Why should we run away from our own city?
As Mexico City reshapes itself for the eyes of the world, the 2026 World Cup's infrastructure boom is quietly erasing the livelihoods of thousands of women who have long called its streets home. On Avenida Tlalpan, new bike lanes and shuttered metro stations have collapsed nightly earnings by as much as 75%, leaving roughly 15,000 sex workers caught between a government's vision of modernity and their own survival. The spectacle of global hospitality, it seems, is being built on the displacement of those the city would prefer its visitors not see. In the gap between a mayor's ribbon-cutting and a woman changing clothes on a sidewalk, an old question resurfaces: for whom, exactly, is a city transformed?
- Income on Avenida Tlalpan has cratered from roughly $160 to $40 a night as construction reroutes foot traffic and turns familiar streets into obstacle courses of trucks and cyclists.
- Activists are calling it 'social cleansing'—a deliberate purge of the poor and marginal from the zones that World Cup cameras and tourists will sweep through come June.
- The government has offered little beyond vague conduct codes and unconfirmed rumors, including one that workers might be required to wear national team jerseys, while 15,000 livelihoods hang in suspension.
- Workers face a daily calculus of danger—trucks that don't stop, a metro that closes before their shifts end, and the creeping pressure to relocate—with no legal protections or social safety net in sight.
- Women like Monserrat, with twenty years on Tlalpan, are pushing back with a simple question: why should they be the ones to run away from a city that belongs to them too?
On Avenida Tlalpan, the broad road leading south toward Azteca Stadium, the 2026 World Cup is already being felt—not in excitement, but in erasure. New bike lanes, shuttered metro stations, and relentless construction have transformed the street where Pamela, 40, has spent years working. Cyclists now whiz past on lanes that have swallowed her clientele. Flor, 55, puts it plainly: the government wants them gone, wants to present a first-world Mexico to the tourists who will flood these streets in June. "The World Cup doesn't benefit me at all," she says. "I'm poorer than anyone."
The numbers are stark. Roughly 15,000 sex workers operate across Mexico City. On Tlalpan alone, women who once saw five clients a night now manage one or two. One worker's earnings fell from $160 to $40 in a single evening—a collapse with no safety net beneath it. When Mayor Clara Brugada inaugurated the new bike lane in April, she declared that the avenue belongs to everyone. Elvira Madrid, founder of Brigada Callejera and coordinator of the Mexican Network of Sex Workers, heard something else entirely: a deliberate effort to cleanse the city's margins before the world arrived to watch.
Government negotiations have produced little. A 2025 proposal for conduct codes—regulating clothing, hours, behavior—went nowhere. Rumors of mandatory national team jerseys circulated and were met with quiet defiance. Monserrat Fuentes, twenty years on Tlalpan, changes from sneakers to heels on the sidewalk and points to the trucks that barrel through without stopping. Her deeper grievance is simpler: the government does not listen. She has thought about moving but resists the idea. Why should they be the ones to leave?
As night falls, the women weigh a familiar choice—go home while the metro still runs, or stay and hope the work comes. The World Cup opens June 11. The city is racing toward its transformation. On Tlalpan, the women are still waiting—for clients, for answers, for some sign that the city being remade has room for them too.
Mexico City is preparing to host the opening ceremony of the 2026 World Cup, and the construction is everywhere—new bike lanes cutting through old streets, metro stations shuttered for renovation, the airport in chaos. On Avenida Tlalpan, the broad avenue that leads south to the Azteca Stadium where Mexico will face South Africa on opening day, the transformation is visible and immediate. But for the women who work this street, the changes have meant something closer to erasure.
Pamela is 40 years old and has spent years waiting for clients on this same stretch of pavement. Now she watches cyclists whiz past on the new bike lane, their warning whistles sharp and constant. The infrastructure meant to welcome the world has made her invisible. Flor, 55, is more direct about what she sees happening: the government wants the sex workers gone. They want to show a first-world Mexico to the thousands of tourists who will pour through these streets, and that vision has no room for women in short skirts and high heels. "The World Cup doesn't benefit me at all," Flor says. "I'm poorer than anyone."
The numbers tell the story plainly. About 15,000 sex workers operate in Mexico City, part of a national workforce of roughly 800,000. On Avenida Tlalpan alone, women who once saw five clients in a night now manage one or two. One worker reported earning just over $160 in a single evening before the construction began; now she makes $40 on a good night. That is a collapse of income, sudden and complete, with no safety net beneath it.
When the city's left-leaning mayor, Clara Brugada, inaugurated the new bike lane on April 19, she spoke about the difficulty of the work, the resistance it had provoked, and the transformation of mentality it represented. "The avenue belongs to everyone," she said. But Elvira Madrid, who founded the Brigada Callejera de Apoyo a la Mujer and coordinates the Mexican Network of Sex Workers, heard something different in those words. She heard a "social cleansing"—a deliberate effort to remove the poor and the marginal from the spaces where the world would be watching. Her organization protested at the very ceremony where the mayor cut the ribbon.
The government claims to be negotiating with the workers, though the details remain opaque. In 2025, César Cravioto, the secretary of government, mentioned a proposal to generate rights for sex workers and establish codes of conduct—rules about clothing, hours, behavior. The proposal went nowhere. Rumors circulated instead, including one that workers would be required to wear Mexican national team jerseys. When asked about it, Flor simply said she would come as she always does.
Monserrat Fuentes has worked Tlalpan for twenty years. She changes clothes on the sidewalk with practiced efficiency, trading her long dress and sneakers for a miniskirt and heels. She points out the danger the new infrastructure has created—trucks barreling through without stopping, cars cutting across the bike lane. But her real complaint runs deeper. "The government doesn't care what we say," she says. She has considered moving to another area but pulls back from the idea. "Why should we run away?" she asks.
As night falls, the women face a choice that has become routine: leave while the metro is still running, or stay and hope for enough work to pay for a taxi home. The World Cup will begin on June 11. The city is racing to finish its transformation. And on Avenida Tlalpan, the women are still waiting—for clients, for answers, for some acknowledgment that they too belong to the city being remade.
Citas Notables
The government doesn't want sex workers here and is trying to push us out so thousands of fans will pass through. The World Cup doesn't benefit me at all—I'm poorer than anyone.— Flor, 55-year-old sex worker on Avenida Tlalpan
This is a social cleansing to show a first-world Mexico.— Elvira Madrid, founder of Brigada Callejera de Apoyo a la Mujer
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does the World Cup construction specifically hurt sex workers more than other street vendors or informal workers?
Because they're visible and they're blamed for the "wrong" image. A food cart can be moved or hidden. But women on the street are seen as a problem to be solved before the cameras arrive. The bike lane wasn't built to displace them—but once it was built, it became the tool.
The mayor said the avenue belongs to everyone. Did she mean it?
She probably meant it sincerely. But "everyone" in that sentence doesn't include the people who were already there. It means the tourists, the cyclists, the families who will use the new infrastructure. The women heard a different message.
What would actually help these workers?
Legal recognition. Social security. A seat at the table when the city plans. Instead they got rumors about uniforms and vague promises of negotiation. They got a bike lane that made their work harder and their earnings collapse.
Is there any chance this gets reversed after the World Cup?
Not likely. Once a city remakes itself for an event like this, it doesn't go backward. The bike lane stays. The metro stations stay modernized. The women either adapt or leave. That's the real cost of hosting.
Why do you think Monserrat asks "why should we run away?"
Because she's been there twenty years. It's her corner, her territory, her livelihood. Running away means admitting defeat, means the city succeeded in pushing her out. She's asking: why should I disappear from my own city?