Meet the Kumeyaay, the indigenous peoples split by the US-Mexico border wall

“On one hand, we have the state, whose response to any threat that seeks to overwhelm it is to draw borders, regulate, and impose discipline; and on the other, there is the nomadic subject, whose behaviour is rooted in uprootedness and mobility,” writes the social anthropologist Valeria Mata in her book Todo lo que se mueve (Everything That Moves). ​“From this perspective, nomadism would be a political act of resistance and an impulse that opposes forced territorialisation.”

The Kumeyaay people once moved freely across the mountainous and coastal regions of what is now northern Baja California (Baja California Norte), in Mexico, and parts of California and Arizona, in the United States. Long before any international boundary split these lands – as early as 2,500 BC – they followed the rhythms of the seasons: gathering, hunting, and fishing across the Pacific coast. But upon arrival, European colonisers imposed sedentarism, forcing them to abandon their traditions.

Today, their ancestral lands are divided by the US-Mexico border wall. Though often associated with Donald Trump since his calls to build a ​“big, beautiful wall” between the two nations, border fencing has been expanding for decades, with the first barriers raised in the early 20^th century. By the 1990s, scrap metal fences existed along sections of the border, before double-layered steel barriers were installed after 9/11, and later extended under both the Trump and Biden administrations – reaching up to nearly 10 metres (30 ft) high in some areas. 

For the Kumeyaay, these walls have done more than divide land. ​“After 9/11, they reinforced the entry even more,” says Martha Rodríguez, National Counselor of the Kumeyaay in Baja California and founder of Tipey Joa (“Native Warriors”, in Kumeyaay). ​“That pushed families and our ceremonies even farther apart.”

• Read next: Meet the muxes of Juchitán, Mexico’s Indigenous third gender

It cuts across mountains, plains – and even sacred sites like Cuchuma Mountain, central to their spiritual practices. For the Kumeyaay, this is not just a physical barrier – it is a fracture in their relationship with the land, and a disruption of community ties and ritual life.

“This wall is a lack of respect and a form of racism,” says Rodríguez. ​“Why isn’t there a wall with Canada? Why only with Mexico? It’s demeaning – not only for the people but also for the environment, for the animals. What need is there to destroy so much, to cut Mother Earth?”

The increasingly rigid border has also deepened inequalities within Kumeyaay communities. It’s led to vastly different sets of economic situations for those living in the US and those in Mexico, where government support is sparse and infrastructure is sometimes lacking.

But as the border hardens, opportunities to sell their crafts and wares to those on the other side of the wall have become more scarce. ​“I sold my first piece when I was five, to Americans visiting the town,” she says. Today, thanks to social media, Ojeda regularly sells her work to Kumeyaay in the US. ​“They don’t weave anymore. They help us by buying from us.”

• Read next: Why we should abolish the world’s borders

In Mexico, the 2015 census reported approximately 1,200 Kumeyaay living in the state of Baja California, in communities scattered across Tecate, Ensenada, Rosarito, and Tijuana. But official reports also acknowledge a stark reality: high unemployment, limited healthcare access, and inadequate housing are common. Basic services – clean water, electricity, education – are often unavailable.

“This community was left desolate because there’s no work,” says Diana Lizeth Contreras, president of the San José de Tecate Kumeyaay community, where about 15 families live in homes mainly built from cardboard, wood, and sheet metal. Although they are surrounded by two roads, public transportation doesn’t stop at their community. ​“If you don’t have a car, you can’t get to your job. Not even to school,” she says. Ride-share apps sometimes even fail to recognise their location due to inaccurate maps.

The community is also fighting for land that it claims was stolen. According to Contreras and Thelma Pamela Pérez – the current traditional leader – historical corruption among local officials enabled outsiders to claim their ancestral territory using falsified documents. ​“They would bribe the local government, and that was enough to be granted everything – even if they had no legal right to it,” alleges Pérez. What once spanned over 200 hectares has now shrunk to just three.

• Read next: The indigenous Mexican town that drove out the cartel 

Pérez is one of only a handful who never left San José de Tecate, living in the area for years alongside her late mother. Now, relatives like her niece Contreras are returning to rebuild, reclaim, and resist.

About 100 kilometres (62 miles) south of the border, at the end of a road that turns to dirt and floods during the rainy season – often making travel nearly impossible – lies the community of San José de la Zorra. Here, two women – both over 70 – spend their days recording the ancient Kumeyaay language.

“We’re already old, if we disappear, it will be gone. That’s what I don’t want – to lose the language,” says Doña Beatriz Carrillo, seated beneath oak trees after a morning of work. Alongside Rosa María Silva, known as Doña Nati, she has collaborated for nearly three years with Carlos Ivanhoe Gil, a linguist from the Autonomous University of Baja California. Their voices, recorded and transcribed, are forming the foundation of a Kumeyaay dictionary.

According to government data, of the roughly 1,200 Kumeyaay in Baja California, only 381 report speaking the language. But researchers, including Gil, suspect the number is much lower – possibly fewer than 100 fluent speakers.

The loss of language is more than symbolic. It’s a rupture in the intergenerational transmission of knowledge and connection. ​“We elders speak it more, but the children don’t. They understand, but they don’t speak it – they don’t like it,” says Doña Beatriz. Doña Nati’s children understand a few words: ​“I try to speak to them, but they forget quickly. I used to speak to my husband in Kumeyaay, but he replied in Spanish, that’s why they never learned.”

Despite these challenges, the Kumeyaay continue to fight to preserve what colonisation, borders, and neglect have tried to erase. Whether through crafts, ancestral land, or language, their struggle is also about sovereignty – and the right to move freely across territories that long predate the border.

Rodríguez, the National Counselor of the Kumeyaay in Baja California, explains that recognition must go beyond temporary permits and state sanctioned documents. ​“I’d like our people to have more than just a visa,” she says. ​“Part of Southern California is our territory – and part of Northern Baja too. The US and Mexico owe us that historical debt.”

Alicia Fàbregas is a multimedia journalist. Follow her on Instagram.

Buy your copy of Huck 81 here.

Enjoyed this article? Follow Huck on Instagram and sign up to our newsletter for more from the cutting edge of sport, music and counterculture.

Support stories like this by becoming a member of Club Huck.