As Chile heads toward its pivotal presidential elections on November 17, 2025, the national debate is dominated by one issue above all: migration. The influx of hundreds of thousands of foreigners, primarily Venezuelans fleeing economic collapse and violence, has transformed Chile’s demographics and stoked anxieties that now shape the platforms of nearly every major candidate. With right-wing contenders vying to outdo each other on promises of crackdowns, and leftist leaders also pledging tougher controls, the country finds itself at a crossroads—torn between its need for foreign labor and a surging wave of anti-migrant sentiment.
José Antonio Kast, the hard-right former congressman and likely winner in a December 14 runoff, has become the face of Chile’s new hardline approach. Kast, 59, is no stranger to controversy. He draws inspiration from global right-wing figures like Italy’s Giorgia Meloni, Brazil’s Jair Bolsonaro, Hungary’s Viktor Orbán, and El Salvador’s Nayib Bukele. His campaign has echoed the rhetoric and tactics of former U.S. President Donald Trump, with Kast vowing to put “Chileans first” and describing clandestine migration as a national security threat. “Chile will be for Chileans and for everyone who complies and respects the law,” Kast declared earlier this year, promising to expand military deployment to seal the border and deport tens of thousands of people. He’s even warned undocumented immigrants, “What you have, sell, take the money in cash and leave. Otherwise, you’ll leave with only the clothes on your back.”
Kast’s proposals are nothing if not dramatic. His “Escudo Fronterizo” (Border Shield) plan envisions building hundreds of miles of ditches, barriers, five-metre-high walls, electric fences, and three-metre-deep trenches along Chile’s vast, desolate northern border. The aim? To stem the tide of migrants who have crossed into Chile through informal desert paths, routes that once seemed impenetrable but now see a steady flow of humanity. Kast’s plan also calls for an unforgiving Bukele-style offensive against foreign criminals, including solitary confinement for narco bosses and harsher sentences for organized crime. As he put it in a campaign ad, “Chile has been invaded … but this is over.”
Libertarian Johannes Kaiser, whose campaign has gained traction in recent weeks, wants to round up undocumented migrants into camps, bar their children from schools, and eventually deport them. Rival Franco Parisi has gone so far as to suggest laying land mines to deter border crossings. Even the left isn’t immune to the pressure: Communist candidate Jeannette Jara, leading the first round with 25% of expected votes, has pledged to tighten border security and expel foreigners convicted of drug trafficking. Outgoing President Gabriel Boric, a center-left leader, will leave office in March 2026, his administration having already tightened entry rules for some nationalities.
It’s not just the politicians pushing for a crackdown. According to an October 2025 LatAm Pulse survey conducted by AtlasIntel for Bloomberg News, a staggering 92% of Chileans want more restrictive immigration policies—far more than in other major Latin American economies. In working-class neighborhoods, campaign stops are punctuated by signs demanding the expulsion of criminals. Víctor Sobarzo, a 66-year-old Santiago resident, summed up the mood: newcomers, he said, have turned his neighborhood into a “no-man’s land” with loud music and a disregard for local customs.
Behind the anger is a profound demographic shift. For decades, foreigners made up only a sliver of Chile’s population. But over the past five years, the foreign-born population jumped nearly 50%, reaching 1.9 million people, or about 10% of the total population. The number of irregular migrants soared from around 10,000 in 2018 to nearly 337,000 in 2023. The country’s willingness to embrace migrants is wearing thin, especially as the crises in Venezuela, Haiti, and Colombia show no sign of abating.
Yet, as Chile’s population rapidly ages and its birth rate plunges below even that of Japan (the 2024 fertility rate was just 1.03, compared to Japan’s 1.15), the country faces a dilemma. “What we need here are people to come in a regular manner, who want to work, find opportunity in Chile, who are needed and required in industries as important as agriculture, and for this to happen in an agile, orderly way,” said Susana Jiménez, president of the Confederación de la Producción y del Comercio, in a recent radio interview. On farms like Mauro Magnasco’s 450-hectare property in the Ñuble region, foreigners now account for half the workforce during harvest time. “At harvest time, you need volume and speed,” Magnasco explained, noting that locals are increasingly unwilling to do the grueling work.
Antonio Walker, head of Chile’s main agriculture trade association, has called for the limited legalization of undocumented workers—a position that Kast quickly rebuked. “Chile can no longer tolerate improvisations on immigration matters,” Kast told reporters in September 2025. The tension between economic necessity and political expediency is palpable.
On the ground, the consequences of the migration debate are stark. Chilean news channels almost daily highlight violent crimes involving foreign suspects, often specifying their nationality. Nearly 16% of Chile’s prison population is foreign, with Venezuelans, Colombians, and Bolivians making up the largest shares. High-profile crimes, such as those linked to the Venezuelan gang Tren de Aragua, have ignited fears that refugees are bringing organized crime with them. In June 2025, the murder of 43-year-old Venezuelan migrant Yaidy Garnica in Santiago—described by Amnesty International as an anti-immigrant hate crime—sent shockwaves through migrant communities.
Migrants themselves are feeling the chill. In Arica, a city of 245,000 near the Peruvian border, two undocumented Venezuelan decorators described fleeing police violence in their homeland, only to face suspicion and racism in Chile. “We are trash to him,” said one, referring to Kast, while his wife recounted how their children endured bullying at school. Carla Silva, a Venezuelan doctor who arrived in 2022, dreams of legalizing her status and contributing to Chilean society, but wonders, “How can I be, if everyone here is completely closed off?”
Not everyone is convinced by the hardline rhetoric. Vlado Mirosevic, a center-left politician in Arica, acknowledged the reality of rising crime but argued that a Bukele-style crackdown would violate Chile’s democratic norms. “The Bukele [model] is impossible to replicate, because it’s clearly a violation of the rule of law,” he insisted.
As the campaign barrels toward its climax, the stakes for Chile—and for the migrants who have made it their home—couldn’t be higher. With the country’s future direction hanging in the balance, voters must decide whether to embrace a vision of fortress Chile or to find a way to balance security with the economic and social realities of a changing nation.
The outcome will not only shape Chile’s migration policy but also its identity for generations to come.
