Displacement in Puerto Rico

Displaced Never Again. This direct and forceful message adorned protest banners carried by activists of La Colectiva Feminista en Construcción (The Feminist Collective in Construction, La Cole) at a demonstration last spring against government policies the protesters say have spurred widespread displacement.

The feminist organization is condemning government corruption, privatization, and white-collar abuses oppressing the Puerto Rican working class. Calling for an end to policies and laws they say intentionally create housing shortages and displacement, La Cole accuses the government of encouraging un Puerto Rico sin puertorriqueños, a Puerto Rico without Puerto Ricans. I’ve been here almost two years and I’ve seen enough to wholeheartedly agree.

As a journalist with roots in Puerto Rico that go back seven generations, I hear and feel the cries of my people in every interview and in every conversation about decolonization. Whether present at una manifestación – a demonstration – or catching a protest’s livestream, the images of our collective struggle are seared in my consciousness.

Born and raised in New York City (to Puerto Rican parents), I spent most of my life in the U.S. But it never felt like home.

After graduating from university, I started traveling internationally, often thinking about where to move next. Thirty-four countries later, I’d almost found it — in Tanzania in 2021. There, I began to hear the ancestors’ whispers: vibrant red flamboyán trees, like those from my childhood summers in Borikén (Puerto Rico’s Indigenous name), the warmth of the Tanzanian people reminded me of my culture, almost as much as the rooster’s early morning crow. These experiences stirred in my soul.

Back in the states, I dreamed of Freddie, a deceased cousin. I felt the aura of my deceased aunt, Titi Eva. That year, I took three trips to Borikén, reconnecting with my family, culture, and history. On November 30, 2021 with a one-way ticket scanned to my cellphone, I boarded a plane and moved to my ancestral motherland. That day was the beginning of my rebirth.

So now, when I write about the challenges facing Puerto Ricans, these stories are deeply personal.

Last spring, on International Women’s Day, protesters from the feminist group La Cole directed their rage toward the offices of La Junta, the non-elected, U.S.-imposed financial supervisory board formed as part of PROMESA, the 2016 congressional legislation to help the archipelago out of its original $73 billion in debt. PROMESA (Puerto Rico Oversight, Management and Economic Stability Act), was enacted during the Obama administration to manage the finances of Borikén.

The protesters say displacement is a significant problem not just in their community of Río Piedras (suburban San Juan), but also throughout Puerto Rico. The facts and statistics I’ve uncovered in my reporting suggest they are correct. As a proud Boricua who now lives on this archipelago, writing about displacement is my way of joining la lucha.

The protesters say the actions and policies of La Junta are accelerating displacement. They cite legislation Puerto Rican lawmakers enacted over a decade ago such as the Individual Investors Act (Ley 22) in 2012 that provides tax exemptions to eligible new residents of the archipelago, effectively shielding 100% of their income from interest, capital gains, and dividends.

Updated in July 2019, Ley 22 became Ley 60, the Tax Incentive Code intended to stimulate the U.S. territory’s economic recovery. The code encourages people to move to Puerto Rico, with the caveat that they must have not lived here for at least the past 10 years.

As a consequence of this residency requirement, many of those benefiting from Ley 60 are wealthy U.S. citizens (non-Puerto Ricans).

Ley 60 isn’t the only force encouraging displacement — Hurricane María, which devastated the archipelago in 2017, attracted wealthy non-islanders looking to buy properties for cash.

Of course, opportunistic land buys in the wake of catastrophic events isn't limited to Puerto Rico. In Hawai’i, (or Hawaii), state officials are exploring whether they can prohibit opportunistic land purchases by outsiders in the wake of the devastating wildfires on Maui. Puerto Ricans are already familiar with the rush by wealthy outsiders to buy real estate after a calamity. Shortly after Hurricane María, wealthy people who could pay cash descended on the island, buying up property as investments or as vacation homes. This made it difficult or impossible for middle-class and working-class Puerto Ricans to compete in the housing market.

This dynamic exacerbated the already acute shortage of affordable housing and what the Puerto Rican government calls social-interest housing, a program to meet the housing needs of vulnerable populations.

The increase in short-term rentals such as Airbnb in Puerto Rico has also put a dent in the supply of affordable housing. The number of vacation rentals has skyrocketed, with heavier concentrations in coastal towns including Rincón, Aguadilla, Isabela, and Cabo Rojo on the west, and Dorado, Loíza, and San Juan in the north.

According to the Center for a New Economy December 2022 Policy Brief, The Impact of Short-Term Rentals in Puerto Rico: 2014-2020, the short-term rental ‘‘market is becoming increasingly concentrated where hosts accumulate a disproportionate share of properties.”

In the brief, some residents said individual investors, particularly those who have obtained tax exemptions through Ley 60, have hoarded properties, evicted households, and turned housing units into STRs.

Greater restrictions on these rentals may come as a result of a Puerto Rico House of Representatives review of legislation known as Proyecto de la Cámara (HR Project) 1557.

It is unlikely this legislation, even if voted into law, will be a panacea for the affordable housing crisis, said Raúl Santiago Bartolomei, assistant professor at the Graduate School of Planning at the University of Puerto Rico in an interview with palabra. In my experience tracking the displacement dilemma, I unfortunately agree with Santiago Bartolomei’s sentiments.

Six miles east of the main island sits Vieques, known as La Isla Nena, a tiny 52-square-mile island boasting pristine shorelines, a laid-back vibe, and the world’s brightest bioluminescent bay. The affordable housing crisis also lives there, with a unique difference — local residents have been systemically displaced since 1941 when the U.S. Navy took over nearly 70% of the island to establish a military base for bombing practice.

In an interview with palabra, Vieques native Zaida Torres sums it up: “We’ve been confronting displacement since our fight against the U.S. Navy, only now it’s different, Americans and others come here, offering exorbitant prices for our homes — greatly increasing housing costs. For example, a residence costing $80,000, they (the foreigners) pay $200,000 — in cash! Those struggling economically see it as a viable alternative.” While I can understand a financial need to sell their homes, I’ve heard of cases where those same people (who moved stateside), later return to Puerto Rico seeking to purchase a new home but can’t afford it.

One of my priorities in moving here is to write our stories, focusing on the strength and beauty of our people. It took me 53 years to understand that Borikén was always home. Honoring this ancestral motherland means fighting so we can stay because for me, leaving is not an option.

Though the situation is dire, I see increased awareness around the subject — one tied to our sense of cultural identity, pride, and a willingness to fight for this land on behalf of future generations. Local artists are using their music as a platform to draw attention to this (and other) struggles. My weapons in this fight are along the lines of my spoken word poetry at open mic nights in heavily tourist-trafficked Viejo San Juan. Currently, I’m working on my first poemario where many of my poems discuss displacement and colonization.

As long as I have breath, I will continue writing. As long as I have life, I will continue luchando.

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