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CRIT-GEOG-FORUM  September 2006

CRIT-GEOG-FORUM September 2006

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Subject:

FW: I was a slave in Puglia (Fabrizio Gatti)

From:

Jon Cloke <[log in to unmask]>

Reply-To:

Jon Cloke <[log in to unmask]>

Date:

Fri, 8 Sep 2006 10:36:29 +0000

Content-Type:

text/plain

Parts/Attachments:

Parts/Attachments

text/plain (613 lines)

More apologies.

Jon Cloke
Newcastle University

L'Espresso 1/9/06

I was a slave in Puglia
by Fabrizio Gatti

Versione italiana
http://espresso.repubblica.it/dettaglio/Io%20schiavo%20in%20Puglia/ 
1370307&ref=hpstr1


Photogalleries
http://espresso.repubblica.it/multimedia/389758

Exploited. Underpaid. Lodged in filthy shacks. Beaten to death if they
complain. Diary of a week in hell amidst the foreign laborers in the
province of Foggia

The boss wears a white shirt, black trousers and dusty shoes. He's from
Puglia, but he hardly speaks Italian. To make himself understood he  seeks
the assistance of his bodyguard, a Maghrebin who is in charge of keeping
everything under control in the fields. "Find out what this guy  wants. If
he's looking for work, tell him we don't need anyone, today." The boss
speaks in dialect and drives away in his SUV.
The Maghrebin speaks perfect Italian. He doesn't wear any stripes on his
sweaty shirt but it's quite obvious that he's the caporale, the "gang
master." "Are you from Romania?" A grimace is all it takes to convince
him. "I can hire you. Tomorrow," he promises. "Do you have a girl  friend?"
"A girlfriend?" "You have to bring me a woman. For the boss. If you  bring
him one, he'll put you to work right away. Any girl will do." He  points to
a twenty year-old woman and her companion, working on the conveyor  belt of
a huge tractor that is being used to gather tomatoes. "Those two are
Romanians, just like you. She slept with the boss." "But I'm alone." "No
work for you then."

There's no limit to shame in the triangle of slavery. The gang master
wants a woman for the boss to screw. This is the price farm laborers  have
to pay in order to work in the heart of Puglia. A triangular area where
there are no laws, which covers almost the entire province of Foggia.  From
Cerignola to Candela and upwards, in the North, beyond San Severo. It is
hard to believe, but this area is located in the progressive region
governed by Nichi Vendola, just half an hour away from the beaches of  the
Gargano; in the land of Giuseppe Di Vittorio, the hero of union  struggles
and one of the historical leaders of the CGIL, along the same road
traveled by pilgrims on their way to the huge sanctuary of San Giovanni
Rotondo.

In order to pass a week undercover amidst the slave laborers it is
necessary to undertake a voyage that takes one beyond the limits of  human
imagination. But this is the only way to report on the horrors that the
immigrants are forced to endure.

They're at least five thousand people, maybe seven thousand. No one has
ever carried out a census. They're all foreigners; all employed as
so-called "black workers" the name used to describe illegal, untaxed and
underpaid work scams. They are Romanians with or without work permits,
Bulgarians, Poles. And Africans: from Nigeria, Niger, Mali, Burkina  Faso,
Uganda, Senegal, Sudan, and Eritrea. Some have just entered the country
illegally on small boats, only a few days ago. They came from Libya
because they knew that in the summer they could find work here. It makes
no sense to patrol the coasts if Italian businessmen decide to ignore  the
law.Down here they also ignore the Constitution: articles one, two and
three. As well as the Universal Declaration of Rights.

To protect their affairs, farmers and landowners have created an army of
ruthless gang masters: Italians, Arabs, and Eastern Europeans. They  lodge
their workers in makeshift shacks that are avoided even by stray dogs.
Without water or electricity, in disgusting hygenical conditions. They
make the men work from 6 AM to 10 PM. And they pay them only - when they
pay them - 15 or 20 Euros per day. Complaints are dealt with by beatings
with a steel bar. Some workers decided to seek the assistance of the
Police, in Foggia: thanks to the Immigration Law named after Umberto  Bossi
and Gianfranco Fini, they were arrested or expelled from Italy because
they didn't have the necessary work permits.

Others ran away. The gang masters searched for them all night long.  It was
a scene similar to the manhunts in Alan Parker's film, "Mississippi
Burning." In the end, some of them were captured and some of them were
killed. Now it's the season of the "Red Gold," it is the season of the
tomato harvest. Almost all the produce used by the canneries that make
tomato sauce in Salerno, Naples and Caserta comes from the province of
Foggia. Fresh perino tomatoes grown here become pelati, canned peeled
tomatoes or passata, cooked tomato concentrate. The ones that aren't  ripe
yet are used as salad tomatoes. They're picked in the triangle of the
slaves and they end up being used to make the dishes of all of Italy and
half of Europe. Then there are the pomodori a grappolo, the cherry
tomatoes on the vine that are used to make pizza. Soon it'll be time to
harvest other vegetables, like eggplants and peppers. The industrialists
pretend to ignore what's going on and at the end of the harvest they all
get in line to cash in their agricultural subsidies from Brussels.
L'espresso controlled dozens of fields. There isn't even a single one
where the seasonal laborers are being treated according to the law. But
one should not think that this is just a case of illegal competition
inside the European Union: the most serious abuses against human rights
are tolerated within these fields and olive groves.

It's not difficult to become a part of Europe's sleaziest agricultural
market. All it takes is a phony name to be used from time to time. A
photocopy of a decree that sanctions that immigration has not been
granted, obtained last year at the immigration detention center on the
island of Lampedusa. And a bicycle to escape as far as possible, in case
of danger.The gang master who demands a woman for the boss controls the
gathering of perino tomatoes in Stornara. He usually works on one of the
first fields on the left, just outside the town, along the road that,
through the haze, leads to Stornara. It's wiser to move on.
To get here, one has to pedal along state road 16 and then continue
through the olive groves for another 10 kilometers. The hamlet is like a
small island in the middle of a sea of fields. At the railway station in
Foggia, Mahmoud, 35-years-old, from the Ivory Coast, had told me that  the
tomato harvest had probably already begun. He sleeps in a hole in the
ground near Lucera and is unemployed. There, in the north, the tomatoes
aren't ripe yet. So, for a small fee, Mahmoud sells information to the
newcomers who arrive by train.

Today must be the hottest day of the entire summer: 42 degrees Celsius,
according to the headlines of the newspapers at the newsstand in the
station. In the middle of the fields, an abandoned stable appears in the
haze. Africans inhabit it. They're resting on an old sofa under a tree.
Someone speaks Tamashek, they are Tuaregs. A greeting in their language
helps break the ice.
Racial segregation is rigidly applied in the province of Foggia. The
Romanians sleep with other Romanians. The Bulgarians with other
Bulgarians. Africans with other Africans. The rule applies to hiring as
well. The gang masters don't allow any exceptions.

So, if a White man wants to discover how the Blacks are treated, he  has to
use a borrowed name. Donald Woods, from South Africa. The name of the
legendary journalist who denounced the horrors of apartheid to the  world.
"If you're a South African, you can stay," says Asserid, 28 years  old. He
left Tahoua in Niger, in September 2005. He arrived in Lampedusa, in  June
2006. After being locked up for 40 days in the detention center in
Caltanissetta, he was finally released with an expulsion order. He says
he's been in Puglia for 5 days. Asserid crossed the Sahara desert by  foot
and catching rides on old four-wheel-drive vehicles and managed to reach
Al Zuwara, the Libyan headquarters of human traffickers and boats  that set
sail to Italy.
"In Libya, all the immigrants know that Italians hire foreigners to pick
tomatoes. That's why I'm here. This is just a stop on the road for me. I
had no choice." Asserid claims he hopes to save some money and head  off to
Paris.

Adama, 40-years old, a Nigerian Tuareg from Agadez, traveled the  opposite
route. He arrived in Paris with a tourist visa. Then he fell on hard
times. He was expelled from France as an illegal immigrant so he came  down
to Puglia, lured by the harvest of the red gold. "This is the
Northern-most Tuareg encampment in history," jokes Adama. But there is
little to laugh about. The water they pull up from the well using
re-cycled containers is undrinkable; wastes and herbicides pollute  it. The
bathroom is a swarm of flies over a hole. Two men sleep on each of the
filthy mattresses strewn on the ground and each man pays 50 euro a month
for the privilege. And they are the lucky ones.
Other gang masters demand ?5 per night for a sleeping space in a shack,
that must be added to a 50 cent or even ?1 cut off their hourly wages,
plus another ?5 for transportation to the fields. It doesn't take  much to
figure out that the gang masters have devised all sorts of schemes to  earn
their easy money.


At 2.30 PM, the gang master drives up in his VW Golf.  The car is loaded
to the roof. "This guy, is he really an African?" he questions the  others
about the only Caucasian in the group. Nobody knows what to say.
"I pay 3 euro per hour. OK for you? Ok, jump in," the man says to me.  He's
dressed in shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, with a tattoo of a  woman in
a bikini seen from her back, on his biceps.

We're off. Nine of us in the Golf, 3 in front, 5 on the backseat. And a
young boy, bent over like a toy furry animal, stowed away in the luggage
compartment. The 10-minute-long drive is worth ?40 for the gang master.
The guys call the man Giovanni. They've already worked from 6 AM to  12.30
PM. The 2 hour-long break wasn't granted out of kindness; today it was
unbearably hot, even for the bosses, so they decided to grant everyone a
siesta.
Giovanni introduces himself to me, glancing in the rearview mirror: "I'm
John and you?" Then he warns me: "John good if you good. If you bad?"  The
conversation ends there because he speaks neither English nor French but
the big diver's knife, laid out on the dashboard completes the message,
clearer than words.
Amadou, 29 years old, a Nigerian from Filingue, reveals the workers'
concerns: "Giovanni, today it's Friday and we haven't been paid for 3
weeks. We've almost finished our supplies of pasta. For 15 days we've  had
only pasta and tomatoes to eat. The boys are exhausted. They need  meat to
keep on working."
  The promised ?3 per hour were only a lie. But Giovanni makes more
promises. Whenever he answers he says: "We Turks," even if the license
plates on the car are from Bulgaria. Judging by his accent he could be
Russian or Ukrainian.
"I swear in the name of God," continues the gang master, "today we'll  get
the money and we'll pay you all. You must believe me. I work just  like the
rest of you do, in Stornara. I'm not making fun of my colleagues."


Giovanni lives on the outskirts of the hamlet. In a brick villa on the
right, half way down the stretch to Stornara. Just across the road from
another stable that seems on the verge of collapsing, without water and
inhabited by slaves.
The overloaded Golf runs and swerves on the provincial road, heading
towards Lavello. The speedometer reads 100 kilometers per hour, pure
madness. Just abreast of the first farms outside the village, Giovanni
turns right and heads down a dirt road. After 2 kilometers he stops the
car and we continue on foot, in single file.
When the boss sees the group of African workers approach, he starts  making
noises like a monkey. Then he barks order using the insults made famous
after they were pronounced by the vice-President of the Senate, Roberto
Calderoli: "Come on Bingo Bongo!" In the same instant a van discharges
nine Romanians. Three of them are women, the only females in the group.


We work looking at the ground. If someone raises their head, they're
immediately screamed at: "What the fuck is there to look at," yells the
boss. "Put your head down and get back to work," he yells,  approaching the
culprit with a menacing demeanor.
Leonardo, roughly 30-years-old is from Puglia. He's wearing Bermudas, an
undershirt and fancy sunglasses, almost as if he'd just arrived from the
beach. `By the way he talks, it's possible to gather that he's the owner
of the farm. Or more likely, the owner's son. He's in charge of the work
force, a sort of commander of the gang masters.
His farm is some 10 kilometers further down the road, on the  outskirts of
Stornara. Just off the same road Giovanni has taken to drive the  slaves to
work.
Another Italian, the gang master of the Romanians, assists Leonardo.  He's
wearing a white polo shirt; he has long hair and a well-groomed  mustache.


Most likely the third Italian is the buyer of the crop. He's thin, short
blonde hair. Hi cell phone is hanging on a golden chain and dangles in
front of his chest. He speaks with a strong Neapolitan accent.
He parks his SUV and immediately makes himself heard. Someone has
mistakenly laid several full cases of tomatoes on the plants. So he
screams like a madman: "I swear to God, if anyone else puts another case
on the plants, I'll break his head with it."


The three Italians are sweating but only on account of the heat. They
don't move a muscle except to watch the slaves.
Giovanni goes to pick up some other slaves. Then he returns twice with
supplies of water. Four plastic bottles, each one filled with 1and
1&#8260;2 liters, are all there is for 17 thirsty people. The bottles  have
been filled up only God knows where. One of them has a hole and is  almost
empty. The water stinks but at least it is cool. Anyway, it's hardly
enough for all. Two swigs of water in more than four hours of hard  work in
40 degrees Celsius can't quench anyone's thirst.
Most of the Africans haven't had any lunch or even breakfast, for that
matter. Some of them manage to eat some green tomatoes without getting
caught by the gang masters. They eat the tomatoes knowing that they've
been sprayed with pesticides and poisons. Maybe that's why, for days,
nobody has any mosquito bites.
Leonardo wants to know how come there are Whites in Africa. He walks  among
the curved backs like a professor among his students. Mohamed, 28 years
old, from Guinea, is given permission to speak. To stop working or to
speak, one always needs to ask permission. Mohamed knows why there are
Whites in South Africa. He has a degree in Political Sciences and
International Relations from the University of Algeria. He speaks  Italian,
French and Arabic. And he answers, while remaining on his knees in front
of that Italian who shows no shame in admitting he's never heard of  Nelson
Mandela.


"Have you understood?" Leonardo asks the other two Italians, after a
while. "In Italy, the fair skinned people live in the North while we in
the South are dark skinned. In Africa, in the South they're White and
these people from the North are Black."


The incident happens suddenly. Michele is the oldest of the Romanians.
He's in his sixties, grey hair. He's loading cases full of tomatoes onto
the trailer hitched behind the tractor. The wooden case is thin and dry
and it cracks, and 12 kilos of tomatoes roll on the ground.
Before Michele has a chance to bend over and gather them, Leonardo, with
his hand closed in a fist, strikes him on the head. "Pay attention,
asshole," he screams. "Do you think we're gonna stand here and wait  while
you drop the cases?"
Michele mumbles an excuse. He's too tired and too offended to speak  out 
loud.
"Sorry, my ass," says Leonardo. "You've gotta pay attention."
We all stop working and watch. A girl stands up to protest. The man with
the Neapolitan accent runs up like a fury. "Get down, nothing's  happened.
Get down or nobody goes home until the work is finished." As though  anyone
of these people had a home to return to!
Michele returns to load the tractor helped by other Romanians. Half an
hour later, he's sitting on the ground again, holding his head. He's
bleeding heavily from his nose. One of his companions squeezes a ripe
tomato on his forehead to soothe the pain.


The man with the mustache tells Leonardo what happened.
"I had to hit him with a stone right between the eyes. I had to do it.
That asshole got pissed off at me because you'd beaten him and because
there's no money for them tonight. As though it were my fault. He  grabbed
a stone and I took it away from him. As if we can allow some shitty
Romanian to threaten us."
Leonardo smiles.


We stop working when the sun goes disappears behind the Dauni Mountains.
Michele is feeling better. The Romanians gather around their gang  master.
Giovanni takes a photo of his group. The photo is used to know who's on
the payroll and in case someone runs away.
Then it's time for everyone to sign the register with the number of  hours
they've worked. Today we've finished working earlier than usual.


The gang master explains why to Amadou during the return drive: "The
carabinieri are out here."
Giovanni points to a field of tomatoes along the road. "Do you see this
field? This afternoon the carabinieri came and picked up some of my  boys.
I've got people working here, too. But don't be afraid. The field where
you guys are working," he says, pointing to his shoulder, as though he
were wearing stripes, "is controlled by the mafia."
Sometimes these raids happen on payday. Sometimes it's the bosses who  call
the municipal police, the State police or the carabinieri, alerting them
to the presence of the immigrants in the fields. An anonymous phone call
will do the trick. This way the gang masters get to keep their money and
the prefectures can update their lists with the names of the new
immigrants who've been expelled.


Amadou points out that, once again, no one is getting paid. "Are you a
Muslim?" Giovanni asks. "Yes. Well, I swear in Allah's name that next  week
I'll pay all of you. And if you need meat, I swear I'll invite you all
over to my house. Obviously, next week, when you can pay for the meat."
On May 14 1904, the police attacked a demonstration of farm laborers.
Young Giuseppe Di Vittorio was among the group. Four people were killed,
among them 14-year-old Antonio Morra, a childhood friend of the future
union leader.
Nowadays, the protests are dealt with before they start. The gang  masters
act as a sort of parallel police force. The businessmen ask them to
intervene whenever there are any problems.


The gang masters establish their power by enforcing the rules. "Tomorrow
morning I'll pick you up at 5 o'clock," says Giovanni, after he's  unloaded
all of his passengers.
It's almost 10 PM. Taking into account a quick shower with the water  from
the well and the time to consume a miserable dinner, we're left with  only
five hours to sleep.
The Africans warn me about the sanctions. If someone shows up late for
work, once they arrive in the fields, they're beaten. The fine for
skipping work, even if they're sick, is ?20, and that means having to  work
for free, for almost a full day.


If you travel fifty kilometers further north, you can hear similar
stories. The map shows the town of Villaggio Amendola. It used to be a
farming hamlet. Now it's only a ghost town inhabited by Romanians and
Bulgarians who've been reduced into slavery. Just like the former sugar
refinery in Rignano or the town of Ghetto where, in the evening, you can
hear township music, it seems like Soweto.
Here 100 per cent of the inhabitants are non-Italians. They're all
pickers, all foreigners with a single exception, 51-year-old Giuseppina
Lombardo, from Calabria.
For the local farmers she's a saintly woman. With her Tunisian friend  who
goes by the name, Aziz, she can manage to assemble a team of tomato
pickers in less than half an hour. Giuseppina and Aziz live off the
slaves. They own the only well in Villaggio Amendola. The water is
polluted but they sell it anyway: the price is 50 cents for a 20-liter
jerry can.
They also own the only store in the hamlet. In case a worker doesn't  want
to loose a day's work due to dysentery they're more than happy to  sell him
mineral water. They also sell meat and chicken: of uncertain quality and
at double the price compared to other stores.
It's not easy to infiltrate oneself as an immigrant in this ghetto  and to
overcome the fears of its prisoners. Because Aziz, like all the other  gang
masters, makes sure that everyone knows that talkers will be ruthlessly
punished. In this town, Aziz and his companion set the laws.


Many here remember only too well what happened on Easter week in  2005. One
afternoon a young 22-year-old Romanian, who'd just arrived four days
earlier, returned to Villaggio Amendola loaded with shopping bags. He'd
been to Foggia and he passed in front of the gang master's store with  his
booty: a bottle of oil, some pasta.
The eyewitness who tells the story to L'espresso is convinced that Aziz
considered that behavior an act of rebellion. The Romanians say that,
shortly after, two men confronted the new arrival. One of them, they  say,
is a relative of Aziz. They hit him right in the middle of his head  with a
steel bar. Then they threw the bleeding body of the semi-conscious man
onto a van and drove off. The boy was never seen again.
A similar story happened this year, on July 20. The day before,
39-year-old Pavel had an argument with Giuseppina. He dropped ?15 in the
store and she accused him of stealing from the till.
In Romania, Pavel used to work as a cook for ?150 per month. Ever since
his arrival in Puglia, on March 20, 2004, he's had to tolerate violence
and harassments. He tries to grin and bear it in order to send his  savings
to his wife and to his "fairy," his 15-year-old daughter who's still
attending school.


Pavel has quick arms. Last year, working from dawn to nightfall, he
managed to fill as many as 15 truckloads a day, 4500 kilograms of
tomatoes. With the incentive pay at ?3 per truckload, he was making good
money, he says. After subtracting the gang master's cut and the
transportation fee, Pavel was making ?25 to ?30 per day.
But on July 20, Aziz prevented him from repeating his record. Someone  had
told Aziz that Pavel was complaining about low pay and that the laborers
were being exploited. The Tunisian struck at 2.00 PM, on a day when the
laborers were in their shacks resting, because there was no work to be
done. Pavel used his arms to protect his head. The steel bar broke his
bones and opened deep wounds.


Pavel is certain that the intervention of his roommates saved his life.
But they left him bleeding on his mattress until 1.00 AM in the morning.
The other foreigners were too afraid of Aziz to do anything. They were
also afraid of being expatriated if they called the police.
At 8.00 PM the following evening, someone finally alerted the hospital.
According to the official records, another five hours passed before the
ambulance and a carabinieri patrol showed up at Villaggio Amendola.
On July 31, Pavel was released from the hospital in Foggia, four days
after being operated. The doctors' report says he'll need almost two
months to recover from his wounds. He's got steel pins in his arms, both
of which are in a cast. In violation of their code of ethics, the  doctors
turn him over to the police. Regardless of the fact that as of  January 1,
2007, Romanian citizens might be considered EU citizens, he's treated  like
an illegal immigrant.
Since both of his arms are immobilized, Pavel can't use a pen. The
official decree notifying Pavel that he is being expelled from Italy is
signed by "Primo dirigente dottoressa Piera Romagnosi." On the  document, a
note by the police official states that Pavel "refused to sign the
expulsion papers."
The prefecture of Foggia wastes no time: on the expulsion decree, a note
states that the Romanian is "without a passport." With regards to the
crime of illegal immigration, this is an aggravating factor. The  truth is
that Pavel has a passport.


In the end, for a lack of alternatives, an inspector gives him ?10  and has
him taken by car back to the Villaggio Amendola. The police let him  out of
the car right in front of the store belonging to Giuseppina and Aziz.
The Tunisian decides to deal with the matter immediately. He needs to  show
everyone who is in charge. He threatens Pavel who finds refuge in a  shack
less than a kilometer outside the hamlet. Taking care not to be
discovered, some of his countrymen bring him bread and some water.


After nine days of pain and suffering, a Romanian friend manages to
contact a lawyer in Foggia, Nicola D'Altilia, a former policeman in
Northern Italy. The lawyer finds the shack and immediately brings  Pavel to
the hospital. His wounds are infected. The Romanian laborer is found  to be
in serious condition and undernourished. Pavel has to be cured for
septicemia.
The rest of the story is recent news. On August 21, once again Pavel is
released from the hospital. The lawyer who saved him accompanies him to
the police to complete his complaint against the Tunisian gang master  and
his Italian accomplice; he'd only managed to register his original
complaint on August 14.
After a day in the police headquarters, Pavel is arrested as an illegal
immigrant: he's charged with not having obeyed the expulsion order
according to which he was supposed to leave Italy, departing from Rome's
Fiumicino airport. The fact that he was unable to travel in his  condition
isn't taken into consideration. Regardless of his wounds, Pavel is  forced
to sleep in a cell on a wooden bench.


The following day, he's taken to court and a judge promptly postpones  his
hearing until October. In addition to having lost his job, under the
provisions of the Bossi-Fini law, Pavel risks up to four years in  prison.
A harsher sentence than might befall the gang master who beat him and
who's never been arrested.
"That man," says Pavel, who is still terrorized, "tried to hit me in the
head. He wanted to kill me."
In this area the authorities have already found the bodies of a few
laborers. Slavomit R., a 44-year-old Pole, was burned to death on  July 2,
2005, in a field near Stornara. The case is still unsolved. Just like  the
case of two unidentified bodies found near Foggia.
The disappearances are yet another chapter in the catalogue of horrors.
Nobody knows for sure how many Romanian, Bulgarian or African laborers
have disappeared. When the gang masters hire them or beat them to death,
they don't even know their names.


The only cases on record were opened after an official complaint by the
Polish Embassy. The diplomats from Warsaw had to be very persistent:  since
2005, they've been trying to find out what happened to 13 Poles who came
to work as seasonal laborers in the triangle of slaves and who've never
returned home. They just disappeared without leaving a trace.


The list compiled in August by the Polish Consulate is rather  embarrassing
for the Italian authorities. According to the Polish diplomats, who've
sent 12 official requests for information to the Police headquarters in
Foggia, they haven't received any answer regarding 9 of these cases.
After waiting for months in vain for an answer, they decided to pass the
requests to the General Commanding office of the carabinieri. The
anti-Mafia Prosecutor's office, in Bari, has finally ordered the Ros,  the
carabinieri's elite investigative branch, to open a formal  investigation.
And yet, no one is investigating the death of a child because, it seems,
what happened isn't a crime. It seems that the baby was born at the  end of
August.
During the week of Ferragosto, Liliana D. was still working in the  tomato
fields even though she was 8 months pregnant. She was working in a field
near San Severo. Evidently, neither her husband nor the gang master
thought she needed to be protected from the intense heat and fatigue.
When Liliana became ill it was too late. She had a hemorrhage. She  lay for
two days without medication in the shack where she lived. There's no
family doctor for the slaves in the province of  Foggia.
In the afternoon of Saturday, August 19, her husband brought her to the
hospital at San Severo. The woman was near death and she had to be taken
into the intense care ward. The doctors used a Cesarean section to  deliver
the child, but the baby was dead. One could consider this death a  case of
"collateral damage" of industrial practices that reward price cutting at
all costs.




The food industry in Campania pays 4 to 5 cents per kilo for the  tomatoes
from Puglia. On the stalls along the roads near Foggia, the price of
perino tomatoes has already risen to 60 cents per kilo. In Milan, the  ripe
tomatoes to be used to make tomato sauce fetch ?1,20 per kilo and the
price for golden tomatoes is ?2,80 per kilo. At the supermarket, the  price
for passata, cooked tomato concentrate from Campania, varies between 86
cents and ?1,91 per kilo. Pelati, canned peeled tomatoes can cost  between
?1,04 and ? 3,00 per kilo.
And yet, in the ghetto in Stornara, even tonight, at the end of the  month,
the laborers still don't have enough money to buy a piece of meat.
"Donald, don't go away," pleads Amadou. "Giovanni is very angry with you
because you left the group. He's looking for you. I'll go let him know
that you're here."
In the midst of all this misery, Amadou has figured out the most
convenient behavior. Even though he himself belongs to the number of men
forced to kneel to earn a living, he's chosen to side with the gang
masters.
It's time to grab my bike and run. In the darkness. Before Giovanni
decides to call his henchmen and they start hunting me in the fields.

Traduzione di Wolfgang Achtner

---------------

The doctors accuse: they arrive healthy and they get sick here


They live in conditions unfit for human beings. A few days ago,  dozens of
inhabitants of the town of Ghetto, between Foggia and Rignano, have  fallen
sick with gastroenteritis since the water supply they use is filthy.  This
year, once again, the Asl Foggia 3 [ed.: the health authority's local
office] has refused to allow the foreigners exploited like slaves in the
fields use the local health structures or their book of medical
prescriptions. The denunciation has been made by the French  organization,
Medici senza frontiere, "Doctors without borders," that has managed to
obtain the cooperation of Asl Foggia 2, in order to provide sanitary and
humanitarian assistance in the Southern region of the province. For the
past three years, as if it were another war zone, a mobile health  unit of
Msf has been transferred to the agricultural area between Cerignola and
San Severo. The team consists of a doctor, a welfare worker and a
coordinator: this year, respectively, Viviana Prussiani, Carla  Manduca and
Teo Di Piazza. "This is the third consecutive year that we've been  forced
to keep this project running," says Andrea Accardi, the director of the
Italian missions of Msf. "Once again, in the summer of 2006, we are  forced
to confront the same situation: the foreigners are healthy when they
arrive here and the become sick on account of the unsanitary conditions
they live in, out in the fields. They receive no form of assistance from
the local system. The economic system is totally hypocritical and  thrives
on the connivance and the involvement of all the players. Starting off
with the Italian government and the local authorities, that is the
municipalities and the prefectures, and including the health  authorities,
the businessmen's organizations and the unions."

In 2005 Msf  published a report "The fruits of hypocrisy," on the  terrible
condition of foreign laborers exploited like slaves, not only in Puglia.
According to the type of harvest, similar situations can be found in  other
Italian regions, including Calabria, Campania, Basilicata and Sicily.  The
worst sicknesses were diagnosed among the laborers who have been  living in
Italy for the longest periods of time, between 18 and 24 months. 40 per
cent of the agricultural laborers live in abandoned buildings. More than
50 per cent live in dwellings that have no running water, 30 per cent  live
without electricity. 43.2 per cent have no toilets. 30 per cent have  been
subjected to some form of abuse, violence or ill treatment during the  past
six months; in 82,5 per cent of these cases, their assailant was an
Italian.

-----------------

Bosses without laws

Entrepreneurs belonging to Foggia's agricultural industries and many
national food companies are operating businesses in the triangle of
slaves. Small or large companies operate in the same manner. When they
have to hire seasonal laborers for the harvests, almost all choose to  use
the caporalato, the system controlled by the gang masters. The pay  for the
foreigners varies between 2,50 to 3,00 euro per hour; the laborers must
give a cut of their earnings to the gang masters and pay them for other
"services." Only a small percentage of the farmers questioned by
L’espresso say they pay the laborers fees that vary between 4,00 to 4,50
euro per hour. But still "in black," untaxed and unregistered wages and
using gang masters. In the Veneto and Friuli regions a laborer earns, on
the average, 5,80 euro per hour and a portion of their social insurance
taxes are paid by their employers, if they are hired according to the  law.
In the same regions, a laborer who is paid illegal, untaxed and
unregistered wages can earn between 6,20 and 7,00 euro per hour.  According
to Italian labor laws, laborers must receive daily wages of 35,00  euro. In
order to encourage entrepreneurs to hire legally, the government has
reduced by 75 percent the share of insurance taxes that must be paid by
employers, while the share that must be paid to Inps by the workers,  8,54
percent, has remained the same. Government controls are either
non-existent or useless. Last year, in the province of Foggia, only one
entrepreneur, in the town of Orta Nuova, was arrested for exploiting
illegal immigrants.

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