Understanding the space
In dominant discourse, the U.S.-México border is imagined in a singular way — as a vast, dry landscape with a wall running through it (or a lack of a wall, depending on the viewer’s particular paranoia). But there’s no singular image that can capture the 1,933 mile border, as aesthetics change dramatically between San Diego, CA, and Brownsville, TX. The area of El Paso-Ciudad Juárez is its own unique geography: The binational region is the second largest metropolitan area (behind San Diego-Tijuana) on the U.S.-México border. But whereas downtown San Diego is situated 20 miles north of the border, El Paso is pressed up against Juárez. From the height of Franklin Mountains State Park, located on the northern outskirts of El Paso, the cities appear continuous. But upon closer look, the Rio Grande is encased in concrete, and deep red fence(s) fortresses El Paso from its “sister city.” As Alejandra Aragón and Angie Reza Tures said, the militarized infrastructure of the border represents a huge break between the two cities — not only a physical separation, but a mental and conceptual division, as well.
There are numerous differences between both cities, from the color of street lights at night, to the grid layout of El Paso versus the more organic shape of Ciudad Juárez. Many of these differences are more sinister, the results of U.S. border imperialism. For instance, El Paso touts itself as the second safest city in the United States. Many of those we talked said that is only because El Paso is probably the most policed city in the United States, with a plethora of law enforcement agencies working in conjunction to “promote homeland security and public safety.” The violence is outsourced to Juárez, which is perpetually constructed as a dangerous free-for-all.
As Juan says, the United States government has shown that it simply does not have a concern for the people of Juárez. And yet, the United States could not exist without places like Juárez, evidenced most clearly from the maquiladora industry that’s grown dramatically since the implementation of the North American Free Trade Agreement in 1994. Essentially, the maquiladora industry allows for foreign companies (most of which are European or U.S.-based) to exploit workers in border cities like Juárez, where the city’s 330 maquiladoras manufacture many of the household goods that you’re probably surrounded by as you read this. These factories employ 255,000 people, many of whom are stuck in immigration limbo, unable to cross into the United States. (Learn more about the Juárez’s maquiladora industry — and local resistance to its exploitative conditions — here.)
Considering the extent of U.S.-imposed border violence and the expansive maquiladora industry, border imperialism is on display in El Paso-Juárez on a scale that’s undeniable and entirely in your face. But that doesn’t erase the incredible history of both cities, which we tried to capture a sliver of by displaying a selection of murals you can interact with. Below are a series of 360 degree videos that we hope will give you a better sense of how these cities are structured and where murals and public art appears. The environment of both cities vary significantly from barrio to barrio, but we hope that this small series will inspire larger questions how U.S. border imperialism — and the response to that imperialism — plays out on the landscape. (Please note that, in order to view the videos properly, you may need the most up-to-date version of your internet browser).
Paso del Norte Port of Entry (El Paso): Folks move between both cities through this pedestrian bridge, many of whom commute daily to and from work. The wait time for vehicles to get into the United States is significant, as is the process of getting into the United States if you are not a passport-carrying citizen, and particularly if you’re not white. The fact that every non-white person is under suspicion, the fact that folks might have to wait for hours to enter into El Paso — these are a fragment of the everyday indignities the border imposes.
Rio Grande/Rio Bravo, encased in concrete (Juárez side) — This video was captured along the river, between the Paso del Norte bridge and el puente negro (the black bridge, which used to connect the two cities by train before the border became entirely closed off. It’s important to note two things here: (1) The presence of graffiti art on the Mexico side, and the absence of any expression on the U.S. side; (2) The fact that 15-year old Mexican teen Sergio Hernández was shot and killed by a U.S. Border Patrol agent in this exact spot in 2010, when he got too close to the United States with a group of friends while walking along this same pathway. Learn more about Sergio Hernández’s case here.
El Chamizal (El Paso side) — El Chamizal is an hugely important site in the history of the border. After the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (where the U.S. essentially took the entirety of the contemporary U.S. west from México), the Rio Grande was established as the boundary between Texas and México. A small piece of land beyond the Rio Grande — now situated within the limits of Juárez — known as El Chamizal, however, was claimed by both nations, creating a decades-long dispute that lasted until 1964, when the United States (for solely political reasons) ceded most of the Chamizal back to Mexico. The agreement was celebrated as a moment of peace and cooperation, and the section of the Chamizal remaining in the United State has been made into a national memorial to commemorate this idea of kinship.
But it’s difficult to picture kinship here: The border wall runs along the perimeter of the park, and the Bridge of the Americas crossing — a busy, militarized port-of-entry — is located just to the east. Contrary to the imagined friendship and cooperation that the U.S. government has constructed is a deeper history of the theft of indigenous land, and the displacement of working class people that the dispute caused. The Queer Chicanx writer Gloria Anzaldúa offers a different interpretation of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and an analysis that extends to the Chamizal dispute:
The border fence that divides the Mexican people was born on February 2, 1848 with the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo. It left 100,000 Mexican citizens on this side, annexed by conquest along with the land. The land established by the treaty as belonging to Mexicans was soon swindled away from its owners. The treaty was never honored and restitution, to this day, has never been made. (Excerpt from Anzaldúa’s Borderlands: La Frontera/The New Mestiza, 1987.)
Murals of Segundo Barrio (El Paso) — Segundo Barrio is an historic Latinx neighborhood situated between downtown and the border. It has an incredibly deep history that connects back to the Mexican Revolution, and was a frequent stop for revolutionary figures like Pancho Villa. Over the years, Segundo has been an important first landing spot for many Mexican immigrants, before moving further into the country. Francisco Delgado, CIMI, and Lxs Dos all have murals here, alongside some historic ones like Segundo Barrio (1975 — found below). While the city of El Paso and investors have consistently tried — and at some points, succeeded — to redevelop the neighborhood, and neighboring Chihuahuita, Segundo remains a stronghold of working class, predominately Chicanx peoples. These histories can be traced through the murals present at nearly every corner, including at the massive Sagrado Corazon, which folks often gather outside of, representing a unique confluence of past and present.
Lincoln Park (El Paso) — African-American, indigenous, and Chicanx communities have historically been the targets of infrastructure projects that displace and tear down neighborhoods. This history is present in El Paso, where, under Interstate-10, the Chicanx community has claimed space through a collection of ~40 murals. The open park space is also the site of many other different forms of public gatherings, including community events put on by El Paso’s low-rider associations. Featured in the first video is Pachuca Blood, a mural by CIMI and Victor Casas, which commemorates the women that connect both sides of the border through their labor and care, but whose contributions are often erased because of patriarchal power structures. In the second video are two murals from Gabriel Gaytán that celebrate the indigeneity of El Paso’s residents, merging contemporary figures with traditional symbology.
