A World Gone Mad
by Eduardo Galeano
The Progressive magazine, Dec 2000
Fear of losing your job and terror at the prospect of never
finding one can't be separated from a ridiculous statistic that
could only seem normal in a world gone mad: over the past thirty
years, formal working hours, which tend to be less than real hours
worked, have gone up in the United States, Canada, and Japan and
diminished only slightly in a few European countries. This trend
constitutes a treacherous attack on common sense by the upside-down
world: the astonishing increase in productivity wrought by the
technological revolution not only fails to raise wages but doesn't
even diminish working hours in countries with state-of-the-art
machines. In the United States, frequent polls indicate that work,
far more than divorce or the fear of death, is the principal source
of stress, and in Japan, karoshi, overwork, kills 10,000 people
a year.
When the French government decided in May 1998 to reduce the
workweek from thirty-nine to thirty-five hours, offering a basic
lesson in common sense, the measure set off cries of protest from
businessmen, politicians, and technocrats. In Switzerland, where
unemployment is not a problem, I witnessed an event some time
ago that left me dumbfounded. A referendum was held on reducing
working hours with no reduction of pay, and the Swiss voted the
proposal down. I recall that I could not comprehend the result
at the time. I confess I still don't. Work has been a universal
obligation ever since God sentenced Adam to earn his daily bread
by the sweat of his brow, but we don't have to take God's will
so literally. I suspect that this urge to work has something to
do with fear of unemployment-though in Switzerland unemployment
is an abstract threat-and with fear of free time. To be is to
be useful; to be you have to be salable. Time that isn't money,
free time lived for the pleasure of living and not dutifully in
order to produce, provokes fear. There's nothing new about that.
Along with greed, fear has always been the most active engine
of the system that used to be called capitalism.
Fear of unemployment allows a mockery to be made of labor
rights. The eight-hour day no longer belongs to the realm of law
but to literature, where it shines among other works of surrealist
poetry. And such things as employer contributions to pensions,
medical benefits, workers' compensation, vacation pay, Christmas
bonuses, and dependents' allowances are relics that belong in
an archaeological museum. Legally consecrated universal labor
rights came about in other times, born of other fears: the fear
of strikes and of the social revolution that seemed so close at
hand. The powerful who trembled in fear yesterday are the powerful
who strike fear today, and thus the fruits of two centuries of
labor struggle get raffled off before you can say good-bye.
Fear, father of a large family, also begets hatred. In the
countries of the North, it tends to cause hatred of foreigners
who offer their labor at desperate prices. It's the invasion of
the invaded. They come from lands where conquering colonial troops
and punishing military expeditions have disembarked 1,001 times.
Now this voyage in reverse isn't made by soldiers obliged to kill
but by workers obliged to sell themselves in Europe or North America
at whatever price they get. They come from Africa, Asia, and Latin
America, and, since the burial of bureaucratic power, from Eastern
Europe as well.
In the years of the great European and North American economic
expansion, growing prosperity required more and more labor, and
it didn't matter that those hands were foreign, as long as they
worked hard and charged little. In years of stagnation or weak
growth, they become undesirable interlopers: they smell bad, they
make a lot of noise, they take away jobs. Scapegoats of unemployment
and every other misfortune, they are condemned to live with several
swords hanging over their heads: the always imminent threat of
deportation back to the grueling life they've fled and the always
possible explosion of racism with its bloody warnings, its punishments:
Turks set on fire, Arabs stabbed, Africans shot, Mexicans beaten.
Poor immigrants do the hardest, poorest paid work in the fields
and on the streets. After work comes the danger. No magic ink
can make them invisible.
Paradoxically, while workers from the South migrate North,
or at least risk the attempt against all odds, many factories
from the North migrate South. Money and people pass each other
in the night. Money from rich countries travels to poor countries
attracted by dollar-a-day wages and twenty-five-hour days, and
workers from poor countries travel, or try to travel, to rich
countries, attracted by images of happiness served up by advertising
or invented by hope. Wherever money travels, it's greeted with
kisses and flowers and fanfare. Workers, in contrast, set off
on an odyssey that sometimes ends in the depths of the Mediterranean
or the Caribbean or on the stony shores of the Rio Grande.
In another epoch, when Rome took over the entire Mediterranean
and more, its armies returned home dragging caravans filled with
enslaved prisoners of war. The hunt for slaves impoverished free
workers. The more slaves there were in Rome, the more wages fell
and the more difficult it was to find work. Two thousand years
later, Argentine businessman Enrique Pescarmona praised globalization:
"Asians work twenty hours a day," he declared, "for
$80 a month. If I want to compete, I have to turn to them. It's
a globalized world. The Filipino girls in our offices in Hong
Kong are always willing. There are no Saturdays or Sundays. If
they have to work several days straight without sleeping, they
do it, and they don't get overtime and don't ask for a thing."
A few months before Pescarmona voiced this elegy, a doll factory
caught fire in Bangkok. The workers, women who earned less than
a dollar a day and slept in the factory, were burned alive. The
factory was locked from the outside, like the slave quarters of
old.
Many industries emigrate to poor countries in search of cheap
labor, and there's plenty to be had. Governments welcome them
as messiahs of progress bringing jobs on a silver tray. But the
conditions of the new industrial proletariat bring to mind the
word they used for work during the Renaissance, tripalium, which
also was an instrument of torture. The price of a Disney T-shirt
bearing a picture of Pocahontas is equivalent to a week's wages
for the worker in Haiti who sewed it at a rate of 375 shirts an
hour. Haiti was the first country in the world to abolish slavery.
Two centuries after that feat, which cost many lives, the country
suffers wage slavery. McDonald's gives its young customers toys
made in Vietnamese sweatshops by women who earn eighty cents for
a ten-hour shift with no breaks. Vietnam defeated a U.S. military
invasion. A quarter of a century after that feat, which cost many
lives, the country suffers globalized humiliation.
The hunt for cheap labor no longer requires armies as it did
during colonial times. That's all taken care of by the misery
that most of the planet suffers. What we have is the end of geography:
capital crosses borders at the speed of light, thanks to new communication
and transportation technologies that make time and distance disappear.
And when an economy anywhere on the planet catches a cold, economies
around the world sneeze. At the end of 1997, a currency devaluation
in Malaysia killed thousands of jobs in the shoe industry in southern
Brazil.
Poor countries have put their hearts, souls, and sombreros
into a global good-behavior contest to see who can offer the barest
of barebones wages and the most freedom to poison the environment.
Countries compete furiously to seduce the big multinational companies.
What's best for companies is what's worst for wage levels, working
conditions, and the well-being of people and of nature. Throughout
the world, workers' rights are in a race to the bottom, while
the pool of available labor grows as never before, even in the
worst of times.
Globalization has winners and losers, warns a United Nations
report. "A rising tide of wealth is supposed to lift all
boats, but some are more seaworthy than others. The yachts and
ocean liners are rising in response to new opportunities, but
many rafts and rowboats are taking on water-and some are sinking."
Countries tremble at the thought that money will not come
or that it will flee. Shipwreck, or the threat of it, causes widespread
panic. If you don't behave yourselves, say the companies, we're
going to the Philippines or Thailand or Indonesia or China or
Mars. To behave badly means to defend nature or whatever's left
of it, to recognize the right to form unions, to demand respect
for international norms and local laws, to raise the minimum wage.
In 1995, the Gap sold shirts "made in El Salvador."
For every twenty-dollar shirt, the Salvadoran workers got eighteen
cents. The workers, most of them women and girls, spent fourteen
hours a day breaking their backs in sweatshop hell. They organized
a union. The contracting company fired 350 of them; the rest went
on strike. There were police beatings, kidnappings, jailings.
At the end of that year, the Gap announced that it was moving
to Asia.
Crimes against people, crimes against nature: the impunity
enjoyed by the masters of war is shared by their twins, the voracious
masters of industry, who eat nature and, in the heavens, swallow
the ozone layer. The most successful companies in the world are
the ones that do the most to murder it; the countries that decide
the planet's fate are the same ones that do their best to annihilate
it.
Effluence, affluence: inundating the world and the air it
breathes are floods of crud and torrents of words-expert reports,
speeches, government declarations, solemn international accords
that no one observes, and other expressions of official concern
for the environment. The language of power diverts blame from
consumer society and from those who impose consumerism in the
name of development. The large corporations which, in the name
of freedom, make the planet sick and then sell it medicine and
consolation can do what they please, while environmental experts,
who reproduce like rabbits, wrap all problems in the bubble wrap
of ambiguity. The state of the world's health is disgusting, and
official rhetoric extrapolates in order to absolve: "We are
all responsible," is the lie technocrats offer and politicians
repeat, meaning no one is responsible. Official palaver exhorts
"the sacrifice of all," meaning, screw those who always
get screwed.
All of humanity pays the price for the ruin of the Earth,
the befouling of the air, the poisoning of the waters, the disruption
of the climate, and the degradation of the Earthly goods that
nature bestows. But hidden underneath the cosmetic words, statistics
confess and little numbers betray the truth: One-quarter of humanity
commits three-quarters of the crimes against nature. Each inhabitant
of the North consumes ten times as much energy, nineteen times
as much aluminum, fourteen times as much paper, and thirteen times
as much iron and steel as someone from the South. The average
North American puts twenty-two times as much carbon into the air
as an Indian and thirteen times as much as a Brazilian. It may
be called "global suicide," but this daily act of murder
is being perpetrated by the most prosperous members of the human
species, who live in rich countries or imagine they do, members
of countries and social classes who find their identity in ostentation
and waste.
The twentieth century, a weary artist, ended its days painting
still lifes. The extermination of the planet spares no one, not
even the triumphal North that contributes the most to the catastrophe
and, at the hour of truth, whistles and looks the other way. At
the rate we're going, it won't be long before we'll have to put
up new signs in maternity wards in the United States: Attention,
babies: You are hereby warned that your chance of getting cancer
is twice that of your grandparents. The Japanese company Daido
Hokusan already sells air in cans, two minutes of oxygen for ten
dollars. The label assures us: This is the electric generator
that recharges human beings.
Eduardo Galeano, one of Latin Americas most distinguished
writers, journalists, and historians, is the author of the "Memory
of Fire" trilogy (W.W. Norton). This piece is excerpted from
his latest book, "Upside Down: A Primer for the Looking-Glass
World," Galeano lives in Uruguay.
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