It’s April Fool’s Day in Eagle Pass, but there’s nothing to laugh about here. On a cloudy spring evening, a dozen activists and spiritual leaders gather in a circle—just feet from the bank of the Rio Grande and a miles-long maze of concertina wire—with white carnations, daisies, and hymn lyrics in hand.
This group has come for months now to sing, pray, and toss flowers in the river. Since last year, when Texas Governor Greg Abbott ramped up border militarization in the area by placing dangerous buoys in the river, these mourners have assembled under the moniker the Border Vigil to remember the lives of those lost crossing.
The contrast here—between the U.S. and Mexican sides of the river—is jarring. On the Texas side, shipping containers form a makeshift wall that wasn’t here until a few years ago. Barbed wire tops cyclone fencing, extending almost as far as the eye can see. Shelby Park, typically a riverside gathering spot for Eagle Pass families, now looks like a fortress. Atop the shipping containers, an armed National Guard member stands in uniform, performing his imperious, taxpayer-funded surveillance. But, apart from the vigil, almost nothing is happening here. Shortly before I arrived, I’m told, a drone was buzzing over the activists.
