NYT

April 15, 2001

Lives Held Cheap in Bangladesh Sweatshops

By BARRY BEARAK

NARSINGDI, Bangladesh — The fire in
the garment factory began on the fourth
floor, where polo shirts, neatly folded in
boxes, made a fine feast for the hungry
flames. The 1,250 workers scampered for
their lives, most of them hurrying to the
stairway that led to the main exit. There, at
the bottom, was a folding gate. It was locked.

Jewel Samad/Agence France-Presse, for The New York Times
Factory workers at Chowdhury
Knitwears in Narsingdi, Bangladesh,
worked on polo shirts, top.

In panic, the trapped people spun around,
rushing back up the steps, colliding with those
coming down. It was night. The lights had
gone out. Some workers squeezed through
windows, shimmying down an outside pipe or
chancing a desperate leap.

The rest were caught in a human knot on the
dark stairs, arms pushing, mouths screaming,
hearts pounding. Some people fell and were
trampled. That is how nearly all of the fire's
52 victims died, their final breaths stomped
out of them on the hard concrete of the
teeming steps. Most were young women. Ten
were children.

Jewel Samad/Agence France-Presse, for The New York Times
Rashida Begum, 18, who was injured in a
fire at a garment factory, prepares for
work with her mother's help.

What Bangladesh has to offer the global
economy is some of the world's cheapest
labor — and what this impoverished nation
has received in return is the economic boost
of a $4.3 billion apparel industry, the fuller
pockets that come with 1.5 million jobs and
the horrors that arise from 3,300 inadequately
regulated garment factories, some of which
are among the worst sweatshops ever to taunt
the human conscience.

The Associated Press
Many third world garment factories are
unsafe. Workers tried to descend from a
building in Dhaka, Bangladesh, in 1997
after a false fire alarm caused a fatal
stampede.

"We still suffer from the legacy of the colonial
days," said one factory owner, Muhammad
Saidur Rehman. "We consider the workers to
be our slaves, and this belief is made all the
easier by a supply of labor that is endlessly
abundant."

For the most part, it is the wretched of the
earth who do the world's tailoring. Made in
Bangladesh competes with Made in
Honduras, Made in the Philippines, Made in
Macao, Made in Any Steamy Reservoir of
Third World Unemployment: those places
where plentiful labor lacks the leverage to
command high pay, and the most pitiful thing
about the jobs is how hard it is to get them.

Last November's fire at Chowdhury
Knitwears interrupted a frantic production
schedule. Finished sportswear was due at
stores in Britain. The workers, used to a 12-hour day, were ordered to toil as long
as 18. They were given a lunch break at 1 p.m., then a shorter breather at 10 p.m.,
when each received a piece of bread and a banana.

Holidays, mandated by law, were a myth at the Chowdhury factory, said dozens of
employees. People were expected to work virtually every day of the year. Overtime
pay, another legal requirement, was also a myth. Most wages ranged from $25 to
$50 a month — or as little as 6 cents an hour. Children earned less.

"When we'd complain, they'd lock the gates so we couldn't get out," said Aleya
Begum, a sewing machine operator here on the outskirts of Narsingdi, 35 miles
northeast of Dhaka, the capital. "If someone complained too much, they were fired."

Those long hours had never included a fire drill. And, in the days after the blaze,
outraged politicians demanded accountability for the senseless deaths. They decried
the garment industry's callous disregard for safety and lamented the government's
listlessness in making inspections. Cabinet ministers comforted the hospitalized. The
prime minister offered condolences, praying that each of the departed souls would
enjoy a peaceful hereafter.

Such hand wringing in a fire's aftermath is by now a studied ritual. Bangladesh's
garment industry is barely 15 years old, but the business has grown so rapidly that it
accounts for 76 percent of the nation's exports. The number of manufacturers
continues to multiply, as do the recurring nightmares: the flames, the locked doors,
the frenzied stampedes, the mourning. Since 1995, there have been 30 of these fires,
with 17 involving fatalities, according to one labor group that has maintained a list.

Factories are often makeshift enterprises, many of them in the rented upper floors of
Dhaka's decrepit downtown buildings. Workers trudge up the narrow stairs, ready
to stitch bright fabric beneath the whirling bobbins. Electrical wiring is frequently a
jangle of overloaded circuits.

The posttragedy ritual is not a prolonged one, however. Reports of investigators are
expediently moved along the bureaucracy's chain of command and then into
oblivion. Accountability, so keenly demanded at first, is never quite determined at
last.

One more tangible result is a short period of haggling. Bereaved families expect
compensation for lost loved ones. After the Chowdhury fire, the factory's workers
staged protest marches and were joined by thousands of sympathizers.

The basic demand was 200,000 taka per victim, about $3,700. That was far
beyond the usual recompense. But then this had been an especially shocking
tragedy.

Upset by the catastrophe and alarmed by bad publicity, leaders of the powerful
manufacturing associations met and decided to chip in, adding a sum to the
Chowdhury factory's own contribution. Together, they pledged a death benefit they
deemed generous: about $1,945.

Nannu Mia, a survivor of the Nov. 25 fire, had helped organize the workers'
protests. "Maybe this was a mistake," he said recently, permitting himself an
anguished moment of reflection. "Maybe I should have licked their boots instead."

For him, the protests have proved regrettable. Among the workers' demands was a
swift reopening of the factory. While this did occur only 44 days after the fire, Mr.
Mia was not welcomed back. He said that being an agitator cost him his job.

At Chowdhury Knitwears, the hours may be a strain and the wages a heartache. But
almost anyone will say that even a dreadful job is better than none.

A Place Rich in Cheap Labor

The apparel business is a very tough dollar, with profit margins figured to the fraction
of a penny. The actual sewing of a shirt is but a tiny part of the final pricing, which
must account for cloth, cutting, dyes, packaging, freight, duties, warehousing,
advertising, floor space and salespeople.

Consumers want bargains. So retailers try to wrench lower prices from suppliers,
who in turn want the clothes stitched at the lowest possible cost. For a poor nation,
rich only in cheap labor, the garment industry is a well-trod pathway into the global
marketplace.

Bangladesh has a population of 131 million — about half that of the United States
— all packed into a country slightly smaller than Iowa.

Its garment workers take home an average monthly wage of $35 for women and
$40 for men, according to Rita Afsar, of the Bangladesh Institute for Development
Studies. Those earnings are about 25 percent higher than the nation's per capita
income.

In the Narsingdi area, with a population of about 3 million, Chowdhury Knitwears is
one of the few major factories. Virtually all employees returned to the whitewashed
four-story building after the fire. Orders for polo shirts were still unfilled. Fabric in
colors with fancy names — rust, midnight, shadow green, putty, orange peel,
brilliant blue — was piled on tables.

The building looked much as always, but important changes had been made. Smoke
alarms were installed. Thin pipes ran along the ceiling. Excessive heat, detected by a
temperature gauge, would automatically trigger a defending spray of water.

This new safety equipment cost nearly $20,000, complained Tanveer Chowdhury,
known as Sagar, the managing director of his family's business. A heavy-set man, he
was seated in a first-floor office, nervously fingering the gold chain around his neck.
He expressed no regret about the loss of life. But he did have more complaints to
make.

"This fire has cost me $586,373," he said. "And that doesn't include $70,000 for
machinery and around $20,000 for furniture. I had made commitments to meet
deadlines, and I still have those deadlines. I am now paying for air freight at $10 a
dozen when I should be shipping by sea at 87 cents a dozen. That means I am
paying . . ." He pecked at a calculator with his right index finger. ". . . 12 times the
shipping price."

Mr. Chowdhury was not there the day of the inferno, but his brother Shamim had
not only been present, he also tried to fight the flames. The fire had begun with a
spark from an electrical spot gun, used to spray stain remover on soiled
merchandise. The blaze then spread to a can of flammable liquid, and a fireball took
off.

A try was made at smothering the flames with shirts. Then a fire extinguisher was
unlatched, but it malfunctioned, painfully discharging its contents into Shamim's face.

Sagar Chowdhury, 34, described the scene, then woefully shook his head. "When
everything is O.K., this business is very good," he said. "Now it is not good."

The family also owns a towel factory, which exports exclusively to America, he said.
Three years ago, they expanded into knitwear because "the money is better."

Mr. Chowdhury boastfully returned to his world of numbers, saying that in a good
year the business netted $1 million. Less happily, he disputed what his employees
had reported about their wages. He said while some did earn as little as the
equivalent of $22 a month, others made as much as $74. He said he paid double for
overtime. Then, with closer questioning, he grew huffy and distracted.

But he did confide the gist of his ample experience. "Knitwear is a headache
business," he said, flicking one hand as if to slap something away. "Headaches with
quality, size, color, everything."

A beleaguered businessman, Mr. Chowdhury rubbed his forehead as if this might
make the aching go away.

`Good Order' to `No Order'

Bangladesh's garment factories run the gamut. Some seem models of progressive
management, with health clinics, day care centers and brightly lighted lunch rooms.
Workers wear surgical masks to screen out fibers in the air, and shiny red fire
extinguishers hug the walls at regular intervals. Other factories are bleak, stuffy
places with cramped aisles that dead-end into haphazard knolls of fabric. Guards
are stationed at locked gates, and fire prevention largely consists of empty red water
pails.

To export, a factory owner must be a member of one of the nation's three textile
associations. These groups then have great power. And from time to time, their
leaders discuss whether they have some duty to use this clout to improve working
conditions.

"Inhuman things do go on, and it's horrible, horrible," said Kutubuddin Ahmed, the
newly elected president of the Bangladesh Garment Manufacturers and Exporters
Association, the biggest of the three. "That Chowdhury fire business, this was
horrible."

Mr. Ahmed said that perhaps the time had come for rigorous inspections, to find out
what factories were in "good order, semi-order and no order," and that the worst of
the lot might face a suspension of their export privileges. "But we don't want to
threaten our members or create a panic," he added in afterthought, cautiously
moderating his zeal.

Do-gooders here are suspected of shallow thinking. Panic — as well as American
naïveté — is widely blamed for a misguided rescue of working children. In 1993,
after news media exposés about Bangladesh's garment factories, Senator Tom
Harkin, Democrat of Iowa, introduced a bill to ban products made with child labor.

Frightened employers impulsively fired tens of thousands of children under the age of
14. By and large, this was not any great setback to the bosses. Very often, they had
hired the children as a favor to woebegone parents. Within the next few years, as
the Harkin bill became law, about 10,000 of the children ended up in special
schools created by Unicef. But most others simply found more dangerous and less
lucrative work — breaking rocks, rolling cigarettes, pulling rickshaws.

"There's no such thing as an unmixed blessing," said Roushan Jahan, an author of a
book about garment workers. "Progress leaves loopholes. A lot is left to the factory
owner's good will, and there is a great deal of curdling in the milk of human
kindness."

So what can be done? If manufacturing groups are hesitant to act, if government
inspectors are easily bribed, if labor unions are yet to find a foothold, if human
consciences are easily held in abeyance, what can make an owner improve
conditions?

Recently, the biggest force for reform has come from big retailers worried about the
bottom line. Some, like Gap and Wal-Mart, were embarrassingly linked to third
world sweatshops and are now rehabilitating their image. Others fear similar
scandals that might make softhearted customers feel guiltily attired.

Some major companies now issue codes of conduct and send inspectors into their
suppliers' factories to enforce the rules, counting fire exits and auditing overtime
records.

These controls are imperfect and a few critics even deride them as farce. And they
do not greatly inflate the pay. At Shanta Apparel Ltd. in Dhaka, which has
manufactured goods for Tommy Hilfiger, J. C. Penney and Gap, an average
employee earns $42 a month, the manager said. But the factory supplies its workers
with purified water, clean bathrooms and a doctor on the premises. Doors stay
unlocked. There are fire exits.

"That's the wave of the future, buyers who order you to put in two more toilets and
place more space between the machines," said Monjural Hoq, president of one of
the other manufacturing associations. "That's all fine, as long as they pay us more to
get it."

An Uncertain Future

Most factories do not work with the major stores, however. And in Bangladesh
there is motivation for owners to gobble up maximum profits before it is too late.

For all the garment industry's success, its future hangs by a thread. Nearly half the
exports go to America, where a quota system on imported clothes has favored
Bangladesh, limiting some of its biggest competitors to a smaller share of the United
States market.

But those quotas expire on Jan. 1, 2005.

After that, the lure of cheap labor may not be enough. Other circumstances make
Bangladesh a less practical supplier. Power outages are epidemic. Floods wash
away roads. The port is overwhelmed. More important, raw materials for
manufacturing need to be brought in at added expense.

Without quota restrictions, China and India, which grow their own cotton, are likely
to capture far more of the business from the United States.

And many poor Bangladeshis — suddenly jobless — will find themselves poorer
still.

Two-thirds of the garment workers are women. With Bangladesh being a
conservative Muslim country, a factory job is one of the few socially acceptable
ways for a woman to earn a living. In Dhaka, most of them live in mammoth slums
that while deplorable for their squalor are notable for being less squalid than others.

Around Narsingdi, workers are more likely to live in villages with the open air,
ripening jackfruit and the moist green of rice paddies. Four months after the fire, the
area still seems contaminated by despair. Families have yet to adjust fully to
rearrangements, with newly orphaned children handed back and forth.

Most any villager can lead a sorrowful tour. One stop was a bamboo hut, where a
14-year-old named Parina was sitting outside on a stool. Her brother Alauddin, who
was 12, had died in the fire, she said. The family badly misses the $11 he earned
each month, but they have nevertheless kept another son, 13-year-old Jalaluddin,
from returning to Chowdhury Knitwears. "He switched to a brick kiln," Parina said.

Khodeza Begum has three surviving children, but none yet old enough to replace her
son Zakir, 15, who had been the family's only breadwinner. "After the fire, all the
bodies were laid out in a row," she said, cupping a small photograph of the boy.
"When I saw his face I fainted."

Rashida Begum, 18, a fragile-looking woman who has returned to the factory
though an injured right hip prevents her from walking easily, was living nearby. She
was trampled as she attempted to escape the fire and remembers a rampage of feet
on her before she lost consciousness. "My mistake was that I fell," she said glumly.

Abdul Qader Mullah, a skilled mechanic, is a muscular young man. People think he
is important to meet because of the awful twist to his story. He bravely stayed
behind to fight the fire, finally lowering himself from the roof with a cable. But by the
time he escaped, his younger brother had been killed, re-entering the building to
look for him.

"His body was so terribly burned up I only recognized him from his belt buckle,"
Mr. Mullah said. "One of our friends, Liton, he also died after going back into the
fire. He had been paid that day and left his money in his other pants."

The surviving families are separated by a peculiar financial distinction. Only 39 of the
52 victims are officially confirmed dead, with their bodies having undergone an
autopsy. Other families either refused to allow the post-mortem, thinking it an
indignity, or buried their loved ones too hastily. They have been denied the $1,945
compensation.

"Thirty-nine confirmed dead, that's the official figure," said Dr. Atiqul Sarwar, head
of a nearby hospital and a member of the government-appointed committee that
investigated the fire.

"The blame," he continued, "was actually due to management. There was a minimum
of fire extinguishers. Workers were locked in. The emergency exit was itself a
danger. It was too steep, sloping almost straight down."

Oddly, and inappropriately, the doctor cracked a smile. He knew this made him
appear unfeeling and he apologized. But he was recalling a friendly disagreement
with the committee's chairman — and enough time had now passed to prove him
right.

In Bangladesh, life, like labor, is cheap, Dr. Sarwar explained. He had insisted their
investigation would be a waste of time; the other man said no. "I told the chairman
we'd accomplish nothing. I told him, `Relax, relax, just relax. The hue and cry lasts
only awhile. And then it means nothing.' "