Border Art

THE SOCCER FIELD IS the barren expanse of ground behind Tijuana’s oldest neighborhood, Colonia Liberdad, where would-be migrants wait in small groups to catch the economic tides that drift back and forth across the Americas. Each day, about an hour before sunset, these indocumentados filter down through the neighborhood to gather in the Soccer Field, where they eat, drink, trade information, and await the coli to move out beyond the farthest plateau and into the deepest canyon, into a surreal gamescape of fading sunlight and brilliant searchlights, of hovering aircraft, waiting authorities, and workers become fugitives in o zone overrun by on almost desperate legality. The United States Border Patrol has plowed furrows to the north of the Soccer Field deep enough to stop cars if they try to cross, but the combined weight of countless feet has rounded these ditches into ruins, softening

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