From the Texas border town, you can see and hear what’s happening in Ciudad Juárez across a fence – and it’s a reminder of what it means to be a US citizen
Efren Macias, 70, lives in a one-room rented apartment, only 1,000ft from a 15ft-high fence splitting El Paso from Mexico. His apartment is immaculately kept, the walls decorated with religious icons and pictures of his family, many of whose members live in Mexico.
Efren and his wife do not have a lot of money. They make about $1,000 a month from a small pension he receives and from her occasional home-care work. Yet they are content. “I am happy. I have a roof. I have food. I am safe. I see my family. I am not sure what more you need.”
He is clear about another reason for his happiness: he is a US citizen. He was born and raised in Mexico but came to the United States as a young man. When asked why, he points to his injured left foot, the toes missing after a construction accident. “There is work here. Even if it is dangerous work.” Then he shapes his hands into pretend guns, gestures towards the border, and sprays the neighborhood while making shooting noises. “It isn’t safe in Mexico. Here, it is safe.”
In a time when many Americans, especially lower income Americans, are angry, frustrated, and unhappy, polls show Latinos in the US are more optimistic.
I have spent much of the last three years documenting poverty across the US, and those polls seem to hold true. El Paso, Texas, is one of the poorest cities in the US. It is over 81% Latino and is one of the happiest places I have visited. Happiness in El Paso is less about how much you have today, than about how much you have compared with the past. It is about finding meaning beyond the material, about having family and religion.
El Paso lies in a narrow space between rugged mountains and the Rio Grande. From almost anywhere, you can see into Ciudad Juárez, a city of 1.3 million people just on the other side of a tall border fence. You can see its homes, its residents. They are constantly on display, a semi-silent drama playing out beyond the fence. The noises that are heard are often the sounds of violence, gunshots, sirens and yells.
The proximity to Ciudad Juárez’s violence and poverty is a reminder to residents of El Paso of what they have, what they could lose, and what comes with being a US citizen: safety, family and freedom. As one resident, who was born on the other side of the fence, told me: “I might be on the bottom of the escalator, but I am on the escalator, and it is going up.”
That happiness and pride is also reflected in a strong community – and in the statistics. El Paso has some of the lowest rates of crime and drug abuse in the country.
When you walk through the neighborhoods, the signs of poverty are there, simple homes next to vast tracts of dull low-income housing, cars atop cinder blocks, corner stores with thick bulletproof shields. Yet throughout even the poorest neighborhoods you see a sense of community; you see neatness and order. There are well-kept homes, active churches and parks filled with families. Many of the businesses are locally run, which helps provide a sense of ownership.
Across the street from Efren’s apartment is a corner store owned by Rodolfo Villarreal. Painted bright yellow, it flies both the American and Mexican flags. The store inside is well-stocked, clean and filled with religious icons, including a shrine resting on a Monster Energy drink display. Rodolfo is busy, splitting his time between stocking the shelves, running the register, and chatting with everyone who comes into the store.
Rodolfo bought the building and started the grocery seven years ago, after giving up running a similar store in Mexico. “I was robbed too many times. Had too many demands for protection money.” He gestures across the fence: “There is too much violence over there. I couldn’t do my business, or live that way.”
“I came here with very, very little. I only knew how to work. We didn’t have food stamps in Mexico, so my customers had to teach me about them.
At first, I had many rough years. But even then, I didn’t ask for help or complain. I was safe, and I have my hard work and my religion. Others in this neighborhood came here for the same reasons: to work and to be safe. They are very good people.”
As in any large town, there are still plenty of drugs and people dealing with addiction. Veronica and Vito, both in their 30s, are trying to remove themselves from a past filled with drugs (crystal meth), prison and poverty. Vito removes his shirt, and points down to a large “Fuck All” tattoo on his stomach. “I guess this is how I felt growing up.”
They live in an apartment only yards from the border fence. Through it they can see Ciudad Juárez. For them, Mexico is more than a distant drama.
“At night, we hear lots of gunshots coming from the hills. Pop-pop-pops of gun battles. Sometimes you hear sirens, sometimes you don’t. Almost always we hear the helicopters overhead. In the mornings we find stuff from people who have climbed over, ladders, boots, old knit caps. Sometimes they slingshot over packages of drugs. You hear a thud, and we know not to go outside.
“It is easy for people to come over. They just do it like this.” Vito shimmies up the fence, touches the top, and slides back down. “I understand why they come. I mean, you hear what goes on over there and you are glad you are here.”
Despite the fence dividing El Paso from Ciudad Juárez, the two cities are mutually dependent, thanks to a steady stream of legal border crossings over the three pedestrian bridges. The immediate streets on either side have businesses for those crossing over.
In El Paso, the downtown is always crowded, filled with shoppers and workers coming from Mexico. Some, like Concepcion Hernandez and Azucena Rodriguez, come to shop at the lines of stores selling push-up bras, $10 jeans and dresses for celebrations. Others come into El Paso for work, although they might not be fully permitted to do so. Priscilla (name changed), 45, crosses twice weekly to clean houses. When she enters, she tells guards she is only there to shop, and returns to Mexico each evening. “There are no good jobs in Ciudad Juárez. Just ones that pay badly.”
US citizens go Ciudad Juárez for cheaper professional services such as lawyers, pharmacies and doctors’ offices. Naomi Torez crosses twice weekly to get physical therapy. Her job is also dependent on the traffic crossing the border. She sells bus tickets to Mexicans travelling to visit their relatives far beyond El Paso.
The tight bond between El Paso and Mexico has not only created plenty of opportunities for residents, but it also provides El Paso with energy, and a sense of success and optimism, by comparison. As much as residents love visiting Mexico, they especially love being back.
Hector Bernal, 28, stands with friends only yards from the border crossing. He was born in El Paso to parents from Ciudad Juárez. “I haven’t crossed the border into Mexico in two years. I mean, some stuff is cheaper over there, and I got relatives there. But stuff is just cooler over here.” He stops and points to all his friends. “I mean, this is where my people are.”
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