Sweatshops of Haiti

 

Since before 1995, a major retail and entertainment corporation has had its magic wand dipped in the profitable kingdom of Haiti. Four factories opened by subcontractor H.H. Cutler, paid workers $0.28 an hour. But to earn that, a worker would’ve have had to handle 375 Pocahontas shirts an hour. Each shirt is sold for $11.00, less than the worker’s weekly salary.  According to the workers, the environment of these sweatshops was abysmal in regards to human rights. In a secret meeting with Charles Kernaghan, executive director of the National Labor Committee, workers told him that management screamed and threatened them, and that young women were subjected to sexual harassment. The building they worked in was unsanitary, infested with rats - some even found dead in the water tank - and with filthy bathrooms. It wasn't until 1995 that enough of America knew about these sweatshops to make the corporation sweat. 

Dream of Hell

I dreamed of hell once.

I dreamed I was given a tour of it. The Devil wasn’t handsome and he wasn’t grotesque. Just an ordinary clean-shaven man, with eyes of an indeterminable color. He showed me a rack of shrouds for the dead. There were shrouds of every color imaginable. Dark reds, bright yellows, cobalt blues, forest and jungle greens, deep purples, and all the shades of brown. He explained to me that the colors were like tags or labels, representing all the different rooms in hell.

            When a soul was sent to hell, it was judged accordingly and upon the spoken word, the wraithlike fabric melded perfectly around its wavering form. Whatever color that soul received sent it immediately – screams nonwithstanding – to the corresponding

room. You never wanted any of the reds. I remember asking why. Silence was my only answer.

            The Devil did not take me to any of the rooms. He had something else planned for me. I looked to where he suddenly pointed and there were men and women standing in a confused crowd before us.

Few were faces I recognized. The others I had never seen before. Some faces were lined with pink scars. A few were missing half their features. Still more faces were decorated with green camouflage to hide them. They stood out against the red brick wall like desperate tree frogs. But almost overwhelming were the faces that stood out flawlessly, arrogantly – perfect and smooth as velvet, never knowing the discomfort of more than a toothache or sinus infection.

            Every face seemed to have a label to it. Whether I was familiar or not with the names; I knew that all of these people before me were criminals in some way.

            Moments of their atrocities were played before my eyes. I saw buildings burning, flesh blown apart by grenades; gunfire cutting down soldier and civilian alike, bullets, knives, razors, swords, and bludgeons streaking paths of blood and breaking bone. I saw moving lips encourage this, praise this, and even laugh in delight. I saw everything, and I felt enraged.

            The Devil asked me to select shrouds for them. The rack stood beside me again, this time with assistants to take down the colors I wanted. I looked back at the souls standing before me. They showed no emotion. It was then I thought my task would be easy; I would pass judgment gladly on those who had escaped their own cruel brands of death they had so often inflicted upon the innocent. But then I looked again.

            This time they were sobbing, screaming, lamenting. Clutching their hair – even the flawless ones – streaks of tears showing through the green camouflage and Cover Girl make up and blood. The haughtiness and indifference was gone, replaced only by an immeasurable sadness. Any humanity that existed in these souls had suddenly awakened, but far too late. They knew it without having to be told.

            The Devil wanted to know if that pleased me. To see these murderers groveling like pitiful slaves; like ugly, unforgiven children.

            It did not.

            Nevertheless, I did as he asked. I passed judgment on the souls, or rather, as dreams are sometimes fond of shifting views, I stood aside and watched myself do so.

            The shrouds acted true to their nature. They wrapped around their chosen souls, entombing them completely, and dragged them off to separate eternities of torments. Screams intensified, then were muffled in dull resignation. The Devil bowed to me once I had returned to my body and praised me eloquently for my wisdom.

            I could only wonder, both then and after I awoke, whom the Devil would choose to pass judgment on me.

- Jessica Proctor