For a higher price, you can reconstruct and even falsify from scratch a family tree that adapts to any requirement abroad. “If Galician, Galician; if you prefer Basque, then Basque,” he adds with ease when entering into confidence.

The digital path through the page of the Ministry of Justice is “wasted time,” according to Luis Ángel, another Cienfuegan who believed the official propaganda. “I went online, I made the request with all the data they asked me for, and six months later I had to come in person because they did not have the certificate ready or an answer for the delay.” In this case, as in so many with the Cuban bureaucracy, the 47-year-old man advises going personally to the records: “Seeing is believing,” he concludes.

A painting on the wall of the Santa Cruz Street registry shows an image of Raúl Castro. Under his gaze, people waiting to complete a procedure also weave relationships. “I want to go to Seville, I’m going to leave you my email in case we can meet there,” says a woman to a young woman with a small child who reaches out to take the small piece of paper with the data.

“Don’t stay in Madrid, rents are very expensive,” recommends a man to another who only needs to correct an error in his grandmother’s name to complete the file that will turn him into a Cuban Spaniard. The conversation is interrupted by the scream of the receptionist. “There are only two computers working, and we will attend to a few cases, remember that after noon we will have a blackout, so do not give the last place in line to anyone.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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