Though construction of an actual wall has not begun, and funding for it has yet to be provided by Congress, the idea of building a border wall remains a central flash point of the Trump Era. But as Times photojournalists have seen for themselves, a wall already exists, and it takes many forms.
During his campaign, President Trump captured the imagination of his supporters with the promise of a 1,000-mile-long wall on the border with Mexico. Though construction of an actual wall has not begun, and funding for it has yet to be provided by Congress, the symbolism and reality of what it means has grown. In many ways, a wall already exists and it takes many forms. Since March, when Mr. Trump visited San Diego to view prototypes of the wall, New York Times photojournalists have traveled to the border to document the struggle of migrants trying to reach the United States and the efforts of the authorities to stop them. We asked six of those photojournalists — Mauricio Lima, Todd Heisler, Meghan Dhaliwal, Tamir Kalifa, Lynsey Addario and Victor J. Blue — to write about their experiences at the border and what the notion of a border wall means to them.
Orange bracelets worn as identification. An asylum seeker grasping a number on a tiny piece of paper. Makeshift shacks. Flooded, muddy fields. Wet belongings. Inadequate meals. Improvised, open-air communal showers. Children, women and men living together in overcrowded tents miles from home.
Among nearly 4,000 migrants living in precarious conditions in an athletic center-turned-shelter near the United States border, there was a surprising spirit of generosity and mutual respect. Despite their traumatic tales of violence and persecution at the hands of drug traffickers, and political instability in their home countries, many of the families I came across still dreamed of crossing the border and starting life anew.
In addition to razor wire, fencing and other physical barriers, a vast network of technology and law enforcement guards the United States’ southern border. And beyond that long, meandering line that runs east to west are the poverty, violence and political oppression that drive migrants north, to an economy that is dependent on their labor. There are walls, real and metaphorical, that separate most Americans from the people cooking in kitchens and working in fields, from the children living in shelters, making it hard to comprehend how any of this actually works. There is a great chasm between the rancher in New Mexico who crosses paths with smugglers on a regular basis and Americans who live hundreds of miles from a port of entry. Talk to any of them and you probably won’t hear what you expect ed. It’s complicated.
It was just after dark, on the banks of the Rio Grande in Laredo, Tex., just a couple of hundred yards from an outlet mall. Border Patrol agents were walking slowly along the river, following several men on inner tubes trying to cross over from Mexico. “¿Dónde están?” the agents called into the dark. Voices responded, giving their location. They knew full well they would be caught if they made it to the other side, so they turned back. I was struck by the banter, the banality of this recurring game of cat and mouse along the southern border.
Many of the Border Patrol agents I have met come from the communities they serve and have family on either side of the border. Some are immigrants themselves.
I remember the first time I saw people turning themselves in at the border. It was broad daylight and about 30 women and children from Central America crossed the Rio Grande and walked right up to Border Patrol agents. One woman had a child who was merely months old.
This summer, even after the policy of separating immigrant children from their parents became well known, families were still crossing the border to request asylum. And those who didn’t cross the border illegally, either out of respect for the law or a lack of means to hire smugglers, lined the dozen International Bridges in the Rio Grande Valley. They waited in the scorching heat, sometimes for days, to make their pleas.
The United States-Mexico border wall in Tijuana is just that: a wall. But it is also a gathering point, a swirling sea of people waiting for their opportunity to cross — be they commuters heading to work in the morning or asylum seekers curled in blankets.
Words are spoken, cried, screamed and sung along the length of the fence. Prayers rise up into the night sky from a group of Central American asylum seekers near one of the ports of entry. Tears stream quietly down the faces of those who know that a new, unknown journey is beginning when United States Customs and Border Protection officers finally accept them in to begin the asylum process.
