We want him gone. We don't want him to be the one governing.
In the high altitudes of Bolivia, a nation finds itself at a crossroads between democratic mandate and popular dissent — a tension as old as governance itself. After six weeks of roadblocks that severed cities from fuel, food, and medicine, President Rodrigo Paz declared a 90-day state of emergency and sent soldiers into the streets, choosing the authority of the state over the pressure of the plaza. The confrontation pits a newly elected conservative government against a coalition of unions, Indigenous communities, and farmers who question not merely his policies but his right to govern — with the shadow of former president Evo Morales looming over it all.
- Six weeks of deliberate roadblocks have brought Bolivia to its knees — fuel, food, and medicine running short in major cities while billions drain from an already fragile economy.
- Before dawn on a Saturday, President Paz appeared on television to announce martial law, suspending the right to protest and unleashing soldiers and bulldozers on the blockades.
- The protest coalition is fracturing: the country's largest union reached a tentative deal with Paz, but Indigenous leaders like Aymara organizer Lidia Callisaya refuse to negotiate, demanding the president resign outright.
- The government has signaled it may move beyond clearing roads — interior officials suggest security forces could soon attempt to capture Evo Morales, who remains hidden in his Chapare stronghold protected by thousands of supporters.
- What began as economic grievance is hardening into a constitutional confrontation, with ordinary Bolivians caught between relief at reopened roads and fear of what a military operation in Morales's heartland could ignite.
On a Saturday morning in late June, Bolivia's President Rodrigo Paz appeared on television before dawn to announce a 90-day state of emergency. Soldiers and bulldozers would move to clear the roadblocks that had strangled the country for six weeks — rubble and logs piled across highways, cities cut off from fuel, food, and medicine, the economy hemorrhaging billions.
The protests had drawn together a broad coalition: unions, Indigenous groups, coca farmers, and others opposing Paz's conservative economic agenda, including plans to privatize state companies. Bolivia's first non-socialist president in twenty years, Paz had been in office less than a year when the blockades began. Hours after his address, convoys of soldiers moved through El Alto above La Paz as bulldozers cleared the roads. Some residents applauded. A shopkeeper named Carla Butron, 49 days into disruption that had made it nearly impossible to work, told reporters she was relieved.
Yet the coalition was not unified. Paz had reached a tentative agreement with the Bolivian Workers' Central — promising not to privatize state companies in exchange for an end to their blockades. But Indigenous leaders refused. 'We want him gone,' said Aymara leader Lidia Callisaya. More than forty major roadblocks remained.
Paz blamed the unrest on 'narcoterrorists' and on former president Evo Morales, the leftist Indigenous leader now in hiding and facing criminal charges he denies. His base in the Chapare region has so far shielded him from arrest, but Interior Minister Marco Antonio Oviedo suggested security forces would carry out 'whatever operations are necessary.' From hiding, Morales called the government 'utterly submissive' to the United States.
For a stranded truck driver named Erland Richard Segovia, the sight of traffic beginning to move again brought relief. But the state of emergency has raised the stakes considerably — transforming what began as economic protest into a volatile confrontation between a government determined to hold power and a broad coalition that considers that power illegitimate.
On a Saturday morning in late June, Bolivia's president Rodrigo Paz appeared on television before dawn to announce that the country was now under martial law. Soldiers and bulldozers would be deployed to clear the roads. For six weeks, the nation had been strangled by blockades—rubble and logs piled across highways, cities cut off from fuel and food, the economy hemorrhaging billions of dollars. Now the government was moving to break the siege by force.
The protests had begun as a coalition of the aggrieved: unions, Indigenous groups, coca farmers, and others who opposed Paz's conservative economic agenda. They wanted him to abandon plans to privatize state companies and, more fundamentally, to step down. He had been elected less than a year earlier, Bolivia's first non-socialist president in twenty years, and already the country felt fractured. Major cities were running short of medicine. Trucks sat idle on roads. The blockades were total and deliberate—a form of pressure that left ordinary Bolivians caught between two sides.
Paz's declaration of a 90-day state of emergency suspended the right to protest and gave the military authority to operate within the country's borders. In his televised address, he warned that demonstrators would face the full force of the law. Hours later, convoys of soldiers and armed police moved through El Alto, the sprawling city above La Paz, as bulldozers began clearing the roadblocks. Some residents watched and applauded. A man handed bread to a police officer. Carla Butron, a 39-year-old shopkeeper, told reporters she was relieved. Fifty days of disruption had made it nearly impossible to work or move freely through the city.
But the blockade was not monolithic. Earlier in the week, Paz had negotiated with the Bolivian Workers' Central, one of the country's largest unions, and reached a tentative agreement: he would commit not to privatize state companies and would continue talks with labor leaders. In exchange, the union agreed to end their roadblocks. Yet Indigenous groups, particularly those led by figures like Lidia Callisaya, an Aymara leader, refused to negotiate. "We want him gone," Callisaya said. "We don't want him to be the one governing." More than forty major roadblocks remained in place across the country.
Paz had blamed the unrest on what he called "narcoterrorists," and specifically on Evo Morales, the leftist former president who had governed Bolivia from 2006 to 2019. Morales, himself an Indigenous leader and former coca farmer, was now in hiding, facing charges of trafficking a minor—allegations he denied. His base of support remained strong in the Chapare region, where thousands of Indigenous supporters had so far shielded him from arrest. On Saturday, Interior Minister Marco Antonio Oviedo suggested that security forces might move to capture Morales, saying they would "carry out whatever operations are necessary at the appropriate time." From his hiding place, Morales told reporters that Bolivians were rebelling against a government that had become "utterly submissive" to the United States.
For some Bolivians, the military deployment offered hope of normalcy. Erland Richard Segovia, a 49-year-old truck driver stranded on the road to La Paz, said he was grateful to see traffic beginning to move again. But the state of emergency also raised the prospect of escalation. The Chapare region, Morales's stronghold, was now a potential flashpoint. The government had signaled it was willing to use force not just to clear roads but to apprehend a former president. What had begun as economic protest was edging toward something more volatile—a confrontation between a conservative government determined to consolidate power and a broad coalition of Bolivians who saw that power as illegitimate.
Citações Notáveis
Bolivians cannot continue to be held hostage by blockades that prevent them from working, studying, receiving medical care, getting supplies and bringing food to their homes.— President Rodrigo Paz
We want him gone. We don't want him to be the one governing.— Lidia Callisaya, Aymara leader
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did the blockades last so long if they were causing such obvious damage to the economy?
Because the protesters believed the damage was necessary—that Paz's government was a threat worth the cost. They weren't trying to negotiate; they were trying to make the country ungovernable until he left.
But some groups did negotiate. What changed their calculation?
The unions decided they could extract concessions—promises about privatization, ongoing talks—and call it a win. The Indigenous groups didn't believe promises. They wanted Paz gone, period. So you had a fractured opposition, which is exactly what a government wants.
Why is Evo Morales so central to this story if he's in hiding?
Because Paz needs him to be. If this is about a former president orchestrating chaos, it's a security problem. If it's about millions of Bolivians genuinely opposing the government's direction, that's a legitimacy problem. Blaming Morales lets Paz frame the crisis as a law-and-order issue rather than a political one.
And the military deployment—is that likely to end the protests?
It might clear the roads. But it won't resolve why people are blocking them. If anything, sending soldiers into Indigenous strongholds could deepen the anger. The real question is whether Paz can govern without the military's presence, and whether he can do it without arresting Morales.
What happens if they try to capture Morales?
That's the escalation point. His supporters have protected him so far. A military operation in the Chapare could turn a blockade into something closer to armed conflict. The government seems willing to take that risk.