The Real Border Emergency

JUAN WAS STANDING with his wife and three young kids, clenching a tiny piece of paper with a four-digit number written on it. “We didn’t make it today,” he said. He then rolled his suitcase away from the line of people that had formed against a wall in the shadow of an overpass in Tijuana, alongside giant letters spelling out “Mexico” right on the border. “We are seven numbers short.” That morning, about 50 lucky people ahead of him had their numbers called.

Juan and his family, who are from El Salvador, had spent seven weeks in the city, sleeping in shelters, waiting like countless others for their lifeline to be called. If everything worked as promised and the next 50 numbers were called in order, tomorrow would be their day to present themselves at the San Ysidro port of entry and ask for asylum in the United States. “Hopefully,” Juan said.

As he told me this, his six-year-old son walked up to introduce himself. He was wearing a beanie with fuzzy koala ears and