5/16/23

By Josh Rubin

At the border, which I just left yesterday, it is quieter than usual. The thousands of people waiting for a chance to cross are being held back from presenting themselves at the ports of entry by, of all people, Mexican authorities. Uniformed functionaries stand at the foot of the bridge in Mexico to make sure that only people who have appointments through CBPOne can reach the CBP officers that stand in the middle of the arc that spans the river. The others are being prevented from even asking for a chance.

Along the river, Texas troops armed to the teeth plow roads and continue the endless unspooling of wire that cuts flesh, to keep others from the short swim across the rain-swollen water to the muddy and slippery opposite bank, as families with inflatable pool toys scan for openings.

And some will find a way, as people always have, to migrate. As we all once did, radiating from a place in Southern Africa, where we sapiens came from. They will come, and we we all will live our lives. The only question, as we zoom to a little altitude, like those drones that buzz along the same river, is this: how much will we make people suffer as they migrate, as they do what they must to save their families, to carry themselves and their children to safety?