Mexico City’s divisive Gentrification debate
On a recent Saturday morning in Mexico City’s Roma Norte, a group of long-time residents gathered in the shadow of a new luxury apartment tower. Holding banners and chanting slogans, they accused developers of pushing out working-class families in the name of progress. “This isn’t our neighborhood anymore,” said protester Frida López, a schoolteacher whose family has lived in the area for three generations. “We’re being priced out by people who don’t even speak Spanish, and the government is doing nothing to protect us.”
The scene is part of a growing backlash against gentrification in Mexico’s capital, where neighborhoods once known for their vibrant local culture are rapidly transforming under the weight of foreign investment, Airbnb rentals, and a surge in remote workers drawn by the city’s affordability compared with North America and Europe. Rental prices in central districts have more than doubled in the past five years, according to city data, while evictions of tenants on older leases are on the rise.
Critics argue that this transformation is erasing the city’s social fabric. “The tortilla shops, the corner taquerías, the neighborhood markets—they’re disappearing, replaced by cafés and co-working spaces,” said López. “And with them, the sense of community that made these places special.” Protests against gentrification have become more frequent in 2025, particularly after city authorities approved rezoning permits allowing taller buildings in Condesa and Roma, two neighborhoods already under intense development pressure.
But not everyone sees gentrification as a threat. Supporters point to falling crime rates, cleaner streets, and new employment opportunities. “Before the investment came in, these neighborhoods were neglected and unsafe,” said Miguel Sánchez, a property developer working on a mixed-use project in Juárez. “Now, they attract tourism, businesses, and jobs. We’re creating economic growth that benefits everyone.” Sánchez argues that many long-term residents are able to sell their properties at record-high prices, giving them financial security they might never have achieved otherwise.
Economists note that Mexico City’s situation mirrors trends in other global capitals, from Lisbon to Istanbul, where digital nomads and real estate investors reshape historic districts. “The problem is not unique to Mexico,” said urban planning specialist Ana García of the National Autonomous University. “But here, the inequalities are more visible, because the contrast between wealthy newcomers and low-income residents is stark. Without regulation, the displacement will continue.”
City officials insist they are aware of the problem. Mayor Claudia Brugada has pledged to review rental protections and regulate short-term vacation platforms, but critics say little has been done in practice. “The government benefits from increased tax revenues and foreign currency,” said García. “That makes it hard to prioritize residents over investors.”
Meanwhile, the backlash grows louder. In June, residents of Coyoacán staged a sit-in to block the demolition of a historic home slated for redevelopment into luxury flats. The protest ended in a tense standoff with police, underscoring the high emotions surrounding the issue.
For families like the Lópezes, the stakes are deeply personal. “My parents built their lives here,” Frida said. “We don’t want to leave, but if rents keep rising, we may have no choice.”
Yet others, like Sánchez, insist that halting development would do more harm than good. “If we stop investment, we stop progress,” he said. “The city can’t freeze in time.”
Mexico City now finds itself at a crossroads. Its neighborhoods, rich in history and culture, are also attractive to global capital and tourism. Balancing these competing pressures—protecting residents while embracing growth—may be one of the defining urban challenges of the decade.
For now, the protests and new high-rises continue side by side, each a reflection of a city struggling to define its future.