August 31st, 2000
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.
August 30th, 2000
Please allow me to apologize to all of you, our friends, supporters and family members for our less than timely posting of journal entries of late. We have spent the past few days in Jakarta compiling, processing and packaging the work we have done over the last month. We have also needed to conduct some last minute interviews with labor leaders and factory workers so that we are completely prepared for the next leg of our project in Sydney.
Today we were lucky enough to spend a few hours at the Reuters’ studio with Des Wright, the reporter who has been working on our story. What an incredible few hours! Des showed us what he had shot with us last week and then took some time to show us some of explosive footage he has shot in and around Jakarta in the past two years. I have never seen anything like it. You can be sure that we in the United States never ever see this type of reporting. The violence was brutal. Please do not misconstrue what I mean when I say the violence was brutal. The violence is brutal. It is a constant threat here. The entire country is enveloped with an air of volatility. These newsreels we saw today left me awestruck. They showed university students being beaten and kicked while lying on the ground in surrendering, submissive positions. They showed police arbitrarily firing round after round of machine gun fire into crowds of students and demonstrators. Now don’t get me wrong, the students were not quietly sitting around drinking beers and talking about college football when they were attacked. They were demonstrating and in the heat of the moment some turned to throwing rocks and charging police with sticks. But sticks, rocks and their unbridled desire to remove a corrupt regime were all they had to combat the AK-47 machine guns, tear gas, grenades and tanks of the former dictator’s army. This did not stop them; they were too driven and are too driven to reach their goal. They want an end to the corruption, collusion and nepotism that plagues their country. They want democracy.
Yes, they want democracy and that is the last thing American corporations like Nike want to see happen here. Regardless of what lip service American business leaders may offer to the public, they know that a well functioning democracy is bad for maximizing profit. The type of raw capitalism that Nike employs in its factories in Indonesia and elsewhere in the developing world is a threat to human dignity and the American democratic ideal. This type of corporate analysis I offer now is not new.
“I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country… corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the republic is destroyed. I feel at this moment more anxiety for the safety of my country than ever before, even in the midst of war.” (Abraham Lincoln, 1865)
We have heard so much great feedback from all of you who have visited our website or heard us on the radio during interviews we have given. We hope all of you will have the courage and commitment to listen to the cautioning words of Lincoln and take up the call of yet another historic leader.
“I hope we shall crush in its birth the aristocracy of our moneyed corporations, which dare already to challenge our government to a trial of strength and bid defiance to the laws of our country.” (Thomas Jefferson, 1816)
Yes, we hope you will have the courage and commitment to struggle and ensure that the democracy that was won by the blood, sweat and tears of our foremothers and forefathers is not put in jeopardy by the small minority that benefit from the oppressive and exploitative business practices of companies like Nike.
In the next few days we will post very concrete ways you can join in this struggle to ensure that the democratic ideal we cherish so dearly is not compromised by the greed of a few. In the next few days we will give you very concrete ways to guarantee that your children and your children’s children will inherit a world that is free, just and representative of all that is best in the human spirit.
Peace, Jim
August 24th, 2000
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.
August 24th, 2000
We went off today to shoot some “b-roll” for our documentary. If you don’t know what “b-roll” is, don’t feel bad, I didn’t know either until we started planning this project. “B-roll” is the footage you shoot to fill in the gaps between your interviews, major shots, etc. We had a few things on our list to shoot, including a “middle class” neighborhood.
I had been to this neighborhood before. Leslie, Leily and I happened upon it when we were wandering around Tangerang two weeks ago. I had noticed something different about how I felt the first time I was here and I felt this way again. We had been walking around for about twenty minutes when it dawned on me what it was. I was feeling relaxed, comfortable… human. Yes that was it: I was feeling like human being. What was it that made me feel this way? I stopped, I looked around, and I knew.
The sun was shining. It was quiet. The air was not filled with the foul stench of burning garbage and human feces. There were no rats. There were no chickens. The sewers were covered. The streets were clean, wide and paved. There were trees. There were flowers. There was grass. The houses had walls without holes and did not seem as if they would collapse in a strong wind. This was a neighborhood, not a slum; this was a place where human beings could live, not just survive.
As we continued to walk I asked Leily if this is what factory workers wanted, if this is where they wanted to live? She said, “No, they wouldn’t even dream of this.” They would not, they could not; dream of a life in a simple, clean, healthy community. No, they could not even dream of this. Why? They work for Nike.
Peace, Jim
August 23rd, 2000
I got an e-mail today that included the same question I have heard a thousand times, “If Nike weren’t in Indonesia, what else would those people be doing?” I guess the rhetorical response I posted a few days ago to address this question didn’t quite satisfy everyone. I wondered why not? I also wondered why people always tend to ask this question with a “worst case scenario” approach. “If they didn’t have those jobs they would be starving.” Is it possible to consider a scenario that sees the possibilities of a better world and not a worse one? Is it possible to dream? Isn’t this what the human spirit is all about?
It dawned on me that perhaps it is necessary to invite people to do this. Perhaps it is as simple as that; asking people to imagine a world where all human beings live together harmoniously. And once they have imagined it, ask them to take it a step further and act on it. We can do it. We can change the world! It is only a matter of asking a different set of questions and then working to find the answers to them. The first thing that must happen is the discarding of the question that does nothing to improve the situation of our brothers and sisters here.
“If Nike weren’t there, what else would those people be doing?”
Hear me now… this question will no longer be asked. It limits the possibilities. It limits our ability to dream. It limits our commitment to establishing a world where all persons live freely and are granted the dignity that is their human birthright. How do we begin to change this situation?
The first thing we each have to do is ask questions of Nike CEO, Phil Knight.
“Mr. Knight, is it morally acceptable for workers in your factories to be paid a wage that undermines their human dignity?”
“Mr. Knight, is it morally acceptable for workers in your factories to be refused to right to organize and collectively bargain for better wages and working conditions?”
“Mr. Knight, is refusing to recognize these two basic human rights (the payment of a living wage and the right to organize), a violation of the United Nation’s Declaration of Human Rights?”
Now that we have asked these questions of Mr. Knight, there are questions that we must look in the mirror and ask ourselves.
“Do I believe it is morally acceptable for athletes and shareholders to benefit from a company that violates the rights of its workers and maximizes its profits by doing so?”
“Do I own stocks in companies like Nike that have questionable labor practices? If so, is it just for me to personally benefit from the exploitation of others?”
“What will I do today to help my brothers and sisters in Indonesia?”
“How will I let my voice be heard so that Nike knows I do not approve of their violation of the dignity of the human family?”
“What will I do today to bring my lived actions more in line with my claimed beliefs?”
These are the new questions we will ask and will seek to answer in a radical way. Working to answer questions like these defines what it means to be truly human. We can do it. It will take great sacrifice and incredible courage, but we can do it. We can change the world. In each of us there is a hero. In each of us there is a passionate spark of hope that tells us “I can make the sacrifice, I have the courage, I can really make a difference.” We celebrate people throughout history who have done this; people who have used the spark within themselves to ignite revolutions of change; people who were willing to sacrifice so that all of us would inherit a better world. You know these people, Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, Archbishop Romero, Ita Ford, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Rosa Parks, Nelson Mandella, Dorothy Day, Jesus of Nazareth. You can be one of them. You know you can. Just do it.
August 22nd, 2000
We spent most of today organizing the research we have done to this point. There is so much that needs to be processed and packaged. Other than the constant feelings of hunger, fatigue, headaches and general discomfort, there is not much else to report about today. Please make sure to check the site in the upcoming week or so to view the results of our current research.
Peace, Jim
August 20th, 2000
We had a great interview with the workers from Lintas. They were more educated about their rights than any other workers we have met and therefore were less fearful of speaking with us. Something I haven’t mentioned is that the majority of interviews we’ve conducted have been with labor organizers. They are leaders of the masses, and they are still deathly afraid (rightfully so) to discuss their reality. And for every labor organizer we’ve spoken with there are thousands of workers so petrified that they wouldn’t even entertain the idea of speaking with us.
The climax of the interview was our reiterating questions that we’ve heard countless times in the U.S., in a tone mirroring the attitude of the people that have asked them. These questions are from the people who refuse informative flyers from leafletters. Questions from people who show in their facial contortions and exaggerated sighs how disgusted they really are that you’re trying to hand them a flyer. Questions like, “How can you be forced to work in a Nike factory? Is someone holding a gun to your head?” “If this is such a bad job, why don’t you go get another one?” “We gave you these jobs, we set this factory up here, we’re putting money into your economy, we’re giving you the opportunity to work, what else do you want?”
The condescending tone of the questions transcended the language barrier. There was a devastating look of hurt on the workers’ faces even before Leily translated. It was a painful labor that gave birth to the raw Truth. The fear subsided, and their pent up anger burst. Their expressions and gestures were like an old Italian grandmother who was downright pissed. These women exploded, and they commanded the room with their spirit. They told about how they feel like slaves. How they couldn’t possibly survive without putting in 15-20 hours of overtime each week. How they can’t just “get another job”, because they’ll have to go through trainings, take a pay cut for the first year and possibly longer, and basically won’t be able to survive. How Indonesia’s economic and political situation forces them to accept these jobs, and Nike takes advantage of this situation. Their account was the most riveting session I have experienced yet. And it’s all on video.
August 20th, 2000
A travel day from Jakarta to Tangerang…
Peace, Jim
August 20th, 2000
We had the most incredible afternoon interviewing workers from PT Lintas, a Nike factory in Bekasi. I had read the accounts, I had written a research paper about it, but today I received the unedited truth from two courageous young women about the reality of the workers’ labor situation. To give you the short of it, Nike is lying or distorting the truth about every labor issue here in Indonesia.
One of the first things I asked the women was what they thought about Phil Knight, President and CEO of the Nike Corporation. They had never heard of him. Surprising? I explained who he was and told them that he had never been to Indonesia. I also told them about his refusal to accept a free trip here that was offered him by Michael Moore. (Rent the video “The Big One”.) I then asked them what they thought of Phil Knight. One of the women said,
“He doesn’t tell the truth, that’s why he doesn’t want to come.” “He is a selfish man.”
As our conversation went on I wanted the women to understand how they and their situation are perceived by many in the general public in America. To accomplish this I played the role of Phil Knight for a period of time during the interview. I peppered the women with questions and comments that I believe are in the spirit of the information posted on Nike’s website and in the spirit of questions people have asked me about the workers. They did not enjoy this exchange. To say that their passion and frustration was intense would be an understatement. The air was filled with their feelings of anger and contempt. Even I felt sorry for Phil. (Note: the name of the worker was changed to protect them.)
Aya: “Do we deserve this little money… working like slaves?”
Phil: “Are you saying you work like slaves?”
Aya: “Yes. We work hard everyday and don’t get any results. We don’t make enough money.”
Phil: “If you think of yourselves as slaves, what does that make me?”
Aya: “YOU ARE INHUMAN!”
I hope and pray that Mr. Knight reads this and that he hears the cries of all the human beings that work so hard to create his fortune.
Peace, Jim
p.s. The full transcript of this interview should be posted in the next week in our new “Research” section. Please return to the site to read it in its entirety.
August 19th, 2000
I spent yesterday morning sorting through some of the research we have compiled to this point. Below are the results of one of the group interviews we conducted with workers. Group interviews such as this are one of the methods we have employed to gather information about the lived realities of the workers. Once you have read through the material below I invite you to visit Nike’s website, www.nikebiz.com, and compare our findings to the findings of Nike’s “independent” monitors.
Group Interview
PT ADIS workers
1. What is your name?
They were afraid to have their names reported for fear of retribution by factory management. There were five men and one woman.
2. How old are you?
Ages ranged from 21 – 25
3. What village are you from?
They were from villages in West and Central Java.
4. When you came here from your village, what did you bring?
They brought their “papers” (documentation of identity and high school diploma), clothes, and a small amount of money ranging from 9000-50000Rp.
5. What job could/would you do if you weren’t working at the factory?
They would do “homework” sewing, carpentry, farming, or run a family business.
6. Why did you take this job?
One responded “To survive!” and they all agreed. They also all said that work at their old jobs is not steady.
7. When is the last time you saw your family?
They each see their families once a year at the Muslim holiday.
Expenses
1. How much money do you send home each month?
Cannot send any money home monthly. Just try to save money for the trip home during the Muslim holiday.
2. How much money do you have saved right now?
None of them had any money saved. One worker needed to take a loan of 5000Rp to eat the other day.
3. How much does it cost to travel to your village?
The average travel cost for the trip home to see their family is 50000Rp.
4. How much do you spend on food each day?
On average they spend 7000-10000Rp, if they have it available.
5. How many meals a day do you eat?
They try to eat 3 meals per day.
6. What do your meals consist of?
They eat rice and vegetables for every meal.
7. Can you afford to purchase clothing?
No. The only way they can purchase new clothing is on credit.
8. How much do you spend on housing?
On average they spend 80000Rp per month for rent. The one married couple in the group has not been able to pay their rent for two months.
9. How much do you spend on water and electricity?
Water and electricity are included in their rent.
10. Could you afford a doctor visit?
No. None of them had ever had a basic check-up, the woman, who is 22, had only been to the gynecologist once, and one of the six had ever been to a dentist.
11. If you broke your leg, contracted malaria, pneumonia, etc… what would happen?
Each said they would need to take a loan to pay for the doctor’s care.
Working Conditions
1. What are you making?
They are all involved in the manufacturing of Nike tennis shoes and baby sneakers.
2. What is your production quota during a slow/busy period?
High period = 2000 pieces per day / Low period = 1300 pieces per day
3. How many toilets are there in the factory? How many people are they for?
The number is different for different sections: 5 for 2000, 6 for 500, 9 for 1000, 3 for 350 (two are broken). They all said that there is not enough clean water for the toilets.
4. Do you work with chemicals? What kind?
Yes. One worker said he works with polyurethane. The woman worker said she uses R105, a glue compound. She went on to tell us that she was told to lie to independent monitors and say that she uses R107 because R105 is more harmful and is not supposed to be used.
5. Is protective equipment provided?
Yes, masks and respirators, but they are not very comfortable.
6. Are you afraid about what the chemicals might be doing to you?
Yes. They were all very afraid what the chemicals might be doing to their bodies. They said that the women who work in the factory are afraid that the chemicals might cause miscarriages.
7. Do you stand or sit while you work? Is your positioning comfortable?
Whether they sit or stand depends on the work they do. One worker reported that he stands from 7:30 – 4:30 and sometimes even longer with overtime hours.
8. Have you ever seen or heard about physical or verbal abuse?
They told us that if you make a mistake you might be publicly embarrassed. They reported that workers have been made to stand for hours in front of the rest of the workforce because of mistakes they have made.
9. What are 3 things you want to change at the factory? (Not including wage increases.)
They would like better protective equipment; they would like something done about the dangerously slippery floors; and they want the factory to begin using chemicals that aren’t harmful to them.
Compensation
1. How much money do you make each month?
Each said that they average 300,000Rp for basic monthly wage. This would not include transportation allowances or attendance bonuses.
We had a number of other questions to ask, but the workers were tired and had another meeting, so we ended the interview here.
August 18th, 2000
Do you ever think critically about what it is you’re defending? Tammy Rodriguez at Nike headquarters in Jakarta obviously knows what her company’s policy is on “Labor Practices in Indonesia”, their “Code of Conduct”, and even “Jim Keady”. She knows it and she can regurgitate it very accurately and articulately (aside from when a camera is taping her every word for a documentary on human rights abuse). But in the “down” times when she’s not presenting it or warding off three Americans who want to see the inside of a disclosed factory, does she question what it is she is defending?
When I first began to question labor practices of companies whose merchandise I bought, I would pointedly ask retail managers if they knew where the clothing they sold was being made. Without fail, employees would defend their company vigorously. Some even went to the extreme of viewing questions about their employer’s corporate responsibility as a personal attack. I saw this in Tammy, but there was also a slight sense of humanity that emerged once the camera was turned off. I wonder what her thoughts were when we left, aside from relief.
Tammy, like most others in Nike management, is just a pawn is in this game. She defends Nike’s practices because that’s what she’s paid to do. Although Nike doesn’t give her a multimillion-dollar salary, they apparently pay her enough to stand guard and fend off “activists” while the rest of the core unit accumulates wealth exponentially. Tammy doesn’t make the decisions about Nike’s labor practices, but she does make a decision to support the exploitation of millions of people. Every day she wakes up, puts her suit on, and goes to work for Nike, she’s making a decision to defend an unjust situation, and thus, to continue the oppression.
August 18th, 2000
We were up early this morning and by 8:30am we were on our way to Nike’s Corporate offices in Jakarta. We arrived just after 9am and made our way up twenty-two floors in a very nice elevator. It is amazing how things that go somewhat unnoticed (like nice elevators) really strike you when you have been immersed in absolute poverty for even a short period of time. As the elevator doors opened, before us was a receptionist and a security guard, both under what seemed the watchful eye of an omnipresent silver plated Swoosh that hung on the wall behind them.
Leily told the receptionist that we were students from St. John’s University (well at least one of us was) and that we wanted to speak with Linda from the Labor Practices department. The security guard issued us each a visitor’s pass emblazoned with the Swoosh (no, I didn’t wear mine) and we were told we could have a seat in the waiting area. We waited…and waited… It was about 10:30am when Linda finally came out to meet with us. She was somewhat surprised that we asked to see her. You see Linda does not deal with labor issues, she deals with the company’s environmental issues. She told us that Tammy Rodriguez was the person we needed to speak with to get permission to visit a factory. She said that Tammy was in a meeting and that it would be best if we gave her a call after lunch. Linda also said that it shouldn’t be any problem for us to visit a factory, we would just have to fill out the paperwork and go through the proper procedure. We left the office somewhat hopeful.
It was a little past 12pm when Leily placed the first call to Tammy. She was at lunch. It was just around 1pm when she placed the second call. She was still at lunch. The third call was made after 2pm. She was still at lunch. At 3pm we decided that we would go back to the office without having spoken to Tammy. She couldn’t eat lunch for the rest of the afternoon could she? Again we made our way up twenty-two floors in the elevator, were greeted by the same receptionist, given the same visitor’s passes and had a seat in the same waiting area. We were even met by Linda who told us for the second time that Tammy was in a meeting. She asked us somewhat hesitatingly if we would like to wait for her. Of course we would wait for her. (smile)
We weren’t waiting that long when an American woman emerged from the back office area. It appeared that she was finishing up a meeting and was escorting her guests to the door. When they were safely out the door she turned and asked, “Are you looking to meet with Tammy Rodriguez?” “Yes we are,” I replied. “Well, hello, I’m Tammy Rodriguez.” I felt somewhat bad for her. She knew why we were there, she was on the spot, and the camera was rolling. I told her that we would like to visit one of the factories that was disclosed on Nike’s website. She replied, “Due to your litigation against the company we cannot let you visit a factory.” Leslie than said, “Well, what about us?” referring to herself, Mike and Leily. Tammy said that no one from the project team would be allowed to visit a factory. So much for transparency.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to get into a factory. I was well aware because of my pending suit against Nike and St. John’s that I most likely would be denied access. What I found interesting is the way that Nike handled it. One of two things happened today. The first scenario is that when our project started, Nike’s head office in Portland gave Tammy a directive on how to deal with us if we ever showed up in Jakarta. The second scenario, and the one I think more likely to be the case, is that when Tammy got the message this morning that a student from St. John’s wanted to see a factory, she had to scramble to wake up the gang in the USA and find out what to do.
What Tammy did not take note of was that when we visited the office this morning, I never gave my name to the receptionist. I just said that I was a student from St. John’s University. Of course it wouldn’t be difficult to figure out who it was, but I thought that she might play somewhat coy. Instead, when we met her, she knew my name, knew the project team, knew that I had a lawsuit against the company, told us she had been given a directive from headquarters not to let us visit a factory, etc. Perhaps that’s why her lunch took so long?
She went on to tell me that if in the future my litigation were cleared up we would be more than welcome to visit a factory. She even gave us the application form. We thought she was through with us, so Mike turned off the camera. When he did, Tammy let her guard down. Up to this point in the encounter she had looked very uncomfortable and visibly shaken. Now she appeared relaxed and somewhat genuinely concerned for us. She asked in what seemed an almost motherly way “So, how have things been going?” I told her that I was hungry, had lost about twenty pounds and that what I have been seeing is very sad. Mike knew a powerful moment; he started filming again; up went Tammy’s guard. The words “The workers need more money…” were not even out of my mouth and she was quickly off for the relative safety of the back offices mumbling a less than cordial goodbye.
Peace, Jim
August 17th, 2000
Other than my stomach hurting most of the day, my head pounding, and my being hungry as usual, there is not much to report. Considering today is Independence Day I thought there would be a little more excitement in Tangerang, but the morning was quiet. The only major event that occurred was our packing. We were heading out for a few days.
We spent the early afternoon traveling to Jakarta en route to Bekasi, another town/factory zone outside of the city, where we will be meeting with workers on Sunday. On the advice of the security guards we met at the Nike factory yesterday, we came to Jakarta a day earlier than scheduled to try to meet with “Linda” at Nike’s Corporate offices. We hope to get her permission to visit the PT Kukdong International plant while we are in Bekasi. PT Kukdong is one of the sites that Nike discloses on their website as a location that is open for students to visit. Let’s hope they honor our request.
Peace, Jim
August 16th, 2000
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.
August 16th, 2000
Today, we met for the second time with the Nike shoe factory workers from the KMK (KMJ) factory. By this time they had read our project proposal, which we had translated into Bahasa Indonesian. They were slightly more willing to talk, but still paralyzed with fear.
All responses to our questions took the same shape. First the workers would talk objectively about their experiences, still unsure that vocalizing their grievances would benefit them in the long run. Then a combination of anger, frustration, and hurt would boil over, and they would speak furiously with deliberate hand gestures about the injustices in their situations. Then abruptly, the emotions simmered into a dull hopelessness. It was as if a little red devil appeared on their right shoulders appealing to their fears, whispering reminders of all possible negative consequences. “Your quota will go down, and you need the money from overtime…” “What if the factory finds out you spoke with these people? It’s might not be worth it. You’ve survived up till now…” “They might move the factory, then what would you do?”
A few of the Nike workers we interviewed were worker representatives for the Global Alliance. Global Alliance (www.theglobalalliance.com) is an initiative co-founded by Nike. It’s a partnership of businesses, public and non-profit organizations whose goal is to involve local NGOs in the assessment of workplace conditions through interviews, focus groups, and surveys of the workers themselves. If you visit their website, Global Alliance sounds like the savior of the worker’s struggle. It’s as if Nike and the Gap (both members of GA) finally figured out that the workers who make their apparel have been struggling for their family’s survival and now that it’s dawned on them, they really do want to make a difference. Their hearts have been opened and they want to help the good people of Indonesia sustain their environment, build their economy and send their children to school. They’re going to identify worker aspirations and workplace issues. They are going to assess the needs of the individual worker and the community. They’re going to focus on education opportunities, vocations skill training and life skills development such as financial management, assertiveness, leadership, and parenting skills. How absolutely fabulous for the workers!
What Global Alliance is NOT going to do is give the workers more money, which is the one thing every single one of them wants. While it’s wonderful on paper to think about the future of Indonesia with community needs assessments, higher education, and inquiries on worker aspirations, none of the workers have asked for this. Not one worker has asked for skills training so they could be more marketable when they move on from their Nike assembly-line job. No one I’ve spoken with has asked for ways to be a better parent. They’ve asked for more money to feed their children.
The workers we met with said they didn’t trust the Global Alliance because they didn’t trust Nike. It was no surprise that they feel they can’t be honest in GA interviews or they might lose their jobs. The last worker we spoke with at the KMK factory summed it up best. He said in broken English that the Global Alliance initiative was simply “a Nike trick”.
August 16th, 2000
From the time we got off the bus about 3 miles from the industrial zone to the front gates of the factory, we were engulfed in a sea of Nike workers. There were thousands and thousands and thousands of them. It was as if the flow of humanity clad in royal blue polo shirts with a bright red Swoosh on the chest would never end. It was incredible.
To be honest, the title of this entry is somewhat of a misnomer. We didn’t really “visit” a factory. We were near it, standing just beyond the guarded gates of KMK Global Sport (formerly KMJ Global Sport), but we didn’t get in. Trying to get past the security guards was a token effort; they would have nothing of it. In fact, they told us if they saw our camera one more time they were going to take it.
A worker had told us that there was another plant about a half-mile up the road, off we went. It was the same scene here, locked gates, a more than adequate security presence and absolutely no chance that we were getting in. I had Leily tell the head of security that I was a student from St. John’s University and that Nike claims on their website that students can visit the factories. Not seeing us as an immediate threat, the guards were somewhat friendly. They told us that we had to speak with someone named “Linda” from Nike’s corporate office in Jakarta to arrange a factory visit. We thanked them for this bit of information and were on our way. We had arranged to meet with workers from this factory at three-o’clock.
The interviews were more of the same type of stories we have heard in the past few weeks. But there was one story that Asti (name changed) told us that absolutely floored me. He and the other workers expressed great fear that Nike would get mad and pull orders from their factory if we reported what they were telling us. The fact that they believe this and have this fear is bad enough, but it gets worse. Asti went on to tell us that in February of this year the management at KMK told the workers that people from Nike’s corporate office said that if there was a strike at KMK (as there had been at the HASI factory) that Nike would cancel their order. Can this story be verified? I am not sure. But the sincere feeling of fear with which the story was told was heartbreaking. It is within this climate of fear that Nike operates.
This whole reality so ironic considering that Nike’s entire marketing campaign in the USA is grounded in facing fears, taking risks, and “just doing it.” I think the thing that struck me most today was seeing a giant Swoosh and the words “Yes I Can” plastered on the front of the factory. “Yes I Can” what? Live in absolute fear and be exploited? When someone has complete control over whether or not your entire family eats, “just doing it,” becomes a little more difficult.
Peace, Jim
August 15th, 2000
Living on a sweatshop wage is taking its toll on me. I am hungry and tired; my back is killing me from sleeping on a mat on a hard cement floor; my head aches with a constant dull pain from lack of food; my throat is sore from the pollution; I am as skinny as I was when I was a 6-3, 170lb high school senior; and my face is a pale, sickly white. Despite all this, I had a great day today. I got to watch a soccer game.
I was a privileged guest at the Independence Day Soccer Championship between Tacipura and Sangiang. I was offered the invitation by both teams to play for their respective sides. Can you believe this? This was the most important game of the year and each team was willing to welcome a complete stranger onto their side. It did not matter that they had never seen me play, they could sense I loved the game and they welcomed me. Unfortunately I had to humbly decline their offers. I had no boots. When they asked me to play, I just pointed to my sandal laden feet. I stood there thinking, “Would I ever have another pair of boots? After my experiences here, what brand could I wear in good conscience?”
As I continued talking with the players, they showed me their Nike and Adidas boots and asked which was my favorite. I told them I didn’t like any of them, “tidak bagus” I said, “very bad.” They looked at me somewhat puzzled. They were proud to wear these shoes. They made them. Here they stood before me, asking me to share in the game we both love, wondering why I couldn’t wear the shoes that they make with their blood and sweat. I wish I could have explained it to them. I had benefited for so many years from their exploitation. Why did I deserve the privilege? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. For the second time on this trip, I felt embarrassed to be an athlete. The only people who should be proud to wear the Swoosh are these people, the factory workers, they are the only ones who have truly earned the right.
The field was hard red clay, filled with holes and bumps, insanely small and void of even the slightest hint of grass. For my NY and NJ soccer friends, the field made Farcher’s Grove or the Metropolitan Oval look like Wembly. Despite this, the game was awesome. It was played with as much intensity as any game I have ever seen or been a part of. It was played with absolute heart and commitment. There were no sponsors, no players with multimillion-dollar contracts, no agents, no endorsement deals, and no ticket sales. It was twenty-two players playing for nothing but pride and the love of soccer. It was simple, it was pure, it was the game.
The match ended in a 1-1 draw. There was no overtime, no golden goal, they went straight to penalties. The penalty shoot-out went the full five rounds. In the fifth round the keeper from Tacipura made a save on a soft shot to his right. His team erupted in celebration. Of course it could not end like this for Sangiang, they would make their desperate pleas to the wisat (referee), they had to, its part of the drama, it’s “futbol.” No amount of begging would change the outcome though. The result would stand. Tacipura would march as Village Champs in the Independence Day parade. I felt blessed to have been lucky enough to share in the joy. Ole’ ole’ ole’ ole’…ole’ ole’…
Peace, Jim
August 14th, 2000
We’ve entered a new phase of the project. The energy reserve that I had for the first two weeks is depleted. Each day is a struggle. Of the foods and drink I can afford, nothing is appealing to me at the moment. Not surprisingly, I got sick. I have a headache, a fever, nausea and my lungs feel like I’ve been chain-smoking Marlboro Reds while sitting in front of a Mack truck’s exhaust pipe.
I spent the majority of today in bed. Translation: I spent the majority of today lying on a paper-thin reed mat on an uneven cement floor covered in shelf paper. I self-diagnosed the beginnings of Dengue Fever, Malaria, or Typhoid, from Lonely Planet’s three-sentence summaries. All the feelings of entitlement that have ever coursed through my veins awakened. There was no way in hell I was going to stick to this starvation wage. I was sick. This didn’t count. I was going to get what I needed and just… not count it. Project time was on hold indefinitely. How could I not get juice and medicine? This is what I NEEDED!
I started walking out the door, headed for the corner store where I would get what I could to make me feel somewhat better. Feeling guilty and blatantly looking for validation, I shouted out to my project team, “You think this is OK, don’t you? I mean, I’m SICK.” The response: “It’s your call. (pregnant pause) What would Fitri do?”
What would Fitri do? Fitri my new best friend? My new soul sister? Fitri who lives in a box in a poor, dirty, overcrowded neighborhood in the Adidas factory ‘prison complex’. What would Fitri do? I don’t know, but I think she’d actually go to work. Though if she could take the day off, I suppose she’d be in that one small, smelly, congested room she shares with two other women…lying on a paper-thin reed mat on an uneven cement floor covered in shelf paper, without the money to buy what she really needed. And she wouldn’t have a choice.
This was the greatest test yet — when I absolutely felt like forgetting about the poverty simply because I could. I wanted fresh orange juice, toast, cherry-flavored cough drops and Tylenol. I had a small “juice box” of orange drink, one dose of Tylenol, and lots of water. Three gulps of orange drink was 2500 rupiah, or about 30% of the daily food allowance living on this basic wage. Two Tylenol was the same price. I could afford one meal at the cheapest place we’ve found yet, and that was it for the day. A small vitamin-less orange drink, 2 Tylenol, and one meal of rice and vegetables.
This is what I came here for. To live in solidarity with the poor and exploited. To experience the injustice here and tell it in my language to my tribe who CAN make changes because of opportunities they’ve been given. To take the American-born opportunities and privileges that my ancestors struggled for, and now use them for people still struggling. I can tell you this from the depths of my soul, with more passion than ever before: No one should have to live like this. We need to make serious changes. And everyone is responsible.
August 14th, 2000
Today was an uneventful, much-needed day of resting and regrouping. Given that, let me rewind to yesterday morning and share the story of yet another “shopping” excursion. Leily, our interpreter/guide asked around and was able to find for us the local market where the workers would buy most of their clothing, food, etc. It was disgusting. There were flies everywhere, an open sewer ran through the middle of the cramped booths and the air was thick with the smell of day old fish and rotting garbage.
We stopped at two separate booths to price out baby clothes, children’s clothes, and men’s and women’s clothing. When we complete this part of the project in Tangerang we will have a full section on our website dedicated to this research. Click the link below to view a small sampling of the complete lack of spending power of Nike’s basic wage.
Click here to see how much things cost!
The price of the jeans really stuck me. To buy a cheap pair of jeans a female factory worker would have to spend 417% of her basic daily wage, more than four days wages. Let’s say she wanted to save for the jeans and that she was willing to sacrifice by saving 10% of her basic wage (1080Rp) each day. (Remember, on average the workers have 5000-7000Rp to spend on food each day, so this would be a major sacrifice.) By saving at this rate it would take her almost a month and a half earning the basic wage to buy a cheap pair of jeans. A month and a half of saving to afford one pair of jeans and have her entire savings wiped out in the process. I have nothing else to say.
Peace, Jim
August 13th, 2000
What struck me most about the interview with Nike workers from the KMJ factory was the fear. The workers are so desperately poor and so completely instilled with fear, that the possibility of losing their job is nothing less than catastrophic. It’s the difference between having a bad job that meets less than your basic needs, and having no job and a starving family. There is the valid fear of discrimination, harassment, or termination if they are found speaking to us. There was the fear that we were Nike’s competitors, secret agents for Adidas, Reebok, or Fila, trying to get Nike factory information. And there was the fear that they would be hurting themselves in the long run if they were honest. The logic to that catch-22 being that in our publicizing the inhumane conditions of the factory and the truth of the workers’ exploitation, Nike’s sales might decline, and the workers would have less of a quota. Less of a quota equals less overtime, which mean just one thing: not enough money to feed their children.
Every single worker we’ve spoken with has said that it’s not possible to survive on the basic wage without significant overtime. I’m living on the basic wage right now (just one person) and I can eat only one meal if I want to buy a necessity like soap. The most fear-filled scenario for the workers is that Nike would move the factory to Vietnam or China where the cost of labor is even cheaper. The bottom-line here is that the Nike machine is fueled by fear.
We met with two workers in their house (a place I would assume they feel most comfortable), without management listening to what they say, without direct peer pressure, and having been introduced to us by someone they trust. We tried repeatedly to make them understand that if they weren’t honest about their working and living conditions, we couldn’t advocate for them. After an hour of interviewing, with circuitous answers void of emotion, they finally began to believe that we were there in their best interest, not connected in any way with Nike or Nike competitors. It took these circumstances for the workers to merely begin to discuss their reality. How in the world does Price Waterhouse Coopers, as an “independent monitor” interviewing workers who are facing the possibility of retribution on so many different levels, extract any truth of the workers’ reality from the layers of fear encasing it.
Answer: They don’t.
August 13th, 2000
We set off late this afternoon to meet with a couple who work at the KMG Global Sport Company producing Nike Basketball sneakers. Actually, the wife no longer works; she had to take time off to be home with Yen, their 9-month-old son. Their home was typical of the Nike workers we have met to date, small, dark and depressing. I spent the good part of an hour getting nowhere with the interview questions we had prepared. The reality is, the workers are not well educated, are desperately poor, are terribly afraid of speaking up and cannot understand why anyone from the United States would want to help them. We had our work cut out for us.
Harappan (names have been changed to protect the workers), the 25-year-old father, did most of the talking. He told me that he works very long hours, doesn’t always make enough money to pay for food and that because of his small salary, he and his wife Amat, struggle to save for their future. He then went on to say that he was happy. I wish I could say that I was surprised. I was not. His statement is not that different from other workers with whom I have met and spoken. Harappan is typical of the type of person Nike and other American apparel companies prey on. He fits the description above; he is poor, relatively uneducated and filled with fear. He told me that he once thought about organizing workers to try and form an independent union, but he stopped out of fear that he would lose his job or worse. Poor, uneducated and afraid, a perfect combination if exploitation for profit maximization is your goal.
I did my best to continue with the interview. I was disheartened, as well as tired and hungry. By this time Harappan’s brother, Cewe, had joined us and was sharing his story. His was no different than Harappan’s. I did my best to explain to them that Nike is not concerned with their interests. I told them how Nike worked hand in hand with Suharto’s military dictatorship to exploit their poverty and desperation for profit. I told them that Nike tells people in America that “minimum wage earners are usually able to meet their basic needs as well as to assist in supporting other family members or building modest savings.” (www.nikebiz.com) I told them that this statement is based on the information that Nike’s monitors have gathered. They said, “Of course that is what the monitors would hear. They always talk to the managers. The managers are making enough to live. They never talk to the workers.” I then asked them what they would say if a monitor spoke to them. They babbled on about something and never really answered my question. Mike looked at me, hot, sweating and tired and said, “just give it rest, it isn’t happening.” I could not. I recalled that earlier in our conversation they had said something similar, “If we had a chance to talk to the monitors… ” This was my window of opportunity. I departed from my normally calm approach to asking questions; I now showed passionate emotion.
Leily translated as best she could as I said with absolute frustration, “You have said at least twice, ‘If we had a chance to talk to the monitors…’ This is your chance! We are independent monitors! We are here! We want to hear your story. We want to bring it to the people in America. Forget about your fear. Tell us the truth!” It was as if a small crack in the rusted tin roof above their heads opened up and a small beam of sunlight gleamed through. They got it. It took almost two hours, but we reached the point. They got it. We were about to get the truth.
They have been working six and eight years respectively and only receive 307,000Rp ($36) and 309,000Rp ($36) per month. They are being cheated out of the full basic wage! They said they would need at the absolute least 700,000Rp ($81) a month to meet their most basic needs. They are verbally abused at work. They heard of a worker being kicked by a manager. One did not need to speak Indonesian to understand the built up frustration that had started to flow out. They had been liberated! Now they had questions of me. They wanted answers. They wanted to know what could be done, how could we help? They asked if we could meet again, they said, “This is only the beginning. We need to tell you more. We need to stay in touch with you.” We are scheduled to meet again this Wednesday night. I cannot wait.
Peace, Jim
August 12th, 2000
The three Adidas workers we met the other day invited us to dinner at their house. Their small neighborhood was identical to that of the Nike workers we had visited. Same cramped living space. Same narrow dirt alleyways. Same rows of single-room houses that look more like storage spaces than homes. Same desperate poverty.
Fitri was obviously thrilled to be hostess for the night, though she was equally embarrassed about her meager living situation. She, her two roommates, and 3 other families share a kitchen/laundry area (see picture) and a bathroom that’s approximately the size of a small stall in a public restroom in America. We could see the factory towering over the neighborhood where the workers live. It resembled a prison complex. These workers put in 60+ hours per week and can only afford to live in conditions that are more cramped and confined than any American homeless shelter, halfway house, rehab, or prison I’ve ever visited. Even by Indonesian standards this is horrendous.
I’ve established personal friendships with Fitri, Sri, and Yani. They’ve come to calling me “Kakak Leslie”, which is an endearing term for “older sister”. When no men are around, they become absolutely relaxed, carefree, and even goofy. They explode into hearty, belly laughs that bring you to tears, even if you don’t know what you’re laughing at. They were so excited to talk about America, Hollywood movie stars, romance and pop culture. They wanted to talk about their families, boyfriends, and marriage. They wanted me to try on their jilbab (Muslim headdress) and take pictures. And although these 3 women could barely fit in the cement cube they call home, they asked if I wanted to ‘sleep over’.
Every so often Fitri would say, “this house is so small” or “this house is smelly.” We awkwardly tried to steer the conversation in a different direction, but the truth was obvious and ugly. I wanted to tell her I would send money from the U.S. every month and pay for a better “rent house”. I wanted to tell her to quit her job and I’d raise money to send her to school. I wanted to essentially “fix” her life so she would be happy and I (selfishly) wouldn’t feel guilty. But all this would be is charity, and charity is a temporary Band-Aid for a problem that needs a major operation.
August 12th, 2000
Tonight we had the pleasure of sharing a wonderful evening at the home of a few of the Adidas workers we met yesterday. In the few hours we spent with them we learned much about our “20-something” hosts. The short of it is, they are not that different from us.
The meal they prepared was simple and small, but very good. We had the fortunate pleasure of being entertained by their neighbor who just happened to be playing guitar in the front alley while we were eating. When we had finished dinner Fitri invited him in to join us. We spent the next hour sharing the universal human love of music. Both Leslie and Mike played and sang. Fitri, who is quite the performer, sang a few tunes. Sri and Yani read a most powerful poem about the situation of the workers. I even managed to belt out a butchered rendition of Guns and Roses’ “Patience.” It was pure, it was fun, it was human.
Between the singing and laughing we learned that Sri and Yani are single, Fitri is engaged, and Asmah and Nana are divorced. During the little free time that they have they love to watch TV or sit and talk about men, love, romance, etc. Some of their favorite actors are Bruce Willis, Sylvester Stallone, and Russell Wong. They like the Back Street Boys (Brian and Nick are their favorites), Guns and Roses and the Scorpions. (Quite a range of musical tastes!) Their favorite athletes are Del Pierro (Italian Soccer), Ronaldo (Brazilian Soccer), and Scottie Pippen (NBA). They absolutely LOVE “Titanic” and they haven’t even seen it! (The power of advertising.) They begged us to rent it for them so they could watch it on our laptop.
I can just hear the harsh critics back home. “Hey, things don’t sound that bad there. They watch TV, they listen to music, they know about movie stars and sports heroes.” For you I offer the following. Three grown women live in a 7×15 cement box with a corrugated tin roof. The wooden floor is riddled with holes and covered by torn sheets of shelf paper. A 15-watt bulb and a kerosene lamp dimly light the room. They stack their worn, musty bedding against the wall and roll it out each night. This small, overcrowded, depressing room makes for their bedroom, dining room and living room. There is a small portal at the back end that opens to a cramped alley, which serves as a community kitchen and laundry area. This space and their bathroom are shared with the occupants from three other similar rooms. They stand for 7-15 hours a day, tired, hungry and overworked, stitching the seams of Adidas Predator soccer shoes. For their reward they do not earn enough money to pay the rent and meet their basic food needs. Things are certainly bad here.
Despite all this, they still found it within themselves to share a night of absolute joy with us. They have almost nothing, they are poor and exploited and still they shared. If only we in America could learn to do the same.
Peace, Jim
August 11th, 2000
“What else would those people be doing?” I have been asked this question so many times. It has almost become the litmus test for whether or not what we are doing here has any meaning. I know that there are a few people who ask the question with genuine concern for the workers. “If they weren’t doing this, would they be able to survive? Would they be OK? I’d be worried about them.”
Then there are the majority of people that ask the question, “What else would those people be doing?” These are the people who want to feel OK about actively or passively contributing to the horror that is the workers’ daily reality. They ask the question meaning, “Hey, those people are desperate, they should be happy they have those jobs. If they weren’t doing this they would be starving, so they should feel lucky that they are making the little they are making from Nike.” My gut reaction when I hear this is to want grab them by the collar and say “You self-righteous, privileged, #$%@! Is there a heart beating in that chest of yours?” To these people, if the question “What else would those people be doing?” is not answered, it justifies the exploitation in some warped way.
To be very honest, I do not know what the workers would be doing if they weren’t working for Nike. How many of us would be able to answer that question for ourselves let alone thousands of people? What would you be doing if you weren’t at your current job? There are a lot of factors to figure in aren’t there? What would happen to the workers if Nike did not provide these jobs? Again, I do not know. But I do know what would not happen to them.
* They would not be working 10-15 hour days and not making enough to eat.
* They would not be screamed at and humiliated when they weren’t meeting their production quota.
* They would not be forced to work overtime.
* They would not be threatened verbally or physically for trying to form unions.
* They would not have healthcare plans that do not meet their basic medical needs.
* They would not work 48-hour shifts when production quotas were high during American holiday seasons.
* They would not have their water supply polluted by factory waste.
* They would not have their once fertile farmland covered by factories.
* They would not be at the mercy of American companies that worked hand and hand with one of the most brutal military dictatorships in history.
* They would not have their economy dominated by foreigners that want to exploit their current situation and keep them oppressed for financial gain.
* They would not be reduced to cogs in the machine that feeds American greed and consumption.
* They would not be making American athletes and coaches rich from their sweat.
* They would not be helping to maximize American shareholder’s profits.
* They would not have their hope taken away.
* They would not be dehumanized.
What else would they be doing? Once again, I’m not sure. Do I have to be? Most likely they would be poor and desperate, much like their reality now. They give so much to us in America. They give their hearts, their lives, their sweat, so we can be rich, in-style, comfortable, better athletes… They give us all of these things. But it isn’t enough, we want more, we want to exploit them AND not feel guilty about it. So we smugly ask the question “If you weren’t working this hard to serve our selfish wants what else would you poor, dirty, uneducated Indonesians be doing?” In asking this question we take from them the one thing they have left, their dignity.
I hope this answers your question.
August 10th, 2000
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
August 10th, 2000
We’ve been approaching this project as factory workers who have recently come to Tangerang to work in a Nike factory. We’ve given ourselves what the workers would bring with them, and are trying to buy what we can on the basic wage, trying to make this project as consistent with their reality as possible. We’ve found that the workers would normally arrive with their “papers” documenting their identity and high school diploma, some clothes, and if they’re lucky, a small amount of money. When a worker comes from their village, they would usually eat meals from street vendors until they could afford some basic cooking necessities. Today, we priced out toiletries and household items that workers would typically use. The most shocking cost for me was one small bowl for 3500 rupiah, or a third of their day’s wages. That doesn’t include the 50, 000 rupiah cooking stove, or cooking fuel, or even the rice itself.
When we came back to the house, we had unexpected visitors waiting. Three young Muslim women who make Adidas footwear heard we were in town, and wanted to bring us their stories. One 21-year-old woman was a labor organizer, and although she had just worked a full day and fasted since sunrise for religious ritual cleansing, she took two buses to meet us for one hour because it was, she said, “her duty”.
These three women went on to describe a situation almost exactly like that of the Nike workers. They are paid the same starvation wage. They face the same demanding quotas. And at the end of the day, broken down with exhaustion, they don’t have enough money for their basic needs. When they were little girls, they dreamt of being a doctor, an archeologist, and a policewoman. At 21 years of age, they’ve given up on their dreams, and faced “their reality” –working for survival.
After a great interview, we walked the women outside, where, by culture, everyone leaves their shoes. One woman crouched down and picked up Mike’s Adidas sneaker. Her fingers lightly grazed the stitching. I was taken back by the care in her touch. She began speaking quickly in Bahasa Indonesian. Through Leily’s translating, we found that the woman was pointing to the stitching she had made with her own hands, and those parts of that exact shoe that the other 2 women had made. They had made these shoes.
The scene and the emotions it stirred for me are burned deep into my memory. Mike’s journal entry gives the play by play account, and a great description of what I call his ‘conversion’. I can add only what I experienced in the sweet tension of the moment. This tiny Indonesian woman’s face, wise beyond her 21 years, examined the shoe as an artist would her finest work. It was all so surreal. I zoned out of the situation and seemed to fall into her eyes. It was like I stumbled upon the portal to her mind, in a ‘Being John Malkovitch’ sort of way. Her eyes held the sum of the pain of every oppressed worker, of every person dehumanized and exploited, of every woman whose work is unacknowledged, unappreciated, and undervalued. Looking at her eyes, I heard her voice in my mind, saying slowly and emphatically: “Look at this. See this stitching right here? I made that. I made that with my own blood, sweat, and tears. Every time you wear these shoes, remember my struggle. Remember ME. The least you can do is remember me”.
August 10th, 2000
We went “shopping” today. Of course we didn’t buy anything, we can’t afford anything on our salary, but we went to price out what it would cost to outfit a kitchen with the bare necessities. I think the item that caused me to think the most was the small kerosene stove that sells for 50,000Rp ($5.81), one week’s wages. One week’s wages to buy a stove that at best can slowly boil a pot of water to cook your rice. It’s no rangetop, it’s no microwave, it’s a small kerosene stove!
I think about how excited I have been in the past when I have gotten a new job and a new apartment. Excited to take some of my first paycheck and buy some things for my place. Things for the kitchen, the bathroom, etc. What must it feel like to be poor and desperate; to come to Tangerang and get a job working for the largest sports apparel company in the world; to get your first paycheck and have the reality hit you in face like a sledgehammer that the only thing you can purchase with it is the food you need that week?
When we returned home from “shopping” we had a surprise waiting for us. At our gate were three young Muslim women, Adidas shoe factory workers. They had heard that we were here and what we were doing and they wanted to share their stories with us. They sat with us for an hour or so. Their stories were just as touching as all the other’s we have heard so far. For those of you who ask, “Are any of the other companies any better?” No.
As we talked, they kept asking me, “Jim, will any athletes really care about us? Do they even think who makes their shoes?” I could only answer for myself and I felt so ashamed. I was embarrassed to be an athlete today. I wanted to tell them that there are hundreds of athletes and coaches that care. But the truth is, there aren’t. I don’t say this without experience. Having played soccer for 24 years, having friends and acquaintances at every level of college and professional soccer in the US, personally knowing players and coaches who receive money from endorsement contracts, I know they don’t care. They just want their scholarship, they just want their free gear, they just want their check.
All these women want is for these players and coaches to know that there is a human being that made their shoes. These women just want players and athletes to care. But players and athletes don’t care. Not the professional and college athletes I have spoken with. Again, they want their scholarship, they want their free gear, and they want their endorsement checks. And we call them heroes. These athletes and coaches steal millions of dollars from the mouths of these workers and their children each year. And we call them heroes. Do professional and college athletes and coaches even know these women exist? Do they even care? And we call them heroes.
The real heroes are these workers. They have faced more hardship and overcome more obstacles than any athlete I have or will be likely to meet. But will they be on the cover of Sports Illustrated? Will they get money from Nike or Adidas or Reebok to endorse their products? No, they’ll just continue to make the shoes for our “heroes” and not be paid enough to eat.
August 9th, 2000
I don’t really feel like writing. I’m tired, mostly tired of being hungry. Tired of seeing things I can’t afford as well. I’m running out of adjectives to describe how bad the situation is here. There’s only so many ways you can say it, and I feel like a broken record already: It’s horrible. It’s terrible. It’s outrageous. It’s laughable. It’s ridiculous. It’s devastating. It’s cruel. It’s mind-blowing. It’s another world. It’s injustice.
We’ve gotten some good feedback for the website, which is helping to sustain my hope. Though I struggle daily with the good that will come from this work. When we’re finished starving here, and there’s no daily journal to read or photo of the day to see, will the general public still care about the fight these workers face every day? Will they, or rather, will you do anything to change this situation?
In a recent interview, one 22-year old shoe factory worker asked us: “But what is it that you are going to do? Journalists interview us, they write about our situation. People like you have come and gone… but still nothing changes.”
August 9th, 2000
I really can’t remember that much about August 9th, it’s all kind of a blur, for most of the day I felt dizzy, weak, and completely drained of energy. I do remember buying a bar of soap early in the day for 1,800Rp ($0.21). I thought I had gotten the cheapest brand, I found out later that I could have gotten the bottom of the barrel brand for 1000Rp ($0.12). I’m not sure if that extra 800Rp ($0.09) would have made a difference, my hunger was beyond anything I may have been able to purchase with it, wanting to stay clean would cost me.
By late afternoon I had reached a point of hunger and exhaustion I have never experienced before in my life. I was not physically able to bring a one-liter bottle of water to my lips without it shaking violently in my hand. Living on a Nike sweatshop wage has forced me to neglect my body, and my body is fighting back. I hope my mom doesn’t read this.
How do the workers survive putting in 7-15 hour days of manual labor and having this little to eat? How can they keep a shard of their dignity? How can they or any human being be expected to feel human when each day is an exercise in injustice and humility? I almost passed out from hunger today. I live on a Nike sweatshop wage. There is nothing else to write.
Peace, Jim
August 8th, 2000
I take responsibility for the Dunkin Donuts’ splurge. I just couldn’t have rice, vegetables and water one more time. That’s all we’ve been eating for our 2 meals each day, if you can call them meals. The servings are roughly the size of an appetizer in a nice restaurant. That’s all we can afford on a workers’basic wage. I’m dreaming of broccoli and cheese pizza, my mother’s roasted peppers, Katz bagels with pesto-garlic cream cheese, and Mini-Wheats with rice milk.
I actually thought we might be able to afford both the doughnut and a simple meal. How pathetic that a doughnut is the same price as an ordinary meal for a factory worker. I couldn’t even entertain the idea of ordering coffee as well. It’s unreal. This “luxury” (and it definitely felt like one at the time) of one small stale doughnut is 1/5 of the worker’s daily wage. It’s so ridiculous it’s almost laughable. But sitting with these human beings, hearing their stories, and knowing that this is their reality, eradicates any potential humor.
While reading a book on non-violence during the little free time I have, I came across a great quote from Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail”. His powerful words transcend time and space.
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in the inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.
August 8th, 2000
We had no interviews scheduled today, no trips planned, just a day to rest, reflect and regroup. Leslie and I took the opportunity to casually research the cost of food, clothing, etc. In our wanderings we ended up at “the mall.” By western standards it would be considered very basic, but it has everything one might need including a McDonald’s and Dunkin Donuts. Yes, it has everything one might need, but almost nothing Nike workers can afford without seriously impacting their daily budget. I know, I tried, and it cost me later. I made the foolish decision of paying the princely sum of 2,000Rp ($0.23) for one chocolate glazed.
Each chocolate covered morsel I devoured was bittersweet. It made me feel human to share in this small delight, but with each bite I painfully realized that my chance for a more substantial meal of rice and vegetables was disappearing. This is not what life should be like. A Nike factory worker would have worked a 7-15 hour day today at a workrate that most could not bear, and they would have to choose between having a doughnut and eating dinner, or having a doughnut and feeding their children. This is so depressing.
How can anyone justify this stripping away of one’s human dignity? I can recall a number of occasions when I was demonstrating outside Niketown in NYC and had retail managers, salespeople and passersby tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about, that I was ignorant and uniformed. How did our hearts become so hard in America?
Peace, Jim
August 7th, 2000
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
August 7th, 2000
It had to devastate Sobirin that the only way he could afford to bring his 4 year-old sick daughter to the clinic, was if 3 Americans paid for it. He seemed a bit quieter and more reserved than usual today. Susanti was freshly bathed, hair combed into a tiny ponytail on the top of her head. Both were dressed in what a grandparent might call their “Sunday best”. I could sense his emptiness, something I hadn’t detected before. It didn’t take me long to realize it was the theft of his human dignity.
The clinic was dirty. The doctor’s office smelled stagnant. The security guard sat glumly, smoking cigarette after cigarette. The exam and medicine came to 90, 000 rupiah or 9 days wages. Nine days wages that a worker would need to have up front, because the only health care package available is in a reimbursement format. After speaking to dozens of workers, I have yet to meet one with even a day’s wages saved. The consensus has been that frequently a worker and her/his family must skip a meal(s) just to get by. It’s disturbing enough in theory. In reality, hearing a doctor tell a father his daughter is malnourished, is brutal.
While we were waiting to see the doctor, there was a couple arguing in the “waiting room” (an outdoor patio covered by an awning). Leily translated what they said, they didn’t have enough money to buy their child’s medicine. The husband was telling the wife to take it back into the pharmacy, which was attached to the clinic. The wife was embarrassed and refused. They sat arguing, then sat silent, staring off into the distance. Arguing then staring off into the distance. Again, the theft of human dignity.
As I meet more and more workers barely surviving, I’m feeling angrier and angrier about Nike’s wage disparity. Not only am I feeling anger with the Nike machine, and other multinational corporations for paying their workers less and less. I’m angry with those people who accept wages they didn’t earn. No one can logically argue that top management truly earn thousands per day. No one can tell me that Tiger Woods earns over two hundred U.S. dollars per minute. The gap is growing, and it’s unfair. Today, it was more evident than ever before. These corporations have nothing left to take from these workers but their lives. And if they could figure out a way to make a profit from doing that, they probably would.
August 7th, 2000
Little Susanti (pictured) is the most precious thing. She is the kind of child who just mesmerizes you with her presence. Susanti has been sick with a cough and fever for months now. She left our house the other day, crying, coughing, and burning with fever. Her parents do not have enough money to bring her to the doctor. We told her father, Sobirin, that we would like to take her. So late this afternoon we left their humble home to visit the medical clinic.
After arriving at the clinic we only had to wait a short time for Susanti to see the doctor. He examined her and prescribed some antibiotics for her cough and fever and a cream for a skin rash she has. The exam cost 15000Rp, the medicine 75000Rp, all totaled, 90000Rp and this clinic moderates its prices in comparison to other clinics because it caters to the lowest economic class in Tangerang. Nike’s healthcare package for its workers is an allowance of 200000 per year. So in one visit to the doctor for a sick young child, almost half of that allowance would be spent. What is even more distressing is that the “allowance” is a reimbursement allowance. Meaning, if a worker wanted to go to the doctor, they would have to come up with the money first and then they would be reimbursed for it. When you are only making enough to meet your most basic daily food needs, saving money for doctor’s visits is an impossibility, even if it means the suffering of innocent children like little Susanti.
After Susanti was examined we were lucky enough to speak with Dr. Lisa. Dr. Lisa said she is very familiar with the healthcare packages of factory workers. When I asked if Nike’s allowance is enough to meet the basic healthcare needs of the workers, she replied very simply, “It is not enough.” She also said that many of the workers have respiratory problems because of the chemicals used in the factories. What hit me hardest was her saying that most of the children of the workers are malnourished because their parents do not make enough working in the factory to feed them properly. Nike claims, “People around the world working in Nike contract factories are paid a fair wage, which often combines cash with allowances for meals, housing, transportation, health care and even bonuses.” (www.nikebiz.com) This is an absolute lie. To see this child, to hold her, and to know that there are thousands more like her who are suffering because Nike ! wants to keep its labor costs down (deep breath) makes me so angry.
Peace, Jim
August 6th, 2000
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
August 6th, 2000
I am hungry, tired, have been living on a dollar a day for a week now, and despite this, I am still nowhere near completely understanding what it must be like to be a Nike factory worker.
Try on these shoes: You are a 20-something adult working 8am to 8pm, Monday through Saturday and sometimes Sunday, that doesn’t include travel time or preparing yourself for work. You don’t have the money to go out with your friends on Saturday night and celebrate someone’s birthday. You don’t have the money to buy a television or even a radio. You haven’t bought yourself something new to wear in over 2 years. When you get home at the end of the day, you have to spend a good 30-45 minutes doing your laundry by hand. You need to do laundry frequently, because you don’t have many clothes, and whatever you wear (depending on the color and how bad you sweat) is visibly dirty at the end of the day.
You have a child who has no toys. Your child is malnourished, even after you put in 12 hours a day at the factory. Because of the malnourishment, your child is more susceptible to illness. On top of that, your child has nowhere to play except for dirt streets and garbage dumps. There’s a cesspool running throughout your neighborhood, where rats, dirty cats, roosters and chickens wallow. You don’t have the money to move to a better location. You don’t make enough to save money to one day move to a better location. You have debt. You don’t have enough money to take your child to the doctor. You don’t have enough money to buy cough medicine. A real treat would be buying a small loaf of bread. You’re constantly inhaling serious car pollution (lax inspection laws if any) and the nauseatingly sweet stench of plastic burning.
You’re exhausted. You can feel the tired in your bones. You’re afraid that if you speak up, you’ll lose your job. And the multinational company you work for is telling the world that they’ve made serious changes, and consumers need not worry. You’re 100% happy.
August 6th, 2000
It is Sunday, a day of worship, a day to connect with your community and with your God. I thought I would do something special for myself today, I was going to shave. Exciting isn’t it? Unfortunately I do not have shaving cream or a razor. Off to the “mini-market.” The total for one plastic disposable razor and a travel size can of shaving cream, 11,200Rp. The basic daily wage that I am living on is 10800Rp. I guess I will have to eat the shaving cream.
After I had finished shaving and was cleaning up, Anthony (labor organizer) happened to come over. I asked him how he felt about the fact that Nike workers would have to sacrifice a day’s wage to buy a razor and shaving cream. In his wonderful broken English he said, “Make me very sad. Make angry.” He continued, “But ‘Jeem’, worker never buy cream, too much. Must shave soap. Hurt face, cut, very bad.” I had made a mistake. I bought shaving cream. I will not count it against my daily budget as that would not be realistic and I know if I do not stay as realistic as possible Nike might try to dismiss this. What is amazing is that the reality is even more distressing. The workers cannot afford to buy shaving cream! They are grinding out 10-15 hour days for the most profitable sporting goods company in history and they cannot afford to shave before they go to Church!
With experiences like this I am wondering how anyone can believe what Nike says on their website. “Continued research into the well being of the people making our products reveals that minimum wage earners are usually able to meet their basic needs as well as to assist in supporting other family members or building modest savings.” (www.nikebiz.com) When I read the above quote to Anthony he replied, “very very bullshitt.” Enough said.
Peace, Jim
August 5th, 2000
Three nights ago, I had a dream that we left the door open and one of the nasty 8- inch rats came creeping into the house, like the 3-inch cockroaches do occasionally during the day.
Two nights ago, as I sat on the floor with the door open, I heard a rustling noise coming from our garbage can a few feet away. I looked over and saw little beady eyes glowing in the darkness. I don’t know which scared the damn thing more, my slamming the door or my violent screaming.
Last night, asleep on my bed mat, I awoke to what sounded like a herd of little feet scampering above my head. Mice in the ceiling. I had a hunger-induced panic attack at 3 am that one was going to eat through the styrofoam and land on my head. In the midst of these thoughts, I came to the conclusion that the town where we’re living is simply one big sewer. All of the toilets in Tangerang drain into a moat of sludge that runs on both sides of every street. Wooden planks bridge doorsteps of the houses and businesses with the street. The result of this low-budget plumbing system is this plague of rats and cockroaches (not to mention other living things with severely mutated DNA).
For the next hour I laid awake thinking what life would be like if I had no alternative but to raise my children here. The thought alone of children playing near cesspools is so absolutely disturbing. I see it every day. No human being should have to live like this. It’s cruel.
Is there a way out of this cruelty? Possibly. A living wage. With a living wage, children would be in school during the day, away from this squalor. They would be learning, not just surviving. This education would lead to change in their communities and change for the future of Indonesia. This would be true economic development, unlike the “development” I described above that Nike and other multinational corporations have inflicted on the children of Indonesia.
August 5th, 2000
I spilt some kerosene today while I was trying to boil some water for coffee. No a big deal right? When you are struggling to survive on a little more than a dollar a day, a minor kerosene spill is catastrophic to your financial situation. First is the loss of the kerosene itself. Then I had to use a package of laundry soap to clean the spill up. Laundry soap that cost 1000Rp. This simple everyday accident cost me upwards of 1500Rp or 1/6 of a days wages. I can’t imagine the panic and despair if a real emergency occurred.
This afternoon Leslie and I were invited back to meet with the workers I talked with yesterday. We had only been sitting on the hard cement floor for a few moments and one of the workers returned with a bottle of coke for each of us. A bottle of coke costs 1200Rp. They had just spent almost a full day’s wage to feel like human beings and entertain their guests with a soda. I was overwhelmed by their generosity, speechless. As the interview went on, one of the girls broke into tears. She was telling us about the day she came to Jakarta find work. She had saved for years and was able to bring 400,000Rp with her to live on until she found work. She was pickpocketed and lost it all. She told us that every time she thinks about it she cries. I nearly cried with her.
In the evening we met with workers from a Nike factory in Balaraja. We were able to interview a husband and wife who both worked in a Nike shoe factory. They are two months behind on their rent. They do not make enough to eat. The wife cannot get pregnant and she believes it is because of the chemicals she has to use in the factory. What she told us next was incredible. She said that when monitors were visiting the factory she was told to lie about the chemicals she uses. Every day she uses R105, which is very harmful. She was told by the factory management say that she uses R107, which is not as harmful. She was told to lie to the monitors! I wonder if Price Waterhouse Coopers has that in any of their factory audit reports?
Peace, Jim
August 3rd, 2000
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.
August 3rd, 2000
Today marked the first day of our living on sweatshop wages. It was also a day of initial breakdowns for each of us due to lack of food, personal space, and the most basic of comforts. The living conditions alone are so oppressive, that I imagine working at least 12 hours a day, 6 days a week must be torturous.
There is no place to retreat here, in Tangerang. I don’t say this lightly. As a person who collects energy from time spent alone, I’m struggling with the feeling of being “trapped” in close quarters with people all day long. I want so badly to have a room or a small yard or a simple quiet space other than the bathroom where I can be alone and regroup / refocus.
Where do you go to regroup when your entire family lives in one single room? In a row of tin-roofed, dank rooms nonetheless. What do you do when there’s no open space to stroll through other than garbage dumps. How do you maintain your privacy when you’re sharing a communal bathroom, with 10 other families? No money to take the bus anywhere, nor time to do so. These are not exaggerations but the heinous reality I’ve experienced in the last 2 days. On top of that, it’s 90 degrees and humid, I have a heat rash, a growing number of itchy mosquito bites, and my entire body is covered in a film of Skin-so-soft scented dirt. All of this got to me. I ended up sitting in a cement corner behind our living space balling my eyes out.
From this experience I feel even more strongly about the need for personal space. Regardless of economic class, everyone needs their regular alone time. It should be included on the list of basic human needs.
My day one conclusion of what can be bought on a daily wage of one U.S. dollar will be brief. For a 26 year old woman with no children or impoverished family to send money to (a rarity), I would be able to afford rent, electricity, transportation to and from work only, and 2 inexpensive meals (i.e. plate of rice and small bowl of vegetables). Bottom-line: it’s absolutely not enough money. I have yet to buy basic necessities, like soap, much to the chagrin of my project team.
August 3rd, 2000
For the first time since I arrived, I came face to face with Nike factory workers; four young women from a shoe factory in Tangerang. I humbly accepted their invitation to come to their home and speak with them. This was it. These were the women I had written about in my research. These were the women I had spoken on behalf of at countless rallies and now I was hearing their stories first hand. It was overwhelming.
They told me that they do not make enough money to meet their basic living needs. I understand what they mean. Today I had to buy detergent to wash my clothes. It cost me 1000 Rp. I will only be able to eat two small meals today because of this. It is so demoralizing.
What makes the situation worse is that the workers have no voice. They are void of personal empowerment. They know all too well that speaking up and sharing the truth can easily result in the loss of their jobs or worse. I’m not sure if my words here are conveying the level of terror that is fueled by their absolute desperation. They must have asked Leily at least ten times to make sure that I not mention their names or at which factory they work. In fact, they didn’t want me to mention anything of our conversation; their fear is absolute. They have been reduced to cogs in the machine of production and have been robbed of their humanity to make the shoes we wear.
I remember once seeing a Nike ad geared towards women that said something to the effect of “Ask your boss for that raise today. Tell him what you are worth… JUST DO IT.” How disgustingly ironic in light of the experience I had today.
Peace, Jim
August 3rd, 2000
I got my first taste of how it is to try and exist on Nike’s basic wage today. With my budget of roughly 7200Rp I was able to eat two meager meals. It was about 11am when I had my first bit of food; plain rice, a very small potato pancake and a small bottle of water. This cost me 2500Rp. For dinner I had plain rice, a bowl of vegetables, water and tea. This cost me 4500Rp. So, on two simple meals, if you can call having plain rice a meal, all my money was spent. Remember that a Nike worker would have worked an eight-hour shift for that little bit of money and, just like I, would have only been able to meet their food costs for two meals.
I am going to bed extremely hungry tonight. I imagine that the workers feel this way every night. My stomach hurts, my head is pounding and my spirits are low. This is no way for human beings to live. What makes it even more distressing is knowing that both my alma maters (St. Joseph’s and St. John’s) are taking money from Nike, money that deserves to be in the hands of these workers, money they need to feed themselves and their children. It makes me sad. That may sound like a simple response to such a complex situation, but it is no ordinary sadness. It is sadness brought on by knowing that these schools that hold such a special place in my heart are working hand and hand with the oppressors (Nike) and by doing so have helped to maintain this desperate poverty, have become oppressors themselves and have lost God.
I do not know how the workers do it. I shouldn’t say that. I do know how they do it, they struggle each day to barely survive in dire poverty. As Anthony, the labor organizer from SISBIKUM said to us today, in his captivating broken English, “The worker live to work and that is not live.” He continued, “they have no time for relax, for rest.” His final comment pierced me. “Because live like this, worker lose love for life.”
Peace, Jim
August 2nd, 2000
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.
August 2nd, 2000
Early this afternoon we arrived in Tangerang, the industrial suburb of Jakarta, where Nike operates some of its factories. Our “home” for the next month, a 9×9 cement box with very simple bedding on the floor, is right in the middle of an overcrowded, polluted and overwhelmingly poor area where many Nike workers live. The reality of this place is such that trying to explain it to anyone who has not seen it with his or her own eyes does not do it justice. Our “neighborhood,” is filled with trash, lined with putrid open sewers, and framed by shanty houses that are dark, dirty, and desperate.
Tomorrow, August 3rd, Leslie and I will begin to “live” (perhaps survive is a more honest description) on the basic monthly wage that Nike pays the workers in their factories here. (325,000Rp or $37USD). This wage is remuneration for an eight-hour day (one hour for lunch), six days a week.
Below is a breakdown of the major monthly expenses of a worker.
Expenses
Rent 35,000Rp
Electricity 8000Rp
Water 8000Rp
Transportation 60000Rp
Income
Rent 325,000Rp
After meeting our major monthly expenses we each will have 214,000Rp to spend on food. This breaks down to 7133Rp per day. To give this some context, a simple meal of rice and vegetables that a worker would eat regularly costs 2500Rp. We will not even have enough money to pay for three of these per day! We have yet to mention buying other basic necessities like soap, shampoo, and toothpaste. What of other major expenses like childcare, healthcare, clothing, etc.?
Trying to live on the basic wage would actually not be the reality for a Nike factory worker, because as you can see from the information above, it is simply not enough. We will attempt it to demonstrate that the workers MUST work overtime if they are even going to try and come close to meeting their basic living needs. The reality is, even with 18-30 overtime hours per week; the workers still cannot make ends meet. It is, in a word, unjust.
Peace, Jim
August 1st, 2000
I’ve been having a difficult time beginning my online journal. Since I left the U.S., I’ve been mulling over which is the lesser of two evils: mildly describing the reality of Indonesia in hopes of placating the fears of my family and friends, or vividly describing what I experience, risking their constant worry for my safety. I feel paralyzed by this internal struggle.
The car bomb exploding two days ago at the Philippine embassy shook us all up a bit. Everyone that is, except for our translator/guide Leily, who considers such an event normal and even inevitable. Of course something like this could easily occur in New York or San Francisco, but it didn’t, it happened here. And I was two blocks away from it.
I mention my close proximity to the blast with painful hesitation. I can just imagine the look of worry on my parents’ faces as they read this. My instinct would have me euphemistically sugarcoat the experience for the sake of their mental health. But my gut feeling is that I owe it to the people of Indonesia to be brutally honest about their reality. In the next 5 weeks, I hope to strike an effective balance between the two.
After a few chaotic days in Jakarta, we arrived in the village we’ll call “home” for the remainder of this phase of the project. As I walked along the red clay paths lined with the homes of the poor, my thoughts continuously returned to what it must feel like living in these conditions with no alternative. What it must be like to live next to an open sewer. To have the chickens that lay the eggs necessary for your survival pecking through these open sewers. To work 80+ hours per week on a line void of variation and creativity and still not be able to afford to send your children to school. To be those children who live and play beside the open sewer, who rarely see their parents who work day and night, who ache to go to school and exercise their minds… who simply want a chance.
It’s so completely unfair and overwhelming that I’m numb to their reality at the moment. I will for this short time share in the toxic pollution, the fear of violence and the experience of “living” on slave wages. When I return to the U.S., I’ll continue advocating for the workers… there’s just so much work to be done.
August 1st, 2000
Leslie’s eyes shot me a panicked look. Mike and I dismissed it as a car backfiring. In reality, just a few blocks away from the Human Rights Commission where we were waiting to observe a student demonstration, a car bomb went off outside the Philippine ambassador’s house killing two and injuring dozens. Fear. Nerve endings completely exposed and raw. As I sit and write this, I am still feeling a little unsettled. But I am incredibly thankful for our safety and deeply humbled by the experience.
This is the reality of the emerging democracy in Indonesia. This is the reality that Nike exploits. The rules of the day are fear and desperation, which leaves plenty of room for foreign corporate exploitation. This theme of exploitation was so clearly defined for us earlier in the day by Surya Tjandra, a young lawyer from the Jakarta Legal Aid Institute, who has represented Nike factory workers on a number of occasions. He described the situation here as desperate.
His testimony floored me. I felt so sad. His emotional request that the Nike Corporation, see the Indonesians as human beings and not just means of production struck chords deep within my heart. His plea to Phil Knight (CEO of Nike) to search his conscience and open his heart nearly brought me to tears. “I don’t know what to say anymore to you (Mr. Knight)… follow your heart… realize what you’ve done to us here, it’s so bad, and you know it.” “Nike is taking so much from us,” he continued, and in return they are creating jobs that do not help the development of Indonesia, they just keep the status quo. I could feel his hunger for justice and peace. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” (Mt 5:6)
I feel more compelled now than ever to be a voice for these people. I tell you today that it is not enough to simply pray for them. It is not enough to take up collections of charity to feed them for a day. Their situation demands action, an action that is grounded in truth and pursues justice. Such action on behalf of justice is at the very root of what it means to live a full life as a human being.
I have never before understood the term solidarity in the way I do now. The Webster’s pocket dictionary we have with us defines solidarity as “firm unity.” I have, for the last 24 hours, felt a firm unity with the fear that is a daily reality for Indonesians; a firm unity with the desperation that they live with; and a firm unity with the crushing humiliation of exploitation that Nike inflicts on them.
Today, August 2, we leave for Tangerang to begin living with the workers.
May God keep all people, but particularly the poor and oppressed, safe today.
Peace, Jim
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