We knew about illegal immigrants. Every day Angolans in heavily-laden old trucks and rusty sedans tried to cross the border to escape the civil war not far behind them. They were stopped at the Customs post, their papers studied. The lucky ones were allowed through, to a life full of more peaceful possibilities in the Republic. Many others were rejected, my father was called from his office and they were driven away to an internment camp close by to await their fate.