The margins are razor thin. With 90% of votes counted, the two leading candidates for Peru’s presidency are separated by a fraction of a point, and the nation is veering between hope and dread. For British mining executives, this is less a political drama than a quarterly earnings forecast. But for the millions of Peruvians queuing patiently at polling stations, this election is about something more elemental: the terrifying, creeping threat of daily violence.
I spent the afternoon in Villa María del Triunfo, a sprawling district on Lima’s dusty southern edge. The streets were quieter than usual, even for a Sunday. Most people had cast their votes by mid-morning and retreated behind locked doors. The police presence was heavier than I’d seen in years, but that only seemed to make everyone more anxious. A man named Pedro, a driver for a minibus company, told me he voted for the right-wing candidate because “at least she’ll make the streets safe.” His wife, clutching a small child, said she voted for the leftist, “because my son’s school has no roof and the soup kitchen has no money.”
This is the paradox of Peru today. The economy has grown, but it has not reached these unpaved streets. Meanwhile, crime has become a levelling force. Extortion, kidnapping, murder: these are the facts of life from the shantytowns of Lima to the mining towns of the Andes. Insecurity is the single issue that unites Peruvians across class lines, but it manifests differently. For the poor, it means being unable to walk to the corner shop after dark. For the rich, it means hiring private security. And for the British investors who have billions tied up in copper and gold mines, it means a constant worry that political instability could tip into chaos.
The Foreign Office has been uncharacteristically quiet, but the City of London is not. The British Chamber of Commerce in Peru has been hosting roundtables on “political risk management” for months. The stakes are enormous. British mining giants like Anglo American, Glencore and Rio Tinto have deep operations here, and they have watched with growing unease as the campaign has descended into mudslinging and mutual accusations of corruption. The candidates themselves have not helped. One has promised to nationalise the mines, the other to slash taxes. Neither scenario is palatable to the boardrooms of Mayfair.
But here’s the human cost that the financial analysts miss: the way this election has torn apart families. At a polling station in a school yard, I met two brothers who refused to speak to each other. One worked in a mine, the other in a small market stall. Their votes were opposite. “He thinks his boss is a saint,” the stallholder said of his brother. “He thinks I’m a communist.” Their mother stood between them, arms folded, shaking her head. This is what an election feels like when you are afraid: every vote feels like a gamble, and every choice feels like a betrayal.
The British interest is clear, and it is not just about dividends. Peru matters geopolitically. It is a key supplier of copper for the energy transition, of silver for electronics, of zinc for infrastructure. A destabilised Peru means higher prices for the things the world needs to build a greener, more connected future. But for the people I spoke to today, the future is more immediate. They want to know if the bus will arrive on time, if the water will run, if their children will come home from school.
As I write this, the count continues. The streets of Lima are empty. In the wealthy district of San Isidro, the security guards stand outside the gated apartment blocks, hands on their belts. In the markets of La Victoria, the stalls are shuttered. Everyone is waiting. For a result, for a sign, for some version of safety that seems always just out of reach. The British will get their result, and they will adjust their spreadsheets. But the Peruvians will have to live with it. And that is the real story.
