Photograph: John Moore/Getty Images
The 9/11 attacks in 2001 brought
fears that terrorists could slip into the US along with economic
migrants, with attention turning to the more isolated parts of the
frontier where most illegal crossing had moved. At the time net
immigration into the US from Mexico hovered around 500,000 a year.
Measures approved during the Bush administration, and continued by Barack Obama, brought more and sturdier barriers with cameras and floodlights, as well as a duplication of border patrol agents.
A plan to develop a hi-tech virtual fence along irregular terrain proved a failure. With recession looming and drug war violence ballooning, the Republican right insisted on the need to seal the frontier altogether. At the time net migration from Mexico was trailing off to zero. Deportations reached record levels.
Measures approved during the Bush administration, and continued by Barack Obama, brought more and sturdier barriers with cameras and floodlights, as well as a duplication of border patrol agents.
A plan to develop a hi-tech virtual fence along irregular terrain proved a failure. With recession looming and drug war violence ballooning, the Republican right insisted on the need to seal the frontier altogether. At the time net migration from Mexico was trailing off to zero. Deportations reached record levels.
Frontera
Efforts to push through immigration
reform at the start of the second Obama administration brought yet
another drive to beef up barriers and enforcement.
A comprehensive bill passed by the Senate with bipartisan support in June conditions a path to citizenship for undocumented migrants on more fencing, more agents and more air and sea surveillance. The ball is now in the court of the House of Representatives.
A comprehensive bill passed by the Senate with bipartisan support in June conditions a path to citizenship for undocumented migrants on more fencing, more agents and more air and sea surveillance. The ball is now in the court of the House of Representatives.
José Martín Canales, 41, deported migrant
My story is a story of migration, for generations. My grandfather was from the state of Zacatecas and crossed the border to work after the revolution [in Mexico from 1910-20], but was forced back by the depression. My father brought us from Zacatecas to Juárez when I was a baby, and worked in El Paso. Back then it was like one city, there wasn’t even a fence. I would cross all the time over the river to see my aunt and my cousins. We crossed to eat their hamburgers.
I went as a migrant myself in 1994 just when things were getting tougher. Even then I got a plane from El Paso to Dallas and then to Anchorage, Alaska, with no trouble. I worked packing salmon there, but I’ve also worked in restaurants, car washes, construction and as a gardener.
The first time I was deported to Tijuana [in Mexico], I returned the next day. It was 1995. The second time I went back through a sewage tunnel into Arizona, but later they blocked that off. The third time I came back to Juárez and jumped the fence. It was 1998.
Not long after I was picked up and sent to prison for three years for illegal re-entry. They put wetbacks [illegal immigrants] in with hardened criminals and they like putting people in solitary for months. My girlfriend stopped visiting and I don’t know what happened to her. I don’t care either.
I was deported from prison in December 2002 when they were talking about stopping terrorists crossing. I know the score and won’t try again because I don’t want to be locked up in their jails again. I have some good memories of the US but we have started to hate them because they separated us when we were together. I think they are getting really tough now because of the mafias, but we are the ones who pay the price when all we want to do is work.
I was deported from prison in December 2002 when they were talking about stopping terrorists crossing. I know the score and won’t try again because I don’t want to be locked up in their jails again. I have some good memories of the US but we have started to hate them because they separated us when we were together. I think they are getting really tough now because of the mafias, but we are the ones who pay the price when all we want to do is work.
What few jobs there are pay almost nothing and the narcos feed on that. The corruption of the authorities makes it worse, and that is why there has been a war here in Juárez with 15,000 dead. When the soldiers came they picked on people like me because of the way we look. I am covered in scars from the beatings.
I don’t like my country now. I like theirs less
Pastor José Antonio Galván, 62
Pastor Galván is the founder of the Vision in Action shelter for mentally ill people, near Juarez.I am proud to be Mexican. I grew up in Juárez and after I got married I migrated to California. Later I was in El Paso earning $500 a week, in the 1980s, but drugs burned my mind.
I got deported and wandered around Juárez like a madman for a year. My life changed when I beat up a guy in El Paso and he took my head in his hands and prayed for me, and that cured me. I got my family back and I became a pastor in El Paso.
I quit it all and came to Juárez after the Lord told me I needed to feed the crazy street people here. First I had a soup kitchen in the red light district of Juárez. I opened the shelter in 1998.
Every time I cross the frontier is a victory. Sometimes you wait three hours on the bridge in your car but I never get desperate. I got my green card seven years ago. This little piece of paper is power and I have it. It is a blessing. Thanks to this I can feed my guys.
And I have benefits in the US. I will get a pension every month when I’m 65, and my wife will too. Nobody gives you anything here. I had an operation on my heart for free. Milk or gasoline, everything is cheaper and better quality there. The culture in El Paso is very similar because there are so many Mexicans. The difference is economic.
María Guadalupe Guereca, 57
Strait are the gates
The demilitarised zone, or DMZ,
stretches for 155 miles from east to west and is lined on its northern
and southern perimeters with fences topped with barbed wire to prevent
invasions and defections. It first went up in 1953 after the armistice
agreement detailed the exact distance both sides were required to
withdraw from the frontline.
The fence is regularly patrolled by troops who wear special markings to indicate to the enemy that their intentions aren’t hostile. Soldiers from both sides may patrol inside the DMZ, but they are prohibited from crossing the military demarcation line that splits the zone into two strips just over a mile wide.
South
Korean soldiers patrol inside the 155 mile-wide demilitatrised zone
which separates two nations still technically at war. Photograph: Chung
Sung-Jun/Getty Images
Colourful paper messages supporting reunification of the two Koreas adorn a fence near the DMZ. Photograph: Ng Han Guan/AP
North
Koreans work in a field near the Chinese border over which most
defections from the hermit kingdom take place. Photograph: Peter
Parks/AFP
The fence is regularly patrolled by troops who wear special markings to indicate to the enemy that their intentions aren’t hostile. Soldiers from both sides may patrol inside the DMZ, but they are prohibited from crossing the military demarcation line that splits the zone into two strips just over a mile wide.
The
border is lined by observation posts and, concealed in the nearby hills
and mountains, almost two million troops, including about 640,000 from
South Korea and 28,000 from the US. Experts believe about 60% of North
Korea’s military assets, including 600,000 troops, are positioned on or
near the DMZ.
Hundreds of South Koreans, at least 50 Americans and countless North Koreans have been killed during skirmishes over the past 60 years.
Although North Korean attempts to tunnel beneath the DMZ have proved unsuccessful – four incursion tunnels were discovered before they were completed – the North’s artillery units are within easy range of the South Korean capital, Seoul, just 37 miles away.
Hundreds of South Koreans, at least 50 Americans and countless North Koreans have been killed during skirmishes over the past 60 years.
Although North Korean attempts to tunnel beneath the DMZ have proved unsuccessful – four incursion tunnels were discovered before they were completed – the North’s artillery units are within easy range of the South Korean capital, Seoul, just 37 miles away.
Lee Jae-geun, farmer Tongil village, demilitarised zone
To get to the plot of land
where he grows sweet potatoes and soya beans, Lee Jae-geun must pass
through a military checkpoint manned by soldiers toting assault rifles.
Lee farms in Tongil Village, the only populated area of the
demilitarised zone that separates South and North Korea.
“There are threats all the time,” he says. “It doesn’t bother us. If all of a sudden there were no threats and everything was totally peaceful, that would be strange.”
While North Korea’s sabre-rattling doesn’t scare Lee much, the political theatre on the peninsula does have real effects on life in Tongil Village. Earlier this year, when inter-Korean tensions spiked and North Korea cut off access to the jointly operated Kaesong industrial complex, Lee was locked out of his land for three days. In 2010, after an artillery exchange on Yeonpyeong island left four South Koreans dead, Lee was denied entrance for 15 days. All his dogs and chickens starved to death in that time.
While there is some apprehension over the possibility of conflict, Tongil Village also has unique benefits. Unlike almost everywhere else in South Korea, there is no industry here and few cars. Strict rules mean there has been only minimal development; the land is mostly untouched and the air is clean. Villagers drink untreated water, which they draw from aquifers, and gleaming white cranes gather at every body of water.
Lee sometimes wishes he could sell his land and farm somewhere more predictable. But with poor inter-Korean relations, the possibility of conflict scares away potential buyers and pushes down land values, so he knows he would not get much if he did sell his land. “It’s my responsibility to maintain this so I don’t have much choice,” says Lee, crouched down while pulling weeds. “I just hope the politics can stay calm so we can keep up with our work.”
• Steven Borowiec, Seoul
“There are threats all the time,” he says. “It doesn’t bother us. If all of a sudden there were no threats and everything was totally peaceful, that would be strange.”
While North Korea’s sabre-rattling doesn’t scare Lee much, the political theatre on the peninsula does have real effects on life in Tongil Village. Earlier this year, when inter-Korean tensions spiked and North Korea cut off access to the jointly operated Kaesong industrial complex, Lee was locked out of his land for three days. In 2010, after an artillery exchange on Yeonpyeong island left four South Koreans dead, Lee was denied entrance for 15 days. All his dogs and chickens starved to death in that time.
While there is some apprehension over the possibility of conflict, Tongil Village also has unique benefits. Unlike almost everywhere else in South Korea, there is no industry here and few cars. Strict rules mean there has been only minimal development; the land is mostly untouched and the air is clean. Villagers drink untreated water, which they draw from aquifers, and gleaming white cranes gather at every body of water.
Lee sometimes wishes he could sell his land and farm somewhere more predictable. But with poor inter-Korean relations, the possibility of conflict scares away potential buyers and pushes down land values, so he knows he would not get much if he did sell his land. “It’s my responsibility to maintain this so I don’t have much choice,” says Lee, crouched down while pulling weeds. “I just hope the politics can stay calm so we can keep up with our work.”
• Steven Borowiec, Seoul
Oh Sehyek, North Korean emigré from Haeju
Oh Sehyek was born in Haeju, a
North Korean city close to the border. For all its proximity, however,
Oh had no contact with the forbidden south. The separation was policed
more through fear than physical barriers. He remembers a story his
father told when he was young:
“Once, when he was a soldier, my father crossed the border by mistake. He was fishing in the Rimjingang and became so engrossed that he actually went a few metres into South Korea.”
The Rimjingang is a river that traverses the demilitarised zone, flowing into South Korea from the north. Oh’s father noticed that he had strayed too far and immediately turned round, terrified that he would be caught.
Oh’s first contact with the south was also unintended.
“I was tuning the television and I found a programme from Seoul by accident. I watched it a few times, with the sound turned very low,” he says.
He didn’t know at the time that the punishment could be fatal if he was reported. But he knew to tell no one – not even his family. Something about the show intrigued Oh and set in motion his decision to defect.
“I had to go,” he says. “I hoped my sister would come with me but I was scared to talk about it.
Once I said, ‘Sister, should we try to go to China?’ But her answer was, ‘Are you crazy? How dare you think of it?’ So I had to go alone.”
Rather than making the short journey south across the demilitarised zone, Oh had to travel all the way to the north, to the border with China. He sold his father’s army uniform to make money for the journey.
“That was 10 years ago, and I made it out, but I haven’t seen my family since,” says Oh, who now lives in Seoul. Recently he tried to contact his sister through a broker who takes messages from defectors in South Korea to their relatives in the north.
“It took a while,” he says, “and when I finally heard back I was thrilled, but I was also suspicious that she might be in the hands of the security police.
“The broker said her message was: ‘Please come back here so we can live together. The government would forgive you everything.’ But I could not trust what she said.”
• Daily NK reporter, Seoul
In the words of the writer Lorenzo Silva, the barrier that carves its way between Morocco and Spain’s north African exclave Melilla, is “a symbol of the failure of Europe, and of the human race in general … a fence that separates two worlds”. Looming large over the Spanish territory and the border towns of Morocco, the barrier is in fact a fence in three parts, whose purpose is to prevent illegal immigration, and smuggling.
The borders of Ceuta and Melilla were barely fortified until the 1990s.
Photograph: Reuters
'We often hear the screams and shouts of people as they are attacked by the police when they try to climb over at night.'
Photograph: Jesús Blasco Avellaneda for the Guardian
'Some people wait here in the mountains for weeks, months, years'.
Photograph: Jesús Blasco Avellaneda for the Guardian
'You may have lived here all your life, but if you don’t have the right paperwork, you’re not recognised as a citizen'.
Photograph: Jesús Blasco Avellaneda for the Guardian
'Even
though there are fewer jobs in Spain now, it is still better than
nothing'. Photograph: Jesús Blasco Avellaneda for the Guardian
A
mural in Melilla comments on the situation facing migrants trying to
reach mainland Europe. Photograph: Mustafa Berkane/GuardianWitness
A security guard stands on the other side of a barbed wire fence from migrants in Ceuta. Photograph: Patrick Robert/Corbis
One
of many so-called multi-celluar defence barriers contributing to the
militarised atmosphere in Kabul. Photograph: ID3713576/GuardianWitness
Blue
and white barrels form a barricade in south Nicosia, part of Cyprus. On
the other side, controlled by Turkish-occupied northern Cyprus, red and
white barrels do the same job. Photograph: Nikolas
Kyriakou/GuardianWitness
An illusion of security? A wall blocks a road into Tahrir square, Cairo.
Photograph: haroldmoan/GuardianWitness
A security guard stands on the other side of a barbed wire fence from migrants in Ceuta. Photograph: Patrick Robert/Corbis
One
of many so-called multi-celluar defence barriers contributing to the
militarised atmosphere in Kabul. Photograph: ID3713576/GuardianWitness
An illusion of security? A wall blocks a road into Tahrir square, Cairo.
Photograph: haroldmoan/GuardianWitness In the short term, walls may appear worthwhile investments. But they
never address the underlying causes of the conflicts they seek to
mitigate. At best, walls create an illusion of security – because those
on the “wrong” side will always be working out how to get around them.
At worst, they are counter-productive: a people that believes it has solved its problems by isolating itself physically from whatever threatens it – broadly, inequality – can put off asking itself the bigger questions.
They might, just possibly, do better to recall Frost’s words.
Interactive design and development: Andrew Mason, Daan Louter, Chris Cross, Alex Purcell
Additional research: Mona Chalabi and Matthias Stoltz
Commissioning editor: Jamie Wilson
Satellite imagery: NASA, except Belfast: Google Earth
Jon Henley on how walls create an illusion of security
“Once, when he was a soldier, my father crossed the border by mistake. He was fishing in the Rimjingang and became so engrossed that he actually went a few metres into South Korea.”
The Rimjingang is a river that traverses the demilitarised zone, flowing into South Korea from the north. Oh’s father noticed that he had strayed too far and immediately turned round, terrified that he would be caught.
Oh’s first contact with the south was also unintended.
“I was tuning the television and I found a programme from Seoul by accident. I watched it a few times, with the sound turned very low,” he says.
He didn’t know at the time that the punishment could be fatal if he was reported. But he knew to tell no one – not even his family. Something about the show intrigued Oh and set in motion his decision to defect.
“I had to go,” he says. “I hoped my sister would come with me but I was scared to talk about it.
Once I said, ‘Sister, should we try to go to China?’ But her answer was, ‘Are you crazy? How dare you think of it?’ So I had to go alone.”
Rather than making the short journey south across the demilitarised zone, Oh had to travel all the way to the north, to the border with China. He sold his father’s army uniform to make money for the journey.
“That was 10 years ago, and I made it out, but I haven’t seen my family since,” says Oh, who now lives in Seoul. Recently he tried to contact his sister through a broker who takes messages from defectors in South Korea to their relatives in the north.
“It took a while,” he says, “and when I finally heard back I was thrilled, but I was also suspicious that she might be in the hands of the security police.
“The broker said her message was: ‘Please come back here so we can live together. The government would forgive you everything.’ But I could not trust what she said.”
• Daily NK reporter, Seoul
The edge of Africa
Paul Hamilos in Melilla. Additional reporting by Jesús AvellanedaIn the words of the writer Lorenzo Silva, the barrier that carves its way between Morocco and Spain’s north African exclave Melilla, is “a symbol of the failure of Europe, and of the human race in general … a fence that separates two worlds”. Looming large over the Spanish territory and the border towns of Morocco, the barrier is in fact a fence in three parts, whose purpose is to prevent illegal immigration, and smuggling.
Photograph: Reuters
Until
the 1990s, the border between Morocco and Melilla was barely
noticeable, with few physical barriers and an easy flow of people and
goods back and forth. It was common for both Moroccan and Spaniards to
cross and return to their respective homes, making it hard to tell
exactly where one country ended and the other began.
But, as mass immigration from west Africa into Europe took off, calls for a more permanent physical barrier led to the development of the fence that today stands more than six metres tall, with hi-tech sensors, razor wire and 24-hour armed patrol guards. The same situation applies in Spain’s other north African exclave, Ceuta. This is where Fortress Europe meets north Africa.
But, as mass immigration from west Africa into Europe took off, calls for a more permanent physical barrier led to the development of the fence that today stands more than six metres tall, with hi-tech sensors, razor wire and 24-hour armed patrol guards. The same situation applies in Spain’s other north African exclave, Ceuta. This is where Fortress Europe meets north Africa.
Sara Mohamed Shaib, 29
Photograph: Jesús Blasco Avellaneda for the Guardian
Sara lives in a house in Melilla that backs on to the fence.
It makes me sad to think what that fence has done to Melilla, not just because it is so ugly, but because it is the only thing people know about the city when they come here. When people visit, they always ask to be taken to see it, but it’s not a tourist attraction. “Where’s the fence,” they ask. “La valla [the fence]” is now part of our vocabulary, which is a terrible thing.
In our house, because the border is so close, we often hear the screams and shouts of people as they are attacked by the police when they try to climb over at night. And we often find people hiding in our garden. When I was younger I used to get very scared, but now I realise that most of the time, they are much more scared than you are. We have a well, and I have found young men down there too, but when you talk to them they don’t want help at first, because they are so terrified.
Everyone has their own story. One time I met a young woman, which is rare, and she told me she did not know what had happened to her baby. I didn’t want to judge her, but I wondered what kind of a mother would make such a dangerous journey with a baby. But I learned that she had been raped on her journey from her home to Spain, resulting in the baby.
My mother and I try to help as often as we can, giving them clothes, and taking them to the police station, where they register themselves for expulsion. One of the ironies for the sub-Saharan Africans is that in order to stay, they have to register themselves for expulsion, so they can start the paperwork. So we put them in the boot of the car, cover them up, and take them there.
The border has also had an effect on my family. My sister and my nephews live in Rabat in Morocco, which means I hardly ever get to see them. They need a visa to get over here, but because my nephews are minors, that’s not so easy. And the last time I went to Morocco, I got caught up in a huge avalanche of people at the border, and the police started hitting me. I asked them to stop, but they carried on hitting me like everyone else. So now I don’t go – they’re only 12km [7.5 miles] away, but they might as well be on a different continent.
I would love to be the kind of aunt who is always around, but I won’t get to see them grow up.
Suha Abongwa, 23, from Cameroon
Photograph: Jesús Blasco Avellaneda for the Guardian
Suha was interviewed hiding in the Gurugu mountains, on the border between Morocco and Melilla.
I have been hiding in these mountains for the past two months, and I dream about crossing the border every night. It weighs on my mind. I am from Cameroon, and my plan was to get to Morocco, climb over the fence, and then from Spain to get to Germany, where I want to study. I want to get a white-collar job and use the knowledge I learn to take back to Cameroon, so I can improve my country economically, socially and politically. There is no work there, but in Europe I am sure I will find work. I left without telling my parents, and hope to be very successful one day.
We all know about the Gurugu mountains; it is where you come to meet with other Africans who want to cross the border into Spain. We are all brothers here, we don’t care what country you come from. We all have the same goal. My plan is to wait here, until there are enough of us, and then we will go over the border. Some people wait here in the mountains for weeks, months, years. We find whatever food we can, or go and take the leftover meat from restaurants, which we make into a soup or cook with a small fire. Some of the Moroccans treat us like animals, throwing stones at us, and reporting us to the police. Many of us get sick with stomach complaints, because often we only have sugary water to drink, which makes us ill, but we don’t have any medication.
Every day, when the police come to look for us, we hide in terrible places, under rocks, because there is nothing worse than being caught by the Moroccan police. When they catch you they drive you back to the desert, but that won’t stop us.
But the torment here in the mountains is much worse than my fear of getting over the wall. This is no way to live. I would rather try my luck getting over the wall and then get to Europe. I cannot go back now. By God’s grace I will get there.
José Palazón, 58
Photograph: Jesús Blasco Avellaneda for the Guardian
José is a human rights worker in Melilla.
With each centimetre that the fence grows, so the violence and the marginalisation increases. Many have been left with no regular supply of water, gas, or other basic amenities. The situation on the border now is almost one of war, with armed officers standing guard, often attacking people as they cross. I hate the fence for what it has done to us, not just because it has divided the two countries, but because of the paranoia it has brought to Melilla, and the way that it differentiates between those who live here with and without documentation.
The border’s tentacles reach all across the city, into its cafes and bars, ending up on the desks of the civil servants who run Melilla. You may have lived here all your life, but if you don’t have the right paperwork, you’re not recognised as a citizen. You are a ghost. And so many people here don’t even know about the border, and the damage it does. People refuse to even talk about this, yet often have Moroccan-born women cleaning their houses, earning €400 a month, who can’t even send their children to school. They choose not to think about that, because if they did, they would have to come to terms with the world that has been created around them.
People act as if the biggest problem for this city is the few hundred Africans who cross over the wall each year, when living among us are tens of thousands of Moroccans without any paperwork or any rights.
Abdel Ghani, 38
Abdel is from Beni Mellal, Morocco and is currently living rough in Melilla.
I first came to Spain back in 2000, from Morocco, landing in Tarifa, Andalusia, and working my way up the country, doing whatever jobs I could, in construction and agriculture. I worked in Almería, and Madrid and ended up in Guadalajara. I got my official papers to allow me to stay in 2005, and I thought I would stay forever. I have many Spanish friends; they liked me, and I was a really hard worker. Sometimes we used to go out to dinner with the family of mye Spanish boss. He treated me like any friend.
But then in 2009, I was expelled back to Morocco; I still don’t know exactly why. In Morocco I tried to find work, but there is nothing for me there; they pay €6 a day for working in fields, and construction work isn’t much better, but the cost of meat is more expensive than in Spain.
I got back over the border into Melilla three weeks ago, and have been sleeping in the streets since then. I will go back to mainland Spain however I can, even though now I don’t have the paperwork. I don’t know how long I will be here, or how long it will take, but I will do it. Even though there are fewer jobs in Spain now, it is still better than nothing. I think I will probably go in a boat, but I will have to return to Spain. There is nothing left for me here.
Fadma Mizian, 65
Fadma is an unemployed mother of six from Nador, Morocco.I am a widow and have six children, four girls and two boys, and 13 grandchildren and I have lived all of my life between Morocco and Melilla. During the day I used to go to Melilla to look for work, and when the sun went down, I would come back home to look after my family, make food and try to relax a little in order to prepare myself to return to the fight the following day.
In the past, there was no difference between Melilla and Beni Enzar: it was all one place, more or less. I used to be able to go into into the Spanish part without any problems, where I worked as a domestic help, cleaning houses, cooking and looking after children. Sometimes I also smuggled stuff across the border to earn a little extra money. My husband and I would buy food and other goods in Melilla, and then cross back into Morocco to sell to shops and businesses.
Now, the fence stops me from even seeing Melilla, and the border has become more dangerous. It’s much more difficult to enter Melilla, I need to take my passport with me, and there are often huge queues and gatherings of people at the border crossings. Sometimes they don’t let me in, and occasionally the police have hit me because there were too many people, or they wanted to close the border.
I don’t know what the future has in store but I am very worried that things are only going to get worse. I get scared when the helicopters fly over us, and when we hear commotion and noise at the border and lots of police cars turn up. All I can do is pray to God that he helps us and that one day things at the border will improve.
Photography © NASA
End notes
The
walled world is proliferating, fracturing. We’ve focused on 10 examples
all of which seem to represent something unique. But it is by no means
an exhaustive list. The Afghan and Iraq wars left behind them capitals
dotted with security walls, and the Arab spring has thrown up new urban
barriers - in Cairo and Aleppo for example.
The urban wall is something that Nicosia has had to live with for four decades. And even though travel restrictions in the Cypriot capital have been partly lifted, getting from A to B is not always possible.
The urban wall is something that Nicosia has had to live with for four decades. And even though travel restrictions in the Cypriot capital have been partly lifted, getting from A to B is not always possible.
Israel
and India are not the only country walling themselves in: the Saudis
have embarked on a similar idea, reinforcing in particular the border
with Yemen. Uzbekistan has fenced itself off from most of its neighbours
for ‘anti-terror’ reasons, enhancing the sense of isolation that comes
with being the world’s only landlocked country entirely surrounded by
other landlocked countries.
Other border barriers separate Botswana and Zimbabwe, Iraq and Kuwait, South Africa and Mozambique, and China and North Korea.
Other border barriers separate Botswana and Zimbabwe, Iraq and Kuwait, South Africa and Mozambique, and China and North Korea.
Photograph: haroldmoan/GuardianWitness
Fadma Mizian, 65
Fadma is an unemployed mother of six from Nador, Morocco.I am a widow and have six children, four girls and two boys, and 13 grandchildren and I have lived all of my life between Morocco and Melilla. During the day I used to go to Melilla to look for work, and when the sun went down, I would come back home to look after my family, make food and try to relax a little in order to prepare myself to return to the fight the following day.
In the past, there was no difference between Melilla and Beni Enzar: it was all one place, more or less. I used to be able to go into into the Spanish part without any problems, where I worked as a domestic help, cleaning houses, cooking and looking after children. Sometimes I also smuggled stuff across the border to earn a little extra money. My husband and I would buy food and other goods in Melilla, and then cross back into Morocco to sell to shops and businesses.
Now, the fence stops me from even seeing Melilla, and the border has become more dangerous. It’s much more difficult to enter Melilla, I need to take my passport with me, and there are often huge queues and gatherings of people at the border crossings. Sometimes they don’t let me in, and occasionally the police have hit me because there were too many people, or they wanted to close the border.
I don’t know what the future has in store but I am very worried that things are only going to get worse. I get scared when the helicopters fly over us, and when we hear commotion and noise at the border and lots of police cars turn up. All I can do is pray to God that he helps us and that one day things at the border will improve.
A security guard stands on the other side of a barbed wire fence from migrants in Ceuta. Photograph: Patrick Robert/CorbisEnd notes
Israel and India are not the only
country walling themselves in: the Saudis have embarked on a similar
idea, reinforcing in particular the border with Yemen. Uzbekistan has
fenced itself off from most of its neighbours for ‘anti-terror’ reasons,
enhancing the sense of isolation that comes with being the world’s only
landlocked country entirely surrounded by other landlocked countries.
Other border barriers separate Botswana and Zimbabwe, Iraq and Kuwait, South Africa and Mozambique, and China and North Korea.
Other border barriers separate Botswana and Zimbabwe, Iraq and Kuwait, South Africa and Mozambique, and China and North Korea.
Photograph: haroldmoan/GuardianWitness
At worst, they are counter-productive: a people that believes it has solved its problems by isolating itself physically from whatever threatens it – broadly, inequality – can put off asking itself the bigger questions.
They might, just possibly, do better to recall Frost’s words.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.
Credits
Editors: Mark Rice-Oxley, Paul Torpey, Seán Clarke, Ranjit DhaliwalInteractive design and development: Andrew Mason, Daan Louter, Chris Cross, Alex Purcell
Additional research: Mona Chalabi and Matthias Stoltz
Commissioning editor: Jamie Wilson
Satellite imagery: NASA, except Belfast: Google Earth
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Jon Henley on how walls create an illusion of security
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