Part 2 — Was it really that bad?

Before continuing this narrative, allow me a brief detour — almost a personal footnote. What I share here arises from what I have lived and learned so far. These are living, shifting perceptions, and — as with anything honest — they may change over time. I offer them with the humility of someone who knows that looking at the past and the present is never a simple task. Some lines may cause discomfort; if that happens, I extend my sincere request for understanding.

If I had to answer quickly, I would say: yes, it was bad.But nothing is simple when observing a house that has endured decades of public neglect, private improvisation, and the silent struggle of those who tried to survive within its walls.

Through this process, I came to understand that the marks of scarcity are not just cracks or mold: they are traces of a social system that pushes vulnerable families into structures that were never meant to bear the weight of precarious living conditions. This is not a moral judgment — it is a lament over the absence of policies capable of reconciling heritage preservation with human dignity.

For some, the mere statement “this shouldn’t happen” may already raise an alarm. I understand. But having lived it up close, I realized that it is not elitist to defend the preservation of houses like this one; what is elitist is believing that tax exemptions alone would enable families — often without formal education or stable income — to maintain a protected heritage property on their own. It doesn’t work that way. It never has.

I remember a news piece filmed right here, with dona Elza, in the early 2000s. With the wisdom of someone who knows her home the way she knows her own body, she asked simple, devastating questions:

“And where would I get the money?”

“Specialized labor is expensive…”

“This is all Carrara marble.”

And there it was. A property tax exemption does not pay a builder, does not buy solid wood, does not reinforce a slab, does not rebuild a roof. When the government transfers responsibility but not the means, the outcome is always the same: an impossible equation.

And this is why the reader might ask: “Then how can you still argue that this kind of occupation shouldn’t happen?”The answer, which now seems clearer to me, is that the occupation of historic houses is not the cause of the problem — it is one of its most visible symptoms.

Public housing policy is insufficient. And when it does exist, it often benefits those who do not truly need it. As a result, vulnerable families end up finding shelter where they should not: in stifling basements, corroded structures, makeshift rooms that barely guarantee physical safety.

Here, in this house, the roof was caving in.There were improvised bathrooms, showers installed just inches from exposed wiring, rooms with no minimum ventilation. It wasn’t merely inadequate — it was dangerous.

Let it be very clear to the reader: dona Elza deserved — and truly deserved — to be the owner of this house. She did everything she could, with the care possible under her circumstances. My critical gaze never falls on those who lived here, but rather on those who, with resources and decision-making power, offer the simplistic solution of “just not charging taxes” — an answer far too small for a problem so deep and complex.

And it is from this perspective — perhaps uncomfortable, but honest — that I finally begin to tell the story of the restoration process…