- September 15, 2016
Alejandro Duran, M.Arch ’19
For many of us, its existence is of no consequence. If it disappeared tomorrow, the only result would be a shorter commute. It struggles to be seen by those who grew up in its shadow. And yet there it is: three walls, a rusty corrugated fence; a tall, phalanx-like formation of steel poles; and an earthen bank that carries a highway of surveillance. All are neatly wrapped up with a profound sense of desolation. Concomitant sights abound: a dog barking at a van full of day laborers, young faces peering out of car windows into accusatory aviator glasses, a shantytown that crashes up against the barriers like a wave breaking against a seawall. From the air, one witnesses the exodus twice a day at peak hours. In this maelstrom are the children whose country is neither here nor there. To them, the two cities are one place. Tomorrow on TV they will hear talk of closing it, of fortifying it, that too many are coming through it and we need to do something about it now before we become a third world hellhole. But then, how will we make it to school, to work, and to our lovers on time?