There’s a beach in Tulum you’ll never see. No matter how much you pay. No matter how far you’ve traveled. It’s there, all right, just behind a wall, guarded by silence and profit.
A quiet violence is unfolding in Tulum. Not the kind you hear in breaking news alerts, but a slow, invisible theft that leaves no blood, only silence. It’s a theft of memory, of dignity, of belonging. The beaches of Tulum, once public sanctuaries, are now barricaded fortresses, privatized, commodified, and stripped of the people who call this land home.
They call them “playas secuestradas”, kidnapped beaches. And it’s not a metaphor. It is a lived reality.
A Paradise Built on Exclusion
Tulum was born to balance growth and preservation, to regulate tourism in ways that supported both investors and the people who grew up among the ceibas and coral sands. That dream has been hijacked. What was meant to serve all now bends to the interests of a few.
It begins with walls. Concrete fences erected by resorts, claiming the coastline as their own. These aren’t just barriers of stone; they are barricades against justice. They keep out the wind, the sea, and the soul of a community. For many, these walls are indistinguishable from prisons.
And yet, they stand with impunity. The municipality, once a steward of shared prosperity, now acts as an accomplice, allowing illegal concessions, turning a blind eye to legal violations, and silencing dissent. The state of Quintana Roo is not merely neglectful; it is, in the words of activists, “in flagrante delictum”, caught in the act.
The Human Cost: A Generation Locked Out
Children grow up in Tulum without ever seeing the ocean. Not because they live far from it, but because the sea has been fenced off. Entire families from indigenous Maya communities, whose lineage is tied to this land, find themselves barred from the coast. They cannot afford a cabana, cannot buy a cocktail, cannot sit on the sand. The ocean that shaped their culture is now behind velvet ropes.
This isn’t just an inconvenience. It’s cultural erasure. It’s apartheid tourism.
Rafael Barajas Valenzuela, a local activist and representative of the Tulum Citizen Observatory, sees this firsthand. He describes the situation as abominable. “It’s a direct violence,” he says. “This is the continuation of the Caste War, but now it’s waged with concrete and silence.”
Barajas speaks of children, ten years old, who have never stepped in the ocean. Of elders who have never laid eyes on the beach of their birthplace. Of families born and raised in Quintana Roo who live just blocks from the shore, yet live lives completely divorced from it.
A Movement Divided
Not even the resistance is spared from division. The collective Playas Libres was born out of a desire to fight back and reclaim what was lost. But its efforts have been clouded by internal fractures and a lack of transparency.
Barajas offered to help, to bring experience, structure, and public scrutiny to the negotiations. His suggestion was simple: livestream every meeting with government officials. Expose the process. Let the people watch. However, Playas Libres rejected the offer, and in a symbolic gesture of the greater problem, they expelled him from their group chat.
“Transparency is a weapon,” Barajas insists. “And they didn’t want to use it. So, the government took them behind closed doors and made deals in the dark. We don’t know what was promised, what was surrendered.”
The fight, he says, should not be in whispers. It should be in the open, in the light, in the full gaze of a community that has lost too much in the dark.
The Cost of Tourism’s Gilded Cage
While luxury towers rise, half-occupied and full of promises, Tulum’s working-class neighborhoods sink deeper into neglect. Irregular colonies often lack basic amenities such as drainage, street lighting, and public services. The municipality builds monuments to outsiders while ignoring its own.
The violence is not just economic. Within 12 hours, the town witnessed the assassination of its Public Security Secretary and the brutal killing of two women. The streets are tense. The air is tight.
Yet, through it all, the media stays silent. Headlines celebrate eco-luxury and bohemian escape, but never mention the locked gates, the erased communities, the children cut off from their coast.
A Call for Peace, a Cry for Justice
On June 22, the Citizen Observatory is organizing a peaceful march. Not just to protest, but to reclaim. Not just to oppose, but to affirm. With flowers instead of fists, this march seeks to make visible what the town has been trained to ignore.
Tourists, locals, and anyone who believes in justice are invited. The message is clear: the beaches are not commodities. They are communal birthrights. The municipality must act, send workers to tear down illegal barriers, open access points, and commit to live-streamed negotiations. Democracy cannot survive behind closed doors.
Barajas is unwavering: “This isn’t political. It’s human. We don’t want violence. We want the truth. We want the sea back.”
A Town at the Crossroads
Tulum stands between memory and amnesia, between theft and reclamation. The battle for its beaches is the battle for its soul. This is not just about access, it’s about who gets to belong, who gets remembered, and who gets erased.
For now, the beaches remain kidnapped. But the people of Tulum are knocking. And this time, the world must listen.
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