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David Bacon <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>

MEXICAN UNION LEADER'S HOME BURNED TO THE GROUND
By David Bacon

    RIO BRAVO, TAMAULIPAS (11/15/00) -- Since Eliud Almaguer's house
was burned to the ground, he and his wife Evelia have been moving
from home
to home, staying with friends.  They rarely spend more than one night
in
the same place, fearing that those who destroyed their house might
return
to finish the job -- hurting them personally, or worse.
    "I fear for the life of my family," he says.
    Almaguer believes he was burned out in revenge.  For the last
three
years he's led a campaign to organize an independent union at the
Duro Bag
plant, a maquiladora just across the Rio Grande from Pharr, Texas.
    Almaguer's home didn't inspire any envy among his neighbors.  It
was typical of the houses lining a dirt street in a dusty Rio Bravo
barrio.
The Almaguers were so poor they even used wood for heating and
cooking,
doing without the illegal electrical and water hookups which provide
the
only basic services for most homes in the neighborhood.  Houses in
border
barrios are often made of wooden shipping pallets, with unfolded
cardboard
boxes stapled onto them for walls.  They're extreme firetraps - the
Almaguers were lucky they weren't home and therefore weren't harmed
in the
blaze.
    But as modest as it was, the home nevertheless was broken into at
least twice prior to the fire, Almaguer says.  "I think they were
looking
for union documents, since I don't have anything worth stealing, but
we
keep them in a safe place."
    Then, on the night of the fire, neighbors say they saw a man in a
blue tee-shirt fleeing the scene just before flames engulfed the small
dwelling.  When they called the police to report the blaze, they were
told
that "if it's Eliud's, then let it burn," Almaguer reports.  When he
went
himself to make a statement, the police refused to take one or
conduct an
investigation.  He then went to Ciudad Victoria, to make a
declaration to
the state prosecutor.  So far, however, no culprits have been
apprehended.
    The Duro factory churns out chichi paper bags, sold for a buck at
the ubiquitous gift shoppes which dot suburban shopping malls almost
everywhere.  The Duro Corporation, which also operates three U.S.
plants,
belongs to the Shor family.  It's based in Ludlow, Kentucky, and
produces
for Hallmark Expressions, Neiman Marcus and other upscale clients.
    In the spring of 1998, Almaguer, an intense, stocky labor activist
in his thirties, got a job at the plant.  There he says he saw people
lose
fingers in machines cutting the cardboard used to stiffen the bottoms
of
the bags.  Safety guards, he claims, were removed from the rollers
which
imprint designs on the paper lining -- the extra time they caused in
cleaning was treated as needless lost production.  Almaguer recalls
that
solvent containers didn't carry proper danger warnings, and while
workers
got dust masks, they were useless for filtering out toxic chemical
fumes.
    "In terms of safety, well there just wasn't any," he remembers
bitterly.
    Almaguer had already survived some of the best-known labor
conflicts in the region - stints at Sony, where workers were beaten in
front of the factory gates in 1995, on the union board at a Reynosa
foundry, and at the Custom-Trim/Auto-Trim plant where Breed
Technology has
battled its own workers for years.
    It didn't take Almaguer's co-workers long to realize who they had
in their midst.  Facing what promised to be a protracted conflict,
not only
with Duro but with their own union, they called a meeting that fall to
engineer the expulsion of their general secretary, Jose Angel Garcia
Garces, viewed as too close to company managers.  Before the night was
over, Almaguer had been elected his replacement.
    The union at Duro is a "seccion," the Mexican term for local, of
the Paper, Cardboard and Wood Industry Union, which in turn is part
of the
Confederation of Mexican Workers (CTM).  The CTM has been a pillar of
support for the country's ruling bureaucracy since the 1940s.
    The local has a protection contract with Duro - an agreement in
which a company pays union leaders to guarantee labor peace.  The
workers
in the Duro plant decided to actually enforce that contract.  They
brought
repeated grievances before the plant's human relations manager,
Alejandro
de la Rosa.  "We'd take [our complaints] to his office, and he'd
throw us
out," Almaguer says.  "The company was in violation of at least fifty
percent of the contract."
    Wages average 320 pesos a week (about $35) - "worse than any in
the
region," he declares angrily.  "And people were willing to work at
bad-paying jobs.  But not under those conditions."
    When de la Rosa refused to meet with Almaguer and the union
committee, they went to their leaders in Mexico City, warning them
they
were thinking of striking to enforce compliance.  Instead of backing
them
up, however, Almaguer recalls being told "that I should just
negotiate with
the company over my own personal benefits."
    In October, 1999, the company finally fired him.  The union in
Mexico City cooperated, invoking the notorious exclusion clause, a
regulation used for decades by pro-company union officials to get rid
of
troublemakers, by excluding them from union membership.  Police and
guards
were called into the plant to enforce the firing.  But after three
days of
turmoil, workers forced the company and the union to continue
recognizing
Almaguer as the seccion's general secretary.
    De la Rosa didn't return phone calls for this story, but alleged
in
Rio Bravo's local newspaper, El Bravo, that "the workers are
protesting
things that aren't our responsibility.  Almaguer says he's a dissident
leader, but he was actually removed some time ago."
    This spring the contract at Duro expired, and workers drew up a
list of demands for a new agreement.  They asked for two pairs of
safety
shoes each year, work clothes, contributions to a savings plan, and a
doctor at the plant to take care of injuries.  "The company said it
owned
the factory - they would decide what would be done here," Almaguer
recalls.
When workers wouldn't budge, their national leaders signed a new
agreement
on June 11, ignoring their demands.
    The local committee returned to the plant the following day, and
on
June 12, Duro managers barred Almaguer from the factory.  The
afternoon
shift refused to go in to work, and workers voted to strike.
    By then, they'd decided that better conditions were no longer
enough.  In front of the factory gates, they began organizing a new,
independent and democratic union.
    "In the past, the company was always able to buy off our union
leaders. Always," emphasizes Consuelo Moreno, a Duro worker.  "And we
paid
the price.  We can only change things if we have a union the company
can't
control."
    Throughout this period, Almaguer and his family were repeatedly
threatened, starting as soon as he took union office.  He says that
not
long after he was elected, one person followed his family and made
threats,
saying he'd been paid to do so by management.  A second time, the same
individual came to their home at night, and offered money.
    "They told me to slow down and tell the workers not to be against
the National Paperworkers Union and Duro or else I would pay the
consequences. That same night they came back at 1:00 AM, and scared my
daughter by knocking and kicking the door, trying to open it,"
Almaguer
recalls.
    Helping Duro workers to negotiate the tortuous road to an
independent union has been San Antonio's Coalition for Justice in the
Maquiladoras.  The coalition assisted them when they confronted
Tamaulipas'
governor, Tomas Yarrington, as he made appearances during the national
election campaign last spring.  They told Yarrington they wouldn't
let up
until the state labor board granted the union legal recognition. CJM
activists were arrested with the strikers, and mobilized a flood of
letters
and faxes to Yarrington and company officials.
    Mexico's new independent labor federation, the National Union of
Workers, organized a public protest last August, attracting hundreds
of
advocates of independent unionism from Mexico and the U.S.  Under the
combined pressure, the Tamaulipas labor board finally gave in,
granting the
Duro union legal status.
    Workers have yet to negotiate a new contract to replace the old
protection agreement, and 150 remain fired, including Almaguer.  For
almost
five months, grim-faced and determined women, often with their
children
beside them, have confronted police outside the plant, and camped out
in
Rio Bravo's main plaza.  Their banners demanding "libertad sindical,"
or
the right to belong to a union of their choice, are visible outside
the
plant every day, as strikers continue to talk to workers and pass out
flyers to them as they go in and out.
    UNT General Secretary Francisco Hernandez Juarez believes that if
they win higher wages at Duro, other workers also will organize more
independent unions.
    That could have profound effects.
    Duro is just one of 3,450 foreign-owned factories, employing over
1.2 million Mexican workers, according to the National Association of
Maquiladoras.  Most of these workers belong to unions, at least on
paper.
But, as at Duro, these organizations are not ones the workers run.
The UNT
estimates that only 50,000 of the country's 650,000 union contracts
are
actually negotiated with worker participation.
    If more workers in Mexico were able to control their own unions,
and negotiate their own contracts, there would be enormous pressure on
companies to raise wages.  Success at Duro could cost a lot of money,
not
just to its own owners, but to the foreign corporations who run
maquiladoras all along the border.
    "This fire was intentional," Almaguer declares.  "They were trying
to wipe us off the map, and now my home is just ashes."
---------------------------------------------------------------
david bacon - labornet email            david bacon
internet:       [EMAIL PROTECTED]      1631 channing way
phone:          510.549.0291            berkeley, ca  94703


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