moonriver posted on Mar 08, 2009
| views: 361
| Tags: life, exploitation, work, slavery
Today, I am chatting and laughing and engaged in cheerful banter with a whole roomful of girls.
They are eight in all—young women of small physical build and timid manners. Years of hard work and hunger are etched on their weary faces and prematurely wrinkled hands.
They are migrant workers, just a small number among dozens who had been summarily fired from their work in a nearby factory and thrown out of their factory dormitories.
They have nowhere else to go, and thus they sought refuge in this shelter for homeless and jobless women. They’ve been staying here for more than two weeks now.
Since I arrived in this city, I’ve been closely in contact with an non-government, non-profit, voluntary-service organization that works among indigenous people and migrant workers who live here in large numbers.
A couple of weeks ago, this organization (let’s call it VSO) emailed me about a meeting of migrant workers at which I’m supposed to give a talk. A few days ago, my VSO contact (let’s call her Kristy) asked me to meet her at this shelter where the eight were staying.
I wasn’t supposed to be involved in the case of the women workers. I was supposed to only see Kristy there, to finalize the details of the meeting.
But I arrived an hour early, and Kristy called up with a sudden change of plans. I was to meet her much later that day for dinner at her flat, a long bus ride away.
Thus, I had five hours to kill in the meantime.
The shelter consisted of a small one-desk office and reception room, a recreation hall, and living quarters. It occupied one floor of a nondescript five-storey building in the old business district of the city.
I decided to meet the eight women staying there. Or rather, they got wind of the information that a researcher or journalist was visiting the facility, and asked the administrator to allow them to see me.
We sat down in the narrow reception room. Here, they told me their story of exploitation.
They were recruited from a neighboring country, by a labor-provider agency that promised them the equivalent of 170 US dollars per month as basic salary, 2 USD for the first two hours of overtime work, plus additional benefits. At least they signed contracts that said as much.
In exchange, each one paid the labor recruiting agency with 1,000 USD, which they obtained as electronic-cash loans, payable against deductions from their salaries for the next several months.
Upon arrival in this city, however, a local labor subcontractor took them in and forced them to sign new contracts in a language they couldn’t understand. It was only months later that they would discover that they were being paid a much lower amount, on a variable daily piece-work basis, at an undefined rate per piece, and also at lower overtime hourly rates.
A few of them who refused to sign the new contract were promptly sent back to their country of origin, penniless and deeper in debt by at least 1,000 USD.
The majority, however, decided to take the risk of continuing work as migrant laborers under a revised contract they barely understood, and with hardly any protection from an alien set of labor laws that barely applied to them.
They didn’t know it yet then, but they were bound to become meat for the industrial kill, fleshy carcass for the vulture capitalists of this land.
The workers have spent many months of filing and following up complaints with the government’s labor agency. Just last month, after a long period of waiting, more than a dozen of the most vocal complainants found themselves fired from work and thrown out of their dormitory rooms.
They are pursuing a legal case against their employer and againt the labor recruiters, even as they struggle to subsist from day to day in the shelter.
Oh, the stories they told me in that tiny reception room of this small shelter.
Of the feudal abuses in the rural villages they left behind.
Of the multifarious kinds of swindles and exactions they suffered from labor recruiters.
Of the squalid and dreary living conditions in the factories they found themselves in.
And of the utter loneliness and helplessness they feel living here at the shelter, especially on those days when the subsistence allowance they receive is not even enough to buy daily necessities like coffee, sugar, soap, and toothpaste.
Most especially when they don’t receive any word from their families and co-workers.
There are tens of thousands like them across Asia: victims of modern human trafficking, victims of modern wage slavery.
They are prisoners, confined within invisible walls built not by the penal system but by archaic social institutions.
But today, I am chatting and laughing and basking in cheerful banter with the eight girls and VSO members who try to provide them with a daily support network.
We spent most of the day in a tree-lined park, meeting and talking with dozens of other migrant workers – many of them indigenous and impoverished peasants from neighboring countries—and shared what little food and drink we have.
They insist that, since I’m still technically a journalist, I should write news stories about them and have these stories published or aired.
I remind them that I’m no longer a working journalist, but someone on another mission, another advocacy.
But I promise them that I’ll do whatever I can to help their case, and to gather support from the other organizations I belong to.
In my last blog, I described myself these days as an indolent swine, lazily splashing mud at random as he kills time and watches pretty girls go by.
It isn’t exactly true, as you can see.
It’s days like these that remind me of the real reasons that I’m here for.
And it’s a special day like this that should remind us all of the sweat, the blood, the tears that incessantly flow, the real source of the fuel that runs the engines of society 24 hours a day, every day of the year—the source of the brightest lights of the world.
Today, of course, is March 8, International Working Women’s Day.
I haven’t forgotten.
I will never forget.
CreativeWoman
posted 6 days ago
| views: 137
|
Tags: fun, life, =D
Could it be?
No ...
Wait ....
Not sure ...
Wait ....
Definitely yes ...... read entire post
I know I need help...
It's becoming apparant that it really is time for me find the attentions of a member of the male species….... read entire post