Edward Alden and Laurie Trautman are authors of the forthcoming book When the World Closed its Doors: The COVID-19 Tragedy and the Future of Borders.
For more than a century, Canada and the United States have been justifiably proud of sharing the “world’s longest undefended border,” nearly 9,000 kilometres from ocean to ocean maintained largely by the deep trust between the two countries. The white marble Peace Arch, erected in 1921 astride the boundary line between B.C. and Washington State, has been an international symbol of that co-operation and trust.
Until last month.
Both Canada and the United States have long permitted residents of the two countries to meet freely – no passports required – in the international peace park that straddles the border. But in late May, the U.S. Border Patrol, alarmed at the growing number of “encounters” of people trying to cross illegally from Canada, shut off direct access to the park. While some common meeting ground remains near the Arch, Canadians living along “0 Avenue” in Surrey, B.C. – who have long been free to send their kids across the ditch to play on the U.S. side of the park – will no longer enjoy that privilege. U.S. agents are now patrolling the park, searching for illegal crossers.
The move could be seen as just another small step to dissuade the growing numbers of migrants – many seeking asylum, others searching for economic opportunity – looking for ways into the U.S., Canada, Europe and other advanced economies. That would be a mistake. Instead, cutting off access to Peace Arch Park is a powerfully symbolic step toward building a hard border between the U.S. and Canada – one that governments in both countries increasingly support.
Peace Arch Park is a unique place, not just along that border but around the world. In 1952, the singer and civil-rights activist Paul Robeson performed before 30,000 people in the park when U.S. officials stripped his passport to keep him from leaving the country. During the COVID-19 pandemic, it was the only place where those separated by U.S. and Canadian border closings could meet. Thousands from across both countries flocked to the park during the 19-month closing – the cross-border friends and families holding picnics and the couples erecting tents. The summer of 2020 came to be known as the “Summer of Love.”
Nowhere else in the world did such a breach in pandemic border restrictions exist. Canadian health officials fretted over the risks of cross-border transmission, and barred access to the B.C. side of the park. But they could not stop Canadians from crossing the ditch to the U.S. side.
Still, COVID engineered a change in Canadian attitudes toward the border that is likely to be lasting. For many decades, Canadian officials have opposed the “hardening” of the border with the United States, fearful especially that it could disrupt the exports that are the lifeblood of the Canadian economy. But COVID showed that it was possible to stop the movement of all but “essential” border crossers while keeping trade flowing freely. And the closings were politically popular throughout the pandemic.
Now on the U.S. side, pressure for a crackdown on illegal crossings from Canada has been growing. Republicans in Washington, led by Republican Elise Stefanik of New York, who is touted as a potential Donald Trump running mate, has accused Joe Biden’s administration of “turning the northern border into chaos.” She and others created the Northern Border Security Caucus last year to demand tougher security measures. The U.S. preoccupation with border security – while largely aimed at the southern border with Mexico – is steadily turning north.
Republican calls for fences and other barriers at the U.S.’s northern border have been growing. Few may remember that the U.S. and Mexico once had a transborder park, too. In 1971, U.S. first lady Pat Nixon dedicated Friendship Park, where the borders of the United States and Mexico meet at the Pacific Ocean. People from both sides could meet freely to picnic, swim and visit the boundary monument. Access was increasingly restricted over the decades, and then halted entirely during the pandemic. Today that monument lies on the Mexican side of a huge border fence that stretches out into the ocean.
Ironically, Canada has already built the first border fence along the 49th parallel. In Peace Arch Park, as the pandemic receded and the border reopened, officials built a low-level wooden fence around the Canadian side, adorned with signs prohibiting entry from the American side. The fence has gaps and could easily be jumped, and Canada has not actively prevented American crossers from entering the park. But any day, for any reason, Canada could easily shut its side of the park as well.
Once the narrative of “cross-border threats” becomes ingrained in national conversations, it is a small step from agents patrolling borders to fences blocking them off. Not so many years ago, even in the aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, U.S. and Canadian border officials would have co-operated to find a joint resolution to the problem of illegal border crossings through the park and elsewhere along their shared frontier. But sadly, the spirit of trust that maintained an undefended border for more than a century is beginning to crumble. If it’s not shored up quickly, it may be irreparable.