by Sarah
Stillman
It was lunchtime in Suva, Fiji,
a slow day at the end of the tourist season in September of 2007, when four
men appeared in the doorway of the Rever Beauty Salon, where Vinnie Tuivaga
worked as a hair stylist. The men wore polished shoes and bright Hawaiian
shirts, and they told Vinnie about a job that sounded, she recalls, like “the
fruits of my submission to the Lord all these years.” How would she like to
make five times her current salary at a luxury hotel in Dubai, a place known as
the City of Gold? How would she like to have wealthy Arab customers, women
who paid ridiculous fees for trendy cut-and-color jobs?
“I’ll talk it over with my husband,” she replied, coolly,
but her pulse was racing. Vinnie, who was forty-five, had never worked abroad,
but she often dreamed of it while hearing missionaries’ lectures at her local
church. Nearly six feet tall and two hundred and thirty pounds, Vinnie moved
with an arthritic gait. But she took care with her appearance. She wore shiny
slacks, with a gold pageboy cap on her perfectly coiffed frosted black hair,
and carried a bright-red faux-leather purse, stuffed with silver eyeshadow. She
could see herself working in one of the great cosmopolitan capitals. The offer
seemed like her big break, the chance to send her teen-age daughter to
hospitality college and to pay her youngest son’s fees for secondary school.
Later that week, at a salon around the corner, Lydia
Qeraniu, thirty-two, heard a similar offer. A quick-witted woman with a
coquettish smile and a figure that prompted Fijian men to call out “uro,
uro!”—slang for “yummy”—Lydia
was thrilled by the prospect of a career in Dubai. So were many other women in beauty
shops and beachside hotels across Fiji. A Korean Air flight to Dubai would be leaving from Nadi International
Airport in a few days.
The women just had to deliver their résumés, hand over their passports, submit
to medical tests, and pay a commission of five hundred dollars to a local
recruitment firm called Meridian Services Agency.
Soon, more than fifty women were lined up outside Meridian’s office to compete for positions that would pay
as much as thirty-eight hundred dollars a month—more than ten times Fiji’s annual
per-capita income. Ten women were chosen, Vinnie and Lydia among them. Vinnie lifted her
arms in the air and sang her favorite gospel song: “We’re gonna make it, we’re gonna make it. With Jesus on
our side, things will work out fine.” Lydia raced home to tell her
husband and explain things to her five-year-old son. “Mommy’s going to be
O.K.,” she recalls telling him. “Dubai,
it’s a rich country. Only good things can happen.”
On the morning of October 10, 2007, the beauticians
boarded their flight to the Emirates. They carried duffelbags full of cosmetics,
family photographs, Bibles, floral sarongs, and chambas, traditional silky
Fijian tops worn with patterned skirts. More than half of the women left
husbands and children behind. In the rush
to depart, none of them examined the fine print on their travel documents:
their visas to the Emirates weren’t employment permits but thirty-day travel
passes that forbade all work, “paid or unpaid”; their occupations were listed
as “Sales Coördinator.” And Dubai
was just a stopping-off point. They were bound for U.S.
military bases in Iraq.
Lydia and Vinnie were unwitting recruits for the
Pentagon’s invisible army: more than seventy thousand cooks, cleaners,
construction workers, fast-food clerks, electricians, and beauticians from the
world’s poorest countries who service U.S.
military logistics contracts in Iraq
and Afghanistan. Filipinos
launder soldiers’ uniforms, Kenyans truck frozen steaks and inflatable tents,
Bosnians repair electrical grids, and Indians provide iced mocha lattes. The
Army and Air Force Exchange Service (AAFES)
is behind most of the commercial “tastes of home” that can be found on major
U.S. bases, which include jewelry stores, souvenir shops filled with carved
camels and Taliban chess sets, beauty salons where soldiers can receive
massages and pedicures, and fast-food courts featuring Taco Bell, Subway, Pizza
Hut, and Cinnabon. (AAFES’s motto: “We go where you
go.”)
The expansion of private-security contractors in Iraq and Afghanistan is well known. But armed security personnel account for only about
sixteen per cent of the over-all contracting force. The vast
majority—more than sixty per cent of the total in Iraq—aren’t hired guns but hired
hands. These workers, primarily from South Asia
and Africa, often live in barbed-wire compounds on U.S. bases, eat at meagre chow
halls, and host dance parties featuring Nepalese romance ballads and Ugandan
church songs. A large number are employed by fly-by-night
subcontractors who are financed by the American taxpayer but who often operate
outside the law.
The wars’ foreign workers are known, in military
parlance, as “third-country nationals,” or T.C.N.s. Many of them recount having been robbed of wages, injured
without compensation, subjected to sexual assault, and held in conditions
resembling indentured servitude by their subcontractor bosses. Previously unreleased contractor memos, hundreds of
interviews, and government documents I obtained during a yearlong investigation
confirm many of these claims and reveal other grounds for concern. Widespread
mistreatment even led to a series of food riots in Pentagon subcontractor
camps, some involving more than a thousand workers.
Amid the slow withdrawal of U.S.
forces from Iraq and Afghanistan,
T.C.N.s have become an integral part of the Obama Administration’s long-term
strategy, as a way of replacing American boots on the ground. But top U.S.
military officials are seeing the drawbacks to this outsourcing bonanza. Some
argue, as retired General Stanley McChrystal did before his ouster from Afghanistan, last summer, that the unregulated
rise of the Pentagon’s Third World logistics
army is undermining American military objectives. Others worry that mistreatment of foreign workers has
become, as the former U.S. Representative Christopher Shays, who co-chairs the
bipartisan Commission on Wartime Contracting, describes it, “a human-rights abuse that cannot be tolerated.”
The extensive outsourcing of wartime
logistics—first put to the test during the Clinton
Administration, in Somalia
and the Balkans—was designed to reduce costs while allowing military personnel
to focus on combat. In practice, though, military privatization has produced
convoluted chains of foreign subcontracts that often lead to cost overruns and
fraud. The Commission on Wartime Contracting
recently warned of the dangers associated with “poorly conceived, poorly
structured, poorly conducted, and poorly monitored subcontracting,”
particularly noting the military’s “heavy reliance on foreign subcontractors
who may not be accountable to any American governmental authority.”
The process of outsourcing begins at major government
entities, notably the Pentagon, which awarded its most recent prime logistics
contract (worth as much as fifteen billion dollars a year) to three U.S.-based
private military behemoths: K.B.R. (the former Halliburton subsidiary), DynCorp
International, and Fluor.
These “prime venders” then shop out the bulk of their
contracts to hundreds of global subcontractors, many based in Middle Eastern
countries that are on the U.S.
State Department’s human-trafficking noncompliance list. Finally, these firms
call upon thousands of Third World “manpower agencies”—small recruiting
operations like Meridian Services.
A common recruiting story involves a tempting ad for
Middle East “Salad Men” torn out of a newspaper, or an online job posting that
promises “openings for cooks/chefs/master chefs for one of the best . . .
middle east jobs.” Given the desperate circumstances of many applicants, few
questions are asked, and some subcontractors sneak workers to U.S. bases
without security clearances, seeking to bypass basic wage and welfare
regulations. “No one plays straight here,” a foreign
concession manager with six years of experience in Iraq told me. He
introduced me to three young Nepali and Bangladeshi workers in a nearby
Popeye’s and Cinnabon, each of whom had paid a smuggler between three hundred
and four hundred dollars to bring them onto the base with a fake letter of
authorization. That’s in addition to the money—an average
of three thousand dollars—they had paid a recruiter in their home country to
get the job.
Such sums are hardly unusual. A typical manpower agency
charges applicants between two thousand and four thousand dollars, a small
fortune in the countries where subcontractors recruit. To raise the money,
workers may pawn heirlooms, sell their wedding rings or land or livestock, and
take out high-interest loans. U.S.
military guidelines prohibit such “excessive” fees. But, in hundreds of
interviews with T.C.N.s, I seldom met a worker who had paid less than a
thousand dollars for his or her job, and I never learned of a case in which
anyone was penalized for charging these fees.
It’s equally uncommon to meet a worker who receives the
salary he or she was promised. A
twenty-five-year-old Taco Bell employee on a major U.S.
base in Iraq told me that he
had paid a recruiting agency in Nepal
four thousand dollars. “You’ll make the money back so quick in Iraq!” he was
assured. When he arrived in Baghdad,
in May, 2009, he was housed in a shipping container behind the U.S. Embassy, in the Green Zone, where he slept
on soiled mattresses with twenty-five other migrants from Nepal, India,
and Bangladesh. Many learned that they were to earn as little as two
hundred and seventy-five dollars a month as cooks and servers for U.S.
soldiers—a fraction of what they’d been promised, and a tiny sliver of what
U.S. taxpayers are billed for their labor.
So he paid another agent three hundred dollars to drive
him in a taxi to a U.S. base
in northern Iraq.
There, an Indian smuggler charged an additional three hundred dollars to help
him get a five-hundred-dollar-a-month job making burritos. “I am safe now,” he
said, tearfully, from the food-delivery window. “That is past, yeah? The Army
is my father and my mother.”
For those familiar with the service economies of the Gulf states, this labor pipeline is simply the latest
extension of a transnational system that for decades has supplied Kuwait, Saudi
Arabia, Jordan,
and the United Arab Emirates
with low-wage workers. It’s just that these employees face mortar fire, rocket
attacks, improvised explosive devices, and other risks of war—and that they are
working, albeit through intermediaries, for the United States government.
Vinnie, Lydia,
and the other Fijian beauticians landed in Dubai just before dawn in October, 2007. At the airport, they say, they were met by someone
associated with Kulak Construction Company, a Turkish firm with millions of
dollars in Pentagon subcontracts to do everything from building bowling alleys
for troops to maintaining facilities on bases. The women were driven to a private hospital in the heart
of the city. “It was very quiet there, because it was Ramadan,” Vinnie recalls.
In a small examination room, nurses gave them a series of blood tests and
vaccinations. Vinnie asked what all the poking and prodding was for. “You’ll
need these for Iraq,”
one of the nurses explained.
“Oh, we went crazy when we heard that,” the youngest of
the Fijian women, a petite twenty-two-year-old former resort hostess named
Melanie Gonebale, told me later. We spoke in her flimsy living quarters on
Forward Operating Base Sykes, near Tal Afar, in northern Iraq. A Kevlar
helmet and bulletproof vest sat at the foot of her bed. “We’d watched on TV
every day about Iraq—the
bombs, people dying.” That night, the women contemplated running away. But a
number of them had taken out loans to cover their recruiting fees, and Meridian had reportedly
threatened some with more than a thousand dollars in early-termination fines if
they left.
A couple of nights later, a few of the women slipped out
to a pay phone to call their families. “You take a big breath, honey,” Vinnie
told her husband, holding back tears. “I’m not working here in Dubai. A bus is going to take us to the
airport, and we’re going to go straight to Iraq.” After Kie Puafomau, another
of the Fijians, reached her husband, he went to the Fijian police, the Ministry
of Labor, and the national press. The Fiji Times ran a story
exposing Meridian Services Agency’s recruiting fraud. But, even as the police
pledged to investigate, they could do little to help the beauticians some nine
thousand miles away.
The next morning, Vinnie, Lydia, and the other women flew to Iraq and found themselves on a convoy bound for
Balad, forty miles north of Baghdad.
There, on a U.S. base called
Camp Anaconda—and known to soldiers as
Mortaritaville, for its constant barrage of incoming mortar fire—they got more
bad news. Instead of earning between fifteen hundred and thirty-eight hundred
dollars a month, as they had been promised, the women were told that they would
make only seven hundred dollars a month, a sum that was later reduced, under
another subcontractor, to three hundred and fifty. “We were just all dumbstruck,” Chanel Joy, who had earned
several times as much working as a certified beauty therapist at a Fijian
resort, recalled. “It was ridiculous, really, slave labor, absolutely
ridiculous out here in a war zone.” In the contract they signed in Iraq, their
working hours were specified as “Twelve (12) hours per day and seven (7) days a
week.” Their “vacation” was a “Return ticket after the completion of the
service.” Appended to the contract was a legal waiver: “I am willingly and of
my own free will have decided to go and work in Iraq,
and I declare that no one in Fiji
or out of Fiji has approach
me to work in Iraq.
. . . I am contented with my job. . . . I want to complete my contract, till
then, I will not go back home.” (A lawyer for Kulak Construction denied that
the company had ever employed any women from Fiji, although the company’s name
appears on the women’s contracts. He added, “Kulak has a good reputation for
sixty years.”)
For nearly two weeks, the ten women refused to do any
work. “We decided we had to stick together,” Chanel, a dignified older woman
with a mane of auburn curls, recounted. “Desert Sisters—that’s what we called
each other.” Eventually, they agreed to a revised deal
offering them eight hundred dollars a month. It was better than being stranded
with no pay. The next morning, the beauticians were separated, and sent to
different military camps. Two stayed at Camp Anaconda; three were flown to
Tikrit; two went to Camp Diamondback, in Mosul; and three—Vinnie, Lydia, and
Melanie—ended up in Tal Afar, after stints in Tikrit and Mosul. Before boarding their flights, the women received body
armor and a tutorial on rocket attacks: how to duck and dive, then sprint to
the nearest bunker until the “all clear” sirens sounded.
Only then, Vinnie told me, did her situation truly sink
in. Climbing into a military helicopter in her weighty new gear, she decided
that she would have to pray each night that the Lord would send her home alive.
“Am I going to get hurt?” she wondered, as the Black Hawk took off. “Am I going
to get killed? Who’s going to take care of my family, my children? Please, God,
give me protection.”
Not every third-country national makes it
home safely. Since 2001, more than two thousand contractor fatalities and more
than fifty-one thousand injuries have been reported in Iraq and Afghanistan.
For the first time in American history,
private-contractor losses are now on a par with those of U.S. troops in both war zones,
amounting to fifty-three per cent of reported fatalities in the first six
months of 2010.
Since many T.C.N. deaths and injuries are
never tallied—contractors are expected to self-report, with spotty
compliance—the actual numbers are presumed to be higher.
Constantine Rodriguez, a soft-spoken
thirty-eight-year-old from the former Portuguese colony of Goa, was working at
a Pizza Hut at Camp Taji, Iraq, when an insurgent’s rocket
struck. Two of his Bangladeshi co-workers died, according to a former boss, and
Rodriguez lost an eye and a leg. Disabled, he was sent back to southern India, where he
had a young wife and a baby to support. Although employees who are injured on U.S. bases are
usually entitled to medical care and disability compensation, few foreign
workers are aware of their rights, and fewer still are able to navigate the
byzantine process required to receive payment.
If most Americans know nothing about this foreign
workforce on U.S.
bases, Al Qaeda and other extremist groups have taken notice. As early as 2004,
Sunni militants launched a campaign to kill T.C.N.s. Their goal was to disrupt
American supply chains by blowing up truckers, and to punish Third
World Muslims who collaborated with “the infidels” and pressure
governments to prevent their citizens from going abroad to work for Coalition
troops. Over the summer and the early fall of 2004,
the list of those kidnapped by insurgents included Turks, Pakistanis,
Indonesians, Indians, Egyptians, Macedonians, Bulgarians, and Kenyans. In one particularly bloody incident, a caravan of
Nepalese workers bound for a major U.S. airbase was taken captive.
Eleven were shot dead, and one man was beheaded.
Despite these risks and harsh conditions, many T.C.N.s
are grateful for their jobs. In my travels through Iraq
and Afghanistan,
I met dozens of workers like Paz Dizon, a Filipina cleaning woman employed by
G3 Logistics at the hospital on Kandahar Airfield. (“Paz?” I repeated when she
introduced herself, to which she replied, cheerfully, “Yes, like ‘Pass away!’
”) She feels that she’s contributing something important to the war effort
while earning a wage that far exceeds what she could make back home. At night,
she snacks on Twinkies with the other Filipinas in her barracks; after rocket
attacks, they sing eighties pop songs on a dust-covered karaoke machine. “We
keep on teasing that the G3 ladies will die happy, singing and dancing,” her
colleague Rey Villa Cacas told me with a giggle, describing how their boss
belted out the lyrics to “Soldier of Fortune” during the previous night’s
mortar shelling.
At first, Vinnie, Lydia, and Melanie got along well in Iraq, too.
After several months, the three were flown northwest to Forward Operating Base
Sykes, where I first met them. They were working for another Turkish
subcontractor, and were put under the supervision of a chain-smoking Turkish
man in his twenties. They lived in air-conditioned shipping containers, played
pool in the “morale, welfare, and recreation” hall, sang in Sunday church
services, and ate meals in the main dining facility, which included a
hot-sandwich bar, a wings-and-burgers grill, a “healthy choice” line, and an
assortment of Baskin-Robbins ice cream. The AAFES
beauty salon turned out to be pleasant, filled with soldiers in vinyl chairs,
M-16 rifles at their feet, flipping through copies of Maxim as they
awaited seven-dollar pedicures or five-dollar straight-razor shaves. Dated
fashion posters hung on the walls, with eighties-style Madonna look-alikes
(hoop earrings, feathered bangs) and inspirational words, like “Simplicity Is
the Essence of Beauty” and “We’re Here for You!”
The three women had a knack for setting customers at
ease. Vinnie would joke with soldiers about “putting the ‘man’ in manicure” or
show off snapshots of her twelve-year-old son, Samuel, who liked to eat trays
of her stir-fried chicken with cashew nuts. Lydia, as she worked, asked
soldiers about their lives in the States: any girlfriends, kids, Harleys?
Melanie, the shyest of the three, ended her pedicure sessions by inquiring,
like a peppy travel agent, “Have you thought about taking your holiday in Fiji? You should
come. It’s a beautiful place, like paradise, really. You can have your
honeymoon there someday.” (She regularly extolled the virtues of Fiji-brand
artesian bottled water, to the point that she came to be known around the base
as “the Fiji Water lady.”)
Some customers would tease back, asking, “Why’d you
choose to leave a nice place like Fiji for a shit-hole like this?” If
the boss was out for a smoke and the man in the lavender swivel chair seemed
trustworthy, the women would tell him. One sympathetic customer, an American
private contractor, got in touch with associates in New York; a letter was sent to the Defense
Department, requesting an official investigation into whether the women’s
recruitment and working conditions were “exploitative.” Soon thereafter, the AAFES Inspector General dispatched a business manager to
interview the beauticians. But the manager determined that, because the three
had their passports and had known their ultimate destination after arriving in Dubai, AAFES was not in violation of anti-trafficking
regulations. (The organization did note that, in general, “better safeguards
and improvements were necessary to protect contract workers.”)
Late one night in early April, 2008, I knocked on the
door of Lydia and Vinnie’s
shipping container to find Lydia
curled up on the floor, knees to chest, chin to knees, crying. Vinnie told me,
after some hesitation, that a supervisor had “had his way with” Lydia.
According to the two women’s tearful account, non-consensual sex had become a
regular feature of Lydia’s
life. They said the man would taunt Lydia, calling her a “fucking
bitch” and describing the various acts he would like to see her perform. Lydia trembled,
her normally confident figure crumpled inward. “If he comes tonight, you have
to scream,” Vinnie told Lydia,
tapping her fist against the aluminum siding of the shipping container. “Bang
on this wall here and scream!”
The next day, I dialled the U.S. Army’s emergency
sexual-assault hot line, printed on a pamphlet distributed across the base that
read, “Stand Up Against Sexual Assault . . . Make a Difference.” Nobody
answered. Despite several calls over several days, the number simply rang and
rang. (A U.S. Central Command spokesman, when later reached for comment, noted,
“We do track and investigate any report of criminal activity that occurs on our
military bases.”)
Abuses like these weren’t supposed to be
happening. In early 2006, after reports of human trafficking, the Department of
Defense launched an investigation into subcontractors’ working conditions.
Government inspectors listed “widespread” abuses, including the illegal
confiscation of workers’ passports, “deceptive hiring practices,” “excessive
recruiting fees,” and “substandard worker living conditions.”
That April, George W. Casey, then the commanding general
for Iraq,
issued an order to private contractors and subcontractors there, seeking to
establish guidelines for humane treatment. For the first time, T.C.N.s were
entitled to “measurable, enforceable standards for living conditions (e.g.
sanitation, health, safety, etc.),” including “50 feet as the minimum
acceptable square footage of personal living space per worker.” All U.S.
troops would receive training to help them recognize human trafficking and
abuse, and major contractors were ordered to design a mandatory
anti-trafficking awareness session for their employees.
But the Pentagon’s “zero tolerance” policy for violators
proved largely toothless. In one incident, in December, 2008, U.S. military
personnel discovered that a warehouse operated off the base by a K.B.R.
subcontractor, Najlaa International Catering, was filled with more than a
thousand workers who appeared to be human-trafficking victims. Many of the men
were sent home, but Najlaa retained its service contracts and won a new
multimillion-dollar deal for operating a U.S.A.I.D. dining facility in the
Green Zone.
A representative of Najlaa’s associate firm in Amman, Jordan,
told me that the workers’ mistreatment had been due to a temporary “cash money
problem,” and a K.B.R. spokesman said that the company “fully disclosed the
incident to our U.S.
government clients including all remedial actions taken by both K.B.R. and
Najlaa.” What’s more, a K.B.R. spokesman said that “we actively encourage our
employees to raise issues of concern through the proper channels and processes
the company has in place.”
However, in some cases managers have clearly been
dissuaded by their superiors from taking an interest in such matters. Soon
after Mike Land, an American who was a K.B.R. foreman, complained about the
living conditions of his Filipino and Indian men, he received an official
reprimand: “You are expected to refrain from further involvement regarding the
working and living conditions of the sub-contract workers as that is not your
responsibility. . . . Any future interference with [the subcontractor’s]
operations will result in additional action up to and including termination.”
In Afghanistan,
one high-ranking contracting officer told me that labor law “doesn’t exist here,”
and that enforcement would be hard to prioritize if it did: the job “is to get
the war fighters what they need.”
Still, the Obama Administration has made a point of
talking about contractor accountability. Not long after taking office, in 2009,
President Obama pledged to make good on his campaign promise to end the “lack
of planning, oversight, and management of these contractors,” which “has
repeatedly undermined our troops’ efforts in the field.” When General
McChrystal assumed command of U.S.
and NATO forces in Afghanistan, in June, 2009, he set
out to reduce the role of T.C.N.s. He pushed a policy of “Afghanization,”
bringing in local Afghan workers to replace third-country nationals whenever
possible. Conventional wisdom held that allowing Afghans—or, in Iraq, Iraqis—to work on U.S. bases
posed a grave security threat to troops. But the military’s new
counter-insurgency doctrine turned this logic on its head. What if bringing in
workers from Sierra Leone
and Bangladesh rendered U.S. bases less
safe, by alienating locals and occupying jobs they could perform? McChrystal
saw an opportunity to make inroads with Afghanistan’s unemployed masses.
“Afghanization” turned out to be a tall order. Corruption
meant that U.S.
tax dollars were soon funnelling into the hands of Taliban insurgents. Even the
process of getting Afghans on and off the bases proved exhausting, slowing down
vital construction projects. By March, 2010, at the height of the Afghan First
initiative, the number of third-country nationals counted by the Department of
Defense in Afghanistan had actually increased by nearly fifty per cent from the
previous June, reaching seventeen thousand five hundred and twelve.
The “drawdown” of operations in Iraq, on the
other hand, has created new difficulties for T.C.N.s there. Last summer,
Colonel Richard E. Nolan, of the military’s contracting office, expressed
concern that T.C.N.s were being abandoned on U.S. bases when their companies
lost contracts or were ordered to shed numbers. I met several such workers, one
of whom, a Popeye’s employee, had been told by a sympathetic boss to pack his
bags, carry them to the office of a U.S. commander, and fall to his
knees weeping, in the hope of being granted a ticket home.
At Kandahar Airfield, in Afghanistan, I talked to Joel
Centeno, a Filipino who sat with his head buried in his hands on a picnic bench
behind a T.G.I. Friday’s. A Pentagon subcontractor had laid him off but refused
to provide him with a return ticket. (“Thank you and appreciated your contribution
to the team,” his termination letter read.) Centeno was among the war’s new
breed of workers: adrift on U.S.
bases, searching for work, unable to afford the ticket home, and fearful of
loan sharks who await them there.
In early April, 2008, Vinnie and Lydia were told that they would be flying back
to Fiji.
(Not long after I began conducting interviews with the women, U.S. military
personnel complained that they were “making trouble” on the base.) For them,
the prospect of returning home was a godsend. “We’re just counting the days,” Lydia told
customers. “Fresh fruit and beaches and our families.” After boarding a U.S. military aircraft, they flew to Mosul to await
processing. They said that they were held there for more than a month, and that
their passports and identification badges were confiscated by their Turkish
subcontractor. This meant they had no right of mobility; without an I.D., the U.S. military
could detain them simply for going to the latrine or walking to the A.T.&T.
phone booth to call their families. Even so, Lydia managed to get in touch with
her husband and son on occasion. “Don’t worry, Mommy’s doing all right, I’ll be
home soon,” she told them, to which her five-year-old responded, “Will you buy
me a big gun?”
Finally, in the first week of May, they boarded a
homebound flight. They carried a few souvenirs: their AAFES
nametags, snapshots in front of a sandbagged bunker, perfume from an Iraqi
contractor, and an oversized black T-shirt for Lydia’s son that read, in both
English and Arabic, “Caution Stay 100 Meters Back or You Will Be Shot.”
When Vinnie arrived home, she found her whole family
waiting up by a lantern on a big ceremonial kuta mat on the living-room
floor—all but her youngest, Samuel, who hid under a blanket in a nearby room,
ashamed that he’d grown chubbier in her absence, and frightened that his mother
wouldn’t recognize him. “It’s your mama,” Vinnie coaxed him. “Come out from
under there!” When he finally emerged, Vinnie held him in her arms.
Vinnie passed several weeks with her children and her
husband, cooking big meals and singing gospel tunes. Eventually, she went back
to work styling hair at the Rever Beauty Salon. Lydia and her husband had a baby
girl. “It took me, like, four months to get away from my own head,” she
recalls. “I was sleeping in the day and waking up in the night, so many
negative stories. . . . I just wanted to take my son to school and pick him
up.” Melanie arrived home a few months later, equally relieved. She busied
herself with wedding plans and got a job at the Pure Fiji Spa, where customers
are instructed to “step lightly over running waters . . . leaving behind cares
and the outside world as if on a far distant shore.”
Then one afternoon in the fall of 2009, Vinnie heard on
the radio that the police were calling for people who had been defrauded by
Meridian Services Agency to come forward with their stories. She learned that
the company had reportedly conned more than twenty thousand Fijian workers into
paying large fees for fraudulent “Middle East
jobs.” Meridian’s director, a portly local named
Timoci Lolohea, had, according to the Fiji Times, extracted more
than $1.6 million from his victims over the previous five years; they included
not only poor workers but also church congregations, tribal elders, and village
community centers seeking overseas employment for their constituents. In the
lush farming region of Waimaro, one village spokesman produced receipts to show
that Lolohea had collected the equivalent of as much as twenty-seven thousand
dollars—a Fijian windfall—from thirteen impoverished villages in exchange for
jobs in Kuwait
which never materialized. The devastation from Lolohea’s recruiting scheme was
so widespread that the deputy director of the Fijian police created a special
task force to investigate it.
When several human-rights litigators in Washington,
D.C., learned, through my investigation, of
the beauticians’ experiences, they flew Vinnie to the U.S. to hear
the details of her case. I sat in on several days of interviews with labor
experts. Her trip culminated in a meeting with State Department officials, at
which Vinnie spoke with purpose about her false recruitment and subsequent
mistreatment. She spoke, too, of her children, and the months she’d spent away
from them while serving U.S.
soldiers in the salon.
After the meeting, Ambassador at Large Luis CdeBaca, the
director of the State Department’s Office to Monitor and Combat Trafficking in
Persons, notified officials at AAFES and the Office of the
Secretary of Defense about the allegations, and urged them to investigate.
“We’re going to make sure that Secretary Clinton is aware of these
allegations,” he wrote in a February, 2010, e-mail to Defense Department
officials, first obtained by the Project on Government Oversight. Soon
thereafter, the women’s story began to circulate among Army officials in a
classified PowerPoint presentation, distributed by the U.S. Army Inspector General School.
“Army policy opposes any and all activities associated with human trafficking,”
the briefing notes, adding, in red ink, “No leader will turn a blind eye to
this issue!”
Yet, when reporters asked the U.S. Army’s Criminal
Investigation Command (C.I.D.) for details last summer, they were told that
allegations of the women’s mistreatment had been investigated earlier and were
“not substantiated.” (According to an internal AAFES report,
“allegations of rape never surfaced” in the organization’s prior investigation
of the women’s recruitment.) C.I.D. officials declined to say whether any
victims had been interviewed, and, when reached recently, a C.I.D. spokesman
apologized for being unable to locate any record of the case. According to the
spokesman, “C.I.D. takes allegations of sexual assault very seriously and fully
investigates allegations where there is credible information that a crime may
have occurred involving Army personnel or others accompanying the force.” Lydia and
Vinnie both say that no one from the military or AAFES
spoke with them about the sexual-assault claims.
In the three years since Vinnie and Lydia returned from Iraq, thousands of third-country
nationals have tried to make their grievances known, sometimes spectacularly.
Previously unreported worker riots have erupted on U.S. bases over issues such as lack
of food and unpaid wages. On May 1, 2010, in a labor camp run by Prime Projects
International (P.P.I.) on the largest military base in Baghdad, more than a
thousand subcontractors—primarily Indians and Nepalis—rampaged, using as
weapons fists, stones, wooden bats, and, as one U.S. military policeman put it,
“anything they could find.”
The riot started as a protest over a lack of food,
according to a whippet-thin worker in the camp named Subramanian. A
forty-five-year-old former rice farmer from the Indian state of Tamil Nadu,
Subramanian worked twelve-hour days cleaning the military’s fast-food court.
Around seven o’clock on the evening of the riot, Subramanian returned to the
P.P.I. compound and lined up for dinner with several thousand other workers.
But the cooks ran out of food, with at least five hundred left to feed. This
wasn’t the first time; empty plates had become common in the camp during the
past year. Several of the men stormed over to the management’s office,
demanding more rice. When management refused, he recalls, dozens more entered
the fray, then hundreds, and ultimately more than a thousand. Employees started
to throw gravel at the managers. Four-foot pieces of plywood crashed through
glass windows. Workers broke down the door to the food cellar and made off with
as much as they could carry.
The riot spread through the vast camp. At one point, as
many as fourteen hundred men were smashing office windows, hurling stones,
destroying computers, raiding company files, and battering the entrance to the
camp where a large blue-and-white sign reads “Treat others how you want to be
treated. . . . No damaging P.P.I. property that has been built for your
comfort.” (According to an investigation conducted by K.B.R., “P.P.I. employees
. . . became agitated after being told they’d experience a delay while
additional food was prepared.” “Upon full assessment of the incident,” a
company spokesperson relayed in a written statement, “K.B.R. notified P.P.I.
management of the need for changes to prevent any recurrence and worked with
the subcontractor to implement those corrective actions.”)
Only when U.S.
military police arrived—followed by Ugandan security guards—did the camp fall
quiet. Some workers attempted to hide, though there wasn’t anywhere to go—just
a sea of gravel dotted by an archipelago of dismal white shipping containers,
in which workers slept in tightly packed rows of creaky bunks with colorful
towels draped between them for privacy.
“Almost every window in the camp was destroyed, food
everywhere,” Sergeant Jonathan Trivett, one of the first U.S. military
policemen to the scene, recalls. “They pretty well destroyed the entire camp. .
. . It was shocking.” Trivett, a handsome twenty-five-year-old with an
aw-shucks Indiana
smile, later gave me a tour of the camp, which M.P.s now patrol twice daily to
insure that nothing “out of the ordinary” is taking place. (“Lotta love,
buddy,” he greets the guards at the gate.) His police team did its best to
investigate the rioters’ motives, but most workers, including Subramanian, were
too terrified to talk, and the majority spoke little or no English. Three
military policemen under Sergeant Trivett’s supervision that night later
received Army Achievement Medals for their role in quelling the rampage.
Several weeks after the riot, the defiant mood spread to
other parts of the base. Workers in the neighboring camp of Gulf Catering
Company (G.C.C.), another subcontractor, staged a copycat riot, pelting their
bosses with stones and accusing the company of failing to pay them their proper
wages. That same week, more G.C.C. employees en route from a base in Balad set
fire to their barracks to protest unpaid wages. Several buildings burned to the
ground.
This was not unprecedented. In 2008, in another nearby
labor compound, a rumpled Iraqi businessman named Alaa Noori Habeb faced a
similar horde of rioting workers. At the time, he ran a Baghdad warehouse for a company called Elite
Home Group, which sheltered and fed hundreds of foreign K.B.R. subcontractors
in conditions that were, he admitted, foul. As Habeb flipped through photos of
the incident, he told me how Nepalis in his compound erupted in rage—ripping up
mattresses, tearing out electrical boxes, and destroying company computers. A
manager at yet another K.B.R. subcontractor camp in Baghdad, Ziad Al Karawi, described how a
thousand Indian and Sri Lankan men under his supervision slept on crowded
floors: “rats and flies attacked us. . . . We had no beds to sleep at or tables
to eat at. . . . No communication, no TV, no soap to wash or bathe, no visits
from anyone from the company or K.B.R. . . . The workers had no choice except
going out in a protest.”
In the wake of various uprisings, workers have been
reprimanded and sent home. K.B.R. insists that its “business ethics and values”
require that employees and subcontractors are treated with “dignity and
respect,” that it adheres to U.S. government guidelines for the treatment of
workers, and that it “follows rigorous policies, procedures, and training,” to
protect the welfare of foreign-national workers. But, even after investigations
by K.B.R. and the military, little seems to change. A spokesman for U.S.
Central Command acknowledged that it “does not play a formal role in the
monitoring of living conditions on U.S. bases,” although each base has
a military chain of command responsible for “working with the entities involved
to insure minimum standards are met.” Government officials rarely learn of
these riots, most of which take place in compounds watched over by private
guards. Nor do major media outlets. “We thought the journalists would come,”
Imtiyas Sheriff, a thirty-eight-year-old G.C.C. bus driver and father from Sri Lanka, told
me. “They call this Operation Iraqi Freedom, but where is our freedom?” Still,
many of the workers have faith that the U.S. military wants to do right by
them. In fact, the majority view American soldiers and marines as their sole
protectors. “The American people are a good people,” the round-faced Sheriff
said to me more than once, as we crouched in a sweltering bunker. “They will
help us, if they know what is happening.”
Back in Fiji,
Vinnie and Lydia’s
quest for accountability has proved fruitless. Spotting one of her “lying
bastard” recruiters on the street not long ago, Vinnie ran up to him, scolding,
“How can you show your face around here?” Lydia
and several of the other women stormed the offices of Meridian Services,
demanding that the men answer for their actions and take down a photograph
they’d posted, from a Fijian social-networking Web site, of Lydia, Vinnie, and three other beauticians on a U.S. base
emblazoned with the words “Salsa Nite! Mosul,
Iraq. No wonder
I haven’t been seeing them in town. Lovely hairdressers . . . Take care
ladies!” Before she left, Lydia
warned the men that it’s a small world. “Next time,” she told them, “don’t you
take all these ladies and fool them.”
The Fijian press has denounced Timoci Lolohea, Meridian’s director, as a
“fraudster” and “con artist.” But some Fijian officials seemed to have condoned
such activities, in the hope of bringing remittances from U.S. military
operations. “The government knows that more men are leaving for Kuwait and Iraq
and it is a good thing, because it is providing employment for the unemployed,”
Fiji’s
Minister for Labor, Kenneth Zinck, said back in 2005. Zinck was initially
assigned to lead the government investigation into Meridian’s practices. In July of 2010,
Lolohea (who did not respond to requests for comment) pleaded not guilty to
charges of unlawful recruiting.
Through it all, Lolohea’s employment empire has remained.
Recently, he put up a placard outside his house, advertising jobs in Dubai. He also opened a
new office in Suva,
where, each morning, throngs of workers have been lining up outside his gate.
They bring their passports and pockets stuffed with borrowed cash. They are
undeterred by the large white sign at the entrance, which the police have
ordered Lolohea to post, reading, “NO Recruitment Until Further Notice.” Most
have heard the rumors about Lolohea’s shady past, and they know that he was
long denounced in the local newspapers as one of “Fiji’s most wanted men.” But
they’ve also heard that he’s offering a starting salary of six thousand dollars
a month to prospective security guards and military logistics workers for his
new company, Phoenix Logistics Corporation Limited. And so the crowds keep
flocking to his illicit office in the midst of the rainy season—most of them
eager young men in baggy jeans and baseball caps, or in traditional sulu
skirts, but also the occasional woman, her head filled with dreams of a life in
the City of Gold.
