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Mike's Journal
Daily thoughts… living on a sweatshop wage.
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8-31-00
TRUE SOLDIERS
After nearly a month, we've left Tangerang and completed the first leg of our project. It was difficult and surreal and educating and amazing and eye opening. I imagine more so for Jim and Leslie who did the whole thing while starving. I commend them for their courage and their perseverance. I can tell you all as someone who was here the entire time, they stuck to the budget and stuck to the plan. Through the heat, the hunger, the sickness, and even a nasty little intestinal parasite, they never faltered in trying their best to understand what the workers go through. The project has gone as well as it has for this reason. I would also like to thank them both for dragging me, kicking and screaming, out of America and showing me this other world. I am eternally grateful, my friends.
On Monday we packed up camp and said goodbye to Tangerang and all of our new friends. Friends that were so kind, so giving of themselves. So brave in the way they shared their stories, knowing how so many others before them were punished, some who even paid with their lives, for speaking their minds.
The Adidas worker, Fitri, wrote me a letter in her best English, which is about 1000 times better than my best Indonesian. She thanked me for giving myself to her cause, and the cause of her fellow workers. And she encouraged me to keep fighting. Fitri closed the letter with these words: "You are a true soldier". A true soldier. Probably one of the greatest compliments that was ever laid on me. But somehow I don't feel so comfortable in these new fatigues. Is it enough that I dropped my life for two months to come over here and try to lend a hand? Will it be enough if I go back and make a nice film that spreads the word? Does this a true soldier make? Of this, I do not know.
But what I do know is who the true soldiers are. It's people like Fitri and her fellow Adidas workers, Sri and Yani, who get up everyday to work in the factory, then spend a good part of the rest of their time trying to alter the system that keeps them down. They are Julianto, Dita Sari, Chi-Chi, and Soubirin, people who were persecuted and even jailed for doing what they believe, and still continue to fight the good fight. They are Arist, Benny, Haropan, Toni, and all the people at SISBIKUM, who have dedicated their lives to improving the horrendous situation here. These are the true soldiers. They have shown me heart and bravery that I will never know.
The afternoon we left, many of our new friends came to see us off. The Adidas girls, Haropan, little Susanti and her mother, and some other workers whose names I won't even attempt to spell. They helped us carry our bags to the bechas (rickshaws) that would bring us to our Taxi. A final kind act culminating a month of selflessness, the likes I've never seen, and will probably never see again. They waved goodbye as our drivers pedaled Jim, Leslie, me and all our third worldly belongings to the edge of town.
Most of them, I will probably never see again in this life. Their faces will soon fade from memory like the faces of strangers in dreams. But what they have given me, I will keep with me always. After nearly a month, I have left Tangerang, but I am quite sure that Tangerang will never leave me.
8-24-00
"FEAR, INC."
Fear is the great motivator. The fear of losing your job. The fear of losing your ability to support your family.The fear of being hung out to dry by your company in an economic situation that's desperate at best, even for the gainfully employed. Yes, fear is the greatest of all motivators, greater than money, greater than power, greater than an entire army of Tony Robbinses.
We sat down with some Nike workers last week. They sang us a lovely song about Nike. It sounded a lot like the song Nike sings to the American people. It went something like this: Without Nike we'd be in real dire straits. Nike takes care of me.They take care of my family. They adhere to the code of conduct, they pay us a generous wage, and they give us adequate health care. They treat us with dignity and respect. It was a beautiful, bouncy song that sounded oddly like "Whistle While you Work". I had to restrain myself to keep from tapping my feet.
Ok, so this particular group of workers thought we worked for Nike or one of their competitors. They thought we were just another independent monitoring group of Americans who came to hear the happy Nike song. How could you blame them? Why would a group of white people who didn't speak their language come to their village with a camera and want to talk to them? They didn't trust us. And rightfully so. No monitoring group had ever talked to them as individuals, much less given them reason to trust. They said when the monitoring groups roll into town, they only talk to the managers, and if they do speak with the workers, there is always a manager present at the interview.
After some coaxing and reassuring that we were on their side, the workers opened up a little. But they were still holding back. They were careful with the words they chose and with the issues they chose to discuss. I watched them look back and forth at each other nervously with each question, as if searching each others' faces for the right thing to say, to do. You could see the truth wanted to come out. But something was keeping them from giving the whole story. Fear. They were terrified. Scared we were going to take our video and run right to their managers. They wanted reassurance that we weren't going to throw them under the bus. That they weren't going to end up unemployed, or worse. The local Mafia apparently also plays a role in this institutionalized bullying. They handle all punishment of detractors beyond termination so the factories can keep their hands clean.
After about an hour of prodding without much success, we decided to call it a night. We went home, unsatisfied that we had gotten the whole story. So we had our interpreter translate a couple of articles about Jim's story and we brought this and some other information to the same group a few days later. When they realized that we were on their side they changed their tune. They talked about how they were grossly underpaid. How they were afraid to speak up about how they were treated for fear of termination, for fear of the Mafia. And they told us that it's not just the workers who are afraid, but that the entire factory is run on fear. The workers are afraid of their line managers. The line managers are afraid of upper management. And upper management is afraid of the factory owners, who are afraid that if their factory doesn't make quota, or has workers that organize, Nike will take their business to some other poor country where people will kill themselves for a dollar a day. Throw in the mob to scare the shit out of everyone and you have yourself quite a racket. It's a dirty business, but it's incredibly smart in its simplicity. Keep the people down and you'll keep your costs down.
The following day we tried to get into a Nike factory in Tangerang, the belly of the beast, so to speak. We were turned away, despite Nike's alleged policy of transparency, and told that we had to speak with someone in Nike's local office in Jakarta. So on Friday, we went into downtown Jakarta to the high-rise where the office is located, one of the many beautiful, modern buildings that look oddly out of place here. We were let in promptly by security, given security badges, and asked to wait in the lobby. Jim was once again asked to wear the Nike Swoosh because it was on the badge, much to his chagrin. He shoved it deep down in his pocket.
So we waited in the lobby. And waited some more. After about an hour and a half, a young, attractive, Indonesian woman came out and told us that the person we needed to talk to would be in and out of meetings all day, and that we should call at noon to make an appointment. That seemed fair enough. At least security wasn't throwing us out by the scruffs of our necks. So we left. And called at noon. Our contact was at lunch. We called again. Our contact was in another meeting. We called once more. Still in a meeting. We were getting the standard run-around, so we decided that we would go back and wait. Around 4:00 we ventured over to the Nike offices for the second time that day, where we were again escorted into the lobby. After about 20 minutes of waiting, an attractive woman who looked to be in her early 30's came out into the lobby and greeted us warmly. She was a very gracious American expat named Tammy who hailed from the city of New Orleans. We exchanged pleasantries and then got down to business.
She was aware of our intention of seeing a factory and aware of our project. She told us, with much trepidation, that Nike was unable to grant us a tour due to Jim's impending lawsuit. She was extremely nice about it. Not the horrible Nike corporate monster we expected. She even looked like she felt sorry for us. And I recognized something else. The look on her face. It was the same look I had seen on the workers' faces a few days before. There was an obvious uneasiness about her and it looked as though she would rather be anywhere else at that moment but in this lobby with Jim Keady and his band of rabble-rousers. Part of it may have been the fact that I was sticking a camera in her face. But I think it was more than that. Now I could be wrong, but I believe she is well aware of what's going on in the factories, knows it's wrong, may even be embarrassed by it, but doesn't want to say anything because she is afraid it would compromise her position and Nike's position. She has to know all this exploitation is wrong, this extremely nice woman from the Big Easy. She lives 30 miles from Tangerang.
I wonder if Tammy thinks about the workers while she's sitting at her desk, or if they visit her in her dreams at night. I wonder how many Nike executives think about the workers, know these people are suffering on behalf of their company and are afraid to speak up about it. I wonder how they rationalize their way around it. I wonder as an advertising copywriter, if I, by some stroke of incredible dumb luck, was offered an interview at Weiden & Kennedy, Nike's ad agency and without question one of the best agencies in the world. Would I be able to get on the plane to Oregon in good conscience after seeing what I've seen?
After we shut the camera off, she relaxed a bit and asked Jim how things were going with the project. She seemed genuinely concerned, even sympathetic.
Jim replied, very matter-of-factly, "Your people are starving. You have to pay them more."
At which point, our discussion promptly ended, with Tammy, very courteously bidding us farewell, double-timing it back toward the catacombs of the Nike corporate office, and disappearing behind a row of cubicles.
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| Our hostess Fitri cooks dinner. |
8-16-00
"Patience, Poetry and the Divine Secrets of the Kakak Sisterhood"
The three women who made my sneakers invited us to their home for dinner on Saturday night, which was a pretty nice gesture, considering. They live in another part of the village, about a mile from where we are staying. The conditions there seemed decidedly more claustrophobic. The alleys were narrower; the houses were smaller; the corrugated tin roofs hung a little lower. Fitri, one of the girls, lives in a small one-room dwelling with two older divorced women, also factory workers. The three spend their non-working hours in this tiny, poorly lit chamber. That's about the size of my freshman dorm room. They have no furniture, save a small color TV, and the three bedrolls that must cover most the floorspace when unfurled. They share a common bathroom/kitchen with God knows how many other neighbors in their little quadrant. The house, along with hundreds of others, sits in the shadow of the hulking Adidas factory, which looms over the village and seems to block out all natural light.
The girls prepared a veritable feast for us. Tempe, fish, vegetables, rice and a wonderful soup, the contents of which were unfamiliar to me, but it was delicious nonetheless. I imagine it wasn't cheap. The gratitude and kindness of these women, who have so little, has been heartwarming to say the least.
After dinner we talked for a while, not about the factory, or the oppression, but about life. Fitri has a boyfriend she never sees because of work. She's not sure if she likes him or "really" likes him. We talked about music and movies, about which Backstreet Boy was the cutest. About what they love to do on their days off. I watched these women. The way they laughed at each other's jokes, the way they looked at each other and smiled secretly. I noticed the unspoken language of their eyes, a language that is only understood by best friends. And I realized that they remind me of my sisters, Denise and Michele, and their very close friends, who are roughly the same age. Denise and her crew have inside jokes that cause fits of riotous laughter, just like these girls. They break into song and dance around the room in drunken sailor fashion, just like these girls. They fawn over movie stars and rock stars, just like these girls. And they support each other unconditionally in the bond of friendship, just like these girls. In Indonesian, "kakak" is an endearing term that means "older sister." It's used not just for sisters, but for close friends, very much the way we use "sister" or "girlfriend." I tried to imagine my sisters in the
Workers' situation. It's painful to even think about.
One of the girl's male friends, who had been serenading us from the alley, brought his guitar inside and we all broke into an impromptu sing along. The girls first treated us to a lovely rendition of the Scorpions late eighties chart topper, "Winds of Change." We returned the favor with a couple of American standards, Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" and Bob Marley's "Redemption Song." Our hosts then requested "Patience" from Guns and Roses. They also requested "November Rain" and "Welcome to the Jungle," but "Patience" was the only song that fell into my core guitar chord competence set of G, D and C. (They love Guns and Roses in Tangerang, by the way. Axl, Slash, let's try and work things out. If not for your American fans, then for all the people over here.) So Jim, Leslie and I belted out a riveting version of "Patience," complete with whistling solo.
"Sad woman, take it slow, it will work itself out fine…"
And I thought I was oppressing them before.
After our little campfire jam session ended, Yani, who is 21 but looks 15, recited a poem that had been written by a fellow worker. I had no idea what it said, as it was written in Indonesian, but it didn't matter. Her passion, her pain, her emotion and her frustration transcended language. It was mesmerizing and heartbreaking at the same time. I felt her words deep in my gut as I watched this woman transform from a young, innocent girl, to an angry, frustrated woman, who now looked just a little too old in the eyes. Like she'd seen way too much in her 21 years. It turns out the poem was about how workers are not field horses. How they are human beings.
Factory workers are not who these girls are. It's just what they do because they have to. These women are mothers, daughters, best friends and sisters. They are our sisters.
8-10-00
Who Makes Your Sneakers?
I know who made mine. I met them the other day. Three 21 year-old girls who work in the Adidas factory here in Tangerang. They came to the open house because they heard we were here and wanted to share their stories. They talked about how they made just enough money for food and nothing else, how they were tired all the time from spending sometimes 15 hours on their feet, 6 days a week. How they were often humiliated by their superiors and threatened with pink slips for trying to organize and fight back.
Sadly, we had heard all this before, from just about everyone we've talked to. But it was something one of them said toward the end of the conversation that really blew me away. She told us, with tears in her eyes, that she was proud of the Adidas products she produced. That she got excited when she saw her sneaker commercials on TV, and told her friends with great self-satisfaction, "I made that sneaker." Despite all the shit that she goes through, the inhuman treatment, the living hand to mouth, sometimes not having enough money to eat for days, this woman was proud. Proud that she played a part in making a quality Adidas product. Unbelievable.
My agent of change, friend of the worker, new activist blood boiled. I felt even more contempt for the Phil Knights and Mia Hamm's and the Tiger Woods of the world. How could they so grossly exploit these people without even thinking twice. And spin it in such a way that the workers are proud to kill themselves for these companies? What a bunch of assholes!
It was 6:30 when we finished up, the sun was down and the girls had to get home. Some commotion outside the front door brought us all outside. As it turned out, the workers who we had just interviewed made my sneakers. I don't mean they made Adidas brand sneakers, they actually made the pair of Adidas running shoes that I bought two weeks ago because I thought it would be inappropriate to wear my Nikes during this project. For the second time in their lives, they were holding those sneakers. The first time being 6 months ago when they stitched and glued my pair of size 9's, along with a thousand other pairs they stitched and glued that day in order to meet their quota.
She held the sneaker up in front of me and proudly pointed to the two seams she personally had stitched together. It was like she pulled my heart out of my chest, was holding it in front of me, and showing me the places where it was blackest. At that moment, I became painfully aware of my place in the economic food chain. Two worlds that were never meant to occupy the same space had suddenly slammed into each other. Mr. Oppressor, I would like to meet the oppressed.
Nikewages project team member or not, I have spent my entire life buying products and being completely obtuse regarding their origin. And being indifferent to the sacrifices that were made by human beings so that I could have hip stretch cotton shirts or adequate arch support. In the two weeks I've been in Indonesia, I've felt pretty good about what I'm doing here, thinking I'm part of the solution. In reality, I am, and have always been part of the problem, by simply not giving a shit. In a sense, I am Phil Knight. I am Mia Hamm. I am Tiger Woods.
It's much easier to feel nothing while your screwing someone over when you don't ever have to look them in the eyes. I pray you never have to face the one you oppress, either directly, or by simply not caring.
As the workers were leaving one of them picked up my sneaker, shook her finger at me and said, in perfect English, "Remember to think of me every time you put these on."
How could I not?
Mike
 8-7-00
Medicine for Susanti
The heat here is unbearable. The heat and humidity and pollution and stink. The humidity holds the pollution in its tiny droplets and creates a sick, soupy air that envelops you, and fills your lungs every time you breathe. You don't so much walk through it as you wade. I know in a month or so, I will once again be sitting in my air-conditioned apartment, breathing the oxygen-rich and relatively carbon monoxide-free air of the Philadelphia suburbs. Most of these people spend their entire lives here, sucking in the filth thousands of times a day. It's no wonder that respiratory illness is such a problem in Tangerang.
Which brings us to the doctor's office. Susanti (pictured), daughter of Soberin, has had a nagging respiratory infection for about 2 months. Susanti looks like the Indonesian version of little Cindy Lou Who (who was no more than two), from Dr. Suess' How the Grinch Stole Christmas. She's so tiny, even for a 4 year old. And beautiful, all big, brown eyes and a face that lights up like Christmas morning every time she smiles.
Her father, Soberin, a union organizer, could only afford half the required medicine to treat her ailment over the last 2 months. I shouldn't say he could afford it. He borrowed the money from neighbors and friends. The half-filled (half-empty) prescription was enough to stave off the infection for a few days at a time, but her cough kept coming back. Susanti's hack and high fever would cause any American parent to bundle their child up and rush them to the emergency room. Her coughing reminded me of my Grandfather's, deep and rattling. And had emphysema from 50 years of smoking.
We took Susanti to the local medical center for a check up and medicine her father could no way afford. It looked more like a Jiffy Lube than a doctor's office. A huge bay was the entrance, so the pollution followed you in. People were actually smoking inside. Smoking, in a doctor's office. It was almost comical. I think I counted 2 doctors and a number of nurses. There were 3 or 4 poorly equipped examination rooms that opened up to the street air and noise.
Susanti's examination took about 3 minutes. The doctor weighed Susanti, checked her breathing with a stethoscope and wrote her a script for cough syrup and an antibiotic. Enough medicine to hopefully put the infection down for good. Altogether, the meds and the visit cost 90,000rp. About 9 days pay for Soberin. Thank you, come again.
We picked up the tab. Soberin was fired from his factory job for trying to organize a union, so he no longer receives even the meager medical benefits the factory doles out. He was so grateful, I thought he was going to break down and cry right there. I think he was also a little embarrassed, too. Imagine being a parent and not making enough to cure your kid of a common repository infection.
Not wanting to spend any more time than he had to with his child's illness, Soberin spoon-fed his daughter her medicine right outside the clinic. Little Susanti Lou who twisted her face up at the taste, just like any 4-year old would.
Mike
8-6-00
Cigarettes and Food
This financial situation of most of the people who live here was put into very simple terms for me today by one of the Nike Garment workers. With the money they make in a week they can afford 3 meals a day and cigarettes. That's three meager meals, mostly consisting of rice and some vegetables, and a pack of smokes. No clothes, no entertainment, no medicine. If they want any of these things, they have to give up one of their three meals, or their smokes. I think about the stuff that I blow money on regularly, not even the luxury stuff. A trip to the convenience store for a Gatorade, toiletries, a video rental, a night out drinking beers with my friends. The things beyond food that make me feel like a human being. I can afford them. I could afford them when I was making $18,000 a year working in Manhattan and I thought I was destitute. All they can afford is three meals and a pack of smokes.
If they want to buy anything else beyond three meals, they don't eat lunch. Factor in a child, and you have another person living off those three meals, something has to come out of the pot to feed that child, to get medicine for that child. You see what I'm getting at.
A week without shaving has made Jim's beard carpet thick and itchy, so he went out and bought a Bic plastic razor and travel size can of shaving cream. They cost him a day's wage. For his breakfast this morning, he's shaving.
The living wage here is enough to stay alive, but it's certainly not enough to live.
Mike
8-3-00
We got our first hard look at the real poverty here. In Tangerang, where the workers live, it is obscene. I've never been to Calcutta or Ethiopia so I have no frame of reference as far as destitution goes in the third world, but its pretty startling here. Many times worse than any of the bad neighborhoods in New York or Philadelphia, that I've driven through with the windows rolled up and the doors locked. It's even worse than Camden. In the neighborhood where Jim and Leslie are staying, near the open house, the lack of what we consider necessities is especially bad. People sit in dirty two room shacks with no furniture. Half clothed children play in yards strewn with garbage. It breaks your heart to see kids living like this, because you know they don't have a choice. None of these people have a choice. You want to help out but the magnitude of need is overwhelming. Toni, a legal aid at SISBKM, and I were discussing music. He said he loves music. asked him if he had a CD player.
"No"
A tape deck?
"No, I have nothing."
It reminds me of a line Linda Hunt said to Mel Gibson's character in the movie "The Year of Living Dangerously". Gibson asks what's the point of one person trying to make a difference. Linda Hunt's character replies, "Add your light to the greater sum." I guess that's what we are trying to do here.
Now I don't want to get all Sally Struthers on you, but seeing how these people live really changes your perspective. Not like I'm going to give up all my worldly possessions and live among the poor like Mother Theresa, but it certainly makes you appreciate the things you have, like clothing, clean water, healthcare. I hope this project raises awareness about how "those people" live.
8-2-00
JAKARTA IS DA BOMB
We got our first real piece of solid footage today. We spoke to a workers lawyer this morning. It made for some great film (tape). He actually turned to the camera and asked Phil Knight to look in his heart. Beautiful. It went right through me. Everyone was really psyched at the end. It was the start of what we thought was going to be a really great day. And then the bomb went off…
Yes, a car bomb exploded today at the Philippine Embassy. It shook me up pretty bad. It shook me out of the soft, comfy 1st world blanket that I've been living under for 29 years. We were at a demonstration that never happened, or that moved itself somewhere else when we heard the explosion. It sounded like a car backfire. The shockwave didn't hit until we later found out it was a bomb, found out that people died. Innocent people. Yesterday, I was starting to feel pretty comfortable here. I was naïve. I now feel scared.
Shit like this happens at home, but at home, you know the bad areas, the places where it's more likely to occur. When it does, you're not there. And you can run back to the suburbs and watch the ensuing drama from the safety of your couch, behind the shield of CNN, with thousands of miles of satellite feed separating you from it. Here, there's no familiar place to hide. I hope my parents don't read this next part. We were two blocks away. And we had every intention of going to the area where the bomb exploded. Thank God we didn't. Someone must have our backs.
We heard a second explosion when we were at this massive, insane electronics market. It was like the NYSE meets Circuit City. There were thousands of people in this place, and exactly three of them were white. "Hey Mister" they'd call to you as you walked past the tables, tables filled with CD's whose covers were completely foreign to me, with the exception of Brittany Spears. There was a fight that broke out outside the market that certainly had riot potential. Apparently, riots happen in this part of Jakarta often. You cram that much testosterone and electronics equipment into one place, add 90-degree heat and 90 percent humidity, fights are bound to happen. I personally worked up sweat comparable to Albert Brooks in Broadcast News just standing there. We were flanking the skirmish when we heard the second explosion. It sounded like an M80 going off in your ribcage.
You feel so small here, and yet so big because you are the only one of your kind. I swear to God I saw one white face in two days, other than Jim and Leslie's. We stick out like 3 white sore thumbs, especially Jim, who is a 6'4", red headed sore thumb.
The mosquitoes are buzzing around my head, repelled by the Skin-So-Soft, or perhaps the smell of fear. I will miss the air conditioning when we leave for Tangerang tomorrow. I won't miss the bed. Apparently this hotel is in the business of providing meeting facilities for prostitutes and their clients. God knows what manner of filth and venereal evil coats these sheets. I think I'll sleep above the covers tonight. If I sleep at all.
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