an open border

On the trip from Garmisch to Wurzburg, my traveling companion tells me we're going through Austria to avoid the traffic around Munich. I assume this means I must have my passport handy and slip it into the front pocket of my bag. But the border turns out to be marked by no more than a blue-and-yellow road sign, which we breeze past without batting an eye on a winding road at the base of the Alps. It's no more dramatic than crossing from one state to another in the US.

I knew the EU has open borders, but still couldn't get it through my head that that means no passport control. Even though I assume my American passport will get me almost anywhere, I still can't conceive of crossing a border without a passport check. The reflex of asking for permission is deeply ingrained.

Later we are in Aachen, the westernmost city in Germany, which sits at the triangle where Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands meet. While eating dinner at an outdoor restaurant, the couple we are staying with point to a white house on a hill. "That house is in the Netherlands." I ask them where the border is, exactly. They have to think about it, and finally decide they're not sure. Nothing marks it, after all. If not for the change in language, architecture and flags from one country to the next, you wouldn't know there was a border there at all.

Of course, this is how it should be. The ability to cross a border freely, without fear, without having to endure harassment, humiliation, or arbitrary detention, without worrying if you will be allowed out, or allowed back in, or when or if you will be able to see family and friends again...this isn't a luxury. It's a basic human right (see Article 13). But I know so many people to whom it's denied, for whom the idea of crossing a border without even hitting the brakes would be inconceivable. It was inconceivable to many Germans as little as twenty years ago. And anyone who thinks sealed borders and walls and checkpoints and controls are a thing of the past, or the purview strictly of America's enemies, should compare this post to the one on Eva Bartlett's blog describing what it's like to cross a border with a Palestinian--even on the rare occasions that that border is technically "open."

I may never fully understand what it's like to grow up a prisoner inside your own country, but I know enough to know not to take an open border for granted. It makes me grateful for the walls that have been torn down, sad and angry about the ones that still exist, but determined and hopeful--no, certain--that they will fall one day too.