Report from a Saipan sweatshop

I’m scribing this from a grim sweatshop in Saipan. The conditions here are shocking. Where are the feds?–I fully expect them to raid the place. At the end of this article I’ll disclose where it is and who owns it.

The one worker I have access to for this article hasn’t been paid in eight weeks. He usually works seven days a week, but receives no overtime pay for such toil. He would like to be able to get a glimpse of Saipan’s beaches and sunshine, but he says that he’s so overburdened with his job that he seldom has a chance to venture outside.

The worker has no retirement benefits. No health benefits, either. And dental insurance? Get real.

He has no paid vacation. No paid holidays. And if he’s sick and can’t work, then he loses pay, so he is essentially forced to work even if he has the flu of a fever.

His skin has the pallor of someone who has spent too long under artificial lighting, and not enough time under the sun’s rays.

The work space is a chaotic nightmare of clutter. A broken chair–a clear violation of OSHA standards–sits in a musty corner.

The lighting is dim because the lightbulb broke yesterday. It hasn’t been replaced because the company is so stingy it has forbidden any corporate expenditures until the end of the month.

The worker gets headaches, occasionally, from being overworked. And perched on an old file cabinet is a dusty jar of Rolaids. Contents: five and a half Rolaids, and two dead ants.

This worker came to Saipan from a vast and distant land, lured by promises of a better life. The promises wilted in the harsh reality of corruption and nepotism and shady government dealings.

While the softbellies were at home, heaping the turkey onto their Thanksgiving plates, the sweatshop worker put in a full day at work, and then a full evening, pausing only for a bit of chicken for dinner. His pay for the day: nothing.

And he worked, too, on Christmas. No pay for that, either.

He doesn’t complain, however. He figures it’s his station in life to work where he works. Some of his friends here are in the same position, finding themselves working harder and harder for less and less compensation. They occasionally find an hour or two to pop a cold beer, and they sit outside and discuss their situations in Saipan.

Others have fled the conditions, returning to their homeland. The suitcase squad.

This sweatshop worker hasn’t fled yet, though. Indeed, if you’re reading these words, then the guy who wrote them is still toiling away.

And that, folks, is a report from the humble little office of The Stephens Corporation in As Lito, where a lone economist (me) and writer (me, again) labors in obscurity. With a little Merle Haggard playing on the stereo, and a fresh pot of coffee brewing, it ain’t so bad, really. In fact, I like my office. My name’s on the door. I’m proud of it, even.

But notice how I can make even my situation sound insufferably grim? When I read some of the stuff in the U.S. media, I notice there often times aren’t any real facts, just some wishy washy observations that don’t mean anything at all, yet manage to paint a fuzzy picture in the reader’s mind. Such is the raw power of language.

So feds, if you want a real live sweatshop, here it is. Come on by. The door is always open for you, and if you can do anything to improve these working conditions and pay….I’m listening!

Oh, and bring a lightbulb please.