As our car made it's way through the abundance of wild flowers, the wall emerged, stealth like. It crept unforgivingly from the depths of the ocean, and persisted over peaks and valleys until it dribbled off into the distance. When the meadow falls away, what remains is a stark, soulless, compound completely at odds with it's name; Friendship Park.
I breathed in the salty air and indulged the warm wind on my skin. I felt no kin to this place and my blood ran cold as I navigated the suspicious gaze of border patrol. This was hostile ground.
The hands on the steel clock marched with precision, and people began to filter into the tiny courtyard 'gifted' to families eager to catch a glimpse of loved ones left behind. Like moths to a flame, bodies clung to the mesh fence, fingers desperately searching for a connection through the tiny windows in the gunmetal grey.
Mexico.
I approached the fence, head bowed in reverence, intimidated by the power it wielded. This was a mighty beast and it dominated far more than just the view; this fence had the power to divide people, attitudes, culture and land.
As I stood before it, my hands reached out tentatively to explore the cruel voids that hinted at the other side. I could only catch flashes of color and there was of course no tangible proof of what lay beyond. I willed the sound of sobbing to stop but my mood succumbed to the sea of heavy sighs around me.
Crunch.
The twisted sound of metal on metal raised the hairs on the back of my neck; four humorless minions heaved open the heavy gate between North and South, sweat stained uniforms betraying their cool demeanor. Music poured through from Tijuana, a delicious soundtrack to the vibrant life that could not be snuffed out by our sober greeting.
Silence. A ceasefire.
I edged along the border until I could peek through the gate where an old lady stood just inches away from me, her feet occupying another land, another life. Her skin was burnt by the sun and deep trenches forged pathways across her face. She met my gaze with a generous smile and I responded with a nervous twitch, acknowledging my 'privilege' and how arbitrary it all was.
Six families crossed the border that day, granted just three minutes by the US government to hug their loved ones on the other side. Three minutes counted. Three minutes logged. Three, unnatural, minutes.
And the world looked on unmoved.
I wrestled with the irony of Friendship Park. This should be a happy place where lines drawn in the sand dissolve to accommodate those divided by the border. In San Diego the ocean teases the shoreline and wild flowers blossom freely throughout the desert landscape, surely something good could grow from here? But it doesn't. This border is quiet but not peaceful, near but not close, pretty but grotesque.
Friendship Park is a wolf in sheep's clothing.
