How Not to Build a Fence

The United States is in the midst of an intense debate over its borders. Immigration is approaching historic levels, and an all-time high of 12 million people -- one third of the foreign-born population -- are in the United States illegally. Fifty percent of them are from Mexico, and another 30 percent are from elsewhere in Central and South America. Most have entered across the 1,950-mile U.S.-Mexican border. In recent months, the two houses of the U.S. Congress have each passed immigration reform bills. The differences between the two versions are yet to be resolved, but they do have at least one important thing in common: Both mandate that hundreds of miles of new physical barriers be added to the existing 125 miles of fence along the border.

That remote, often forbidding border has now become the focus of a symbolic struggle over how Americans see themselves in the world. But symbols are open to interpretation. To many Americans, border barriers promote national security. To others, they smack of fortification and militarization by empire-building Washington bureaucrats. Meanwhile, market-oriented conservatives at the Wall Street Journal and human rights activists at the American Civil Liberties Union have both denounced the border fence as a new "Berlin Wall" -- though its purpose is to keep foreign nationals out, not citizens in.

In this controversy, few have bothered to consider the mundane, physical details of the border fence itself. But when one looks at it closely, one encounters neither a particularly imposing structure nor a gold-plated military project. Instead, it is a jerry-rigged example of American ingenuity that reflects not merely ambivalence about immigration but also the competing objectives and compromises characteristic of America's decentralized and fragmented political system. Moreover, immigration control alone was never the driving force behind the building of the barriers. Instead, border-control policies have had to piggyback on other overriding national concerns. The result is a fence that is neither as draconian and militarized as critics claim, nor as effective as supporters would like.

The oldest section of the existing border fence begins at the Pacific Ocean and continues inland for 42 miles. When construction began in 1990, this densely populated area was the busiest site of illegal entry into the United States. This "primary fence" averages only 10 feet high, and is made of corrugated steel panels about 20 inches wide and 12 feet long, welded onto upright posts. But because the corrugations run horizontally, they form a kind of ladder that makes scaling the fence easy for young and old. And because there is no continuous concrete footing, this fence is easy to dig under, especially given the region's gravelly, erosion-prone soil. Contrast that with Israel's security fence on the West Bank, which in some places is a daunting, 25-foot-high, smooth concrete wall.

Why build such a user-friendly structure? Well, the corrugated steel panels -- military surplus used to build emergency landing strips in Vietnam -- were plentiful and free. And making the fence higher and harder to climb would have required placing the panels vertically instead of horizontally, a far more complicated and costly undertaking. This project also had to be approved by a welter of state and federal agencies, including Native American tribal jurisdictions. Then there were the nongovernmental organizations: immigrant rights advocates and well-organized environmentalists concerned about protecting plant and wildlife habitats. Faced with so many parties capable of delaying or even stopping construction, the fence's political sponsors were determined to drive stakes into the ground as quickly as possible. Finally, there was the Border Patrol itself. As scores of interviews reveal, this agency did not want a fence so difficult to climb that there would be injuries, taking up the valuable time of its agents and resulting in a mountain of liability claims.

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