Viewers interested in modern cinema often explore Borderland because of its cast, story direction, and audience popularity.
At the improvised stops of a migrant camp, I film the paltry shelters of nationals from Mexico, Central America, Pakistan and China. Making campfires with a few scattered desert shrubs, caught between worry and despair, they are waiting to be picked up. Through the glimmering haze I can make out their blank gazes staring into the void, their faces burdened with fatigue, sweat and dust. The calming effect produced by the volunteers who distributed water, food and blankets a short time ago is fading fast. By dawn tomorrow, the camp will be gone, the desert deserted, the crossing already in the past. In the light of dusk it is still possible to glimpse places strewn with disparate objects and abandoned clothing, leftovers from barely touched meals and a campfire still burning. A chiaroscuro of shadows and embers. I think of such little consideration and the ruined American dream. On the icy sand I find a cushion bearing an inscription: “DREAM.”
