Saturday, June 07, 2025

 

Source: TRNN


Private companies and state governments have long exploited the 13th Amendment to create a profitable agribusiness system that runs on prison slave labor. “If you look at the history of agriculture in the United States, it’s built on dispossession, it’s built on enslavement,” says Joshua Sbicca, director of the Prison Agriculture Lab, and the legacy of that violence lives on in the big business of “agricarceral” farming today. In this episode of Rattling the Bars, host and former political prisoner Mansa Musa speaks with Sbicca about the prisoners farming our food, the parties profiting from their exploitation, and the ongoing fight to uphold the basic rights and dignity of incarcerated workers.

Transcript

The following is a rushed transcript and may contain errors. A proofread version will be made available as soon as possible.

Mansa Musa:

Welcome to Rattling Bars. I’m your host, Mansa Musa.

We oftentimes, when we look at agriculture in society, we see fields and fields of crops, irrigation system, birds flying and chirping. This is the agribusiness as it relates to a fantasy. But when you look at the agribusiness in prison, you see an entirely different story. You see men in the same kind of uniforms providing the labor to produce plants and crops. You see officers, guards on horseback with shotguns, overseeing them, making sure they do not run or escape.

Prisoners are left out in the field, as Malcolm said, one time from, can’t see in the morning to can’t see at night, but they’re left out there at ungodly hours. Recently I spoke with Professor Joshua Sbicca, who is an educator, community builder and associate professor in the Department of Sociology at Colorado State University, author of Food Justice Now: Deepening the Root of Social Struggle and co-author of A Recipe for Gentrification, Food, Power, and Resistance in the City. Thank you for joining me, professor Joshua Sbicca.

Joshua Sbicca:

It’s a pleasure to be here. Thanks for having me on your show.

Mansa Musa:

And introduce yourself to our audience and tell them how you got into the space that we’re now talking about today.

Joshua Sbicca:

Sure. Yeah. I’m the director of the Prison Agriculture Lab out of Colorado State University. And the Prison Agriculture Lab is a space for inquiry and action related to understanding agricultural operations inside the criminal punishment system.

And we do a lot of research to understand what’s happening and provide translations of that research for a public audience, for a media audience, so that people can see behind the curtain of the prison and understand specifically what it’s like to be on a prison farm and to understand the scope of that work.

So I come at this work originally actually through doing food justice work and in particular working with an organization called Planting Justice, who is an organization that works with formerly incarcerated people. It’s also worked inside prisons like San Quentin State Prison in California. And through that work was exposed to the perspectives of a lot of formerly incarcerated people who’ve had to work in prisons, but also who were working in a more positive way with plants and in gardens.

But it stoked this question in me, though, what’s happening more broadly in the US prison system when it comes to agricultural operations. And so that sort of curiosity was really the impetus behind the launch of the prison agriculture lab.

Mansa Musa:

And I did 48 years in prison, and I was in the Maryland system and one of the prisons, they called it the penal farm. And the reason why they called it the penal farm is because that was when it was first built. That’s what the design was. It was designed for producing food for the prison population, as well as the general society in that region, which was western Maryland. Professor, can you give our audience an overview of the history of the agribusiness and practice in prisons in the US?

Joshua Sbicca:

Yeah, absolutely. And maybe I’ll start first with just laying out what are some of the trends right now that we know? So through our research, we found there are around 660 adult state-run prisons that have agricultural operations of some kind.

And we found these fall into four categories, horticulture and landscaping crops, food processing and production, and animal agriculture. And within each of those, kind of broad categories, are a whole bunch of specific practices.

And so you have everything from essentially plantation-style, large cropping kinds of operations, to more diversified gardens. And so it really runs the gamut, but we do see a concentration of agricultural operations in the South. We also know that in the South there’s a greater number of prisons in that region compared to other parts of the US.

And we’ve also asked kind of why are these things taking place? And so currently, according to the prison system, there’s four main reasons why these operations take place. One is idleness reduction. So essentially, kind of because prisons force people to work in the name of, they don’t want “idle hands doing the devil’s work.”

Another is financial reasons, so feeding the prison population or producing profits for the prison system. There’s also more or more, I should say training purposes. So educational and vocational programs are tied to ag operations.

And then lastly, a very small subset are reparative. So we understand this is for community service purposes, donating the food that’s grown, or greening the prison or something like that. But I’ll say that that’s a huge exception, that there are those sorts of reasons for these operations.

As far as the more historical kind of connections, you know, one of the pieces that I think is really clear is that if you look at the history of agriculture in the United States, it’s built on dispossession, it’s built on enslavement. And a lot of those violent kinds of logics in agriculture find their way into the prison system, as the US prison system begins to develop in the 1800s.

And the same groups who were bracketed out of this sort of agrarian utopia that was being built for white immigrants to the US, as those people were bracketed out, they were then incarcerated again as the prison system began to develop. And yet agriculture was somehow imagined as a tool to discipline incarcerated people and compel them into being an orderly subject, basically.

And so in many ways, agriculture helped build the prison system. As prisons begin to develop, they needed to find a way to afford what they were creating. And so if you had a captive free labor force, you could force that labor force to grow a bunch of food to feed all the people that were then in that system. And so, farms were really central actually to the building of the US prison system and have continued to play a role over time.

Mansa Musa:

And you listed four things, talk about the relationship between how they work out as far as the agri, and as it relates to the support of the institution and the profit margin that come out in support of the prison industrial complex profiting off of it.

Joshua Sbicca:

So maybe I’ll kind of start with breaking down a little bit, these two differences. So when it comes to agricultural operations in prisons and the financial benefits of those operations, it comes in two forms. One is essentially a subsidy to the prison system in the form of food that goes to feed the prison population. And this acts as a cost savings.

So instead of a prison having to go into the open market and buy that food from a corporation, they have their prison force do that work, anything from $0 to cents on the hour. There’s a large number of prisons that subsidize the cost of feeding people in this kind of way. And food is one of the few pieces within a budget in the prison that is controllable in many ways.

And so prisons have sought to make that expenditure less and less and less over time, and it’s at a great cost to the health of people within prisons. And I’ll note that, even in cases where food is going into the prison system, it usually isn’t enough to completely feed everybody. And so food has to be bought anyway.

And then there’s the food that’s being sold on the open market. So if we were to think about it, I think about it like an agricultural/industrial complex, where have prisoners that are selling or that are working to produce crops that then get sold. And also raise animals and livestock.

So in Texas for example, there’s a huge livestock operation. A bunch of this livestock is going into livestock auctions throughout the state of Texas. And then that beef is making its way into food supply chains that go into the consumer market, where you know may be having a hamburger at McDonald’s where some portion of that was produced in a prison in say, Texas.

And so, in terms of how much money is being made, like an exact dollar figure, this is something that actually the prison agriculture lab is trying to get information on. And so we’re in the middle of a project where we’re compiling a bunch of these numbers and we’re compiling the companies that are buying from the prison system. But just to name a few know there’s big companies like Smithfield or Cargill, these large multinational corporations that are purchasing some part of their food supply from prisons. And so tracing that is much more complicated, but it’s nevertheless happening.

Mansa Musa:

Are you familiar with the farm line litigation involving the Louisiana State Penitentiary? And can you talk about your research as it relates to that and any other views you might have on that?

Joshua Sbicca:

Sure. I guess the first thing that I’ll actually say here is, I was retained by the plaintiffs as an expert witness in the farm line litigation. So I can speak about some things and not other things.

But I guess what I’ll say first is a little bit about the research that the prison agriculture lab has done. So as it pertains to Louisiana know, our research has found that there’s a lot of different agricultural operations in prisons in Louisiana, at Angola specifically. So Louisiana State Penitentiary, we know that there are large cropping operations, and that’s sort of the majority of the kind of agricultural work that takes place there.

And there’s work that’s run by the prison industry itself in LSP. And then there are fields that are run by LSP itself. And so those operations run parallel to each other but serve different kinds of purposes.

And part of what the farm line litigation is about, and this has been all kind of publicly recorded and reported on, I should say, is focusing on the heat conditions that men incarcerated at LSP are subject to, particularly in the summertime. And then the harms that are associated with working in a plantation-style agricultural system that’s reminiscent of chattel slavery. And so the pending class action lawsuit is seeking to address those two concerns.

Mansa Musa:

And to your knowledge and your research, how much money do they make versus how much profit comes out of that space? I know you say y’all was trying to pin down how much profit, but if you can give a general view of the profit margin relative to how much the wage margin.

Joshua Sbicca:

Yeah, I mean it really varies a lot by prison and state across the US, but if we’re talking about a state like Louisiana and a prison like Angola, prisoners are paid anywhere from zero to 4 cents an hour, so basically nothing. And in terms of the farm line itself, what’s come out in kind of public declarations, is that food actually goes back into feeding the prison population. So it’s different than some of the other agricultural operations that are producing food for the open market.

In terms of the exact dollar figures, I don’t have those exact figures, but if you were to look like in the aggregate, the Associated Press released a report about a year or so ago, and they essentially found that there’s likely hundreds of millions of dollars that are being made by this agricultural system within prisons. And so you could do some ballpark math to realize essentially that you have incarcerated people paid basically nothing while companies and/or the state are profiting off of this labor.

Mansa Musa:

And it is known that when you’re dealing with any type of large agricultural situation that you have to have some type of pesticide, or some type of way to preserve the plants that you’re growing, or create an environment for the plants to grow. In your research, have y’all found any relationship between the pesticides being used and the health, or health related issues, from men or women that’s working in these environments?

Joshua Sbicca:

Our research hasn’t looked specifically at that relationship between, kind of the environmental exposures and then the health of incarcerated people working in these systems. But one thing that I can say, is that based on various cases that I’m aware of around the country, that the use of pesticides and herbicides is part of some of these agricultural operations. So I’m particularly familiar with the case of Florida where I’ve done extensive research and I know that pesticides and herbicides are used in various farming operations. Now whether or not they’re being safely applied and whether or not people are getting sick as a result of those exposures, I think is another question.

There have been reports, again, this is in sort of publicly available documents that at places like Angola, that crop dusters are used. Again, the question is how safely is that practice happening and are people around when those practices are happening? The prison system is notoriously opaque and it can be incredibly hard to verify what’s happening in any systematic way, but there appear to be reports and information to suggest that these chemicals are being used. And then it’s whether or not it’s harmful to people is the bigger question.

Mansa Musa:

The real news recently reached out to Louisiana State Penitentiary for comment on how frequently they use crop dusters, and has not yet been provided with any official response. I come out of prison myself. When I look at the farm line and I look at the whole agribusiness as it relates to the prison industrial complex.

Unless a person is coming out of the system and buying acres of land and planting and feeding them on their own self, even with a marketable skill is virtually impossible. If you are in an environment where agriculture is the primary industry that exists in the Maryland system, in the federal system, they have industry and it is exploitative in and of itself, but they provide you with a marketable skill where a person might come out with upholstery, a person might come out with plumbing, a person might come out with cabin making, even though they’ve been exploited all them years.

I find the connection between when a person doing long-term in the Angola, or long-term on any prison where it’s agri is concerned, that they don’t have the necessary job skills to be competitive back in society. Do you have a view on that?

Joshua Sbicca:

Yeah, I do. And I think that’s a really important point that you’re making. And one of the claims of many state prison systems is that there is some sort of educational or vocational benefit to the agricultural work that people are performing.

Unfortunately, there’s very little evidence to suggest that that’s actually happening. And I think that there are several reasons for that. I think one is part of it’s like a tracking problem. It’s very difficult to track people once they leave prison. But I think more fundamentally is the point that you made, which is that you can’t buy land coming out of prison. It’s very, very unlikely that you’re going to be able to do that. And moreover, the skills that you actually developed are probably for a more frontline position.

Mansa Musa:

Exactly.

Joshua Sbicca:

So working as a field hand or milking a cow or something of that sort, and if you look at the pay that’s associated with that work, it’s very low pay, and agricultural work is some of the most dangerous work that exists in the economy. And so the thing that I’ve thought a bit about is what is it actually signaling to incarcerated people when you say, this is the kind of work you’re going to do? It signals that they don’t deserve better work.

Mansa Musa:

Right. Exactly.

Joshua Sbicca:

It signals that they deserve some of the most backbreaking, brutal work that we know exists. And to suggest that people are going to come out with a skill then, in that same sector that continues to abuse people, is ultimately this sort of disciplinary and brutal logic that has no intention of actually taking care of people.

Mansa Musa:

And under the law, you have crime, you have punishment, and the punishment is the sentence that you receive. I commit a crime, I get punished for it. The punishment is the sentence I receive. The punishment is not where I go at, and then in turn be brutally punished or physically punished.

And according to the concept of penology is that once I get into the system, then I’m supposed to be provided with the opportunity to change my behavior, to develop a work ethic, to develop social skills, because ultimately I’m going to be returned. Within in the agri system, and much like in the industrial system as well, but in the agri system in and of itself, you’re going to find very few people that come out of the system that is equipped to re-socialize themselves back into society, primarily because everything is done in a plantation style. If I don’t work, if I refuse to work, I’m going in solitary confinement. Or the threat of solitary confinement exists that if I don’t get on the farm line that exists, and more importantly, I’m doing long-term, the average person is doing 15 to 20 years in that environment and come out that environment, have very little skills to adjust back in society.

So it’s inevitable that they’re going to revert back to some kind of criminal behavior which opens that cycle, repeat that cycle. And this has been my experience that I’ve seen over and over again when people leave out, we’re not prepared, we’re not equipped and we’re confronted with a society that we have to live in. We don’t have the ability to get housing, our medical benefits, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

But in closing, professor, tell our audience where you see this farm line litigation going. If you can give an overview on that or based on your research and your knowledge of these types of litigation, where do you think this might end up at?

Joshua Sbicca:

Yeah, it is a great question. And when we look at how some agricultural operations are run in this plantation style, like you were talking about, where the point of the system is to heap punishment on top of a sentence, as you put it.

When we see that these kinds of systems exist, it breathes life into the argument that we need to get rid of, for example, exception clauses from state constitutions that say, you can be subject to slavery or involuntary servitude if you’ve been convicted of a crime.

So these kinds of systems, they breathe life into this analysis that prisons are akin to chattel slavery, and they traumatize people in ways that are akin to chattel slavery. And so, even though plantation style agricultural operations are the exception in the American prison system, they’re demonstrative of the larger logics in the prison system that abuse people that use incarceration and capturing the time of people in order to prop up, essentially a giant public works program.

And then on top of that, the entanglements of that system with private industry, which profits off of the captured time of people. And so when thinking about something like the farm line litigation or kind of more broadly what it represents, I think that’s why it’s significant, and that’s why we should be paying close attention, and thinking about how that logic is maybe happening in many other places as well. And so there’s an opportunity to crack that open and engage in efforts that actually uplift the human rights of people who are incarcerated, and that sees the human dignity of people who are behind bars no matter what they’ve done.

Mansa Musa:

Based on your research and your study and your knowledge of the history, what would be a good solution for the type of problem that we just outlined?

Joshua Sbicca:

Yeah, I mean, I guess the one thing that I would point to is that it’s always important to take direction from people who are on the front lines, and that’s incarcerated people, and look at the analysis and demands of people who are subject to abusive systems.

So if you look at efforts like the Free Alabama movement or efforts in the State of Florida, for example, to engage in various prisoner rights organizing, I think it’s really important to find those organizations and those individuals that are already doing the work and to find a way to plug into it wherever you’re located.

There are prisons in every single one of these states that we live in here in the United States, and there are many people that are locked up in that system. So making connections with people on the inside I think is really important.

I think on a more outside level, knowing those companies that are profiting off of the labor of incarcerated people and refusing to spend your money to support those companies is also something that we can all take ownership of ourselves and be aware of how we’re entangled with the prison industrial complex. And so I think that’s another set of actions that consumers can be taking.

And I think the last piece is, in those cases where there is a litigation or other kinds of efforts to hold prisons accountable, that people find ways to support those efforts. So those are the things that I would offer here today.

Mansa Musa:

And will say, tell our audience how they can follow you or keep track of some of the works that you’re doing in terms of your advocacy.

Joshua Sbicca:

Sure, you can find the work of the Prison Agriculture Lab at prisonagriculture.com. And personally, I’m on Blue Sky and you can find me on Blue Sky if you want to follow me on social media.

Mansa Musa:

Professor Joshua Sbicca, you rattled the bars today, and we want to always be mindful of this to say that we’re talking about human beings. We had the United Farm Workers that was working in the fields for pennies a day and inhumane conditions that was able to unionize and ultimately get treated like a human being, get a livable wage.


BALOCHISTAN IS A COUNTRY

Source: Originally published by Z. Feel free to share widely.

On 2nd May 2025, in the scorching heat of Turbat, women and children blocked the road at D-Baloch Kech, they demanded, not missing persons or natural resources but the return of missing dead bodies. The dead bodies of three young men (namely Sarbaan, Nabeel, and Zikka) were killed in a clash with Pakistani security forces in Dannuk Kech. The forces took the dead bodies with them. The families continued their resistance, rather than returning the dead bodies of young men, the police, along with other district administration, threatened the families to end the protest.

Balach Baali, brother of Sarbaan, recounted heart-wrenching scenes that unfolded.”  When we became aware of the incident, we approached the authorities and requested that they approach the Frontier Corps (FC) to hand over the dead bodies of our brothers. However, we received no assurance from the authorities. On the second day, we, along with the other families, blocked the roads at two points—Jadgal-e-Daan and Kesaak—and continued our sit-in protest.

Later that evening, a Levies Major, along with the SHO of police, arrived with prisoner vans and threatened the families to end the protest. But we insisted that the FC had not listened to us, and we were left with no option but to block the roads. We told them, “Don’t come to us—go and talk to the authorities. Ask them to hand over the bodies so we can bury them according to our customs, in our own time and place.”

That evening, no one came—not the AC, DC, police, nor anyone. However, through the death squads, they continued to threaten the protesting families. They tried to forcibly clear the roads by saying, “The FC convoy is coming, and their cars are approaching.” But the entire night passed, and no one came. The second night passed in the same way.

The civil society, the media, the representatives of all political parties, the Turbat press—none of them came during this time.

On the third evening, we decided to silently end the protest. The next morning, we offered absentee funeral prayers. We assigned symbolic graves to each one and buried their memories. 

What unfolded next was inhumane, barbaric, and unethical, The protesting families were shocked and traumatized to find out that their loved ones were buried without proper burial rituals, and even without a shroud (kafan), and that even proper funeral rites were not performed. 

The grieving families gathered  near Taleemi Chowk Graveyard,  to gather more information about their beloved people but once again the the police along with other law enforcement agencies arrived, threatened the families, tried to disperse them however the families exhumed one of the dead bodies later buried him with proper Islamic rites and Baloch customs. 

Balach recalls after some days, “we became aware that three new graves had been dug near Taleemi Chowk in Ahsan Shan Graveyard, and people had seen Zikka’s Balochi chaddar lying on one of the graves.

The families gathered at the graveyard to find out more about the new graves.

The first day, we visited the DC and informed him of the situation. We requested permission to take the dead bodies with us, so we could perform the funeral rites according to our traditions and customs. The DC promised us and asked for two days.

After two days, we visited him again, but he wasn’t in his office. We waited for him and even went to his house, but he wasn’t there either. We haven’t seen him since.

Then the families went to offer Fatiha Khawani, a ceremony where Surah Al-Fatiha (the first chapter of the Qur’an) is recited for the deceased as a form of remembrance and to seek blessings for their souls. However, the bodies had been thrown into the graves without a shroud—a complete lack of respect for the dead. (The bodies were not decomposed, as the motherland had preserved them with its unconditional love.)

Soon, the FC and police forces surrounded the entire graveyard premises and stopped the exhumation. After strong resistance from the women and children, the police told the families that they would exhume the bodies and offer the funeral rites according to customs.

I have not seen Sarbaan, Nabeel, or Zikka’s dead bodies. I am still not sure if those are the bodies of our young brothers. However, the viral picture, where the feet of the dead bodies can be seen, resembles Sarban’s feet “. (This refers to the first photo released by the Pakistani forces.)

In a religious context specifically in Islam, such acts are uncanonical. Everyone has the right to be buried with proper Islamic rituals, but here no respect of religious rites, powerful quarters have the complete impunity to act without being accountable. 

The silence of religious scholars is quite alarming. In such cases, the religious scholars must call out barbaric acts and speak against yet, here they have chosen not to speak, which indicates the religious scholars are also facilitating those elements involved in the Baloch genocide. 

It is not just the religious scholars, but most of the intellectual minds in society have stayed silent in the face of barbarism. 

Such practices are not unfamiliar in Balochistan, if we recall our memories two decades back, the assassination of Nawab Akbar bugti, (one of the prominent figures in Baloch politics) by the Pakistan military on 26 August 2006, this heinous act sparked a widespread uprising across Balochistan. Nawab Akbar Bugti’s dead  body was disrespected, the family members were denied the  right to perform the funeral according to the rites of Islam and Balochi Customs, the Dead body was locked in a casket and  a lock was put on it and buried. Nawab bught’s son Jameel Bugti recounted the incident in documentary “what they did we even don’t know where my father is buried we don’t believe in all that drama that brought a box and buried in Dera Bugti and put a lock on it, who put lock on caskets and nowhere in the world but in this country (Pakistan) you do all these stupid things and you expect the people to praise and say we all are well-wishers of Pakistan how can you expect any Baloch to be a well-wishers of Pakistan when you treat Baloch like this or our elders like this “ 

This is how the Balochs are treated, even the dead bodies are not spared. It shows the hatred of the authorities towards Baloch, moreover these acts are intentionally done to send a message, stay silent, do not resist.Email

Amir Naeem, a student of International Relations at the International Islamic University, Islamabad. Hails from Balochistan


Detention law


Editorial 
Published June 7, 2025 
DAWN


CITIZENS will be presumed guilty until proven innocent. At least that is the message the political leadership of Balochistan has sent to the people of the province. The Anti-Terrorism (Balochistan Amendment) Act, 2025, adopted last Wednesday by the Balochistan Assembly, states that any individual “suspected of offences enshrined in the anti-terrorism law may be held in preventive detention for up to three months for the purpose of inquiry”. It was passed without any real resistance from the parties present, ostensibly because the province’s elected leadership has run out of ideas about how its violent sociopolitical crisis may be addressed. There is no denying that the state faces immense law-and-order challenges in the province, but will such sweeping legislation solve problems, or merely complicate them by adding more fuel to the fire?

The Balochistan Assembly seems to have made the amendments to provide legal cover to the state, which routinely detains citizens from the province without any formal charge. The vague legal standard for ‘reasonable suspicion’, the absence of judicial checks, the formalised involvement of military forces in policing civilians, and Balochistan’s history of political targeting all but guarantee that this law will be abused, and in turn fuel more of the same anger and discontentment that even today make Balochistan’s problems seem intractable. Even aside from the host of legal and moral issues with the law, if the state really needed these powers, it could have at the very least respected some long-standing Baloch grievances while it was being drafted. For example, it should have said that each detention would be properly documented; that there would be continuous civilian and judicial oversight of each case so that there were no rights abuses in detention; and that the families of detainees would be kept informed of each detainee’s whereabouts and legal status so they would not keep searching for them in desperation. It would have made the law much more palatable. Perhaps it can still be reconsidered.

Published in Dawn, June 7th, 2025

LA REVUE GAUCHE - Left Comment: Search results for BALOCHISTAN

 

Source: Labor Notes

What has happened to workers in Turkey since the country voted to concentrate power in one man, President Recep Tayyip ErdoÄŸan, should be a warning flashing red to workers elsewhere.

“When democracy shrinks, it hurts workers—when one man has all the power,” said Arzu ÇerkezoÄŸlu, president of Turkey’s Confederation of Progressive Trade Unions (DISK). “Parliament became useless, there’s no separation of powers. The president can control the laws that are made, and the judicial system. The justice system became an instrument of politics.

“Our labor laws are not functioning,” she said. “Workers’ share of national income is less.” Annual inflation stands at 38 percent—and that’s the lowest since 2021. Annual inflation for housing and utilities is 74 percent.

DISK represents blue-collar workers in the public and private sectors. A sister federation, KESK, represents white-collar public employees. A majority of the 327,000 DISK members work for municipalities or in factories.

In 2017 DISK worked to educate its members to vote no on a referendum that would change Turkey’s constitution to concentrate more power in the president, the post ErdoÄŸan had held since 2014 (before that, he had been prime minister since 2003). “We did trainings in the workplace,” ÇerkezoÄŸlu said. “We showed examples from other countries and we predicted what would happen here.”

But Turkey’s unions are at only 10-12 percent density, and some of their leaders are pro-ErdoÄŸan. Voters approved the referendum by 51.4 percent, and ErdoÄŸan assumed vast new powers starting in 2019.

UNION LEADERS OFTEN ARRESTED

Now, arrests of union leaders are common. One DISK vice president spent time in jail recently, charged with “terrorist activities.” In Europe, only Belarus—where the dictatorship is official—has a worse record on repression of unions.

“The arrests are a message to society,” ÇerkezoÄŸlu said, “not to speak out.” That message is unrelenting and pervasive. Two prominent movie actors were just sued by the government—for statements they made in 2013.

Traditionally DISK has led big rallies on May Day. This year the government forbade May Day demonstrations in Istanbul’s famous Taksim Square, as it has almost every year since 1979. So the unions—and young people—gathered in a different location, somewhere between 50,000 and 100,000 people. Their slogan was “We will reclaim bread, justice, and freedom.”

When polls showed that he might lose this year’s presidential election to Ekrem ImamoÄŸlu, the mayor of Istanbul, in March ErdoÄŸan had ImamoÄŸlu arrested and charged with terrorism, corruption, and not being a college graduate. Ten weeks later the mayor is still in jail under pre-trial detention.

IT’S COLD IN SILIVRI

After the arrest, Özgür Çelik told me, “trade unions were among the very first organized groups to take to the streets in Istanbul.” Çelik is head of the Istanbul chapter of the social democratic party that was running ImamoÄŸlu for president, the Republican People’s Party (CHP). “It was the unionized workers and union representatives who stood outside ÅžiÅŸli Municipality [whose mayor was also arrested] to oppose the arrest of their elected mayor, leading with courage and determination.

“Soon after, unions from all over Turkey—especially those affiliated with DİSK—started arriving en masse. For one full week, we were in Saraçhane [a large park in Istanbul] every day. And every day, unions came with their members and stood shoulder to shoulder in the fight to repel this anti-democratic attempt.

“Since March 19, we have been holding rallies in a different city of Turkey every weekend and in a different district of Istanbul every week. Trade unions continue to show up—with their flags, banners, and members—offering powerful support to our movement. They are standing up for democracy.”

Because of pent-up anger at Turkey’s direction, the huge demonstrations protesting the arrest included a host of other anti-government demands as well. The increasing difficulty to make ends meet has caused ErdoÄŸan to lose support.

I saw the infamous prison in Silivri, an outlying district of Istanbul, where ImamoÄŸlu is being held. Unionists have an old joke. A person starts to make a political comment but stops and says, “You know, it’s cold in Silivri…” The pro-democracy rally was held in Silivri that week, and speakers thanked the crowd with “It’s not so cold in Silivri anymore.”

UNIONS BANNED

DISK’s history was interrupted in 1980 when the Turkish military took over the government and the federation and its affiliates were banned. Its entire executive committee was jailed, charged with terrorism. “It was a class-conscious intervention,” ÇerkezoÄŸlu said. “The main target was the working class and labor rights. Workers lost most of their union rights for a decade—there were no union freedoms.”

Leaders who weren’t in jail went into exile in Europe, spending their time propagandizing against the dictatorship and raising funds for prisoners and their families. Some workers in Turkey were forced to join “yellow” pro-company unions.

In 1992, real unions were once more permitted, though many returning leaders found themselves blacklisted from jobs.

“Instead of protecting the right to organize, the government has sided with employers and used the police to apply pressure on union members,” Çelik said. “This is still happening—just recently, in a factory in Çatalca (Polonez Factory), workers were fired for joining a union and were surrounded by law enforcement as they tried to protest.”

The CHP and DISK call for removing barriers to unionization, along with protecting workplace safety and shifting the tax burden from the working class to the rich.

DEMOCRACY AND UNION FIGHTS

“Turkey is a difficult country in which to have different ideas,” ÇerkezoÄŸlu said. “But we’re used to it. Since we were founded in 1967 we have always criticized the government, and we are always targeted.” The head of DISK’s Istanbul district, Asalettin ArslanoÄŸlu, says he’s been arrested seven times, spending a total of a year and a half in jail.

DISK leaders say they have to fight for democracy in society and for their members’ rights at the same time, and that those two fights are equally important. On May 31 23,000 municipal workers and their family members–drivers, gardeners, janitors, and others–struck and marched in the city of Izmir for higher pay.

Is ÇerkezoÄŸlu personally fearful of being arrested? “No,” she said. “Getting arrested is part of the struggle. Every morning I ask, ‘Who will they arrest today?’ But it’s not good to get used to it.”

Source: Originally published by Z. Feel free to share widely.

Cuba is once again facing a severe, multi-faceted crisis, not due to the hurricanes that pummel through the Caribbean every year, but from the relentless and suffocating pressure exerted by its powerful neighbour to the north. This is a recurring story of a people striving for independence under an unyielding siege and blockade. Through deliberate actions, the US government has been meticulously constructing and enforcing even greater barriers that threaten the very survival of the Cuban people.

The latest expression of this crisis came on 30 May with an announcement from ETECSA, Cuba’s state-owned telecommunications company, regarding a significant rate hike for mobile data. While seemingly minor to outsiders, for Cubans, it ignited a major criticism born of simmering frustrations. The new rates, particularly for additional data, are high in comparison to the average salary. An extra 3 GB now costs 3,360 Cuban pesos, nearly ten times the price of the monthly 6 GB plan. This is not merely a price adjustment; it came as a shock to the vast majority of Cuba’s 8 million mobile phone users, many of whom rely on internet access for education, work, and to connect with family abroad. This ETECSA announcement, though, is not an isolated incident; it underscores the immense strain under which Cuba attempts to meet the basic needs of its people under the US blockade.

Tightening the Blockade

For those less familiar with Cuba’s recent history, the island’s economy, already reeling from the pandemic’s devastating blow to tourism and the six-decade blockade, has been further squeezed since Trump first took office. The 243 sanctions imposed by Trump during 2017–2021 remain in place, a suffocating blanket woven into the fabric of daily life. Even under President Biden, who campaigned on promises of change, the pressure was maintained.

Back in 2017, the US accused Cuba of ‘sonic attacks’ on its embassy officials. The claim was later proven false, yet it served its purpose: it was a pretext for Trump to freeze relations, collapse tourism, and close the door to the over 600,000 annual US visitors. Then came the shutdown of Western Union in 2020, disrupting vital remittances. The suspension of visa services at the US Embassy in Havana in 2017 sparked the largest wave of irregular migration since 1980, a desperate exodus of Cubans seeking any way out.

The economic devastation since then has been profound. Cuba’s GDP shrank by a staggering 15% in 2019 and an additional 11% in 2020. Imagine a country unable to purchase basic necessities due to banking restrictions, its public services and industries crippled. When COVID-19 hit in 2020, Cuba’s robust public healthcare system, a point of national pride, found itself under immense pressure. Its only oxygen plant, critical for treating patients, became non-operational because it couldn’t import spare parts due to the blockade. Thousands of Cubans struggled to breathe, yet Washington refused to make exceptions.

Cuba’s Response to Deepening Crisis

Trump’s final act in office, listing Cuba as a state sponsor of terrorism in January 2021, was a devastating blow. This designation makes it nearly impossible for Cuba to engage in normal financial transactions, cutting off vital trade. Then, in the first 14 months of the Biden administration, the Cuban economy lost an estimated USD 6.35 billion due to the continued Trump sanctions, preventing crucial investments in its ageing energy grid and the purchase of food and medicine. The Cuban peso plummeted, devaluing already low public sector wages. While the rationing system provides a subsistence diet, this level of deprivation hasn’t been felt since the ‘Special Period’ of the 1990s following the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Faced with these severe constraints, the Cuban government has had to adapt. In 2020, it began to rely more heavily on the private sector as both a new source of employment and an importer of basic goods – a pragmatic step born of necessity. Over 8,000 small- and medium-sized businesses have registered since 2021, and in 2023, the private sector was on track to import $1 billion in goods. While this rise of the private sector has boosted the import of some supplies, it has also introduced new challenges for Cuba’s socialist project by creating income disparities, a stark contrast to Cuba’s historic emphasis on equitable wealth distribution.

President Miguel Díaz-Canel has consistently emphasised the government’s commitment to providing essential services while acknowledging the need for change due to the current scenario of an ever-tightened blockade. He defines Cuba’s socialist project of social justice not merely as welfare, but as a fair distribution of income where those who earn more contribute more, and those who cannot are supported. This is the tightrope the Revolution walks: balancing economic realities with its foundational principles. The leadership insists on safeguarding the socialist project and guaranteeing essential services while resisting calls for major privatisation efforts.

The pandemic, which decimated tourism, Cuba’s leading industry, further exacerbated the crisis. Despite dwindling access to hard foreign currency, the government spent hundreds of millions of dollars on medical supplies and continued to guarantee salaries, food, electricity, and water, adding $2.4 billion to its debt to cover basic needs.

Six Decades of US Regime Change Attempts

The ultimate obstacle consuming Cuba’s every effort to meet the basic needs of its people is the open and unrelenting antagonism of the United States. The US government’s objective from day one of the Cuban Revolution has been regime change, achieved by manufacturing worsening conditions and sponsoring internal subversion. While the blockade has always hindered Cuba’s development, for the first three decades, Soviet support and a favourable environment in the Third World offset much of its impact. The 1990s, which became known as the ‘Special Period’, were a crisis of immense proportions, as Cuba had to face the might of the US blockade on its own, yet the era forced innovative responses that allowed Cuba to survive.

However, the current moment is different. The cumulative effects of Trump’s sanctions, the pandemic, the global economic downturn, Biden’s inaction, and the return of Trump with a vindictive Marco Rubio as Secretary of State have created a perfect storm for the US to attempt its long-held objectives of regime change. Lester Mallory’s infamous memorandum from 1960, which explicitly stated that the blockade’s aim was to cause internal rebellion through hunger and desperation, has found a new, more sophisticated application. This strategy is forcing the Cuban state to adopt measures that might be contrary to its project but are critical for its survival in a period of great hostility.

State-owned enterprises, the bedrock of Cuba’s socialist economy, are crumbling under the inability to fund much-needed maintenance or generate enough foreign currency reserves, due to the blockade.

ETECSA, heavily sanctioned by the US, has been left with few to no options to renovate its entire internal infrastructure besides raising its rates for the first time in years. From its servers to radio base stations, all require imported technology. The state, historically capable of subsidising everything from education and health to transportation and food, is being forced to reduce, adapt, and in some cases, relinquish its ability to meet all needs at once. Garbage collection, water services, and most critically, electricity, face such severe challenges that their dysfunction breeds not only frustration but a growing disbelief in the state’s capacity to solve these problems.

While the US government, in sixty years of economic warfare, has failed to overthrow the Cuban state outright, its measures have now begun to have their most severe impact, to the point where the Trump administration and its henchmen, like Marco Rubio, are further tightening the noose on the Cuban state’s ability to meet the people’s needs. Whatever measures Cuba takes at this moment are not signs of weakness or surrender, but a direct consequence of the crisis forced upon it by the blockade.

The people’s responses to this crisis have been varied. Since July 2021, protests, often small and isolated, have become a normal occurrence across the island, and Cubans overall have become more vocal in their criticisms and demands of the Cuban state. In response to the ETECSA price increase, Cubans across diverse sectors of society have voiced criticism. Among them are students and chapters of the Federation of University Students (FEU) across campuses, which, since the announcement, have not only criticised but also led direct negotiations with the Cuban state and ETECSA to find solutions. Nonetheless, like clockwork, anti-Cuban voices in the US have tried to exploit this moment of crisis to manipulate the students’ criticisms into attempts to overthrow the Cuban Revolution.

In response to this, Roberto Morales, a high-ranking leader of the Communist Party, condemned the ‘media manipulations and opportunistic distortions’ that ‘enemies of the Revolution have attempted to impose’. While legitimate critiques by the people are understandable and an important aspect of life in Cuba, he argues that they must be viewed within the larger context of a nation under siege. The objective of Trump and Rubio, as it always has been for the anti-Cuban elements in Miami, Morales declares, has been ‘to sow chaos, promote violence, and shatter the peace of our homeland’.

Human Toll of the Blockade

An even bigger response to this crisis, however, has been the largest wave of migration in Cuban history, surpassing the Mariel boatlift and the 1994 rafter crisis combined. Nearly 425,000 Cubans migrated to the US in 2022 and 2023, representing over 4% of the population. Thousands more have gone to Spain, Mexico, Brazil, and other countries. Cuba’s population has fallen below 10 million for the first time since the early 1980s, losing 13% of its inhabitants since its peak in 2012. Yet the US, which for decades has created the conditions for and promoted this mass migration of Cubans, has taken a sharp turn. Cuban asylum seekers are being deported, and Cuba was just added to Trump’s travel ban list, outright banning Cubans from travelling safely and legally to the US.

This is the stark reality for Cuba: a country besieged, its people enduring great hardship, and its government adapting in ways that are both necessary and challenging for survival. The challenges are immense, and the sacrifices of its people are profound to sustain the gains of its revolution.

It is in this context that the solidarity of people in the world and in the US must be forged anew. We cannot simply be aware; we must be active. We must go beyond raising awareness and take actionable steps to support the Cuban people. This means demanding an end to the brutal and genocidal US blockade, a cruel and inhumane policy that punishes an entire nation for its commitment to self-determination. It means supporting humanitarian aid efforts, advocating for diplomatic engagement, and mobilising for a world without sanctions and blockades. The Cuban people need more than our sympathy; they need our active, unwavering solidarity.


This article was produced by Globetrotter.Email

Manolo De Los Santos is the co-executive director of the People’s Forum and is a researcher at Tricontinental: Institute for Social Research. He co-edited, most recently, Viviremos: Venezuela vs. Hybrid War (LeftWord Books/1804 Books, 2020) and Comrade of the Revolution: Selected Speeches of Fidel Castro (LeftWord Books/1804 Books, 2021). He is a co-coordinator of the People’s Summit for Democracy.