Text and photos by David Bacon
SANTIAGO DE JUXTLAHUACA, OAXACA, MEXICO
MAY 31, 2008 -- The assembly of the Indigenous Front of Binational Organisations in the Mixteca region of Oaxaca, one of the poorest areas in Mexico. A large percentage of the indigenous population of Oaxaca and other states has left to work in northern Mexico and in the United States. The FIOB is a political organisation of indigenous communities and migrants, with chapters in Mexico and the US. It advocates for the rights of migrants, and for the right not to migrate -- for economic development which would enable people to stay home.
Delegates discuss FIOB's by-laws and political positions, vote to adopt them, and then elect new binational leadership in a democratic and open process. Julio Sandoval, a delegate from Baja California, recounts his experience as a political prisoner in the penitentiary of Ensenaada, where he was held for three years after leading a fight for housing for indigenous migrants. At the end of the assembly, Gaspar Rivera-Salgado, newly elected as FIOB's binational coordinator, addresses the delegates, and a group of Triqui women rise to their feet with a clenched-fist salute.
For more articles and images on immigration, see http://dbacon.igc.org/Imgrants/imgrants.htm
Coming in September 2008, from Beacon Press: Illegal People -- How Globalization Creates Migration and Criminalizes Immigrants, http://www.beacon.org/productdetails.cfm?PC=2002
See also the photodocumentary on indigenous migration to the US Communities Without Borders (Cornell University/ILR Press, 2006), http://www.cornellpress.cornell.edu/cup_detail.taf?ti_id=4575
See also The Children of NAFTA, Labor Wars on the U.S./Mexico Border (University of California, 2004), http://www.ucpress.edu/books/pages/9989.html
David Bacon, photographs and stories, http://dbacon.igc.org
How do you say justice in Mixteco? -- David Bacon
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Mexico: The right to stay home
THE RIGHT TO STAY HOME
By David Bacon
New America Media
JUXTLAHUACA, OAXACA, MEXICO (7/9/08) - For almost half a century, migration has been the main fact of social life in hundreds of indigenous towns spread through the hills of Oaxaca, one of Mexico's poorest states. That's made the conditions and rights of migrants central concerns for communities like Santiago de Juxtlahuaca.
Today the right to travel to seek work is a matter of survival. But this June in Juxtlahuaca, in the heart of Oaxaca's Mixteca region, dozens of farmers left their fields, and women weavers their looms, to talk about another right, the right to stay home.
In the town's community center two hundred Mixtec, Zapotec and Triqui farmers, and a handful of their relatives working in the U.S., made impassioned speeches asserting this right at the triannual assembly of the Indigenous Front of Binational Organizations (FIOB). Hot debates ended in numerous votes. The voices of mothers and fathers arguing over the future of their children, echoed from the cinderblock walls of the cavernous hall.
In Spanish, Mixteco and Triqui, people repeated one phrase over and over: the derecho de no migrar - the right to not migrate. Asserting this right challenges not just inequality and exploitation facing migrants, but the very reasons why people have to migrate to begin with. Indigenous communities are pointing to the need for social change.
About 500,000 indigenous people from Oaxaca live in the US, 300,000 in California alone, according to Rufino Dominguez, one of FIOB's founders. These men and women come from communities whose economies are totally dependent on migration. The ability to send a son or daughter across the border to the north, to work and send back money, makes the difference between eating chicken or eating salt and tortillas. Migration means not having to manhandle a wooden plough behind an ox, cutting furrows in dry soil for a corn crop that can't be sold for what it cost to plant it. It means that dollars arrive in the mail when kids need shoes to go to school, or when a grandparent needs a doctor.
In Oaxaca the category of extreme poverty encompasses 75 percent of its 3.4 million residents, according to EDUCA, an education and development organization. For more than two decades, under pressure from the World Bank and U.S. loan conditions, the Mexican government has cut spending intended to raise rural incomes. Prices have risen dramatically since price controls and subsidies were eliminated for necessities like gasoline, electricity, bus fares, tortillas, and milk.
Raquel Cruz Manzano, principal of the Formal Primary School in San Pablo Macuiltianguis, a town in the indigenous Zapotec region, says only 900,000 Oaxacans receive organized healthcare, and the illiteracy rate is 21.8%. "The educational level in Oaxaca is 5.8 years," Cruz notes, "against a national average of 7.3 years. The average monthly wage for non-governmental employees is less than 2,000 pesos [about $200] per family [per month], the lowest in the nation. Around 75,000 children have to work in order to survive or to help their families."
"But there are no jobs here, and NAFTA [the North American Free Trade Agreement] made the price of corn so low that it's not economically possible to plant a crop anymore," Dominguez asserts. "We come to the U.S. to work because we can't get a price for our product at home. There's no alternative."
Without large scale political change most local communities won't have the resources for productive projects and economic development that could provide a decent living. Towns like Juxtlahuaca, don't even have waste water treatment. Rural communities rely on the same rivers for drinking water that are also used to carry away sewage. "A typical teacher earns about 2200 pesos every two weeks [about $220]," says Jaime Medina, a reporter for Oaxaca's daily Noticias. "From that they have to purchase chalk, pencils and other school supplies for the children,"
Because of its indigenous membership, FIOB campaigns for the rights of migrants in the U.S. who come from those communities. It calls for immigration amnesty and legalization for undocumented migrants. FIOB has also condemned the proposals for guest worker programs. Migrants need the right to work, but "these workers don't have labor rights or benefits," Dominguez charges. "It's like slavery."
At the same time, "we need development that makes migration a choice rather than a necessity -- the right to not migrate," explains Gaspar Rivera Salgado, a professor at UCLA. "Both rights are part of the same solution. We have to change the debate from one in which immigration is presented as a problem to a debate over rights. The real problem is exploitation." But the right to stay home, to not migrate, has to mean more than the right to be poor, the right to go hungry and homeless. Choosing whether to stay home or leave only has meaning if each choice can provide a meaningful future.
In Juxtlahuaca Gaspar Rivera Salgado was elected FIOB's new binational coordinator. His father and mother still live on a ranch half an hour up a dirt road from the main highway, in the tiny town of Santa Cruz Rancho Viejo. There his father Sidronio planted three hundred avocado trees a few years ago, in the hope that someday their fruit would take the place of the corn and beans that were once his staple crop. He's fortunate -- his relatives have water, and a pipe from their spring has kept most of his trees, and those hopes, alive. Fernando, Gaspar's brother, has started growing mushrooms in a FIOB-sponsored project, and even put up a greenhouse for tomatoes. Those projects, they hope, will produce enough money that Fernando won't have to go back to Seattle, where he worked for seven years.
This family perhaps has come close to achieving the derecho de no migrar. For the millions of farmers throughout the indigenous countryside, not migrating means doing something like it. But finding the necessary resources, even for a small number of families and communities, presents FIOB with its biggest challenge. This was the source of the debate at its Juxtlahuaca assembly.
Gaspar Rivera-Salgado says, "we will find the answer to migration in our communities of origin. To make the right to not migrate concrete, we need to organize the forces in our communities, and combine them with the resources and experiences we've accumulated in 16 years of cross-border organizing." Fernando, the greenhouse builder and mushroom farmer, agrees that FIOB has the ability to organize people. "But now we have to take the next step," he urges, "and make concrete changes in peoples' lives."
Organizing FIOB's support base in Oaxaca means more than just making speeches, however. As Fernando Rivera Salgado points out, communities want projects that help raise their income. Over the years FIOB has organized women weavers in Juxtlahuaca, helping them sell their textiles and garments through its chapters in California. It set up a union for rural taxis, both to help farming famiies get from Juxtlahuaca to the tiny towns in the surrounding hills, and to provide jobs for drivers. Artisan co-ops make traditional products, helped by a co-operative loan fund.
The government does have some money for loans to start similar projects, but it usually goes to officials who often just pocket it, supporters of the Institutional Revolutionary Party, which has ruled Oaxaca since it was formed in the 1940s. One objective debated at the FIOB assembly was organizing community pressure to win some of these resources. But any government subsidy is viewed with suspicion by activists who know the strings tied to it.
Another concern is the effect of the funding on communities themselves. "Part of our political culture is the use of regalos, or government favors, to buy votes," Gaspar Rivera Salgado explains. "People want regalos, and think an organization is strong because of what it can give. But now people are demanding these results from FIOB, so do we help them or not? And if we do, how can we change the way people think? It's critical that our members see organization as the answer to problems, not a gift from the government or a political party. FIOB members need political education."
Political abstention isn't an option, however, warns Juan Romualdo Gutierrez Cortez. "We aren't the only organization in Oaxaca - there are 600 others. If we don't do it, they will." But for the 16 years of its existence, FIOB has been a crucial part of the political opposition to Oaxaca's PRI government. Gutierrez, a school teacher in Tecomaxtlahuaca, was FIOB's Oaxaca coordinator until he stepped down at the Juxtlahuaca assembly. He is also a leader of Oaxaca's teachers union, Section 22 of the National Education Workers Union, and of the Popular Association of the People of Oaxaca (APPO).
In June of 2006 a strike by Section 22 led to a months-long uprising, led by APPO, which sought to remove the state's governor, Ulises Ruiz, and make a basic change in development and economic policy. The uprising was crushed by Federal armed intervention, and dozens of activists were arrested. According to Leoncio Vasquez, an FIOB activist in Fresno, "the lack of human rights itself is a factor contributing to migration from Oaxaca and Mexico, since it closes off our ability to call for any change." This spring teachers again occupied the central plaza, or zocalo, of the state capital, protesting the same conditions that sparked the uprising two years ago.
Gutierrez himself was not jailed during the uprising, although the state issued an order for his detention. But he's been arrested before. In the late 1990s he was elected to the Oaxaca Chamber of Deputies, in an alliance between FIOB and Mexico's leftwing Democratic Revolutionary Party. Following his term in office, Gutierrez was imprisoned by Ruiz' predecessor, Jose Murat, until a binational campaign won his release. His crime, and that of many others filling Oaxaca's jails, was insisting on a new path of economic development that would raise rural living standards, and make migration just an option, rather than an indispensable means of survival.
Despite the fact that APPO wasn't successful in getting rid of Ruiz and the PRI, Gaspar Rivera-Salgado believes that "in Mexico we're very close to getting power in our communities on a local and state level." He points to Gutierrez' election as state deputy, and later as mayor of his hometown San Miguel Tlacotepec. Other municipal presidents, allied with FIOB, have also won office, and activists are beginning to plan a FIOB campaign to elect a Federal deputy.
FIOB delegates agreed that the organization would continue its alliance with the PRD. Nevertheless, that alliance is controversial, partly because of the party's internal disarray. "We know the PRD is caught up in an internal crisis, and there's no real alternative vision on the left," Rivera Salgado says. "But there are no other choices if we want to participate in electoral politics, so we're trying to put forward positive proposals. We're asking people in the PRD to stop fighting over positions, and instead use the resources of the party to organize the community. We can't change things by ourselves. First, we have to reorganize our own base. But then we have to find strategic allies.
"Migration is part of globalization," he emphasizes, "an aspect of state policies that expel people. Creating an alternative to that requires political power. There's no way to avoid that."
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Photos: California workers condemn Schwarzenegger wage cut
SAN FRANCISCO, California, July 30, 2008 - Union members protest the decision by California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger to cut the wages of over two hundred thousand state workers to the Federal minimum wage of $6.55/hour, alleging he must do so because the state legislature has not passed a budget. Workers accuse the governor of using their jobs and wages as a means of pressuring the Democratic legislature into agreeing to deep Republican budget cuts.
Democratic State Controller John Chiang has said that he will refuse to obey the governor's order, and that the state has the money to continue to pay workers their full salaries through September. According to the California Budget Project, tax cuts enacted since 1993 will cost the state $12 billion this year. "It's time to take another look at who gets tax breaks and whether the state can really afford them."
The workers, members of the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees, left their national convention and marched through downtown San Francisco to protest the wage-cutting order. Bill Lucy, AFSCME Secretary Treasurer and founder of the Coalition of Black Trade Unionists, condemns Schwarzenegger's action.
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By David Bacon
FRESNO, CA (6/15/08) -- Erasto Vasquez was surprised to see a forklift appear one morning outside his trailer near the corner of East and Springfield, two small rural roads deep in the grapevines ten miles southwest of Fresno. He and his neighbors pleaded with the driver, but to no avail. The machine uprooted the fence Vasquez had built around his home, and left it smashed in the dirt. Then the forklift's metal tines lifted the side of one trailer high into the air. It groaned and tipped over, with a family's possessions still inside.
"We were scared," Vasquez remembers. "I felt it shouldn't be happening, that it showed a complete lack of respect. But who was there to speak for us?"
Eight farm worker families lived in this tiny "colonia," or settlement, on the ranch of Marjorie Bowen. Their rented trailers weren't in great shape. Cracks around the windows let in rain and constant dust, which carried with it all the fertilizer and chemicals used to kill insects on the nearby vines. Some trailers had holes in the floors. None had heat in the winter or air conditioning in the summer.
Still, they were home. Vasquez had lived in his trailer for 17 years. His youngest daughter, Edith, was born while the family lived there. By the time the forklift appeared she had started middle school, while her brother Jaime was in high school and her sister Soila had graduated. "Señora Bowen was a nice lady, and even though we had to make whatever repairs the trailers needed ourselves, sometimes she'd wait 3 or 4 months for the rent, if we hadn't been working," Vasquez says. The families had labored in her vines for years.
But Marjorie Bowen died in 2005. Her daughter, Patricia Mechling, inherited the ranch and wanted the trailers removed before selling it. That September, she sent the families letters, giving them 60 days to clear out. It was the picking season, however, when there are many more workers in the San Joaquin Valley than places for them all to live. Vasquez' family couldn't immediately find another home, nor could the others. They asked for an extension. Mechling refused.
At the last moment, the farm workers actually did find someone to speak for them - Irma Luna, a community outreach worker at California Rural Legal Assistance. They had their first meeting at CRLA's Fresno office that November, before the forklift arrived. Luna and De La Cruz informed their clients and Mechling's attorney, James Vallis, of the legal requirements that must be followed before carrying out evictions. Vallis denies that Luna had notified him she had met with Vasquez. On the following Monday, however, November 14, 2005, the forklift cut short the legal process.
"Destroying the trailers in front of the families that lived in them wasn't a reasonable or legal way to evict them," Luna says. "The families didn't really understand their rights in the legal process. Many speak only Mixteco [an indigenous language in Oaxaca, a state in southern Mexico]."
CRLA eventually won a settlement providing some compensation for destroyed belongings, rent abatement, withheld security deposits, and emotional suffering. The incident illustrates the ongoing need for legal services for some of the state's poorest families. However the case also highlights the challenges facing legal service providers as demographics change in a new generation of California farm workers. CRLA has created an innovative program to meet some of these challenges. But the agency's staff and indigenous community leaders agree that a broader reality check and a rethinking of U.S. immigration policy are also needed. In the meantime, CRLA itself, never the growers' darling, is in yet another battle to protect its farm worker clients and assure its own survival.
De La Cruz and the Fresno law firm Wagner & Jones, who provided pro
bono co-counseling, filed suit against Mechling in August of 2006, alleging she'd violated section 789.3 of the Civil Code, by committing prohibited acts to get the families to move out, and section 1940.2, by making threats. De La Cruz also alleged that the eviction was in retaliation for complaints the families had made over substandard living conditions in the trailers. Attorney Vallis called the suit "a shakedown." It was settled the day before trial for $55,500, and Mechling has since sold the property.
Seven of the eight families come from the same tiny town, San Miguel Cuevas, in the mountains of Oaxaca, an area they poetically call the "land of the clouds." And while speaking only Mixteco created great difficulty for many in understanding the proceedings, their strong cultural traditions also gave them a sense of responsibility towards each other. During the period before the case was settled, Vasquez was elected in absentia as San Miguel's "sindico," a position responsible for taking care of injured people, and making funeral arrangements for those who die. Election meant he had to return to Mexico for a year to fulfill this duty, called a "tequio."
When Vasquez was required to give a deposition, however, Luna (who hails from the same town) appealed to his sense of collective responsibility. Vasquez paid $600, at a time when he wasn't working, to travel back to Fresno. "I wanted the landlord and lawyer to pay for what they'd done, so that they'd feel what we felt," he explains. "I was also the one who convinced the other families that we had to do something. When it was my turn to give a deposition, I felt responsible to them, and to the case."
An increasing number of farm workers in California share those traditions. Rufino Dominguez, coordinator of the Binational Front of Indigenous Organizations, says there are about 500,000 indigenous people from Oaxaca living in the U.S., 300,000 in California alone. The FIOB, with chapters in both Mexico and the U.S., defines indigenous communities as those sharing common languages and cultures that existed in the Americas before the Spanish conquest. Indigenous communities exist throughout the Americas - Oaxaca alone is home to 23.
While farm workers 20 and 30 years ago came from parts of Mexico with a larger Spanish presence, migrants today come increasingly from indigenous communities. "There are no jobs, and NAFTA [the North American Free Trade Agreement] made the price of corn so low that it's not economically possible to plant a crop anymore," Dominguez asserts. "We come to the U.S. to work because we can't get a price for our product at home. There's no alternative." Economic changes like NAFTA are now uprooting and displacing Mexicans in Mexico's most remote areas, where people still speak languages that were old when Columbus arrived in the Americas.
In 2006 spreading poverty, and the lack of a program to create jobs and raise living standards, ignited months of civil conflict in Oaxaca, in which strikes and demonstrations were met with repression by an unpopular government. According to Leoncio Vasquez, an FIOB activist in Fresno (and a distant relative of Erasto), "the lack of human rights itself is a factor contributing to migration from Oaxaca and Mexico, since it closes off our ability to call for any change."
Dominguez estimates that 75% of the indigenous migrants from Oaxaca and other states in southern Mexico arrive in California with no immigration visas, an increase from 50% a decade ago. "A few of us benefited from the immigration amnesty in 1986, but not many," he explains. "The reality is there are no visas available in Mexico to come here, so even though it's harder, more expensive and more dangerous than ever to cross the border, many people still come because their need is so great. Neither the U.S. nor the Mexican government will look at the root cause of migration."
Providing legal services to communities of indigenous farm workers in California is complicated by the large number of people who lack legal immigration status, and by restrictions on some $7.2 million it receives from the Legal Services Corporation in Washington, DC. "Immigration status has always been a criteria for eligibility," says Jose Padilla, CRLA's executive director, "but until 1996 the law didn't restrict the use of other funds for that purpose. In 96, however, Congress said that so long as we receive even $1 in Federal funding, we can't represent undocumented people. The same legislation also prohibited us from collecting attorney fees, and filing class actions."
CRLA was particularly affected by the 1996 legislation because it had started reaching out to indigenous communities just a few years before. In the late 1980s the agency opened an office in Oceanside, just north of San Diego. "We found people living in the bushes, in open country, ravines and canyons," Padilla recalls. "We began to understand that the people living in these extreme conditions came from a different part of Mexico. Although we've always had bilingual outreach workers who speak English and Spanish, here we found people with an indigenous language and culture we weren't prepared to serve."
At the same time indigenous migrants were critical of CRLA for not responding to their needs. A network of Mixtec and Zapotec organizations, that eventually came together to form the FIOB in 1992, met with Claudia Smith, who headed the Oceanside office, and eventually with Padilla and other CRLA staff. As a result of those meetings, CRLA decided to hire its first indigenous staff member, Rufino Dominguez.
"We began to work on the basic problems of our communities," Dominguez recalls. "When we went out to the fields we often found no bathrooms or drinking water. Some were working with the short-handled hoe [prohibited by state law], or weren't getting paid and had no rest breaks. Many people were living outside, or in unclean housing in bad condition. So we held workshops in homes and fields, and got on the radio."
At first Dominguez, and a second Mixtec-speaking outreach worker, Arturo Gonzalez, traveled all over the state educating people about their rights in Mixteco, the language spoken by the largest number of indigenous farm workers. As word spread, complaints began to surface. At the Griffith Ives Ranch in Ventura County, two Mixtecos tunneled under fences that held laborers in virtual peonage, going first to the Mexican consulate, and then to CRLA. With the assistance of Munger, Tolles & Olson in Los Angeles, CRLA lawyers filed suit in federal court alleging enslavement as well as violations of the Agricultural Worker Protection Act and the RICO Act. Eventually Edwin Ives pleaded guilty to RICO charges in a related criminal prosecution, in the first federal organized crime conviction in a civil rights case. Some 300 workers shared $1.5 million in back wages.
Outside of Fresno, a group of 32 Mixtec families were found living in a trailer park located on an old toxic waste disposal site. Dominguez began the investigation of their situation, which was completed by Irma Luna when she was also hired as indigenous outreach workers. Following negotiations between CRLA, Chevron Corp. and the Environmental Protection Agency, the area was declared a superfund site and Chevron paid to relocate the families in new homes in a community called Casa San Miguel-named after their hometown in Oaxaca.
In October of 2003, another indigenous outreach worker, Fausto Sanchez, investigated the case of families exposed to chloropicrin, a toxic pesticide, as an onion field was sprayed near Weedpatch in October, 2003. The subsequent case and settlement required Sanchez to give 167 separate clients an ongoing understanding of a complex legal case in Mixteco for three years.
"Relations between CRLA and the FIOB were difficult at first, and some people said they didn't need us, or complained about our work," Dominguez says. "But we have a very close relationship now, and each of use recognizes the importance of the other." Dominguez left CRLA to become the FIOB's binational coordinator in 2001, and today CRLA has six Mixtec-speaking outreach workers, based in offices around the state. In addition to Luna and Sanchez, Jesus Estrada works in Santa Maria, Mario Herrera in Oceanside, and Lorenzo Oropeza in Santa Rosa. Some are active in the FIOB, and others aren't. Antonio Flores started a separate organization in Oxnard, the Mixteco/Indigena Community Organizing Project. And last year CRLA hired Mariano Alvarez, the first worker from another important community, the Triquis.
"We respect our differences," Dominguez emphasizes, "because it's good for us. When we work together we have a greater impact." Alegria De La Cruz and Jeff Ponting, CRLA attorney in Oxnard, are co-coordinators of CRLA's Indigenous Farmworker Project. "We've become an example to other legal aid organizations," Ponting says. "We employ more indigenous people than the state and federal governments combined, which indicates their lack of commitment to providing services to a growing and important community."
Predictably, cases generated by this work get CRLA into trouble with growers. "There are always employers who will not respect the basic labor rights of their workforce to minimum wage, overtime, or rest periods," Padilla says. "We do more employment work-about 16 to 20 percent of our cases-than 99 percent of legal service organizations, where the average is 2 percent."
In 1996, the Republican-led Congress imposed new restrictions on legal services providers funded by the nonprofit Legal Services Corporation (LSC) in Washington, D.C. Recipients could not initiate or participate in class actions, collect attorneys' fees from adverse parties, or represent undocumented people. CRLA found private counsel to take over more than 100 active cases, including a significant number of class actions. CRLA now cooperates much more extensively with private lawyers-far beyond the legal requirement to use 12.5 percent of its resources to do so. Because private attorneys may collect fees, cooperation means that opponents face serious financial penalties, while the poorest workers don't have to pay for legal representation with a percentage of recovered wages. And private lawyers, unlike CRLA, are not barred from representing undocumented clients.
"Our relationships with private counsel are critical," says Padilla. "Not only can they represent individuals where we are barred, they also can ensure that farm workers and the poor continue to have access to quality litigation. So long as CRLA doesn't directly represent any ineligible immigrants, it can participate in litigation that might benefit both eligible and ineligible case members."
By keeping strictly to the letter of the regulations, CRLA held its critics at bay for more than a decade. Early in 2000, however, CRLA began filing complaints against powerful dairy interests in the Central Valley, settling one of many cases on behalf of dairy workers for $475,000. According to Padilla, in late 2000 the first of several federal investigations of CRLA began, requested by Congressmen from rural California.
In 2006 the LSC issued a report, requested by Rep. Devin Nunes (R-Visalia), finding "substantial evidence that CRLA has violated federal law" by engaging in conduct prohibited by funding restrictions. A year later Kirt West, outgoing LSC inspector general, issued a subpoena demanding 33 months of data on 39,000 clients to determine if CRLA "disproportionately focuses its resources on farm worker and Latino work." CRLA refused to comply with the subpoena, Padilla says, "because California law protects clients and their confidentiality." The case has been fully briefed and awaits either the scheduling of a hearing or a decision.
"The Office of Inspector General can make no conceivable use of the 39,000 client names and their spouse names it is seeking," says Marty Glick, a partner at San Francisco's Howard Rice Nemerovski Canady Falk & Rabkin who represents CRLA. "It refuses to say why it wants or needs them. It is also demanding access to privileged and work-product memoranda and documents. One has to wonder what the purpose is. Why is the effort to give people redress for the failure to pay legal wages or overtime so controversial?"
Last year the LSC put CRLA's funding on a month-to-month basis, but in 2008 relaxed restrictions to a six-month cycle. "But there's no end in sight," Padilla says. "The message we get is that CRLA should change the way it advocates for low-wage and Latino workers. We're being punished for protecting our clients."
To indigenous communities, however, the prohibition on representing undocumented people is a greater problem than the fight with the dairies. "That prohibition doesn't change the conditions that uproot our communities and turn us into migrants," Dominguez says. "But ranchers know there's no one to defend us. People decide not to file complaints because they're afraid, and bosses sometimes use undocumented status to threaten people if they try. In some places, just walking on the streets is dangerous if you have no papers."
Some members of Congress argue that more enforcement of employer sanctions (the provision of the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act that bars employers from hiring workers without valid immigration status) would stop the abuse. Workers without documents would be forced to leave the country, the logic goes, and growers would be forced to hire other, less vulnerable workers. "That won't stop migration either," Dominguez says, "since it doesn't deal with why people come."
"We know the law," Padilla says, "but whatever workforce is in the fields should have basic rights." CRLA and most labor unions today say it would be better to devote more resources to enforcing labor standards for all workers. "Otherwise, wages will be depressed in a race to the bottom, since if one grower has an advantage, others will seek the same thing."
Others in Congress-and some California growers-call for relaxing the requirements on guest worker visas. Under the current H2-A program for agriculture, growers can recruit workers on temporary visas for less than a year. These workers must remain employed by the contractor who recruits them. Although there are minimum wage and housing requirements, a recent report by the Southern Poverty Law Center, Close to Slavery: Guestworker Programs in the United States, documents extensive abuses under the system.
"These workers don't have labor rights or benefits," Dominguez charges. "It's like slavery. If workers don't get paid or they're cheated, they can't do anything." The Department of Labor allows H2-A contractors to maintain lists of workers eligible and ineligible for rehire - in effect, blacklists.
"The governments of both Mexico and the U.S. are dependent on the cheap labor of Mexicans. They don't say so openly, but they are," Dominguez concludes. "What would improve our situation is legal status for the people already here, and greater availability of visas based on family reunification." The current immigration preference system set up by the 1965 Immigration Act places a priority on the ability of citizens and legal residents to petition for their family members abroad, rather than treating migrants simply as a low-priced labor supply. "Legalization and more visas would resolve a lot of problems - not all, but it would be a big step," he says. "Walls won't stop migration, but decent wages and investing money in creating jobs in our countries of origin would decrease the pressure forcing us to leave home."