An approach to immigration, not Trump’s

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In July and August 2024, I stood at the U.S.-Mexico border south of Arivaca, Arizona, in a place locals call the “End-of-the-Wall.” For 34 miles, steel columns slice through the desert, then stop as though the land itself refuses division. Under the scorching sun, I saw men, women and children stepping through that gap, carrying hope instead of possessions, their eyes on a horizon they believe might still grant them a future.

Within a year, this same corridor could become a hyper-militarized fortress. 

The second Donald Trump administration has vowed to complete the wall and roll out a sweeping mass deportation plan, outlined in Project 2025. Politicians in Washington tout these measures as “necessary security,” but watching the daily reality at the “End-of-the-Wall” clarifies that bigger barriers do little to address the actual forces propelling people forward.

Many of those I met had fled a double storm: the devastation of climate disasters that ruined farmland or devoured coastal villages and the terror of violence from drug cartels, gangs or corrupt local regimes. A taller wall, more barbed wire or even the threat of detention and deportation will not make a climate-ravaged field fertile again. Nor will it deter a family on the run from armed men who rule their towns by fear.

Along the dirt roads leading to the “End-of-the-Wall,” I rode with Jane, a retired teacher determined to lessen the cruelty of the desert crossing, and Kevin Painchaud, Lookout’s photojournalist, who accompanied me to document the journey. Jane fills her Subaru with water jugs, canned food and first-aid kits, distributing them at points where migrants most often collapse from dehydration or heat stroke. She told me, “We can’t solve every problem, but we can spare a few people from dying in the sand.” 

Her words reminded me that the political fray in Washington seldom acknowledges the moral responsibility to prevent needless suffering.

Near the “End-of-the-Wall,” I met Amal, a 12-year-old guiding her younger siblings — 5-year-old Lola and 8-year-old Evaristo — through the desert. They had traveled north from Guerrero, Mexico, where a relentless cycle of storms had flooded the family’s farmland, washing away the crops they depended on. Their father’s refusal to run drugs for a local cartel led to violent reprisals, forcing the family to leave everything behind. Amal recounted how they paid “tolls” demanded by criminals at nearly every turn of their journey, a brutal extension of the oppression they had fled back home. Reaching the “End-of-the-Wall” was both an act of desperate necessity and an exercise in raw faith.

Violence and climate instability also haunt those who come from Central America and parts of Africa. I met individuals from Honduras, Chad and Nepal, each with stories of farmland turned to dust and entire villages emptied by gang extortion or political violence. Many times, the same ruthless networks that smuggle narcotics also traffic desperate migrants, fueling an illicit economy that thrives off human vulnerability. A policy blueprint that hinges on more walls and mass deportations, as promised by Project 2025 and the first executive orders, will only force people farther into the realm of smugglers and predators.

Some travelers arrive from Guatemala, like Yanneth, a mother who trekked 2,000 miles with two friends from her hometown. She once supported her family by harvesting bananas, but destructive storms and flooding decimated the local plantations. As plantations closed, cartels moved in, taking advantage of the economic vacuum to coerce workers into illegal activities. Yanneth described how she endured militarized checkpoints, bribe-hungry police and callous officials on Mexico’s southern border. “We had nothing,” she told me. “Bad bosses, bad wages, and the storms ruined our bananas. Staying meant starving, or worse.” Her words underscored how climate change, exploitation, and violence converge to create a reality more powerful than any physical barrier.

Our policy of hardened borders isn’t new. 

Starting in the 1990s with President Bill Clinton’s Operation Gatekeeper, which fortified urban crossings and funneled migrants into dangerous rural paths, and followed by Barack Obama’s record-setting deportations, successive administrations have turned the border into an increasingly militarized zone. Donald Trump intensified these efforts with policies like “Zero Tolerance,” which led to widespread family separations. 

Although former President Joe Biden rolled back some of Trump’s harshest measures, the core logic of U.S. immigration policy remains the same: enforcement first, humanity second, and a relentless push against people whose primary ambition is survival in the face of climate disasters, poverty, or threats of violence. Biden deported more people than Trump did in his first four years. 

We cannot swing our borders wide open, but we cannot keep ignoring the deep roots of migration. 

Robust climate action, economic investment in vulnerable areas and more expansive legal pathways for asylum-seekers offer a more sustainable path than building walls that funnel families into even deadlier routes. We should demand genuine efforts to reduce the violence that grips communities in Mexico and Central America, including diplomatic initiatives against cartels and transnational gangs, as well as accountability measures for corrupt local officials. 

Those who make it here should receive meaningful opportunities to seek asylum instead of facing automatic detention or quick deportation that sends them straight back into harm’s way.

States and cities (including those in California and Santa Cruz) that limit cooperation with ICE (U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement) — in schools, jails, and hospitals — can also play a critical role by preventing immigrants from living in the daily terror of a knock on the door. These local sanctuary policies acknowledge that uprooting people who have built their lives here does not make our communities safer. It only sows more fear and distrust, pushing the most vulnerable deeper into the shadows.

My travels to the “End-of-the-Wall” are part of a long-term academic research project, a biography of the U.S.-Mexico border that documents its past and present. In writing about this line in the sand, I hope to see beyond headlines and slogans. The realities I witnessed were both heartbreaking and illuminating. 

Bigger barricades will not address the lethal cocktail of violence and climate disaster that compels so many people to leave their homelands.

The second Trump administration, with its promise of mass deportations and the continued militarization of our southern line, offers a show of force but little substance against the tides of desperation moving people from every corner of the globe.

As the sun set over that final stretch of wall, I could not help but see it as a monument to our reluctance to face global crises with discernment and compassion. Our security rests not in how tall or long the wall is, but in how effectively we tackle the underlying factors that drive migration: escalating conflict, economic exploitation, political corruption and climate collapse. Instead of letting fear rule us, we can embrace a more enlightened approach that safeguards our borders without forfeiting our humanity.

Walls might end in the desert, but hope does not. Children like Amal still believe in the promise of refuge, and people like Jane will keep offering water, food, and first aid in the blistering heat. 

Suppose we have the courage to recognize this humanitarian crisis for what it is. In that case, we can begin crafting an immigration system that serves our national interests while respecting human life. That is the sort of future we ought to fight for — a future that rejects Trump’s vision of a sealed fortress and finds true security in justice, empathy and the willingness to address violence and climate change head-on.

Grace Peña Delgado is professor of history at UC Santa Cruz. She has written and taught about the U.S.-Mexico border for over two decades. 

Kevin Painchaud is Lookout’s staff photographer. He and the Lookout team won the 2024 Pulitzer Prize for breaking news for coverage of the 2023 storms.