"30 years ago they gave me up for dead twice and I'm still alive"

PalmaWhen someone arrives for the first time at the headquarters of the

Since 1994, the Siloé association has been supporting people in situations of vulnerability with HIV in two homes contracted with the IMAS (Institut Mallorquí d'Afers Socials): 10 places in Santa Eugènia and 5 in the Jonquet neighborhood, in Palma. The origin of the project is linked to prison and dignified death. "It was done because the prison chaplain saw how people were dying in inhumane conditions. It was the years of AIDS, which affected a great many people," explains Marga Valero, manager of the entity. "Initially, it was a home for a dignified death, but 30 years later we have gone further: it is not only a space for a good death, but also for living with dignity".

So far, the center has served about 235 people in 32 years. The profile has changed. “When I started 21 years ago, most were men. Today, there are the same number of men as women”, says Valero. The average age is around 55 years and HIV is no longer the central element of their situation, but rather the social, mental and sanitary consequences of very hard life trajectories.

Comprehensive care

The two houses have different functions. Santa Eugènia houses individuals with a higher level of dependency, while El Jonquet concentrates more autonomous people. “In Palma, we ensure they can go to their primary care physician alone. However, we accompany them to many specialists because the information doesn't reach us or return to us as it should,” explains Marga Vidal, director of Siloé's shelters. The care is comprehensive: they have their own kitchen, laundry, 24-hour health technicians, and therapeutic activities such as tai chi, body movement, writing, and cognitive workshops. They also go on outings, for example, to swim at the beach and in municipal pools. However, they don't go to the Santa Eugènia one. Not because anyone has prohibited them, but because at the entrance there is a sign indicating that access is not permitted for people with infectious diseases. “We haven't even asked. We have to comply with the law, and we go swimming elsewhere,” states Valero.

Nevertheless, the relationship with the municipality is good: “When anything happens, they notify us, and during the pandemic, they brought us food and left it at the barrier,” explains the manager. But it hasn't always been like this: when Siloé settled in the house, there were demonstrations against their presence. “It should be noted that at that time we had many people coming from prison, and now they are the minority,” he adds.

In the Siloé houses, residents participate in daily life and the maintenance of the space. “Each person has tasks assigned according to their abilities”, explains Valero. A user in a wheelchair is in charge of cleaning the lower windows; another, those in the higher parts, for example. The objective is to maintain routines, autonomy, and a sense of responsibility within each person's capabilities.

The garden is a central piece of life at Siloé. It is not just an outdoor space, but a place of memory and continuity. Each person, if they wish, chooses which tree to plant there: roses, pomegranate trees, jujube trees… “There is a bit of everything”, says Valero. “It is a closing and accompaniment task, their legacy”. Once planted, the bond continues: “When a person enters here, they are also responsible for watering and caring for their plant”. The gesture thus becomes a silent form of permanence within the house.

The operation of the center cannot be understood without the link to the prison system and social vulnerability. The places are agreed with IMAS and people also arrive there from prisons. Access is made through waiting lists and social assessment. “If it weren’t for this, we wouldn’t be able to bear the cost of managing the two houses for a year”, says Vidal. Some users serve sentences under an open regime, with judicial monitoring and rule control. When they are not respected, measures are applied that can lead to temporary or definitive expulsion.

Over the years, the user profile has changed remarkably. “HIV today is not so important”, summarizes Valero. Most are people with complex social and health burdens, but with the virus controlled and undetectable. What persists is another type of wound: the lack of a network. Many have no family or have it very weakened after years of drug use, prison, or homelessness. “There are burnt-out families, especially siblings. It’s not a weekly contact”, explains Vidal. In some cases, the bond has been completely broken; in others, it is slowly rebuilt. “A user found her children again after 30 years. Another user saw his mother again after 40 years without contact”, adds the director.

32 years of survival

A story that explains the complexity of the project is that of Capi. He is 74 years old and has been part of Siloé since its beginnings. He was a municipal police officer, but he became corrupt: he issued fines, collected them himself, and then, as he recounts, spent the money at the bingo. Over time, his criminal trajectory became darker and led to more serious offenses. “I stole two million pesetas from a church”, he explains without drama. He then went through a period of running away, excesses, and life disorder that led him to become infected with HIV.

His journey ended in prison, where his health deteriorated to a critical point, very different from the point he is at now. “I’m great. They declared me dead twice and they took me out of prison in 1994 because I was dying. I’m already 74 years old and I’m still alive. And I’ll reach 100!”, he says, laughing. He arrived at Siloé when he practically had no alternatives left, after losing his house and being left without resources, and he still lives there. “I lived on the second floor in the Fortí tower and the thing I regret most is that they didn’t let me recover even two books I loved”, he laments.

Today, more than three decades later, he speaks of the center as the only possible place to be at peace. “I really like being here, because this is my home”, he says. His story moves between irony and a fragmented memory. “I will go to hell, but not yet”, he adds, laughing. Amidst jokes and scattered memories, fellow residents and friends who are no longer here also appear, as does a life marked by excesses, but also by a survival that he himself doesn't quite explain.

Enrique, 65 years old, represents another trajectory within the same space. He has passed through the street and other centers before returning to Siloé five months ago. "I had already been at Siloé for three years... I left, but I returned in November. I have always been here, at the Santa Eugènia house," he explains. His current life is based on routine and coexistence. "I'm very well here, because I've been on the street for a couple of years and it's very, very hard," he says.

Accompaniment until the end

The day-to-day life at Siloé combines structure and flexibility. There are schedules for workshops, medical visits, external activities, and outings with volunteers. Some weekends they go out for tapas or a walk. But freedom is not the same for everyone: it depends on each person's physical, mental, or judicial state. The center also hosts people serving sentences under an open regime. “If they don't follow the rules, they go back to prison,” explains Vidal. Monitoring is constant and periodic reports are made.

In parallel, there is a dimension that permeates the entire life of the center: the end of life. Siloé has two specific rooms for people in situations of greater fragility or in terminal processes. When this happens, the center transforms. “When the moment of death arrives, it's incredible: in the day-to-day life the residents are very demanding, but when someone enters the process, the whole center transforms. Everyone gets involved,” says Valero. The rhythm stops being institutional and becomes completely human. “It's marked by who is dying,” he adds. Schedules, silences, and presences are altered. The vast majority of residents choose to die at the house, surrounded by the people with whom they have shared years of coexistence.

The garden is the first thing someone sees when they arrive at the house and the last thing they see when they leave. It is not an ornamental space, but a record of lives. A place where memory is not abstract, but visible. Each tree continues to grow as a trace of a story already concluded, but which still forms part of the place and the hearts of the people who live there.