The Price of Peace in El Salvador

SAN SALVADOR, EL SALVADOR — Eviction, for downtown street vendors here, was no surprise. It was a sentence they’d been waiting for.

Maritza Trejo first heard the rumors three years ago. As a safeguard, she managed to rent a place that she used as a warehouse for her merchandise. But it was still jarring when, in late February, she and other vendors received notice that they must vacate downtown within 72 hours. The notice came from the mayor’s office, part of a multiphase initiative to revitalize the area. The vendors were told that they’d be relocated, but that hasn’t happened.

Trejo has sold costume and antique jewelry, keychains and magnets in the downtown area for 25 years. But her bestsellers? Anything with President Nayib Bukele’s face on it.

Trejo knows firsthand that extortion and death once reigned over San Salvador. Bukele, who was mayor from 2015 to 2018, promised to end all that. When he ran for president in 2019, Trejo’s decision was easy.

“Who else would I vote for?” she asks.

Since Bukele’s election — and reelection in 2024 — the city center has transformed. Expensive restaurants have opened, and China donated US$54 million for a futuristic reconstruction of the National Library.

Vendors say Bukele has cleaned up the streets. They’re grateful that they no longer fear for their lives. But now, they fear for their livelihoods.

In her new location, Trejo struggles to attract customers.

“We sell every day, but before the eviction on a bad day we would sell US$300,” she says. “Since we moved, on the best day, we sold US$199 and on a bad day, US$11.”

So far, at least 2,500 vendors have been evicted in six of the 200 blocks that make up downtown. The remaining vendors know their notices will come any day.

“In making these decisions, there has been no discussion with the vendors, who have been there for decades,” says political scientist Carlos Monterroza.

Trejo’s eyes well as she recalls how Mario Durán, San Salvador’s mayor, campaigned on a promise that he’d support businesses like hers. His grandparents worked as vendors.

Weeks after she was forced out of the downtown, Trejo says the mayor’s words feel like a betrayal.

The heart of El Salvador

Light meets shadow in downtown San Salvador. Locals and tourists visit historic sites like the Metropolitan Cathedral and the National Palace, and sip beer in storied bars. Alongside souvenir vendors are those who sell produce, clothing, natural medicines and much more. Salvadorans from other neighborhoods used to come downtown to stock their own businesses.

“When I think of the center, I am not referring to the physical space; I am referring to what the center represents: the heart of El Salvador,” says Belén Goca, who promotes downtown businesses on TikTok. Vendors know that if she posts about them, the customers will come.

For decades, downtown was one of the most violent areas in the country. Gangs fought for control, and walking the wrong street could mean death. But in March 2022, after gang members killed 87 people, gunning down bystanders in streets across the country, Bukele declared a state of emergency, which severely curtailed civil liberties in the name of security. It’s still in effect.

Since the state of emergency began, the government reports that it’s detained more than 85,000 people. According to Human Rights Watch, 109,000 people are being held in a prison system meant for 70,000.

Since the mid-1980s to mid-1990s, when many countries in the region transitioned from military dictatorships to democratic governments, Latin Americans have associated democracy with the popular vote, says Monterroza, the political scientist.

Decades in, he says, it’s clear that some leaders who win elections shift toward authoritarianism once they’re in office. Under El Salvador’s regime, it’s easy for a person to be captured by police, processed and taken to a penal center — likely for good.

“This becomes,” Monterroza says, “a scheme to intimidate the population.”

In the early hours of Feb. 22, a vendor called Goca in tears over their eviction order. So she published a video of the vendors, talked about the impending evictions and encouraged shoppers to help.

“For me, it was not a political statement. It was not a protest,” Goca says. “It was in the hope that they wouldn’t take them down. Really, the only thought that went through my mind was, ‘How many people who love this place don’t know what’s going to happen?’”

Her videos made national news. That weekend, thousands came downtown to buy from the vendors, who auctioned their products for whatever they could get.

Vendors don’t feel ready to fight back, Goca says. They’re scared.

Two months ago, Salma Hernández’s daughter, a vendor, was evicted from the downtown area. Now, Hernández, who has a grocery stall, worries that the same will happen to her. She’s 59 and cares for her 70-year-old brother. Her business hasn’t been the same since the government launched the revitalization initiative. Where she once earned US$200 a day, she says, she might bring in just US$20.

At the same time, she says, she lives peacefully now, thanks to Bukele. She no longer lives with the uncertainty and danger that once pervaded downtown.
“Here, there’s democracy,” she says, “because democracy is when you’re happy.”