"We Built This City": Santiago's Migrant Communities Demand a Seat at the Table

On a humid Wednesday afternoon at the Mercado Central, Ana Morales arranges fresh produce at her stall, one of dozens operated by Venezuelan migrants who've transformed the market's eastern corridor over the past three years. "People see us as a problem," she says, her hands moving deftly between avocados and tomatoes. "But nobody talks about what we've brought here."

Morales is one of thousands of migrants reshaping Santiago's economic and social fabric—yet their voices remain largely absent from policy debates dominating city council chambers and media coverage. According to the latest municipal census, migrants now comprise 18 percent of Santiago's population, up from 8 percent in 2018, with the highest concentrations in Estación Central, Ñuñoa, and La Florida.

In the cramped offices of the Centro de Atención Integral para Migrantes on Avenida Libertador Bernardo O'Higgins, counselor Roberto Fuentes fields calls daily from workers facing wage theft and housing discrimination. "The narrative has shifted dangerously," he explains. "Migrants are no longer discussed as people—we're discussed as statistics, as threats." His organisation reports a 34 percent increase in discrimination complaints this year alone.

Yet the economic reality tells a different story. Data from the Chamber of Commerce shows migrant-owned businesses—particularly in the restaurant, construction, and retail sectors—generated approximately $340 million in local revenue last year. In Ñuñoa's crowded Barrio Lastarria, Venezuelan restaurateur Carlos Diaz employs twelve Chilean staff members at his café on Calle Lastarria. "I'm creating jobs, paying taxes, building community," he says quietly. "But some people just see my accent."

The tension mirrors global patterns: as Venezuela's humanitarian crisis and other regional instability drive northward migration, anti-immigrant sentiment has intensified, particularly on social media and among working-class Chileans competing for lower-wage positions. Yet community leaders stress that meaningful dialogue remains possible.

Patricia González, director of the migrant advocacy group Semillas de Cambio, emphasises the cost of exclusion. "When you silence immigrant voices, you lose crucial perspectives on how cities actually function," she argues. "We're not asking for special treatment—we're asking to be heard."

As Santiago confronts its changing demographics, the question facing city planners and elected officials is increasingly urgent: Will policymakers craft migration frameworks based on lived experience and data, or will they allow fear-driven narratives to dominate the conversation? The answer, many here believe, depends on whether immigrants themselves finally get meaningful platforms to speak.

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