Ralph Armbruster-Sandoval
Globalization and Transnational
Labor Organizing
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry
and the Kimi Campaign
The proliferation of garment industry sweatshops over the past 20 years has generated numerous cross-border (transnational) organizing campaigns involving U.S.,
Mexican, and Central American labor unions and nongovernmental organizations
(NGOs). This article examines one such campaign that took place at the Honduran
maquiladora factory known as Kimi. The Kimi workers (along with their transnational allies) struggled for six years before they were legally recognized as a union, and
they negotiated one of the few collective bargaining agreements in the entire Central
American region.The factory eventually shut down, however. Based on Margaret Keck
and Kathryn Sikkink’s ‘‘boomerang effect’’ model, this case study analyzes why these
positive and negative outcomes occurred. It concludes with some observations about
‘‘the enemy’’ and offers short-, medium-, and long-term suggestions for the broader
antisweatshop movement.
The proliferation of garment industry sweatshops over the last 20 years has
generated numerous cross-border (or transnational) labor organizing campaigns involving U.S., Mexican, and Central American unions and nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). The literature on this subject is broad and
deep (Alexander and Gilmore 1994; Anner 1998; Armbruster 1995, 1998a,
1998b; Armbruster-Sandoval 1999, 2000, n.d.; Coats 2002; Frundt 1996,
1999, 2002; Hathaway 2000; Johns 1998; Moberg 1998; Pattee 1996; Ricker
and Wimberley 2003; Williams 1999). Most studies have focused on Mexico,
Social Science History 27:4 (winter 2003), 551–76
Copyright © 2003 by the Social Science History Association
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Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua, but Honduras has been largely overlooked (for two exceptions, see Anner 1998; Frundt 1999).
This case study aims to fill this gap by examining a transnational labor
organizing campaign that targeted the Kimi maquiladora factory in Honduras. The Kimi campaign lasted seven years (1993–2000). Over that period,
the factory’s mostly young female workers established one of the few legally
recognized maquila unions in Central America and negotiated a two-year
contract, but the plant eventually shut down. These two outcomes indicate
that the campaign was both a victory and a defeat.What factors explain these
disparate results? Why do some transnational labor organizing campaigns
succeed while others fail? How can garment workers and social justice activists fight back and obtain better wages and working conditions today?
This article begins with a brief analysis of the relationship between globalization and transnational labor organizing. That is followed by a broad overview of the Honduran maquiladora industry and the country’s labor movement. The article then examines the chronology and dynamics of the Kimi
campaign.The final section explores the larger theoretical and political implications of this case study for academics and activists.
Globalization and Transnational Labor
Organizing: The Boomerang Effect
In Labor Geographies: Workers and the Landscape of Capitalism, Andrew
Herod (2001: 16) contends that most geographers and social scientists, from
a wide variety of ideological perspectives (conservative, liberal, radical, etc.),
contend that ‘‘globalization’’ is an inexorable process that workers cannot
effectively challenge. Transnational corporations (TNCs), the World Bank,
the International Monetary Fund (IMF), and the World Trade Organization (WTO), along with others, are often seen as near-invincible institutions
that have single-handedly reorganized the global economy. Because they have
remarkable power and resources, workers and social justice activists have very
little, if any, agency. Globalization and the geographical dispersion of production (especially in the extremely mobile garment industry, where factories
can be moved rather quickly) have transformed them into hapless, powerless
victims.
This pessimistic view is widely held today. TNCs like Nike, the Gap, and
Phillips Van-Heusen (PVH) supposedly have the upper hand because they
can ‘‘cut and run’’ when confronted with a labor organizing campaign in a
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
553
developing country, leaving workers and communities impoverished and economically disenfranchised. Because this grim outcome has occurred numerous times, it cannot be easily dismissed as one possible result. However, framing it as a near-automatic certainty overlooks the fact that there are, to borrow
two book titles from David Harvey (1982, 2000), ‘‘limits to capital’’ and that
‘‘spaces of hope’’ do exist.
Where are those spaces of hope? How can the global economy be reorganized in a manner where ‘‘people come before profit’’? How can maquila
workers, enduring long hours and low pay, and social justice activists,
ameliorate, if not eliminate, sweatshop labor practices? In Activists beyond
Borders: Advocacy Networks in International Politics, Margaret Keck and
Kathryn Sikkink (1998) maintain that domestic ‘‘nonstate actors’’ (such as
workers, unions, and NGOs) can effectively attack intransigent ‘‘targets’’
(such as states, institutions, and TNCs) and generate social change through
a feedback-oriented process known as the ‘‘boomerang effect.’’
The boomerang effect takes place when powerful states (e.g., semiauthoritarian regimes) restrict domestic nonstate actors from redressing
grievances (e.g., low wages and working conditions). States with relatively
closed political opportunity structures (such as those that offer transnational corporations subsidies, tax exemptions, and limits on unionization) can
undermine, for instance, a labor organizing campaign through bureaucratic
delays, arrests, intimidation, and violence. Given these unfavorable conditions, domestic nonstate actors can establish ties with NGOs beyond their
borders, forming a transnational advocacy network (TAN) of allies, whose
members, can, in turn, lean on their states to put indirect or direct pressure
on the original recalcitrant state. (See Figure 1.)
Keck and Sikkink (1998) suggest that the purpose of the TAN is to persuade the state or some other powerful target (e.g., a TNC, a free trade zone
owner, or a contractor, among others) to change or enforce its laws or policies or implement new reforms. TANs can achieve these goals by engaging
in four types of politics: information, symbolic, leverage, and accountability.
Information politics involves publicizing and disseminating facts (concerning sweatshop labor practices, human rights violations, global warming, etc.)
through various means of mass communication (films, reports, websites).
Symbolic politics revolves around framing or explaining complex issues or
events through signs—alternative fashion shows, awards, costumes, murals,
pictures, puppets, posters, or street theater. Leverage politics seeks to limit
the strength of powerful targets through moral or material means. Account-
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Intergovernmental
Organization
Boomerang
Effect
State A
(Blocked Access)
NGO
State B
Boomerang Effect
NGO
Information
NGO
NGO
Transnational Advocacy
Network
Figure 1 The boomerang effect
Source: Keck and Sikkink 1998: 13.
ability politics often highlights the contradiction between the targeted actor’s
words and deeds through, say, a careful analysis of its mission statement or
code of conduct.These four types of politics are not mutually exclusive. Keck
and Sikkink illustrate how these strategies/politics have been used in a combined and overlapping manner to carve out spaces of hope and produce positive social policies and reforms for a diverse range of marginalized actors (e.g.,
women and human rights activists).
Given the model’s assumptions, how well does it correspond with transnational labor organizing campaigns like the one that took place at Kimi?
Despite Keck and Sikkink’s (1998: 15) rather puzzling observations regarding
the ‘‘transitory nature’’ of labor-oriented TANs,1 I contend that their conceptual model is, for the most part, very useful for analyzing the trajectory
of the Kimi campaign. Before ‘‘testing’’ or examining its key elements, however, I will discuss the background and contour of the Honduran maquiladora
industry and labor movement. This section is crucial for understanding the
wider context of the Kimi campaign.
The Honduran Maquiladora
Industry and Labor
The Honduran maquiladora industry is the strongest one in Central America. Facing spiraling unemployment, rising external debt, rapid population
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
555
growth, and fluctuating commodity prices, as well as pressure from the
United States Agency for International Development (USAID), the Honduran government in the 1970s adopted a nontraditional export model based
primarily on attracting foreign investment through the creation of free trade
zones (Las Zonas Libres—ZOLIs) (Barry and Norsworthy 1990). The first
ZOLI was established in 1976 in Puerto Cortes, and three years later, ZOLIs
were founded in Tela, Omoa, La Ceiba, Ampala, and Choloma. ZOLIs are
government-owned enterprises that lease out space for foreign investors, providing them with the ability to import raw materials and re-export assembled
goods with reduced tariffs and duties and tax exemptions on profits (Valladares 1995).
Despite the shift toward greater democratization in Honduras in the
early 1980s, after decades of military rule and political infighting between
the National and the Liberal Parties, and in spite of the country’s abundant
supply of cheap labor, the ZOLIs and, later, the industrial export processing
zones (called ZIPs), which gave companies even more far-ranging benefits—
including complete elimination of tariffs and duties, no tax payments, and
utility rate deductions—did not initially generate much foreign investment.
In the late 1980s, there were fewer than 20 factories and 10,000 workers in
the entire maquiladora industry. Political instability, inflation, corruption, and
the violent civil war in neighboring Nicaragua scared off potential investors,
thwarting the industry’s growth (ibid.).
In 1990, the Nicaraguan civil war finally ended and the National Party’s
Rafael Callejas was elected president. One of Callejas’s initial tasks was
addressing the country’s deep economic crisis. During the 1980s, average real
wages fell every year, combined under- and unemployment figures reached
a staggering 70%, poverty and malnutrition levels climbed to over 50%,
budget deficits soared, and foreign debt doubled, rising from $1.7 billion
in 1981 to $3.4 billion in 1989 (Barry and Norsworthy 1990). These figures
indicate that the Honduran economy was in serious trouble when Callejas
assumed power.
Under the Liberal Party administration of José Azcona (1985–89), Honduras had moved toward accepting the Washington Consensus model of
IMF and World Bank–supported neoliberal reforms, such as structural
adjustment policies, privatization, social spending cutbacks, export-oriented
growth, incentives for foreign investors, and currency devaluation. During
the subsequent administration (1990–94), Callejas maintained and expanded
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Table 1 Honduran maquiladora industry exports
Year
Exports (U.S.$)
.
.
.
,.
,.
,.
Note: Amounts are in millions. Source: HAMA 1999: 8.
the scope of Azcona’s policies, selling off publicly owned enterprises, laying
off state employees, raising sales and income taxes, and reducing tariffs and
investment regulations (Schulz and Schulz 1994).
Callejas’s policies exacerbated poverty and misery, but they also stimulated increased foreign investment. Southeast Asian and U.S. producers
found the entire northeast San Pedro Sula Valley region extremely attractive
because of its world-class port (which facilitates quicker turnaround time),
five ZOLIs, eight ZIPs, and a plentiful supply of cheap labor.
These contextual factors accounted for the rapid growth of the maquila
industry in the early and middle 1990s. The Honduran Apparel Manufacturers Association (HAMA) (1999) reports that the industry had 8,300 workers
in 1989. Five years later, there were 50,000 workers. In 1999, there were more
than 250 factories and 110,000 workers in the entire industry. In terms of
exports, Honduras sent $87 million in apparel goods to the United States in
1989 and $646 million in 1994—a whopping 642% increase (ibid.). In 1998,
the export figure reached $1.8 billion (see Table 1). In 1994, Honduras was the
17th largest supplier of apparel products to the U.S. market and 3d in Central
America; in 1998, it moved up to 5th place in the world and 1st place in Central America (ibid.). Thus in 10 short years, Honduras became the regional
leader in apparel exports and employment.
In addition to these statistical indicators, several other key characteristics of the Honduran maquiladora industry are worth noting. First, the vast
majority of the industry’s factories are located in the northeastern cities of
San Pedro Sula, Villanueva, La Lima, Bufalo, El Progreso, Choloma, and La
Ceiba (del Cid et al. 1999). This spatial concentration is not too surprising
given the region’s rapid industrialization since the 1960s and its close proximity to Puerto Cortes. Second, most maquila factories are located inside
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
557
either ZOLIs or ZIPs, although the privatization of the latter has made
them more attractive for foreign investors than the former. Third, in 1998,
approximately 41% of all maquila factories were U.S.-owned, 32% were
Honduran-owned, 14% were Korean-owned, and 13% were classified as
‘‘other’’ (HAMA 1999). Some of the best-known U.S. labels that are produced in Honduras include OshKosh B’Gosh, PVH, J. C. Penney, Maidenform, and Jansport.
Women constitute the overwhelming majority of Honduran maquila
workers. About 80–85% of the industry’s workers are women between the
ages of 14 and 24. Many female maquila workers have low levels of education,
few know their labor rights, and 50% are new migrants from the campo (rural
areas). Nelly del Cid, Carla Castro, and Yadira Rodríguez (1999) found that
women maquila workers typically feel ‘‘liberated’’ from ‘‘traditional’’ gender
roles, but that they also face constant pressure and the threat of sexual harassment from their male supervisors. They also report that most women maquila
workers have no experience with unions and fear that they might be fired for
joining one.
Despite this very real, tangible concern, there are many reasons why
some maquila workers might take such a risk. Although the Honduran labor
code limits the workday to 8 hours and the workweek to 44 hours, a typical shift runs 10 to 12 hours a day. Because of the piece-rate system, wages
vary, but they range between 50 and 60 cents an hour (Aguilar 1999; Paredes
1999; Valladares 1995). Inside the factories, workers are not allowed to talk
with each other. Bathroom breaks are timed and regulated. In some cases,
women have been forced to take birth control pills. Pregnant women have also
been fired without receiving their legally guaranteed benefits (Paredes 1999).
Many factories are also extremely hot and poorly ventilated, making breathing very difficult. Asthma, bronchitis, and other respiratory-related illnesses,
along with fainting spells, have been widely reported as well. Stress-related
problems, such as insomnia, loss of appetite, spasms, and diarrhea, also are
quite common (Valladares 1995).
These conditions have generated discontent. In the early 1990s, there
were nearly 30 labor conflicts involving nearly 25,000 maquila workers (EMI
1998). There have also been numerous wildcat strikes, work stoppages, and
union organizing campaigns over the past few years. The Honduran Labor
Code stipulates that before unions can be legally recognized they must have
at least 30 members. This may seem like a relatively low threshold, but
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it is not. Thousands of maquila workers have been fired for union activity
(Friedrich Ebert Stiftung Foundation 1998). Based on Honduras’s neoliberal,
export-oriented model that favors foreign investors, labor ministry officials
have often turned over the names of union members to company representatives who, in turn, have fired those workers. The 1999 U.S. State Department
human rights report on Honduras described this practice:
When unions are formed, organizers must submit a list of initial members to the Ministry of Labor as part of the process of obtaining official
recognition. However, before recognition is granted, the Ministry must
inform the company of the impending union organization. The Ministry
has not always been able to provide effective protection to union organizers. There were credible reports, particularly in the export processing
zone sector, that some inspectors had gone so far as to sell the names of
employees involved in forming a union to companies that then dismissed
union organizers before the Ministry could recognize the unions. (U.S.
State Department 2000: 18)
Despite these odds, maquila workers have organized nearly two dozen
unions. The International Labor Organization (ILO) (1999) reports that
there were 28 unions and 42,000 unionized workers in the Honduran maquila
industry, while the U.S. State Department study cited above claimed that
there were 46 unions, 32 of which had collective bargaining agreements.
These numbers are probably somewhat inflated. Officials from the country’s
three main labor organizations—the leftist United Confederation of Honduran Workers (CUTH), the moderate Confederation of Honduran Workers
(CTH), and the conservative General Confederation of Workers (CGT)—
contend that there are about 20 maquila unions (Aguilar 1999; Cisneros 1999;
Salinas 1999). More than half of these unions are affiliated with the Independent Federation of Honduran Workers (FITH—a body linked with the
CUTH) and several of them have negotiated contracts. The CUTH and
CTH allege that most maquila unions are ‘‘solidarity associations’’ or ‘‘company unions’’ that do not genuinely represent their members’ best interests (Aguilar 1999; Cisneros 1999; Salinas 1999). These organizations may be
included in the ILO and State Department reports, thereby accounting for
the numerical discrepancies.
Based on interviews, primary and secondary sources, and direct observation, the level of unionization in the maquiladora industry is minimal
(although it is higher in Honduras than in other Central American coun-
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559
tries). This situation mirrors the overall status of the Honduran labor movement. Honduras had the one of the strongest labor movements in Central
America in the late 1960s (Euraque 1996). Two decades of neoliberalism,
combined with ideological divisions and insufficient resources, devastated the
labor movement, however. The country has fewer than 120,000 unionized
workers today (Posas 2000).
The maquiladora industry is a large and inviting target, but various factors (such as capital mobility, high unemployment, fear, and mass firings)
make union organizing extremely difficult. These constraints, along with
the labor movement’s weaknesses, created a vacuum that some NGOs like
the Committee for the Defense of Human Rights in Honduras (CODEH)
and the Collective of Honduran Women (CODEMUH) have partially filled.
These two organizations have conducted studies documenting labor and
women’s rights violations in the maquila industry and have held legal rights
workshops for women workers (Maldonado 1999; Paredes 1999). These
classes have personally transformed many workers and sporadically improved working conditions, but they have not yet had a widespread impact
(Paredes 1999).
This synopsis illustrates that challenging sweatshop labor is no easy task.
Notwithstanding all the barriers and limitations, some maquila workers—like
those at Kimi—successfully fought back, albeit for a short time. Their story
comes next.
The Kimi Workers Campaign:
The Fight for Recognition, 1993–95
Kimi de Honduras (Kimi for short) is one of eight maquila factories located
in Continental Park, in the city of La Lima, Cortes. Kimi is a Korean-owned
factory that opened up its doors in 1990. Its 600–800 workers, mostly women
between the ages of 18 and 25, produce men and women’s shirts for J. C.
Penney, Macy’s, and the Gap (Bilbao 1999). Other U.S.-based companies
that source from Continental Park include Kohl’s, Dayton-Hudson, Salant,
PVH, and American Eagle.
The Kimi workers’ campaign got off the ground in 1993. Sara Aguillón
(1999) recalled those early days:
I started working for Kimi in 1993. There were people inside the factory already organizing workers. At first, I was not interested—I was
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scared. Over time, some friends began talking with me about organizing and little by little, I became less frightened. During this period, we
met in each other’s houses because it was safer and people talked about
why we needed to organize. A few workers also told stories about how
their fathers and uncles were involved in the ‘‘great banana strike’’ [a key
event that included 40,000 workers, shutting down virtually the entire
Honduran economy for three weeks in 1954]. Over time, more and more
people, like myself, lost their fears and so that is how it all began.
Why did the Kimi workers begin organizing? According to Sara Aguillón,
The Korean supervisors always treated us badly. They yelled, ‘‘faster,
faster,’’ and they hit some workers if they did not. Sometimes they did
not give us our paychecks. They also forced us to take urine tests, told us
we could not use the bathroom, and forbade us from talking with each
other. They searched us every time we entered and left the factory. They
were very, very strict. The conditions were very bad.
During late 1994, the fledging union’s membership expanded. Union
executive committee member Yesenia Bonilla claimed that the union actually organized nearly all the maquila workers inside Continental Park. Before
the union filed for legal recognition, however, the company fired every single
member of the union’s executive committee.
While this was a major setback, Bonilla noted:
We did make some gains. We got purified water; the company started to
pay for transportation; and they also fixed the road to the factory, which
used to be horrible. They put in lights so it wasn’t dark for the workers
who had to walk home late at night. But it did not take long before
they forgot all that and started treating us badly again. They took away
our transportation and the other things that we had gained. (STITCH
2000: 21)
These antiunion activities did not permanently derail the campaign;
rather, they actually sparked a new round of organizing. In 1995, the Kimi
Workers Union, which was not affiliated at that time with any Honduran
labor confederation, began working with the Union of Needletrades, Industrial, and Textile Employees (UNITE) representative Bruce Fieldman (a
long-time U.S. labor activist in Central America) on a clandestine organizing
plan to strengthen its membership base. The plan was based on the factory’s
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
561
production lines. Each line contained three to five ‘‘delegates’’ or organizers
who were responsible for recruiting and signing up new members through
private house visits (Fieldman 1999). This organizing model eased workers’
fears that they might be fired for joining the union (Aguillón 1999). These
savvy tactics ultimately worked—more than 150 workers became new members between 1995 and 1996 (Fieldman 1999).
The broader strategy behind this model was to build a resilient and sustainable organization with a deep, committed membership and leadership
base that could withstand the company’s antiunion policies. Previously, most
maquila unions filed for legal recognition with few more than 30 members,
but company officials often obtained their names from the labor ministry
and fired them, thereby stopping the campaign. The Kimi Workers Union
and UNITE thought they might avoid this outcome by signing up so many
members that the company could not fire them all. As long as the union had
enough members, they believed, Kimi could be legally compelled to recognize the union and negotiate a contract at the same time.
Those were the two key goals of the campaign. After months of clandestine organizing, the union came out into the open and presented its membership list to the labor ministry on 27 July 1996. Later that day, more than
400 Kimi workers, along with hundreds of Continental Park maquila workers,
held a work stoppage and gave the company the same list (Aguillón 1999).
These were exciting times for the now formally established Kimi Workers
Union (Sindicato de Trabajadores de Kimi de Honduras—SITRAKIMIH).
However, two weeks later, 16 workers, including most members of the union’s
executive committee, were fired. SITRAKIMIH general-secretary Sara
Aguillón (1999) described what happened next:
We knew that the company was trying to eliminate the union, but we
could not let that happen. The fired workers began demonstrating outside the park. Inside the factory, the workers began protesting—they
held up signs, chanted slogans, pounded on tables, and stopped working for 30 minutes. Our main demands were—rehire the fired workers
and recognize the union. The company did not listen—they were hardheaded, like burros. They then fired 48 more workers. They thought that
would stop us, but it did not. We continued fighting.
Indeed, they did. After the second wave of firings, union executive committee members, rank-and-file activists, and UNITE, along with officials
from FITH/CUTH, met and planned their next move—a strike. For five
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Kimi
J. C. Penney, Gap, Macy’s
Boomerang Effect
Boomerang
Effect
SITRAKIMIH
UNITE
Organization-Building Politics
Figure 2 Union recognition and the Kimi campaign—Part 1
days—between 7 and 12 October—nothing moved inside the factory. This
action finally produced the results that the union was looking for. Kimi
rehired almost all the fired workers and agreed to recognize the union—in
six months (ibid.).
This victory was a major triumph for the Kimi workers. How was it
achieved? During this phase of the campaign, SITRAKIMIH and UNITE
were the two main actors—the two unions worked closely together. UNITE
provided SITRAKIMIH with technical and strategic advice as well as
financial assistance, thereby strengthening the union. I call this process
organization-building politics (see Figure 2). Keck and Sikkink (1998) do not
discuss this strategy because they position the TAN as the ‘‘key agent’’ of
change. In this specific case, the TAN (which essentially included only one
organization—UNITE) provided the domestic nonstate actor with muchneeded support, but it was the high degree of unity and solidarity within
SITRAKIMIH and the workers’ courage that triggered this victory. ‘‘Sweatshop warriors’’ (in the words of Miriam Ching Yoon Louie [2001]) like
Sara Aguillón, Yesenia Bonilla, and many others like them took great risks.
UNITE could not have produced this outcome without them. Unlike the
PVH and Gap campaigns in Guatemala and El Salvador, information, symbolic, leverage, and accountability politics were not used, although pressure
on U.S. retailers may have indirectly facilitated Kimi’s decision to recognize
SITRAKIMIH.
Independent Monitoring versus
Unionization, 1996–98
The July and October 1996 strikes at Kimi helped generate a debate in
Honduran-based regional and national newspapers about the country’s
booming maquiladora industry. Meanwhile, in the United States, at nearly
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563
the same time, the Kathie Lee Gifford scandal and the infamous El Monte
Thai slavery case prompted President Clinton to establish an antisweatshop
task force known as the Apparel Industry Partnership (AIP) in 1996 (Krupat
1997; Su 1997).
The AIP initially included garment manufacturers, government officials,
NGOs, and unions. The AIP drafted a voluntary code of conduct stating that
corporations that outsource production overseas should not employ anyone
under 15 years of age; limit the workweek to 60 hours; pay local, prevailing
minimum wages; and protect the right to organize (Weiss 1997). The code
also stipulated that such garment manufacturers as Nike, Liz Claiborne, and
PVH should hire independent monitors (ones the companies did not pay for)
to ensure proper enforcement of its provisions.
After intense internal debate, UNITE and several NGOs within the AIP
left the organization on the grounds that its code would perpetuate, rather
than eliminate, sweatshop labor practices (Howard 1999). The New York–
based National Labor Committee (NLC), a longtime critic of the AFL-CIO’s
policies in Central America and a ‘‘crucial player’’ in the broader antisweatshop movement, expressed similar concerns about the AIP code of conduct
(Kernaghan 1999a). Despite these shared views, a rift between the NLC
and UNITE opened up over the efficacy of independent monitoring versus
unionization. Both organizations rhetorically supported these two strategies.
On the ground, they were seen in dualistic either-or terms, however, with the
NLC supporting independent monitoring and UNITE backing unionization
in Honduras.
How did this dispute affect the Kimi campaign? After the July and October 1996 strikes, SITRAKIMIH was still independent, although FITH/
CUTH provided it with some support. The left-leaning CUTH is not affiliated with the International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU),
but the CTH and AFL-CIO are. Based on these long-standing historical
and ideological ties, UNITE and the AFL-CIO’s Latin American affiliate, the American Institute for Free Labor Development (AIFLD), advised
SITRAKIMIH to join a CTH-linked labor body—the United Federation
of Honduran Textile Workers (FESITRAINCOH) (Fieldman 1999). Over
the next year, SITRAKIMIH maintained ties with FESITRAINCOH, but
it worked more closely with UNITE, along with the International Textile,
Garment, and Leather Workers Federation’s (ITGLWF) regional affiliate,
the Inter-American Textile and Garment Workers Federation (FITTIV) and
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the American Center for International Labor Solidarity (ACILS), which in
1997 replaced AIFLD (ibid.). (For a glossary of these organizations, see the
Appendix.)
During late 1996 and early 1997, SITRAKIMIH anxiously waited for
Kimi to legally recognize the union and begin contract negotiations. After
several months passed, the NLC contacted CODEH, CODEMUH, Caritas Diocesana (a community-based organization affiliated with the Catholic
Church), the Mennonite Church, and the Jesuit-linked Reflection, Research,
and Communication Team (ERIC) in El Progreso about the possibility of
creating an independent monitoring team to investigate labor rights violations inside Honduran maquila factories (EMI 1998). UNITE was apparently
not involved in these conversations. NLC executive director Charlie Kernaghan (1999b), in fact, sharply criticized UNITE for maintaining ties with
the CTH, calling it ‘‘corrupt’’ and ‘‘tainted by AIFLD and the Cold War.’’
The talks between the NLC and the Honduran NGOs mentioned above
finally bore fruit with the establishment of the Independent Monitoring
Team (Equipo Monitoreo Independiente—EMI) in June 1997. The NLC had
several previous discussions with Kimi and knew that it was interested in
independent monitoring and resolving the problems inside the factory. These
talks paved the way for EMI and Kimi to sign the first-ever independent
monitoring agreement in the Honduran maquiladora industry, on 2 June 1997.
The agreement focused on four specific issues: managerial misconduct,
poor treatment of pregnant workers, legal recognition of the union, and rehiring illegally fired union members and workers (EMI 1998). EMI informed
Kimi that it had three weeks to address these issues and that if it did so,
it would work with garment companies to ‘‘reestablish contracts’’ with the
company. This language is revealing because when labor unrest broke out
at Kimi, some feared that J. C. Penney, Macy’s, and the Gap, three of its
highest-profile buyers, might cut and run. J. C. Penney did cut back some
production orders with Kimi but did not pull out 100%; neither did Macy’s;
but the Gap did leave (Howard 2000).
Over that three-week time period (late June through early July 1997),
J. C. Penney called Kimi several times to resolve the dispute. After nearly
a year, Kimi capitulated and recognized SITRAKIMIH in July 1997. This
outcome indicates that EMI and the NLC, along with the United States/
Guatemala Labor Education Project (U.S./GLEP), which was involved in
negotiations with J. C. Penney, more than likely used the U.S.-based retailer’s
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
Boomerang Effect
Kimi
(primary target)
SITRAKIMIH
EMI
Weak Ties
Strong Ties
565
J. C. Penney, Macy’s, Gap
(secondary targets)
NLC
UNITE, ACILS, FITTIV
Weak Ties
Strong Ties
Figure 3 Union recognition and the Kimi campaign—Part 2
concerns about its public image being smeared with allegations of sweatshop
labor to put pressure on Kimi to recognize the union (Coats 2000). In Keck
and Sikkink’s (1998) terminology, the TAN gained ‘‘moral leverage’’ over
the ‘‘secondary target’’ ( J. C. Penney), which pressured the ‘‘primary target’’ (Kimi) to grant concessions to the domestic ‘‘nonstate actor’’ (SITRAKIMIH) (see Figure 3).
Having temporarily resolved the recognition issue, SITRAKIMIH and
EMI turned toward improving wages and working conditions inside the factory. SITRAKIMIH initially welcomed EMI’s assistance but later argued
that it ‘‘took over’’ its customary role, conducting informal bargaining sessions with Kimi personnel (Aguillón 1999; del Cid 1999). SITRAKIMIH
also maintained that collective bargaining was more effective than independent monitoring, while EMI claimed that the latter could open up ‘‘space’’
for the former (del Cid 1999).
The tensions between SITRAKIMIH and EMI slowed down contract
negotiations between July 1997 and November 1998. EMI representatives
suggested that Kimi officials exacerbated this conflict, dividing workers that
supported either SITRAKIMIH or EMI (del Cid 1999). Making this situation even worse was the split between the NLC on one side and UNITE,
FITTIV, and the ACILS on the other. The NLC distrusted UNITE’s
involvement with CTH-FESITRAINCOH, calling it ‘‘incompetent’’ and
‘‘practically useless’’ (SITRAKIMIH eventually broke off and became independent once again, based on internal discussions and advice from Bruce
Fieldman, who began working with FITTIV in 1997). Meanwhile, UNITE
asserted that EMI’s members did not have the ‘‘expertise or experience’’ that
was needed for monitoring Kimi. UNITE, FITTIV, and ACILS officials also
566
Social Science History
criticized the NLC for fostering a ‘‘paternalistic’’ approach that turns maquila
workers into victims who depend on ‘‘benevolent intervention.’’
This intense, although largely hidden, conflict 2 negatively affected this
all-important phase of the campaign. SITRAKIMIH obtained earlier gains
when the TAN was largely united and the union had a strong membership base. When internal divisions emerged within the TAN, Kimi exploited
them, making further progress nearly impossible.
Tragedy Turns into Victory,
Turns into Defeat, 1998–2000
In the midst of this manmade storm, a real natural disaster struck—Hurricane Mitch. Mitch came ashore in October 1998, causing floods and landslides that destroyed crops, homes, and entire villages. The massive, category
5 hurricane killed more than 5,000 people and left hundreds of thousands
homeless (Boyer and Pell 1999). Southern cities such as Choluteca and
Tegucigalpa were hit the hardest, but Mitch eventually traveled north,
pounding San Pedro Sula with torrential rains that flooded rivers and sent
residents scrambling for higher ground.
Mitch devastated the entire country, but how did it specifically affect
the Kimi campaign? Company supervisors shut down the factory for 90 days
(November 1998–February 1999) for cleanup and repair. The workers finished the job in two weeks. Despite this fact, the plant remained closed. Sara
Aguillón (1999) blasted this decision on the popular El Progreso radio station:
When we finished cleaning the factory, they closed the doors and told us
we should show up [for work] on February 3rd.They only wanted to take
advantage of us to do the cleaning work. We cannot accept that. We rise
up against them and say, ‘‘we need these jobs because Mitch did not kill
us, but Hurricane Kimi will kill us of hunger!’’ We have the only union
in Continental Park.We have made tremendous sacrifices over these past
few years, but we have succeeded and now we are fighting for a contract.
With this salvo, the confrontation between SITRAKIMIH and Kimi
reached a new height. The union sent a letter to the NLC, requesting that
it talk with Kimi’s main buyers (especially J. C. Penney) to reopen the factory and send it more production orders. This action indicates that despite
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
567
earlier tensions between SITRAKIMIH, EMI, UNITE, and the NLC, some
degree of cooperation was maintained in the middle of the crisis.
As more time passed, UNITE raised the possibility of placing Honduras’s Generalized System of Preferences (GSP) benefits ‘‘under review.’’
The GSP is a U.S.-based policy that provides recipient nations hundreds
of millions of dollars in trade benefits, provided that they protect internationally recognized worker rights standards, like the right to organize and
collectively bargain (Dorman 1989). Given Honduras’s intransigent stance
toward maquila unions like SITRAKIMIH, UNITE believed that GSP pressure could provide the Kimi workers with a key source of ‘‘material leverage’’
(Keck and Sikkink 1998). GSP pressure had been used before in the campaign (Howard 2000). Indeed, it may have led the Labor Ministry to lean
on Kimi to begin contract negotiations with SITRAKIMIH in 1998. Those
talks never really got off the ground, however.
UNITE understood that the potential loss of GSP benefits might have
exacerbated Honduras’s economic woes after Hurricane Mitch, so it momentarily backed off. As the country slowly recovered, UNITE raised the issue
again (ibid.). This time around trade pressure, a letter-writing campaign,
regular production orders from J. C. Penney, rank-and-file pressure from
SITRAKIMIH, and hopeful, though tenuous, bonds of solidarity between
UNITE, U.S./LEAP (the United States/Labor Education in the Americas
Project, formerly U.S./GLEP), and the NLC broke the logjam in January
1999. Fearing potential trade sanctions, the labor ministry, HAMA, and J. C.
Penney leaned on Kimi to begin contract negotiations with SITRAKIMIH.
Finally, after six long years, on 19 March 1999, the Kimi workers ratified a
two-year contract, calling for a 10% pay increase, bonuses, health benefits,
and vacation and holiday pay (Working Together 1999). Through organizationbuilding, information, and leverage politics, the TAN and the domestic nonstate actor generated this remarkable outcome, one of the few contracts in
the Honduran maquila industry as well as the entire Central American region
(see Figure 4).
Before anyone could celebrate, however, the other shoe dropped. Continental Park owner Jaime Rosenthal stated that he would not renew Kimi’s
lease in August 1999. This move led Kimi to begin looking for a new production site. Faced with this new predicament, SITRAKIMIH fought back.
Union members slowed down production and contacted U.S./LEAP and the
568
Social Science History
Honduran Government
HAMA
Kimi
Material Leverage
(possible loss of
production orders)
SITRAKIMIH
J. C. Penney
(letters, image
moral leverage)
NLC
U.S. Government
(trade pressure
material leverage)
UNITE
(Weak Ties)
Organization-Building Politics
Figure 4 Contract ratification and the Kimi campaign
Campaign for Labor Rights (CLR) in the United States (Aguillón 1999).
These two NGOs coordinated a letter-writing, fax, and e-mail campaign
against Rosenthal and Kimi.
Rosenthal eventually relented, renewing Kimi’s lease for one more year.
Kimi then called off its proposed move (CLR 1999). SITRAKIMIH praised
this decision but also raised concerns about the company’s violations of
the collective bargaining agreement during negotiations with Kimi. Talks
revolving around this latter issue proceeded amicably until mid-August 1999,
when Kimi unexpectedly walked out of the meetings and retracted a verbally
agreed upon pay increase that would have raised the factory’s minimum wage
from 49 to 55 cents an hour (Aguillón 1999).
This latter move was the symbolic last straw. The Kimi workers went on
strike for two days in late August 1999. On the third day, the entire Continental Park work force joined the work stoppage, making it a virtual general
strike. The police broke up the action with tear gas, batons, and shields. Several workers were injured during the violent melee (Rivera 1999).
The clash ignited a severe backlash against Kimi and the Honduran
government. U.S./LEAP and CLR immediately disseminated action alerts,
requesting that letters, e-mails, and faxes be sent to the Honduran ambassador to the United States and the Korean ambassador in Honduras. The
U.S. government also began discussions regarding Honduras’s GSP benefits, which prompted the labor ministry and HAMA to actively intervene to
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
569
resolve the conflict. Confronted with pressure from virtually all sides, Kimi
backed down, raising the factory’s minimum wage and accepting all provisions of the March 1999 collective bargaining agreement.
This was a major victory, but it did not last very long. Jaime Rosenthal
pulled Kimi’s lease in February 2000. Before this decision was made, the
company and union both agreed to move the factory to a new location. This
move was made without incident. Three months later, on 5 May 2000, Kimi
shut down, however, citing ‘‘financial difficulties’’ and ‘‘intractable problems
with the union’s leadership’’ (CLR 2000). Did these claims have any legitimacy? U.S./LEAP discovered that just after Kimi signed the March 1999,
two-year contract, the company began moving production to a nonunionized
plant in Guatemala. It appears that J. C. Penney, which earlier played a positive role in the campaign, stopped sourcing from Kimi after the August 1999
strike. J. C. Penney transferred its orders to Kimi’s new Guatemala-based
factory, but it soon pulled out, leaving the company to find new buyers.
After Kimi shut down, more than 150 workers signed a petition to reopen
the factory. The ITGLWF, U.S./LEAP, and the United Students against
Sweatshops (USAS) made similar requests (U.S./LEAP 2000). Kimi rejected their pleas. Company officials may yet change their minds, but that is
extremely unlikely. Kimi de Honduras remains officially closed.
Naming the Enemies:
Mapping the Big Picture
How did this campaign end so tragically? How did this once stirring victory turn into defeat? What theoretical frameworks help us understand why
some transnational labor organizing campaigns succeed while others fail?
In Keck and Sikkink’s (1998) model, transnational advocacy networks can
open up space (through the boomerang effect), paving the way for concessions and reforms, for domestic nonstate actors in countries with relatively
closed political opportunity structures. Sanjeev Khagram, James Riker, and
Kathryn Sikkink (2001: 17) contend that ‘‘political opportunity structures
are those consistent dimensions of the political environment that provide
incentives for or constraints on people undertaking collective action. Political opportunities often provide resources for leverage and space for access.’’
Democratic regimes typically have more open political opportunity structures for expressing dissent and acting collectively than authoritarian ones,
570
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although crises (e.g., war and recession) can change conditions in the former
rather quickly.
In the Kimi campaign, the adoption by Honduras of a neoliberal, exportoriented model of development favored foreign investors. Labor organizing campaigns were vigorously discouraged, sometimes with force, because
government officials feared unionization might scare off transnational corporations. Given this unfavorable political opportunity structure, the Kimi
workers initially encountered stiff resistance. Over time, a wide variety of
mostly U.S.-based organizations—UNITE, U.S./LEAP, CLR, and the NLC
(along with non-U.S. groups like ITGLWF, FITTIV, and EMI)—formed
a transnational advocacy network (TAN). Through trade pressure (leverage politics), consumer activism (information politics), and negative publicity (symbolic politics), the TAN cracked open, ever so slightly, the political
opportunity structure, putting pressure on the Honduran government and
J. C. Penney, who turned around and leaned on Kimi to make concessions.
The TAN could not directly organize strikes, however, and neither could it
negotiate a contract for the Kimi workers.
The TAN, therefore, could only go so far. Without courageous people
like Sara Aguillón, Yesenia Bonilla, and many others, who often juggled
household and child-care responsibilities, the campaign would not have been
successful. I contend that Keck and Sikkink overdetermine or privilege the
role of the TAN when explaining policy/campaign outcomes. In this case, the
two positive results—legal recognition and a two-year contract—depended
on the dialectical relationship between the domestic nonstate actor and the
TAN. Based on this case and others like it (e.g., PVH), I maintain that
strong local unions (ones with a large, broad-based membership and leadership base) and fairly well unified TANs are crucial for generating successful
transnational labor organizing campaigns. Bruce Fieldman (1999) echoes this
argument:
Solidarity organizations can only do so much. For real change to take
place, the workers have to be committed and they have to be organized.
When you have a strong union working with solidarity organizations, the
chances are more likely that you will succeed.
Despite these positive accomplishments, there are no ready-made formulas that will guarantee success. Victories can turn into defeats. In the
Kimi campaign, capital mobility was the main culprit or ‘‘enemy.’’ In Nam-
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
571
ing the Enemy, Amory Starr (2000) suggests that transnational corporations
(TNCs) are the main enemy behind globalization’s ills—sweatshops, hunger,
poverty, global warming, and environmental degradation. TNCs, along with
the contractors they source from, have actively undermined various transnational labor organizing campaigns (Armbruster 1998a; Ricker and Wimberley 2003). Strategic conflicts and historical rivalries between organizations within the antisweatshop movement also have played a negative role
(Armbruster-Sandoval, n.d.). These outcomes illustrate that there are many
‘‘enemies,’’ not just one.
Based on that conclusion, I maintain that the antisweatshop movement
should name and challenge these enemies on a short-, medium-, and longterm basis. In the short term, antisweatshop organizations should candidly
and openly discuss their differences. Long-standing disputes between groups
like the NLC and the AFL-CIO must be mediated and resolved. Internal debate can be positive, but petty, behind-the-scenes bickering is often
counterproductive. Now is the time for bold leadership and brave action. In
the medium term, labor unions and NGOs should continue targeting TNCs
that egregiously exploit maquila workers. Companies that have a socially
responsible image are especially vulnerable to media-based attacks. In the
long term, antisweatshop groups should consider organizing maquila workers
on a regional basis. This is a time-consuming, costly, and remote option, but
unless all Central American maquila workers are organized, TNCs like J. C.
Penney will continue to cut and run, and the downward spiral of wages and
working conditions will continue.
The antisweatshop movement is at a crossroads. Some scholars, activists,
and writers have recently debated the movement’s future direction and magnitude (Featherstone 2001; Isaac 2001; Krupat 2002). Within this exchange,
one perspective maintains that transnational labor organizing must be combined with systemic change. This position sees capitalism as the enemy.
Before September 11, anticapitalist views had become increasingly popular
in the antisweatshop and global justice movements (Bircham and Charlton
2001; Schalit 2002; Starr 2000). In this new political climate, such arguments
have been momentarily stilled. Yet ‘‘spaces of hope’’ remain, and the struggle
for practical gains and radical transformation continues. One can only hope
that ultimately these movements will succeed.
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Social Science History
Appendix Organization names and acronyms
Acronym
Name
ACILS
AFL-CIO
American Center for International Labor Solidarity
American Federation of Labor–Congress of Industrial
Organizations
American Institute for Free Labor Development
Apparel Industry Partnership
General Confederation of Workers
Campaign for Labor Rights
Committee for the Defense of Human Rights in Honduras
Collective of Honduran Women
Confederation of Honduran Workers
United Confederation of Honduran Workers
Independent Monitoring Team
Reflection, Research, and Communication Team
United Federation of Honduran Textile Workers
Independent Federation of Honduran Workers
Inter-American Textile and Garment Workers Federation
Honduran Apparel Manufacturers Association
International Confederation of Free Trade Unions
International Labor Organization
International Textile, Garment, and Leather Workers Federation
National Labor Committee
Kimi Workers Union
Support Team International for Textileras
Union of Needletrades, Industrial, and Textile Employees
United Students against Sweatshops
United States/Guatemala Labor Education Project
United States/Labor Education in the Americas Project
AIFLD
AIP
CGT
CLR
CODEH
CODEMUH
CTH
CUTH
EMI
ERIC
FESITRAINCOH
FITH
FITTIV
HAMA
ICFTU
ILO
ITGLWF
NLC
SITRAKIMIH
STITCH
UNITE
USAS
U.S./GLEP
U.S./LEAP
Notes
The author generously thanks all the workers and social justice activists interviewed for
this study. I am also very grateful for the editors of this special issue of Social Science
History.
1
Keck and Sikkink (1998: 15) contend that ‘‘although labor internationalism has survived the decline of the left, it is based mainly on large membership organizations
representing (however imperfectly) bounded constituencies. Where advocacy networks have formed around labor issues, they have been transitory, responding to the
pressure of domestic labor movements (as in labor support networks formed around
Brazil, South Africa, and Central America in the 1980s).’’ Margaret Keck also stated
(during the 2000 Latin American Studies Association Conference) that the ‘‘boomerang effect’’ model did not generally apply to labor-related issues.
The Honduran Maquiladora Industry and the Kimi Campaign
2
573
These claims are startling for two reasons. First, labor internationalism has been
mostly expressed through large labor organizations such as the AFL-CIO. For nearly
100 years, the American Federation of Labor (AFL) and later the AFL-CIO did
not engage in ‘‘genuine’’ labor internationalism—they supported the economic and
foreign policy interests of corporations and the state (see Buhle 1999). In 1995, the
AFL-CIO underwent a fairly significant shift, moving toward actively supporting
cross-border labor organizing campaigns—in some cases. Keck and Sikkink inexplicably ignore this history. Second, they remarkably claim that advocacy networks
formed around labor issues are ‘‘transitory.’’ In a footnote, they discuss the establishment of the National Labor Committee (NLC) in 1981. As of this writing, the
NLC continues to exist, which hardly makes it seem like a ‘‘transitory’’ organization. Several other Central American solidarity organizations, like Witness for Peace
and the Committee in Solidarity for the People of El Salvador, which were created
in the early 1980s, switched gears in the 1990s and are now focused on labor and
sweatshop issues. Based on these examples, Keck and Sikkink’s claims regarding the
short-term nature of labor-oriented TANs are befuddling.
This is a very complicated and convoluted narrative. Based on conversations with
representatives from the NLC, UNITE, FITTIV, and U.S./LEAP, there was a clear
sense of animosity and mistrust for one another. The previous paragraph merely
sketches out the broad contours of these divisions. Due to the intensity of the conflict, the ‘‘informants’’ with whom I spoke asked that they not be identified here for
specific quotations regarding this issue.
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