CHRONICLE OF THE STRUGGLE
At a U.S.-owned maquiladora, an independent union fights to organize workers

by Ezequiel Minaya

Lazaro Cardenas, Irapuato, Guanajuato

			To be transported through a photojourney through Irapuato, click here.

Last May, a short-lived, wildcat strike at the local fruit-processing plant, Congeladora Del Rio (CRISA), sparked a lingering labor dispute that has escalated into a tense stand-off between a defiant independent union and the entrenched US-owned company.

Though hundreds of miles from the well-documented labor unrest of the northern region and the
more than 2,300 maquiladoras that dot the US/Mexico border, this small town has been drawn into the battle between transnational business and local labor that finds fertile ground in Mexico.

And now, a year later, the battle lines remain clearly drawn, with lawsuits pending against strike leaders and workers risking their jobs - often times their only means of sustenance - in support of their union. And yet, even with all that has happened since the initial walkout, the memory of that day is no less startling, and no less transforming for those involved in the conflict.


The Beginning of the Conflict

The Constitution of 1917 provides Mexican laborers with a progressive set of protections; including the right to strike, minimum-wage and an annual profit-sharing.

But last May, CRISA disclosed to workers financial losses - brought about by a poor harvest and the purchase of machinery the year before - that legally exempted the company from paying the profit-share bonuses.

Copies of CRISA's 1998 fiscal statement shows losses of more than two million pesos [$200,000] and the additional cost of new machinery, purchased for nearly 800,000 pesos [$80,000].

But Romualda Lira Diaz, a former CRISA employee, says management fraudulently obtained the workers' approval of the fiscal statement by duping randomly chosen workers into signing misrepresented documents.

According to Mexican labor law, every year representatives of management and labor convene to agree on the profit-share award - with the company's fiscal-year totals in hand. A federal arbitrator decides the sum if no agreement is reached. In 1998, CRISA workers received a typical bonus, 100 pesos [$10], the equivalent of about two days pay, Lira said.

But last spring, without prior notice, five workers - among them Lira's sister, Reyna - were summoned to a meeting with management. "[Supervisors] grabbed one worker from every table, without them knowing the reason, and they were read a paper that was different from the one they eventually signed," said Lira. "They were told that we would be receiving our profit-share checks and that they should sign [as our representatives] so that we could all get paid."

Suspicious after the meeting, Reyna went to her sister, Lira. "I asked her 'Why did you sign?" Lira remembered. "Now everyone is going to blame you."

Once word spread among workers about the lack of profit-share, they turned on the employees whose signatures unwittingly approved the company's action. "They showed up at our house and demanded to know why did [Reyna] sell out," said Lira. "They wanted to know how much she had gotten paid to sell the rest of us out."

Reyna, tired of her troubles at CRISA, has since left Irapuato and found work over a thousand miles away, in Tijuana, a saddened Lira said.


Enter FAT

Irapuato, about 200 miles northwest of Mexico City, is one of five major cities in the central state of Guanajuato. Irapuato, with a population of 500,000, has a bustling downtown, with several shoe stores, an open-air market and a McDonald's. Most of the shops are square, one- story buildings with hand-painted signs. The light traffic is slowed by the occasional, unhurried
horse-drawn carriage and strolling shoppers, who overflow off the narrow sidewalks onto the road. Teenagers wearing baggy shorts, bobbing their heads to music playing from a portable radio, walk by campesinos selling sundries from makeshift booths.

In a neighborhood near downtown, Antonio Velasquez sells sodas, snack-food and other knick- knacks from one half of a small storefront. The other half is an office, with a desk buried under stacks of paper, and tall bookshelves, filled to capacity, running along the walls. Velasquez is a 38-year veteran of the Authentic Front of Labor (FAT), one of the few, independent union federations in Mexico. It was to this small storefront, which serves as the headquarters for the Irapuato branch of FAT, that CRISA's workers would eventually turn to for help.

"Here in Irapuato, the three biggest employing industries are agricultural, which includes fruit-packers like those at CRISA - that's the most important industry in Irapuato," said Velasquez. "The clothing maquiladoras are second in importance. The third is commerce and service industries. In these three industries most of the workers are women, especially in agricultural.

"The men of Irapuato go off to the United States as illegals or to other nearby states to work. So it's very important, when organizing in this city, to appreciate and understand the contribution of the woman worker."

In all of the roughly 20 fruit-processing plants in the area-including CRISA-all the fruit-packers are women, Velasquez said. During the peak season, CRISA employs up 400 packers, but in May of 1999, only about 250 women were preparing mostly strawberries, but also pineapples and mangos, for shipping.

The day after the profit-share announcement, workers questioned CRISA management, but in response were told to take their complaint to the local government's labor board.

On May the 25th, with resentment running high, about130 packers took action. "They arrived at the company at the normal starting time of 8 a.m. and they just decided that instead of entering work they would march to the local papers to publicize the company's withholding of their profit-share," remembers Velasquez. "It was a spontaneous action, the women hadn't yet been in
touch with FAT and had decided among themselves to voice their grievance."

Two days after the walkout, workers showed up at the offices of FAT, Velasquez said.

Antonio Velasquez, 57, is a slight, dark-haired man with the intelligent air of a college professor. The long pauses that begin and end many of his statements are not solemn but instead a chance for him to search the face of the conversation's partner for a gauge of how the talk is going. And when he is listening, his face settles into a calm inquisitiveness; an expression he can maintain for hours.

He has lived all his life in Guanajuato, where he received his only six years of formal schooling, met his wife and raised his three children. Throughout his 38 years with FAT, Velasquez has added considerably to his education through various seminars and courses.

When he was offered a position in 1962 with the newly founded FAT, the salary was less than what he was earning at a shoe factory. But, Velasquez said, he didn't join FAT to get rich. "The right to work is like the right to live," he said. "When I was a young man I was part of a group of friends that believed in the ideals of service, in the ideals of justice, liberty and charity." Velasquez has never thought of doing any other kind of work.

With his many years of experience, Velasquez was not surprise to hear what was happening at CRISA. "Every year the majority of companies claim they've made no profits," said Velasquez. "It's nothing strange. It is very easy for companies to manipulate their fiscal declarations."

CRISA packers suspected the company of doing just that. Throughout the period the company was now claiming losses, the workers remembered long days in which supervisors relentlessly spurred them on, demanding more and more production, Velasquez said.

As CRISA's workers began working with FAT, they began to articulate other complaints. They talked about poor working conditions, long hours, low wages and numerous other violations of federal safety and child labor laws. And why didn't they have a union they asked themselves. Velasquez told the angered women that they should have a union that would not only fight to get their unpaid-profit share but would address the other grievances. Their union should be a FAT affiliate, Velasquez suggested.

About FAT

The national headquarters of the FAT is in the neighborhood Guadalupe Victoria in Mexico City. The three-story building is unmarked, giving no indication of who the tenants are. This section of Guadalupe Victoria is residential - across the street from FAT headquarters, a man leisurely tinkers under the hood of a car and a shopkeeper on the corner leans over his counter as he watches a small television.

On the second floor of FAT's offices, the walls are filled with plaques commemorating past campaigns and achievements. A FAT representative leads a reporter into a conference room, where he is told to wait. Fifteen minutes later a tall, broad-shouldered man, who seems to be in his mid-fifties, walks slowly in and, sitting nearly under a small no smoking sign that is plastered on the wall, lights a cigarette.

The man is Alfredo Dominguez, part of the national leadership of FAT and its director of international affairs. Dominguez does not quickly take to familiarity, as the reporter discovers in the first minutes of the interview. During their conversation, Dominguez ends many of his responses with, "Okay, what's next?" In spite of his gruffness, however, it's clear that Dominguez earnestly believes in FAT's mission.

FAT was founded in 1960 in Mexico City to offer an alternative to official, government-linked unions. It presently has offices in seven states. "In Mexico what has developed is a system of corporate control (of unions)," said Dominguez.

"When companies come here from other countries, the maquiladoras and multinationals - they are one in the same - they come here with the government's blessing. The government says 'here you go', and before the company has built its sites, before they install themselves, they already
have a contract with a union."

Dominguez estimates that the biggest official labor organizations have as many as 5-6 million members, which overshadows FAT's membership of only 35,000. But official unions have little contact with their workers. "Workers are often unaware that they are in a union and that a collective contract is in place," said Dominguez. "That's the reality. Here in Mexico City there are over 105,000 contracts (between unions and businesses). Of those, about 5,000 are reviewed a year - the rest continue to benefit business.

"We are independent from political parties, independent from the government, independent from business organizations. It is the workers, who through direct democracy, form all of our platforms."

The limited resources of independent unions, however, hamper their effectiveness. "The corporate union system in Mexico is corrupt, there is little doubt about that," said Graciela Bensusan, a professor at the National Autonomous University of Mexico. "But independent unions like FAT have enough trouble simply surviving, let along taking on large multinationals."
Request for interviews with representatives of the Congress of Labor (CT) and the Confederation of Mexican Workers (CTM), the two largest Mexican union associations, were granted then cancelled.

Dominguez is aware of the enormity of FAT mission but seems undaunted. "The Mexican constitution states that workers should elect their own unions, that they have the right to elect their own union and to negotiate their own collective contract," he said. "Okay, what's next?"

CRISA

After the initial walkout in May, FAT began organizing the workers. In June, FAT filed a petition with the Mexican labor board seeking the right to officially represent CRISA's workers. CRISA responded by firing approximately 200 workers and producing a contract with another union. On July 15, the 200 workers went on an extended strike to demand recognition of the
FAT union and a new collective contract.

On September 17, strikers set up a picket line outside of the plant. Of these workers, according to Velasquez, approximately 154 have pending petitions for reinstatement.

In early October, the Guanajuatan state government intervened and set up a meeting between FAT workers and CRISA. An agreement was brokered that would have gained recognition of the FAT union and reinstatement for the terminated workers starting on November 15.

When reinstated workers arrived at CRISA that day, they were not allowed in the plant. Meanwhile, during this time period, civil and criminal charges were filed against Velasquez and four former- employees of CRISA by the plant's owner, Arthur Price. The civil suit asks for nearly 280,000 pesos in damages from each defendant, for a total of about $150,000[US dollars]. The criminal charges allege the use of thugs by FAT to intimidate packers that crossed the picket line. The petitions for reinstatement, the charges and lawsuits are still pending.

"These guys are criminals, every single one of them," said Arthur Price, owner of CRISA, from the headquarters of his company, Global Trading, in Greenville, South Carolina. "Velasquez is going to jail, the process is slow but he is going to jail."

Price owns two Congeladora plants in Mexico, one in Irapuato and one in the state of Chihuahua. He, contrary to the predictions of FAT, was willing to talk and also forwarded a written statement. FAT and the local press had unfairly targeted his company, Price said. "The FAT goes after foreign-owned companies," said Price, "because they are an easy target."

"The FAT brought an action before the federal labor board, which denied their application… since [CRISA] already had a union," said Price. "The FAT trumpeted that [CRISA] had 'managed' to get a union certification by underhanded means. This is not true.

"[CRISA] is not some huge conglomerate, it is a relatively small food processing facility that is owned by Americans and was admittedly targeted by the FAT in their… attempt to get their first foothold in a company in the local community."

Price declined to provide details on either Global Trading and CRISA's business dealings - he said wanted to avoid giving FAT ammunition.

"Admittedly, we don't like the FAT...Not for their concept of unionization, but for their tactics and their mis-information campaign," he said. CRISA adheres to safety and health regulations, did not employ minors, and was one of the few plants in Mexico that provided purified water and air conditioning to its workers, Price said.

"Our employees are important to us," said Price. "They are the backbone of our company and of all companies. Absolutely none of the propaganda being trumpeted is true. We don't hire illegal child labor and never have. Each year about six temporary workers ask us to allow their children to work after school."

Jobs at CRISA are highly sought after because of the easy nature of the work, Price said. "These employees only take the green stem off the strawberries, a job that many kids do in the kitchen of their homes in assisting their moms," he said. "Yet if one reads the diatribes of the FAT, one would think that they are working in a coal mine somewhere, tied to a rock quarry with a chain and fed bread and water once a day."

Price estimates that about a third of the workers that go home for lunch do not return to work for the second half of the day. The low cost of labor in Mexico is an advantage that is eaten up quickly by the extensive protection given to workers by labor laws, Price said. But a business like CRISA needs to be in a place like Irapuato, according to Price, because, "You are not going to see Anglo-Saxons picking strawberries, we've passed that level of economic dependence."

According to Price, presently there is no strike, rather only about six FAT diehards who, along with Velasquez, are continuing to make trouble.

IRAPUATO TODAY

It's only midday, but the workers at CRISA already look spent as they file out for their lunch break. It's the middle of the strawberry season in Guanajuato-- the plant's busy season-- and the workers' small, white aprons are stained with deep-red smudges.

The plant sits near the banks of the rubble-strewn Guanajuato River. At the moment, the river is little more than large pools of stagnant water, piles of bottle shards blackening in the dusty heat and squat sagebrush - making it easier to cross for those who want to avoiding using the only bridge over to the plant.

The bridge, which was built by the company in the late eighties, is made of two 5-7 inch wide steel planks spaced about five inches apart and strung with steel cables that also serve as hand rails. Though the workers seem unfazed by its jittery rocking, anyone inexperienced with the bridge may want to avoid looking down when crossing.

One of the attractions of working at CRISA for the women of the adjacent colonia, Lazaro Cardenas, is the plant's location; it's only about a 100 yards outside their small neighborhood. Many of the women go home during lunchtime to check on their kids and elderly parents.

The crowd of women fills the wide unpaved road that leads from the riverbank into Lazaro. They pass one of the few men in the streets-- a lone worker building a one-room brick house. Many of the women wave and the man returns the greeting.

Eladio Abundiz Gurdian, a FAT organizer, is also there; but fewer workers say hello --some don't even acknowledge his presence and continue home, peeling off their hairnets as they walk. Abundiz, a stocky man in his late twenties, continues to say "buenas" in a firm voice and earnestly scans the crowd for anyone who would be willing to talk to reporters about past and present working conditions at the plant.

Abundiz makes his request of two young workers. They both shyly agree on the condition that their identities not be revealed and walk with him to the nearby home of Romualda Lira Diaz, where they are met by Lira, two US reporters, and Modesta Vasquez, a former CRISA employee and strike leader.

Lira breaks the ice. The work at CRISA is simple but tedious and unrelenting, Lira said. All day, women at long work-tables tear the green stem off of strawberries, one at a time, filling boxes with the fruit. "We decided to go on strike because of the abuse we endured at work," she said. "It was too much work for too little pay. We were paid 2.20 pesos ($0.22) a box. We were told
that the boxes held only four kilos but they seemed like they held up to six. And on top of that there were times when the strawberries were really small and you would be standing there even longer and your back would get tired. When the strawberries are big, that's when you're able to fill the boxes up a little quicker.

"There were times when you just didn't want to work anymore and we were forced to. They would push more boxes on us. We would say 'I'm tired. I can't do anymore' and they would shove another box at you and tell you to be quiet. Our bodies would ache but they didn't care. We were forced to fill those boxes."

Maria Elena, one of the two present employees, spoke up next. She had seen conditions improve at CRISA since the strike. "I've worked at CRISA for two years now," she said. "I'm 17 years old. The boxes were always under-paid. And after 5 p.m., they would continue paying the same when they should be paying double. Before, we worked up to 8 p.m. or longer and now you only
have to work until 5 p.m. and, if you want, you can leave.

"Now we're given 'the nail' [tool for tearing off the stems, that fits over the thumb. Looks like an over-sized, silver thimble with a pointed end] and before we weren't.

"We weren't given aprons or 'nails,' we had to pay for gloves, not anymore. The aprons were 3.00 pesos ($0.30). We also had to buy the 'nails' and face masks. The water, I never drank it, because I didn't want to get sick. There's no cafeteria; I go home to eat.

"Before, for the entire week I would earn 350 pesos [$35]. By the box, 2.20 pesos [$0.22], now it's 2.75 pesos [$0.275] a box. We get paid by how much we do. If there is a lull we get five pesos an hour, but when there's fruit we're paid by the box. I work about six months a year there, from December to June. In the peak season we work as late as 10 p.m.

"Once, the lights went out and we sat there for five hours without working and the security guards locked the doors so we couldn't leave. We worked until 8 p.m. but we weren't paid for the lost time. Since the strike, they've hired more guards," Elena said.

Luisa Gomez has also seen improvements. "Before we worked like slaves," said Gomez. "Now it's much better.

"I'm not a member of FAT, because [CRISA] says we have a union already. Who knows? We didn't have a union before. We've had a union now for a year, since the strike. I've never seen the union representative, I don't even know who they are. If we have a union, we should know [the representative] because my husband is in a union and he has meetings every month. If we have a union we should meet every month too, so we can know what's going on."

"I've been working at CRISA about 10 years. I'm 23 years old. I used to work there only during peak season because I also went to school. Sometimes they would hide me in the bathroom because we would have visitors. Now there are no more minors working there...

Abundiz: "When federal inspectors or when visitors from the United States came, underage workers were hidden so they wouldn't be seen -underage and uninsured workers were hidden. After the strike the company has been extra careful... But what we're worried about is that after FAT strikers end their struggle, the company will go back to its old ways."

The two young workers stand up to show the reporters their aprons. The aprons, that cover them just pass the waist, are made of a thin material. They looked surprised when the reporters ask to see their hands. They look at each other, shrug and then one at a time extend their arms. The arduousness of their work, though taking no toll on their young, open faces and ready smiles, is painfully seared onto their hands.

Their fingers are tinted blackish-red, and are swollen. The skin is deeply cracked, with thin scars grouped around their thumbs like the glass spider-web of a fractured windshield. After a day at CRISA their hands, they say, feel like they are burning.

Eladio: "Do you see her hands? All irritated. That's how many [workers] also have their stomachs. This is because of the continued exposure to the fruit and the acidic juices." The caustic acids of the fruit, the unyielding monotony of the work, and the inevitable cuts and scraps the sped and relentless of the work inflicts, has gnarled many of the hands of the older workers, the women said.

Lira then began to talk about the May 25th walkout and her life as a CRISA worker. "We gave each other courage because we were once scared to speak out," said Lira. "I couldn't work there anymore, my body couldn't take it. I have to keep up my home, so I had two jobs. I worked at CRISA and here in my home, cleaning, ironing, my husband and my children."

"I live here with my parents, they keep me busy - they're old now - but my husband's salary wasn't enough. I had to get the job in CRISA to help out. My husband used to say that instead of helping him, I would become a burden when I got sick. He used to get home at 5 p.m. or 6 p.m., and I would get here at 8 p.m. or 9 p.m., even as late as 11 p.m.

"Sometimes [supervisors] would lie to us and say 'Do one more load of strawberries and then we can all go home.' And we would work hardier because we wanted to get out so badly. And when we were done another load would appear. And we would ask [supervisors] 'Why do you lie to us?' [The workers] would get upset but we never said anything, we swallowed our anger until
that day [May 25th 1999]. On that day we didn't swallow our anger. And we're still angry because that man, Arthur Price [owner of CRISA], does not respect us as human beings. He doesn't respect us as women. We need each other. He needs us to work as much as we need the jobs. Arthur Price should have a heart."

THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES

Dusk begins to fall over the unlit streets of Irapuato as Abundiz meets with FAT supporters at the home of a supporter. A portrait of Jesus, a luminous heart in his hands, stares down from the living room wall, where the women are meeting. There are about twenty women, ranging in age from late-teens to early seventies. They say that many of the workers involved in the struggle are
not in attendance because of new jobs or other obligations. Abundiz estimated that there were an additional 100 women who were still active.

When asked what they would say to Arthur Price if they could speak to him, ever woman included with their message, however defiant or deferential, a plea for the return of their jobs. "Que nos de trabajo," is heard again and again from around the room.

Abundiz informs the women that Modesta Vasquez will be making a short tour of several universities and union halls in the United States- in hopes of drumming up support for their cause - thanks to the funding of FAT-allied unions in the US. For now, the strikers are staying out of CRISA's way- until the lawsuits are settled, FAT does not want to give even the appearance of disturbing CRISA's business or give the company any reason to press more charges or, worst, leave Irapuato.

At the end of the meeting the women slowly spill out into the street. Their soft laughter and causal conversation becomes a murmuring hum as they clasp hands and promise to see each other at the next meeting. They clasp hands and promise to see each other at the next meeting before beginning their walks home, hurrying to beat the gathering dark.