The timing of the initial anti-gentrification demonstrations in Mexico City was strategically chosen to coincide with the Fourth of July, the United States’ Independence Day.
Protesters convened in Parque México, situated in the Condesa district, which has become ground zero for gentrification within the Mexican capital. Their aim was to voice a range of grievances related to the changing landscape of their city.
The primary concerns revolved around soaring rental costs, the proliferation of unregulated vacation rentals, and the continuous influx of American and European residents into fashionable neighborhoods such as Condesa, Roma, and La Juárez. These factors, demonstrators argued, were displacing long-term residents.
In Condesa, estimations suggest that approximately one in five residences now functions as a short-term rental or tourist accommodation.
Beyond financial issues, concerns were also raised regarding subtler cultural shifts, such as restaurant menus being presented in English or taco stands offering milder hot sauces to accommodate foreign visitors’ preferences.
While the protest began peacefully, tensions escalated as demonstrators moved through the gentrified streets.
Radical elements within the group targeted coffee shops and boutique stores catering to tourists, damaging property, intimidating patrons, and spraying graffiti while chanting “Fuera Gringo!”, which translates to “Gringos Out!”.
President Claudia Sheinbaum addressed the matter at her subsequent daily press conference, denouncing the violence as “xenophobic”.
“Regardless of the legitimacy of the cause, as is the case with gentrification, the solution cannot be to simply demand that people of other nationalities leave our country,” she stated.
Setting aside the actions of masked radicals, the motivations of many protestors stemmed from personal experiences, such as that of Erika Aguilar.
After her family had rented the same Mexico City apartment for more than 45 years, their secure existence was disrupted in 2017.
Living in the Prim Building, a 1920s architectural treasure in La Juárez, they received an unexpected visit from officials bearing eviction notices.
Erika recalls the devastating news: “They went to every apartment in the building, informing us that we had until the end of the month to vacate because our rental contracts would not be renewed.”
“You can imagine my mother’s reaction,” Erika adds, her voice momentarily faltering. “She had lived there since 1977.”
The property owners were selling to a real estate company, but they presented the residents with a final, albeit improbable, proposition.
“They said that if we could raise 53 million pesos ($2.9 million; £2.1 million) within two weeks, we could keep the building,” she recounts with a wry laugh.
“It’s an exorbitant amount! At the time, new apartments were available for around 1 to 1.5 million pesos ($50,000 to $80,000).”
Today, Erika’s former home is shrouded in tarpaulin and scaffolding as construction crews transform it into luxury “one, two and three-bed apartments designed for short and medium-term rentals,” as advertised on the company’s website.
“It’s not a project intended for people like me,” comments Erika, a newspaper layout designer. “It’s for short-term rentals in dollars. In fact, even before we were forced to leave, we were already seeing rents being quoted in dollars in some buildings.”
Erika and her family now reside far from the city center, officially within the neighboring state, almost two hours away by public transport. This exemplifies what activist Sergio González terms “losing the right of centrality, with all its implications.”
His organization has documented over 4,000 instances of “forced displacement of residents with roots” from the La Juárez district in the last decade. He himself was one of those displaced.
“We are facing what we call an urban war,” he declared at a subsequent anti-gentrification protest held after the Fourth of July demonstration.
“The core issue is the land itself – who has the right to it and who does not.” He stated that the majority of residents evicted from his neighborhood were unable to remain in the city. “They have lost rights that are protected under the city’s constitution.”
“The first apartment I rented here cost around 4,000 pesos a month in 2007,” Sergio explained. “Today, that same apartment costs more than ten times as much. It’s outrageous. It’s pure speculation.”
In response to escalating public discontent, Mexico City’s mayor, Clara Brugada, introduced a 14-point plan aimed at regulating rental prices, safeguarding long-term residents, and constructing new social housing at affordable rates.
However, for Sergio and countless others, the mayor’s plan is insufficient and overdue. He believes that the administration must take more decisive action to address the root causes of gentrification in Mexico.
“We have a local and federal government that continues to promote a neoliberal economic model, which remains unchanged,” Sergio asserts.
“Despite improvements to the social safety net for people, which I personally commend, the fundamental economic paradigm that governs them has not shifted.”
He characterized the mayor’s measures as “palliative” and likened them to “closing the barn door after the horse has bolted.”
Critics argue that Claudia Sheinbaum failed to adequately address the issue during her tenure as the capital’s mayor. In fact, they contend that she actively encouraged foreigners to relocate to Mexico City by signing a partnership agreement with Airbnb in 2022 to promote tourism and digital nomadism.
Erika assigns blame to a range of actors for her family’s displacement, including the building’s former owners for selling to a real estate development company, the city government for failing to protect long-term residents, and even the tenants themselves for not taking earlier action against the encroaching gentrification.
However, she does not particularly fault the foreigners who have flocked to Mexico, especially during the coronavirus pandemic. “If I had the means to live better elsewhere, I’d probably do it too,” she concedes, “and tourism has been beneficial for Mexico, as it generates income.”
Nevertheless, numerous others, including many who participated in the recent marches, do place blame on the influx of American and European arrivals, at least in part. They accuse them of being insensitive to Mexican customs, failing to learn Spanish, and, in many cases, neglecting to pay taxes.
The wave of affluent Americans heading south is particularly irritating to some when contrasted with the Trump administration’s harsh treatment of Mexican and other immigrants in the US. Activists argue that immigration is deemed problematic when traveling from south to north but is seemingly acceptable in the opposite direction.
Returning to the site of the Fourth of July protest, the expansive esplanade at Parque México, the graffiti calling for “Yankees Out!” has been painted over, and the early-morning boxing and salsa classes continue as usual, often conducted in English rather than Spanish.
Given the high cost of living and the polarized political climate in the US, the allure of the leafy streets of Condesa is undeniable.
“It’s quiet, walkable, and the park is obviously a major draw. It’s peaceful. We’ve really enjoyed it,” says Richard Alsobrooks, who is visiting Mexico City with his wife, Alexis, from Portland, Oregon.
As they explore the Mexican capital, they acknowledge that they are considering relocating there one day. “Obviously, we don’t want to contribute to gentrification,” says Alexis, recognizing the scope of the problem.
“But you need to have a good job in the US, and the dollar goes much further here. So, I can understand the appeal, especially for those who can work remotely.”
Richard, who works for a major US sportswear company, observes that “the cost of living in America is too high” and often predicated on the expectation of working until one’s 70s.
However, they both believe that relocating responsibly is possible. “If you treat those around you with respect and strive to become part of the community, that goes a long way compared to trying to impose your own culture,” Richard suggests.
“Exactly,” Alexis agrees. “Learn the language and pay your taxes!”
Nevertheless, the rapid pace of change in Mexico City over the past decade has had detrimental consequences.
Erika’s family life has been profoundly disrupted in a matter of months, and her mother has struggled with depression. As we stroll through her former neighborhood streets in La Juárez, the memories come flooding back.
“That was a great bar called La Alegría, over there was the tortillería [tortilla shop], the tlapalería [hardware shop], and I used to buy candies in that place when I was little,” Erika says, gesturing toward a nearby shop.
“Most of all, I miss the people, the community. There are hardly any families or children here anymore.”
Most of those small businesses have vanished, replaced by trendy cafes and expensive restaurants.
“I think the soul of La Juárez has died a bit,” she laments. “It’s as if you’ve been living in a forest, and gradually the trees are uprooted, and then suddenly you realize you’re living in a desert.”
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