In the picture
Polling place in Lima [Carmen Beatriz Fernández]
For years, we analysts have described Peruvian democracy through its crises: ousted presidents, a congress , extreme partisan fragmentation, short-lived political parties, ungovernability, and recurring scandals.
All of that is true. But during a week of election observation for the runoff, we also saw something else. Elections can be explained through statistics, but they are best understood through conversations. During this week in Peru, the numbers helped describe the race, but it was the people who made it possible to understand it. Amid clandestine polls, taxi rides, conflicting fears, and unexpected gestures, these seven scenes aim to portray our experience as election observers from the Complutense Observatory on Disinformation, in an election marked by uncertainty.
1. Six surveys
In the hours leading up to the vote, we received six different polls. All were supposedly confidential. All were circulating on WhatsApp. All showed exactly the same result: a razor-thin lead for Keiko Fujimori. These so-called “mock polls,” common on the eve of elections, were circulating widely despite the election blackout period. Digital platforms and person-to-person messages amplified their reach. The ban seemed to have the opposite effect: the more confidential the message, the faster it spread.
The electoral silence and the label confidential, do not disclose” label only served to increase the messages’ viral potential. The difference between the two candidates was minimal and, in all cases, fell within the technical margin of error. There was no basis for declaring a clear winner. In fact, all the information available to the workshop already workshop to a virtual tie.
The first lesson from election observation came even before the polls opened: in the digital age, it is becoming increasingly difficult to silence the election silence.
2. Fourteen taxi drivers
In Lima, where ultimately two-thirds of voters cast their ballots for Fujimori, we decided to conduct our own public opinion survey. Taxis, Uber, and Cabify became our unique framework . Few people hear as many different opinions in a city as taxi drivers do.
My colleague Jessica Zorogastúa would probe on each of our trips, always asking the same question:
“Who are you going to vote for, sir?”
The most common response was a variation on the same phrase:
—The least bad one.
Before the election, we traveled with fourteen drivers. Six said they would vote for Keiko Fujimori. None of them seemed particularly enthusiastic about her. They all agreed, however, that they saw no other alternative.
Four others could not vote because they were foreigners—Venezuelans, to be specific. But they immediately added that, if they were eligible to vote, they too would choose Fujimori. Their reasoning was always similar: they recognized in Roberto Sánchez’s speeches elements that reminded them of the early years of Chavismo in Venezuela. Two hosts chose not to reveal how they voted. Two others clearly expressed their support for Sánchez.
The result had result statistical significance whatsoever. But it did have descriptive value. Among those fourteen taxi drivers, we found no enthusiasm for Keiko. We found something different: the conviction that she was the necessary means to prevent her opponent from coming to power.
In Lima, Keiko seemed less like a candidate and more like a retaining wall.
3. The Fear of Keiko
Mia, Alessia, and Camila are feminists. They work for civil society organizations and devote much of their time to projects related to human rights and international cooperation.
All three shared the same concern: They feared that a victory for Keiko Fujimori would lead to setbacks in the diary and in some of the achievements made in recent years. They were also concerned about the possibility of greater controls on social organizations and more intense oversight of international cooperation.
They didn't speak enthusiastically about their voting preferences. They spoke of risks. Listening to them, it became clear that a significant portion of Peruvian society didn't vote solely for a project , but against what it perceived as a threat.
4. Fear of Sánchez
Jaime isn't just any taxi driver, and he wasn't talking about campaign platforms either. A retired captain in the Peruvian Army, he was wounded during a counterterrorism operation in the 1990s. The scars he bears are part of hisstaff also part of the country's report .
For him, terrorism is not a Closed chapter Closed the history books. It is a lived experience. That is why he viewed Roberto Sánchez’s candidacy with concern. He feared that groups ideologically linked to the radical movements of the past might find ways to exert influence close to the seat of power. He feared that old wounds that had never fully healed might be reopened.
While Mia, Alessia, and Camila feared Keiko, Jaime feared Sánchez. The polarization in Peru was summed up in those conversations: two opposing fears vying to shape the future.
5. Seven out of ten
The first round financial aid the underlying issue. Thirty-five candidates ran for president. The vote was scattered among a multitude of options. Keiko Fujimori received just 17% of the vote and topped the rankings. Four other candidates were very close behind her, all with between 10 and 12%, with Roberto Sánchez narrowly securing second place, which allowed him to advance to the runoff election.
The result is simple and revealing: Seven out of ten Peruvians voted in the first round for candidates other than those who would ultimately compete for the presidency.
The runoff election did not necessarily pit the two options preferred by the majority against each other. To a large extent, it pitted the two options that had survived massive political fragmentation against each other. Perhaps that is why so many citizens seemed to be choosing between perceived evils rather than between desired plans.
6. I love my high school
On Election Sunday, we toured the city of Lima, trying to spread our observation efforts across different socioeconomic strata. To observe the process at a polling place in a working-class neighborhood, we traveled to Villa El Salvador, a densely populated neighborhood in southern Lima with more than 400,000 residents. On the tram that runs from downtown to Villa El Salvador, as we were nearing our destination, we asked some passengers which polling place was closest to the station. Danna told us with conviction, “Come with us to my high school.” It wasn’t the closest one, of course. “I left Villa El Salvador years ago, but I always like to come back to vote at my high school, high schoolshe explained. Minutes later, crammed into a motorcycle taxi, we arrived at high school y Alegría 17 high school , located on Avenida Revolución S/N. There, we were greeted enthusiastically and introduced at each of the polling stations. It was exciting to visit this school, part of the international Fe y Alegría movement founded in 1955 in my native Caracas by Jesuit Father José María Vélaz. This iconic high school is celebrating its 60th anniversary and will hold a big reunion party for its alumni, Danna recounts excitedly. Listening to her, it was clear that for her, voting wasn’t just a political act, but a way of coming home.
7. A Peruvian friend
I had run out of data . I tried to buy a card and ran into one of those bureaucratic hurdles that pop up when you least expect them: for a foreigner, it was practically impossible to do so.
After several failed attempts, I showed her my election observer ID. The clerk listened to me and asked:
“Don’t you have a Peruvian friend who could buy it for you?”
Before I could answer, a customer standing next to me spoke up.
—It's me.
Then he added, seriously:
—For democracy in Peru.
That stranger took a few minutes out of his day to help someone he didn't know. It was a small gesture that summed up something important.
Peru is caught between uncertainty and civic engagement, between Lima and the highlands, between fragmentation and commitment. But we also encountered citizens who are proud of their schools, their neighborhoods, and their institutions. We saw citizens returning to vote at the high school they studied decades ago. Or people helping a foreign election observer because they believe they are contributing to their country’s democracy. Voters who deeply distrust the candidates, but not the act of voting itself.
It may seem paradoxical that public support for democratic institutions is relatively weak, while support for democracy as a system is broad and solid. As early as the 1970s, David Easton analyzed this apparent contradiction: How is it possible that citizens express dissatisfaction with governments, politicians, and public policies, yet continue to support democracy? The core topic, according to Easton (1975), lies in the distinction between specific support and diffuse support. Specific support depends on perceptions of government performance, policy outcomes, and the conduct of those in power. Diffuse support, on the other hand, is not based on what those in power actually do, but rather on a evaluation and deep-seated evaluation of the political system. It is, in essence, areservation goodwill” toward the democratic system.
The polarization that dominated the runoff election did not seem to reflect a society that was originally divided into two irreconcilable blocs. The first round had shown exactly the opposite: a country scattered among thirty-five candidates, multiple political sensibilities, and enormous electoral fragmentation. It was the electoral system itself that ultimately organized that diversity around two options perceived as mutual threats. Rather than a polarization of the citizens, what we observed was a polarization induced by the mechanics of the skill .
Peruvians seem to deeply distrust their politicians, but they continue to have faith in democracy. They distrust those who temporarily hold positions in government institutions, but they have not given up on the belief that voting remains the best way to decide their future.
And in times of growing skepticism about democracy, that can be a very important strength…
* Carmen Beatriz Fernández is a professor of Political Communication at UNAV, IESA, and Pforzheim; she is the principal investigator at GASS.