Borderlines explores the global map, one line at a time.
This is the first installment of Borderlines, a series devoted to the history, appearance and significance of borders.
As a teenager, I was delighted to discover on the map of Tolkien’s Middle-Earth the name of the city where I was born. Not the same town, of course, but another, fantastical place with the same name. Nevertheless, the map gave me options. I could be a native of Bree, a small, unremarkable town in northeastern Belgium [1]. Or I could hail from that other Bree, equally small and unremarkable, but at least located in a world brimming with magic, danger and adventure — not to mention some spectacular scenery. In contrast, my home province of Limburg, in Belgium’s northeast, is generally flat, and on the whole bereft of elves, orcs, hobbits and wizards [2]. So I spent many hours exploring Tolkien’s world, dreaming up adventures of my own in the far corners of that map.
My perusal of this cartographic portal to another reality is definitely one of the reasons for my abiding interest in curious cartography, which I’ve been exploring for some time now on my blog Strange Maps.
But as a budding map-lover, I discovered that the cartography of the real-world version of Bree had one critical advantage over its Middle-Earth counterpart: it had borders. Whereas on the Middle-Earth map only rivers and mountain ranges served to mark the thrill of crossing into the unknown, Bree’s corner of northwestern Europe was dotted with a tangle of boundaries, indicating the multitude of countries, cultures and languages jostling for their place on the map.
These and other borders elsewhere in the world, I discovered, are the sediments of history, and the stuff that armchair expeditions are made of. Switching from the well-thumbed adventures of Bilbo & Co. to the collection of atlases that came to clutter my bookshelf, I started connecting the dotted lines on the map with the world I actually lived in. I can’t count the times I’ve been to Opitter, the ancestral village near Bree where we’d go visit Grandma every Sunday. Yet I’ve never been to Neeritter, which, as the name suggests, is a town just downstream along the Itter. Why would we? It’s in the Netherlands, across the border.
Tim Wallace for The New York TimesEven though, in today’s Europe, national borders like these feel more internal than international, they still amount to something. They’re invisible obstacles, a bit like glass ceilings, but vertical and spatial rather than horizontal and hierarchical. People in Neeritter and Opitter speak the same language, but they have slightly different accents. Neighbors on either side of the borderline are oriented towards their respective national capitals, have different holidays, read their own newspapers, even build their houses differently. They are less likely to intermarry, and consequently have significantly fewer grandmothers to visit across the border.
Borders seemed to mark the edge of the known world. Or, inversely, they were the high water marks of the Great Unknown, the Eternal Other. Even if the people in the first town across the line were only slightly different, there was no telling how weird the accents, customs or fashions might be a few towns over. Or behind the next border. Northeastern Belgium is shielded by a sliver of Dutch territory [3] from Germany, home of fashion disasters like the mullet, the woolly moustache and tie-dyed jeans.
Germany is only a few dozen miles away, but the shortest way there involves two border crossings. As a child I found it bewildering to think that I’d need to cross only two more national borders to get to China [4]. It almost made me feel sorry for the people living in between, having so few boundaries to insulate them from the big bad world.
View Larger MapGoogle Maps The town of Baarle-Nassau, in the Netherlands. The yellow lines are the border with Belgium; areas within the outer boxes are Belgium, while areas within those boxes are, once again, the Netherlands.
We were better off. But some locals were luckier than others. Every border-lover will have heard of the town of Baarle, just north of the Belgian-Dutch border, which for arcane historical reasons is divided into a Dutch half (Baarle-Nassau) and a Belgian half (Baarle-Hertog). Simple enough. Then it gets weird. Essentially, B-H is a collection of about 20 Belgian exclaves in the Netherlands. But some of those Belgian parcels in their turn contain Dutch exclaves (seven in all) of B-N. The border cuts through houses, shops, restaurants — resulting in petty absurdity when different national laws apply on either side.
Borders needn’t be national to be significant. Belgium straddles one of Europe’s great linguistic divides, between Germanic and Romance language and culture. Travel a dozen miles south from Dutch-speaking Limburg, and you’re in the ancient city of Liège, Belgium’s largest French-speaking city. A friend who’d been living abroad suffered from a slight anxiety attack when we visited: If the streets look the same, and the cars have the same license plates, why does everyone speak a different language? He might have fared better in Voeren/Fourons, a Limburgish exclave wedged between Liège and the Dutch border [5]. Good thing we didn’t drive on to Eupen, in the German-speaking bit of Belgium.
How appropriate that, in the midst of this confusion of languages and borders, an experiment was born to overcome both. In 1908, the Esperantist movement appropriated Moresnet, a small neutral zone [6] set amid Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands that had existed since 1816, and renamed it Amikejo (“Place of Friendship” in Esperanto). The Esperantist movement now had a territory as well as a flag and an anthem — but was that progress? Ironically, they added a language and a border to the mix instead of subtracting either. Not that it lasted long. It’s unclear whether the experiment was chewed up by World War I or had expired on its own before 1914.
Belgium annexed the neutral Moresnet territory outright after the war, in the process extinguishing one of the world’s rare international quadripoints [7]. What remains is the rather mundane Belgian-Dutch-German tripoint near Vaals. Standing at Vaals some years ago, I was gripped by the syndrome I’d like to call Phantom Border Sadness (P.B.S.): a slight pang of grief caused by the conviction that a world with one less border is also a bit less special.
While that is a lot less profoundly and more succinctly put, it is essentially the same sentiment expounded by the French theorist Régis Debray in his polemical essay “Éloge des frontières” (“In Praise of Borders”): “A stupid idea has enthralled the West: humanity, which is not doing too well, would fare better without borders … What if this sans-frontiérisme was nothing but illusion, escapism, cowardice? Around the world, and against all odds, new and ancient borders are being drawn or redrawn … I choose to celebrate what others deplore: the border as a vaccine against the epidemic of walls, a remedy to indifference, a rescue for the living.”
In the 1960s, Mr. Debray fought at the side of Che Guevara — in a decidedly internationalist struggle, it might be said — but he has since, in a manner not uncommon to aging revolutionaries, shifted his views slightly rightward, in defense of traditions and particularities he sees threatened by “mondialisation” (or even worse, by “les anglo-saxons”).
While Borderlines does not intend to make Mr. Debray’s political or cultural points, it will echo his praise of borders.
Tolkien might have done without borders on his map, but ours are richer for it. Tracing them across the globe, we find enclaves and exclaves, disputed and neutral zones, improbably straight and impossibly jagged borders, deadly borders born in war and old ones almost faded into irrelevance. Borders reflect humanity’s need for obstacles, for a line in the sand between Them and Us. And even if they coincide with rivers or mountain ranges, they remain entirely human constructs. They are there because we expect them to be, because the map says that they are. They can be as wondrous, frightening and magical as anything in Middle-Earth – as we will see in the following episodes.
Frank Jacobs is a London-based author and blogger. He writes about cartography, but only the interesting bits.
[1] It would gain some international fame as the home town of the tennis champ Kim Clijsters, triple U.S. Open winner and the top-ranked player in the Women’s Tennis Association in 2003 and thereabouts. Weirdly, it’s also the birthplace of the actor Johnny Galecki, who plays Leonard Hofstadter on the TV show “The Big Bang Theory” (his father, a member of the United States Air Force, was stationed nearby).
[2] The local folklore does mention its fair share of dwarves, though.
[3] Both areas are eponymous: the Belgian province of Limburg shares its name with the Dutch province of Limburg. Confusingly, both were named after the town of Limbourg, which is located in the Belgian province of Liège.
[4] The German-Polish one, and the Polish-Soviet one, albeit only in that small window of time between German unification in 1990 and the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. These days, the total count is four (Belgian-German [sidestepping Dutch Limburg], German-Polish, Polish-Belarusian and Belarusian-Russian).
[5] This Dutch-speaking exclave in French-speaking territory, bordering the Netherlands, is mirrored on the other side of Belgium by Comines (Komen in Dutch), a French-speaking exclave in Dutch territory, bordering France.
[6] Contention at the Congress of Vienna between the kings of Prussia and the Netherlands over an important zinc mine in the area was resolved by turning it into a jointly administrated neutral zone. Belgium took over the Dutch part in the co-dominion after its independence in 1830. Interestingly, the Netherlands never formally relinquished their claim to Moresnet.
[7] There may have been a few in the past, but at present, the closest thing to an international quadripoint is the border between Namibia, Botswana, Zambia and Zimbabwe, which consists of two tripoints 300 meters apart.
