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	<title>SolidarityEconomy.net &#187; Women</title>
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	<description>The Politics, Economics &#38; Culture of Radical Change</description>
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		<title>Argentina&#8217;s Women and the Solidarity Economy</title>
		<link>http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2011/04/12/argentinas-women-and-the-solidarity-economy/</link>
		<comments>http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2011/04/12/argentinas-women-and-the-solidarity-economy/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 12 Apr 2011 12:43:46 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editors</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Argentina]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Solidarity Economy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Women]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2011/04/12/argentinas-women-and-the-solidarity-economy/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[<h2>Banking on Women's Experience </h2>  <p><strong><img style="display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px" height="125" src="http://www.actualidad20.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/cristina.jpg" width="174" align="right" /> By Marcela Valente       <br /></strong><a href="http://solidarityeconomy.net" target="_blank"><em>SolidarityEconomy.net</em></a><em> via Inter Press Service </em></p>  <p>BUENOS AIRES, Apr 11 (IPS) - Argentina's president is a woman, Cristina Fernández, and the country has one of the highest percentages of women lawmakers in the world. But women also have other leadership roles, outside the political system. Natalia Garabano, the coordinator of a research project that created a novel Experience Bank, told IPS that &quot;identifying and drawing attention to the valuable experiences of women who are leaders of their social organizations was one of the project's goals.&quot; </p>  <p>In a recently published report on this research, 87 women leaders of civil society organizations share their experiences of working for the rights to housing, sexual and reproductive health, education, non-discrimination and non-violence. </p>  <p>Garabano, of the Latin American Justice and Gender Group (ELA), said: &quot;In order to legitimize democracy and make it more robust, it is necessary to promote women's political participation, but in a broad sense, not just through political parties.&quot; </p> <span id="more-704"></span>  <p></p>  <p>Wider participation is not achieved only by increasing access to political office, but also by boosting women's participation in civil society. This broader concept of participation led ELA to develop the LIDERA (Lead) project, which has three components. </p>  <p>First, there is the research project titled &quot;Mujeres participando en ámbitos locales. Banco de experiencias&quot; (Women Participating in Local Communities: Experience Bank), consisting of in-depth interviews with women who are leaders of social organisations in six Argentine cities. </p>  <p>At the same time, a study was carried out on &quot;Sexo y poder&quot; (Sex and Power), about women's participation in decision-making posts in different public spheres, which has not yet been published. </p>  <p>The results were disappointing. Women occupy only 15 percent out of 13,627 decision-making posts in over 4,000 institutions, Garabano said. </p>  <p>The third cornerstone of the project was investigating the track records of women lawmakers at national and provincial levels, to find out more about them: how they came to be elected, what their educational background is, what proposals they are making, and how they manage to reconcile work and family responsibilities. </p>  <p>ELA presented the first component, the Experience Bank, in the lower chamber of Congress on Mar.31. &quot;Women's participation in the local sphere must be strengthened so that their leadership is built and grows on solid foundations and in contact with their social base,&quot; Garabano said. </p>  <p>&quot;Raising awareness about these 'ways of getting things done' may inspire action and strategies in different contexts, and spread knowledge about determining factors and ways of overcoming obstacles, making the most of opportunities and networking,&quot; she said. </p>  <p>The organisations headed by women that were selected for this project were in the city of Buenos Aires itself, in the municipality of Morón, in the west of the metropolitan area, and in cities in the provinces. </p>  <p>The provincial cities were San Salvador de Jujuy, 1,800 kilometres northwest of Buenos Aires, Mendoza, 1,050 kilometres west of the capital, Neuquén, 1,156 kilometres to the southwest and Rosario, 300 kilometres to the northwest. </p>  <p>The aim of the research was to show how women's leadership emerges and is consolidated at the local level; how women cope with the difficulties they face, and how they engage with the state and its official policies in order to achieve their goals, which are varied. </p>  <p>The Tupac Amaru Neighbourhood Organisation in Jujuy, headed by Milagros Sala, began building clay ovens to bake bread, and soup kitchens to serve free meals to children, at the height of the 2001-2002 social and economic crisis. </p>  <p>By 2003 the group had organised housing cooperatives and productive enterprises, and today has 4,500 housing units in Jujuy, as well as groups offering educational, health and recreational services for vulnerable populations. </p>  <p>&quot;Women are working in construction, in metallurgy and in concrete block factories,&quot; says Sala in her description of her experience, which grew out of working in coordination with the Ministries of Social Development and of Infrastructure and Housing. </p>  <p>Another story in the Experience Bank is that of Foundation PH15 for the Arts, headed by Moira Rubio, which teaches photography to young people in Ciudad Oculta (literally &quot;Hidden City&quot;), a shanty town on the fringes of Buenos Aires. </p>  <p>&quot;The goal is not that they should all become photographers,&quot; Rubio said. &quot;The point is to show them that they can: they can be recognised as artists, and as persons, without suffering discrimination.&quot; </p>  <p>A further example is the Federation of Non-Governmental Entities for Children and Adolescents in Mendoza (FEDEM). Patricia Spoliansky described how they managed to bring influence to bear in order to bring about changes. </p>  <p>&quot;We started to get together to try to have an impact on the design of public policies, and to see what we could do to get the state to listen to us,&quot; said Spoliansky. &quot;We were able to get funding for a few projects for children, and we managed to get civil society organisations officially represented on the Provincial Council for Children.&quot; </p>  <p>Marta Vitta, head of Fundación Síntesis (Synthesis Foundation) in Rosario, tells how she began working on women's issues, and then moved on to developing solidarity economy programmes. </p>  <p>&quot;I coordinated a lot of women's groups, and there was always a bottleneck over money,&quot; Vitta said. &quot;For instance, for a battered woman, the first thing is to 'denaturalise' violence; but afterwards, finances are the key to changing her situation. There were so many women who had no means of surviving.&quot; </p>  <p>That was when her organisation decided to make common cause with a proposal by the Ministry of Social Development to finance a &quot;social bank&quot; for the development of microbusinesses. </p>  <p>The report notes that there are recurrent themes in the interviews, such as the importance of creating links to ensure better access to financing and professional advice, or a greater impact on the public arena and its interests. </p>  <p>Almost all the interviews also express the desire to build relationships with public institutions in order to maximise benefits, if necessary through co-management of projects, but without losing the organisation's autonomy. </p>  <p>Finally, the women said that in some cases, social leadership has hidden costs, because of the need for women to balance responsibilities in the home, in paid jobs that cannot always be relinquished, and in community participation. (END/2011) </p>  <p>Copyright © 2011 IPS-Inter Press Service. All rights reserved. </p><br /><br />     
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			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<h2>Banking on Women's Experience </h2>  <p><strong><img style="display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px" height="125" src="http://www.actualidad20.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/cristina.jpg" width="174" align="right" /> By Marcela Valente       <br /></strong><a href="http://solidarityeconomy.net" target="_blank"><em>SolidarityEconomy.net</em></a><em> via Inter Press Service </em></p>  <p>BUENOS AIRES, Apr 11 (IPS) - Argentina's president is a woman, Cristina Fernández, and the country has one of the highest percentages of women lawmakers in the world. But women also have other leadership roles, outside the political system. Natalia Garabano, the coordinator of a research project that created a novel Experience Bank, told IPS that &quot;identifying and drawing attention to the valuable experiences of women who are leaders of their social organizations was one of the project's goals.&quot; </p>  <p>In a recently published report on this research, 87 women leaders of civil society organizations share their experiences of working for the rights to housing, sexual and reproductive health, education, non-discrimination and non-violence. </p>  <p>Garabano, of the Latin American Justice and Gender Group (ELA), said: &quot;In order to legitimize democracy and make it more robust, it is necessary to promote women's political participation, but in a broad sense, not just through political parties.&quot; </p> <span id="more-704"></span>  <p></p>  <p>Wider participation is not achieved only by increasing access to political office, but also by boosting women's participation in civil society. This broader concept of participation led ELA to develop the LIDERA (Lead) project, which has three components. </p>  <p>First, there is the research project titled &quot;Mujeres participando en ámbitos locales. Banco de experiencias&quot; (Women Participating in Local Communities: Experience Bank), consisting of in-depth interviews with women who are leaders of social organisations in six Argentine cities. </p>  <p>At the same time, a study was carried out on &quot;Sexo y poder&quot; (Sex and Power), about women's participation in decision-making posts in different public spheres, which has not yet been published. </p>  <p>The results were disappointing. Women occupy only 15 percent out of 13,627 decision-making posts in over 4,000 institutions, Garabano said. </p>  <p>The third cornerstone of the project was investigating the track records of women lawmakers at national and provincial levels, to find out more about them: how they came to be elected, what their educational background is, what proposals they are making, and how they manage to reconcile work and family responsibilities. </p>  <p>ELA presented the first component, the Experience Bank, in the lower chamber of Congress on Mar.31. &quot;Women's participation in the local sphere must be strengthened so that their leadership is built and grows on solid foundations and in contact with their social base,&quot; Garabano said. </p>  <p>&quot;Raising awareness about these 'ways of getting things done' may inspire action and strategies in different contexts, and spread knowledge about determining factors and ways of overcoming obstacles, making the most of opportunities and networking,&quot; she said. </p>  <p>The organisations headed by women that were selected for this project were in the city of Buenos Aires itself, in the municipality of Morón, in the west of the metropolitan area, and in cities in the provinces. </p>  <p>The provincial cities were San Salvador de Jujuy, 1,800 kilometres northwest of Buenos Aires, Mendoza, 1,050 kilometres west of the capital, Neuquén, 1,156 kilometres to the southwest and Rosario, 300 kilometres to the northwest. </p>  <p>The aim of the research was to show how women's leadership emerges and is consolidated at the local level; how women cope with the difficulties they face, and how they engage with the state and its official policies in order to achieve their goals, which are varied. </p>  <p>The Tupac Amaru Neighbourhood Organisation in Jujuy, headed by Milagros Sala, began building clay ovens to bake bread, and soup kitchens to serve free meals to children, at the height of the 2001-2002 social and economic crisis. </p>  <p>By 2003 the group had organised housing cooperatives and productive enterprises, and today has 4,500 housing units in Jujuy, as well as groups offering educational, health and recreational services for vulnerable populations. </p>  <p>&quot;Women are working in construction, in metallurgy and in concrete block factories,&quot; says Sala in her description of her experience, which grew out of working in coordination with the Ministries of Social Development and of Infrastructure and Housing. </p>  <p>Another story in the Experience Bank is that of Foundation PH15 for the Arts, headed by Moira Rubio, which teaches photography to young people in Ciudad Oculta (literally &quot;Hidden City&quot;), a shanty town on the fringes of Buenos Aires. </p>  <p>&quot;The goal is not that they should all become photographers,&quot; Rubio said. &quot;The point is to show them that they can: they can be recognised as artists, and as persons, without suffering discrimination.&quot; </p>  <p>A further example is the Federation of Non-Governmental Entities for Children and Adolescents in Mendoza (FEDEM). Patricia Spoliansky described how they managed to bring influence to bear in order to bring about changes. </p>  <p>&quot;We started to get together to try to have an impact on the design of public policies, and to see what we could do to get the state to listen to us,&quot; said Spoliansky. &quot;We were able to get funding for a few projects for children, and we managed to get civil society organisations officially represented on the Provincial Council for Children.&quot; </p>  <p>Marta Vitta, head of Fundación Síntesis (Synthesis Foundation) in Rosario, tells how she began working on women's issues, and then moved on to developing solidarity economy programmes. </p>  <p>&quot;I coordinated a lot of women's groups, and there was always a bottleneck over money,&quot; Vitta said. &quot;For instance, for a battered woman, the first thing is to 'denaturalise' violence; but afterwards, finances are the key to changing her situation. There were so many women who had no means of surviving.&quot; </p>  <p>That was when her organisation decided to make common cause with a proposal by the Ministry of Social Development to finance a &quot;social bank&quot; for the development of microbusinesses. </p>  <p>The report notes that there are recurrent themes in the interviews, such as the importance of creating links to ensure better access to financing and professional advice, or a greater impact on the public arena and its interests. </p>  <p>Almost all the interviews also express the desire to build relationships with public institutions in order to maximise benefits, if necessary through co-management of projects, but without losing the organisation's autonomy. </p>  <p>Finally, the women said that in some cases, social leadership has hidden costs, because of the need for women to balance responsibilities in the home, in paid jobs that cannot always be relinquished, and in community participation. (END/2011) </p>  <p>Copyright © 2011 IPS-Inter Press Service. All rights reserved. </p><br /><br />     
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		<title>Women&#8217;s Coop Occupies Factory, Starts Production</title>
		<link>http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2009/07/18/womens-coop-occupies-factory-starts-production/</link>
		<comments>http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2009/07/18/womens-coop-occupies-factory-starts-production/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 18 Jul 2009 15:52:49 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editors</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Economic Democracy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[High Road Economics]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Organizing]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Women]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2009/07/18/womens-coop-occupies-factory-starts-production/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[<h3>
<p style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.enfoques365.net/redimensionar.php?imagen=qCcCDQ65Xw.jpg&amp;cap=noticias&amp;tmn=300"><img vspace="6" hspace="6" align="right" alt="" style="width: 204px; height: 150px;" longdesc="http://www.enfoques365.net/redimensionar.php?imagen=qCcCDQ65Xw.jpg&amp;cap=noticias&amp;tmn=300" src="http://www.enfoques365.net/redimensionar.php?imagen=qCcCDQ65Xw.jpg&amp;cap=noticias&amp;tmn=300" /><br />
</a></p>
<p>Stitching a Future Together:</p>
<p>Women and the Solidarity</p>
<p>Economy in Uruguay</p>
</h3>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><strong>By Luis Alberto Carro</strong></p>
<p><em>Inter-Press Service</em></p>
<p>ROSARIO, Uruguay, July 5 2009 (IPS) - The group of women cross this Uruguayan town every morning, some on bike and some on foot, on their way to CODEMUR, a women&rsquo;s cooperative that resurrected a garment factory abandoned by its owners. The women, all between the ages of 40 and 60, are former employees of the once vibrant textile firm Sirfil y Drymar. After the companies closed the local plant without paying the employees the back wages and holiday and severance pay they were owed, some of the women created CODEMUR (Rosario Women&rsquo;s Cooperative).</p>
<p>After the factory workers were laid off in 2007, the owners began to cart off the merchandise, fabrics and other materials. So the women decided to occupy the plant, and informed the Labour Ministry that they would attempt to get it running again, following in the footsteps of other worker-run factories.</p>
<span id="more-520"></span>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>The members of CODEMUR now take turns occupying the old factory in shifts, to keep the owners from selling the machinery, and producing garments and running their new workshop.</p>
<p>Because the women cannot yet use the old plant as the case is still making its way through the courts, they found a new place to work.</p>
<p>CODEMUR&rsquo;s large workshop, with picture windows facing the street, began to operate in January. Located two blocks from the main street in this town of 9,500 people in southwestern Uruguay, it was rented to them by local businessman Jaime Goldansky, who gave the women their first order, of work uniforms.</p>
<p>&quot;The companies buy their winter uniforms before (the southern hemisphere) summer is over. So we&rsquo;re a little behind, but we&rsquo;re working, which is what matters to us,&quot; says an optimistic Cristina Perdomo, spokeswoman for CODEMUR, as she explains to IPS how this local experiment in the solidarity economy is working.</p>
<p>For now the workers co-op is only producing work uniforms and shirts, because &quot;the machines that we have aren&rsquo;t suitable for working with finer materials. We plan on buying other machines, but that will take a while,&quot; says the 57-year-old textile worker, who like a number of other members of CODEMUR is drawing on more than two decades of experience in the industry.</p>
<p>In response to IPS&rsquo;s question &quot;What is it like to work without a boss?&quot; Perdomo responds: &quot;You learn.&quot;</p>
<p>&quot;The hardest part was organising ourselves,&quot; she says.</p>
<p>&quot;We still have to work other jobs, as seamstresses, or cleaning houses, because we can&rsquo;t yet get by on what we make here,&quot; she adds.</p>
<p>Perdomo gives a wry smile when IPS asks what happened to the owners of Sirfil y Drymar. &quot;We never saw them again&hellip;Once in a while they send a lawyer,&quot; she replies.</p>
<p>&quot;They never imagined we&rsquo;d really take over the factory. They must have thought that we would give up and pull out, but here we still are &ndash; at least some of us. We want to get the money we are owed, and we have not thrown in the towel.&quot;</p>
<p>Boom, collapse and occupation</p>
<p>Sirfil y Drymar ran the garment factory that operated for several decades on an 8.5-hectare plot of land, with 4,000 square metres of buildings, along national route number 2 in the southwestern province of Colonia around 140 km from Montevideo, the capital of this small South American country sandwiched between Argentina and Brazil.</p>
<p>With a workforce of around a hundred workers, almost all of them women, the factory produced blue jeans, felt garments of all kinds, jackets and other fine apparel. In its years of splendour it distributed merchandise around the country and exported mainly to Argentina, Chile and the United States, says Perdomo, who worked for the company for over 20 years.</p>
<p>Sirfil y Drymar, which was based in Montevideo, had a chain of shops in Uruguay&rsquo;s main towns and cities, where its exclusive clothes were sold. To keep up with the orders, the workers sometimes had to work several shifts in a row, including &quot;entire days&quot; or &quot;nights where the temperature dropped to three degrees (Celsius),&quot; Perdomo recalls.</p>
<p>In 2003, a flood prompted the companies to move production to the building where the Uruguayan Aluminum and Tin Factory (FUAYE) had operated before it became one of the many industries that closed down in the 1990s, when neoliberal free market policies opened up the economy, leaving abandoned factories scattered around the country.</p>
<p>One of the places full of abandoned warehouses was Rosario, one of Uruguay&rsquo;s oldest towns. Founded in 1775, Rosario was a hub of development for much of the 20th century, with aluminum and tin factories, car battery plants, tanneries, furriers, and clothing manufacturers.</p>
<p>The recession in Uruguay, characterised by steadily shrinking real wages, rising unemployment and an expansion of the informal economy, culminated in the mid-2002 financial meltdown that followed the late 2001 economic collapse in neighbouring Argentina, with which Uruguay has strong trade ties.</p>
<p>Against that backdrop, Sirfil y Drymar appeared to be an exception to the rule, as the two companies survived the economic woes sweeping the region. But the boom came to an abrupt end.</p>
<p>The company, which argued a &quot;loss of markets,&quot; was also displeased with the growing protests by the Rosario factory workers who, although they were not organised in a union, were demanding the payment of back wages and other financial obligations.</p>
<p>Sirfil y Drymar responded to the workers&rsquo; complaints with layoffs until &quot;they paid us only half of our holiday pay in 2007 and the rest of the money from our wages never appeared, so we decided to occupy the factory,&quot; says Perdomo.</p>
<p>The occupation was backed by local trade unions and by the PIT-CNT, the country&rsquo;s trade union federation.</p>
<p>The women&rsquo;s biggest supporters and advisers were trade unionists Luis Romero of the Funsa tire manufacturing company and Daniel Placeres of Envidrio, which produces glass bottles.</p>
<p>Funsa closed its doors in 2002 and reopened as a worker-run factory in 2006, in partnership with a private investor. Envidrio is a workers cooperative whose members &ndash; former employees of the Cristaler&iacute;as del Uruguay company &ndash; occupied the plant when it went under in 1999 and began to produce again six years later with the aid of an agreement with the Venezuelan government.</p>
<p>&quot;By contrast,&quot; says Perdomo, &quot;we did not feel supported by the union in our industry.&quot; She was referring to the Sindicato &Uacute;nico de la Aguja, the garment workers union.</p>
<p>&quot;At the beginning they were helping us, but after that we were left on our own, maybe because they didn&rsquo;t believe our struggle had any future,&quot; she says.</p>
<p>Self-management</p>
<p>The families of these determined women gradually began to &quot;accept what we were doing, although more than once they asked us why we continued occupying the plant if we weren&rsquo;t going to get any of the money back,&quot; she says.</p>
<p>In fact, many of the women did drop out of the struggle as it dragged on without results.</p>
<p>The local residents of Rosario, meanwhile, were divided between those who supported the women out of solidarity and those who said &quot;we should quit making trouble, and that if we wanted to work, we should go and wash dishes,&quot; as she heard once on a local radio station, Perdomo recalls with bitterness.</p>
<p>The women began to understand that they had to transform their protest into concrete proposals.</p>
<p>&quot;A PIT-CNT colleague in Colonia (the provincial capital) put us in touch with Romero and Placeres, and the seed of our cooperative was sown &ndash; a totally new experience for us,&quot; says Perdomo, who is visibly moved by the memory.</p>
<p>At the request of the former Sirfil y Drymar workers, the courts granted Funsa custody of the machinery in the plant. &quot;We are absolutely responsible until the workers start working in their new locale,&quot; Romero told the provincial newspaper Noticias in October 2008.</p>
<p>In Uruguay &quot;there is a deeply rooted cooperative movement and a general legal framework and special laws,&quot; says researcher Alfredo Camilletti in his study &quot;Empresas recuperadas mediante la modalidad de Cooperativas de Trabajo&quot; (companies recuperated by workers co-ops).</p>
<p>The national government of the left-wing Broad Front coalition has offered business management courses, provided by the Ministry of Industry, Energy and Mining.</p>
<p>&quot;They helped orient us,&quot; says Perdomo.</p>
<p>Colonia Mayor Walter Zimmer, of the right-wing National Party, also decided to provide the women with assistance through the Office on Promotion and Development, offering training courses in design and business administration.</p>
<p>In his study, Camilletti, with the University of the Republic of Uruguay, says that in this country municipal governments and the judiciary have encouraged and supported the workers co-ops, to help them recover back wages and other debts. But the co-ops, he adds, are still waiting for legal rulings backing their demands.</p>
<p>He says the cooperative members complain that &quot;Everything moves so very slow.&quot;</p>
<p>Looking around the ample workshop where CODEMUR is now operating, Perdomo says &quot;there are only eight machines here. We&rsquo;re not asking for handouts. We want to work, so please don&rsquo;t forget about us, don&rsquo;t leave us on our own.&quot; (END/2009)</p>
<p><br />
Copyright &copy; 2009 IPS-Inter Press Service. All rights reserved.</p><br /><br />     
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			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<h3>
<p style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.enfoques365.net/redimensionar.php?imagen=qCcCDQ65Xw.jpg&amp;cap=noticias&amp;tmn=300"><img vspace="6" hspace="6" align="right" alt="" style="width: 204px; height: 150px;" longdesc="http://www.enfoques365.net/redimensionar.php?imagen=qCcCDQ65Xw.jpg&amp;cap=noticias&amp;tmn=300" src="http://www.enfoques365.net/redimensionar.php?imagen=qCcCDQ65Xw.jpg&amp;cap=noticias&amp;tmn=300" /><br />
</a></p>
<p>Stitching a Future Together:</p>
<p>Women and the Solidarity</p>
<p>Economy in Uruguay</p>
</h3>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><strong>By Luis Alberto Carro</strong></p>
<p><em>Inter-Press Service</em></p>
<p>ROSARIO, Uruguay, July 5 2009 (IPS) - The group of women cross this Uruguayan town every morning, some on bike and some on foot, on their way to CODEMUR, a women&rsquo;s cooperative that resurrected a garment factory abandoned by its owners. The women, all between the ages of 40 and 60, are former employees of the once vibrant textile firm Sirfil y Drymar. After the companies closed the local plant without paying the employees the back wages and holiday and severance pay they were owed, some of the women created CODEMUR (Rosario Women&rsquo;s Cooperative).</p>
<p>After the factory workers were laid off in 2007, the owners began to cart off the merchandise, fabrics and other materials. So the women decided to occupy the plant, and informed the Labour Ministry that they would attempt to get it running again, following in the footsteps of other worker-run factories.</p>
<span id="more-520"></span>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>The members of CODEMUR now take turns occupying the old factory in shifts, to keep the owners from selling the machinery, and producing garments and running their new workshop.</p>
<p>Because the women cannot yet use the old plant as the case is still making its way through the courts, they found a new place to work.</p>
<p>CODEMUR&rsquo;s large workshop, with picture windows facing the street, began to operate in January. Located two blocks from the main street in this town of 9,500 people in southwestern Uruguay, it was rented to them by local businessman Jaime Goldansky, who gave the women their first order, of work uniforms.</p>
<p>&quot;The companies buy their winter uniforms before (the southern hemisphere) summer is over. So we&rsquo;re a little behind, but we&rsquo;re working, which is what matters to us,&quot; says an optimistic Cristina Perdomo, spokeswoman for CODEMUR, as she explains to IPS how this local experiment in the solidarity economy is working.</p>
<p>For now the workers co-op is only producing work uniforms and shirts, because &quot;the machines that we have aren&rsquo;t suitable for working with finer materials. We plan on buying other machines, but that will take a while,&quot; says the 57-year-old textile worker, who like a number of other members of CODEMUR is drawing on more than two decades of experience in the industry.</p>
<p>In response to IPS&rsquo;s question &quot;What is it like to work without a boss?&quot; Perdomo responds: &quot;You learn.&quot;</p>
<p>&quot;The hardest part was organising ourselves,&quot; she says.</p>
<p>&quot;We still have to work other jobs, as seamstresses, or cleaning houses, because we can&rsquo;t yet get by on what we make here,&quot; she adds.</p>
<p>Perdomo gives a wry smile when IPS asks what happened to the owners of Sirfil y Drymar. &quot;We never saw them again&hellip;Once in a while they send a lawyer,&quot; she replies.</p>
<p>&quot;They never imagined we&rsquo;d really take over the factory. They must have thought that we would give up and pull out, but here we still are &ndash; at least some of us. We want to get the money we are owed, and we have not thrown in the towel.&quot;</p>
<p>Boom, collapse and occupation</p>
<p>Sirfil y Drymar ran the garment factory that operated for several decades on an 8.5-hectare plot of land, with 4,000 square metres of buildings, along national route number 2 in the southwestern province of Colonia around 140 km from Montevideo, the capital of this small South American country sandwiched between Argentina and Brazil.</p>
<p>With a workforce of around a hundred workers, almost all of them women, the factory produced blue jeans, felt garments of all kinds, jackets and other fine apparel. In its years of splendour it distributed merchandise around the country and exported mainly to Argentina, Chile and the United States, says Perdomo, who worked for the company for over 20 years.</p>
<p>Sirfil y Drymar, which was based in Montevideo, had a chain of shops in Uruguay&rsquo;s main towns and cities, where its exclusive clothes were sold. To keep up with the orders, the workers sometimes had to work several shifts in a row, including &quot;entire days&quot; or &quot;nights where the temperature dropped to three degrees (Celsius),&quot; Perdomo recalls.</p>
<p>In 2003, a flood prompted the companies to move production to the building where the Uruguayan Aluminum and Tin Factory (FUAYE) had operated before it became one of the many industries that closed down in the 1990s, when neoliberal free market policies opened up the economy, leaving abandoned factories scattered around the country.</p>
<p>One of the places full of abandoned warehouses was Rosario, one of Uruguay&rsquo;s oldest towns. Founded in 1775, Rosario was a hub of development for much of the 20th century, with aluminum and tin factories, car battery plants, tanneries, furriers, and clothing manufacturers.</p>
<p>The recession in Uruguay, characterised by steadily shrinking real wages, rising unemployment and an expansion of the informal economy, culminated in the mid-2002 financial meltdown that followed the late 2001 economic collapse in neighbouring Argentina, with which Uruguay has strong trade ties.</p>
<p>Against that backdrop, Sirfil y Drymar appeared to be an exception to the rule, as the two companies survived the economic woes sweeping the region. But the boom came to an abrupt end.</p>
<p>The company, which argued a &quot;loss of markets,&quot; was also displeased with the growing protests by the Rosario factory workers who, although they were not organised in a union, were demanding the payment of back wages and other financial obligations.</p>
<p>Sirfil y Drymar responded to the workers&rsquo; complaints with layoffs until &quot;they paid us only half of our holiday pay in 2007 and the rest of the money from our wages never appeared, so we decided to occupy the factory,&quot; says Perdomo.</p>
<p>The occupation was backed by local trade unions and by the PIT-CNT, the country&rsquo;s trade union federation.</p>
<p>The women&rsquo;s biggest supporters and advisers were trade unionists Luis Romero of the Funsa tire manufacturing company and Daniel Placeres of Envidrio, which produces glass bottles.</p>
<p>Funsa closed its doors in 2002 and reopened as a worker-run factory in 2006, in partnership with a private investor. Envidrio is a workers cooperative whose members &ndash; former employees of the Cristaler&iacute;as del Uruguay company &ndash; occupied the plant when it went under in 1999 and began to produce again six years later with the aid of an agreement with the Venezuelan government.</p>
<p>&quot;By contrast,&quot; says Perdomo, &quot;we did not feel supported by the union in our industry.&quot; She was referring to the Sindicato &Uacute;nico de la Aguja, the garment workers union.</p>
<p>&quot;At the beginning they were helping us, but after that we were left on our own, maybe because they didn&rsquo;t believe our struggle had any future,&quot; she says.</p>
<p>Self-management</p>
<p>The families of these determined women gradually began to &quot;accept what we were doing, although more than once they asked us why we continued occupying the plant if we weren&rsquo;t going to get any of the money back,&quot; she says.</p>
<p>In fact, many of the women did drop out of the struggle as it dragged on without results.</p>
<p>The local residents of Rosario, meanwhile, were divided between those who supported the women out of solidarity and those who said &quot;we should quit making trouble, and that if we wanted to work, we should go and wash dishes,&quot; as she heard once on a local radio station, Perdomo recalls with bitterness.</p>
<p>The women began to understand that they had to transform their protest into concrete proposals.</p>
<p>&quot;A PIT-CNT colleague in Colonia (the provincial capital) put us in touch with Romero and Placeres, and the seed of our cooperative was sown &ndash; a totally new experience for us,&quot; says Perdomo, who is visibly moved by the memory.</p>
<p>At the request of the former Sirfil y Drymar workers, the courts granted Funsa custody of the machinery in the plant. &quot;We are absolutely responsible until the workers start working in their new locale,&quot; Romero told the provincial newspaper Noticias in October 2008.</p>
<p>In Uruguay &quot;there is a deeply rooted cooperative movement and a general legal framework and special laws,&quot; says researcher Alfredo Camilletti in his study &quot;Empresas recuperadas mediante la modalidad de Cooperativas de Trabajo&quot; (companies recuperated by workers co-ops).</p>
<p>The national government of the left-wing Broad Front coalition has offered business management courses, provided by the Ministry of Industry, Energy and Mining.</p>
<p>&quot;They helped orient us,&quot; says Perdomo.</p>
<p>Colonia Mayor Walter Zimmer, of the right-wing National Party, also decided to provide the women with assistance through the Office on Promotion and Development, offering training courses in design and business administration.</p>
<p>In his study, Camilletti, with the University of the Republic of Uruguay, says that in this country municipal governments and the judiciary have encouraged and supported the workers co-ops, to help them recover back wages and other debts. But the co-ops, he adds, are still waiting for legal rulings backing their demands.</p>
<p>He says the cooperative members complain that &quot;Everything moves so very slow.&quot;</p>
<p>Looking around the ample workshop where CODEMUR is now operating, Perdomo says &quot;there are only eight machines here. We&rsquo;re not asking for handouts. We want to work, so please don&rsquo;t forget about us, don&rsquo;t leave us on our own.&quot; (END/2009)</p>
<p><br />
Copyright &copy; 2009 IPS-Inter Press Service. All rights reserved.</p><br /><br />     
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		<title>U.S. Soldier Takes Her Own Life after &#8216;Interrogating&#8217; in Iraq</title>
		<link>http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2006/11/04/us-soldier-takes-her-own-life-after-interrogating-in-iraq/</link>
		<comments>http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2006/11/04/us-soldier-takes-her-own-life-after-interrogating-in-iraq/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 05 Nov 2006 03:37:21 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Editor &#38; Publisher</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Anti-War Movement]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Women]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2006/11/04/us-soldier-takes-her-own-life-after-interrogating-in-iraq/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[<p align="left"><em>http://tinyurl.com/yektuz</em><img width="119" height="178" align="right" alt="alyssa.jpg" id="image153" src="http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/wp-content/uploads/2006/11/alyssa.jpg" /></p>
<strong>Revealed: U.S. Soldier Killed
Herself After Objecting to
Interrogation Techniques</strong>

<em>[The true stories of how American troops, killed in Iraq, actually died keep spilling out this week. Now we learn, thanks to a reporter's FOIA request, that one of the first women to die in Iraq shot and killed herself after objecting to harsh "interrogation techniques." What follows is both parts of a two-part story by E&P, a highly respected source in the world of journalism.]</em>

<strong>By Greg Mitchell</strong>

(November 01, 2006) -- The true stories of how American troops, killed in Iraq, actually died keep spilling out this week. On Tuesday, we explored the case of Kenny Stanton Jr., murdered last month by our allies, the Iraqi police, though the military didnâ€™t make that known at the time. Now we learn that one of the first female soldiers killed in Iraq died by her own hand after objecting to interrogation methods used on prisoners.

She was Army specialist Alyssa Peterson, 27, a Flagstaff, Ariz., native serving with C Company, 311th Military Intelligence BN, 101st Airborne. Peterson was an Arabic-speaking interrogator assigned to the prison at our air base in troubled Tal-Afar in northwestern Iraq. According to official records, she died on Sept. 15, 2003, from a "non-hostile weapons discharge."

She was only the third American woman killed in Iraq, so her death drew wide press attention. A "non-hostile weapons discharge" leading to death is not unusual in Iraq, often quite accidental, so this one apparently raised few eyebrows. The Arizona Republic, three days after her death, reported that Army officials "said that a number of possible scenarios are being considered, including Peterson's own weapon discharging, the weapon of another soldier discharging, or the accidental shooting of Peterson by an Iraqi civilian." (Her parents now say they were never told about her objections to interrogation techniques.)<span id="more-152"></span>

But in this case, a longtime radio and newspaper reporter named Kevin Elston, unsatisfied with the public story, decided to probe deeper in 2005, "just on a hunch," he told E&P today. He made "hundreds of phone calls" to the military and couldn't get anywhere, so he filed a Freedom of Information Act request. When the documents of the official investigation of her death arrived, they contained bombshell revelations. Hereâ€™s what the Flagstaff public radio station, KNAU, where Elston now works, reported yesterday:

"Peterson objected to the interrogation techniques used on prisoners. She refused to participate after only two nights working in the unit known as the cage. Army spokespersons for her unit have refused to describe the interrogation techniques Alyssa objected to. They say all records of those techniques have now been destroyed. ...".

She was was then assigned to the base gate, where she monitored Iraqi guards, and sent to suicide prevention training. "But on the night of September 15th, 2003, Army investigators concluded she shot and killed herself with her service rifle," the documents disclose.

The Army talked to some of Peterson's colleagues. Asked to summarize their comments, Elston told E&P: "The reactions to the suicide were that she was having a difficult time separating her personal feelings from her professional duties. That was the consistent point in the testimonies, that she objected to the interrogation techniques, without describing what those techniques were."

Elston said that the documents also refer to a suicide note found on her body, which suggested that she found it ironic that suicide prevention training had taught her how to commit suicide. He has now filed another FOIA request for a copy of the actual note.

Peterson's father, Rich Peterson, has said: "Alyssa volunteered to change assignments with someone who did not want to go to Iraq."

Peterson, a devout Mormon, had graduated from Flagstaff High School and earned a psychology degree from Northern Arizona University on a military scholarship. She was trained in interrogation techniques at Fort Huachuca in Arizona, and was sent to the Middle East in 2003.

The Arizona Republic article had opened: "Friends say Army Spc. Alyssa R. Peterson of Flagstaff always had an amazing ability to learn foreign languages.

"Peterson became fluent in Dutch even before she went on an 18-month Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints mission to the Netherlands in the late 1990s. Then, she cruised through her Arabic courses at the military's Defense Language Institute in Monterey, Calif., shortly after enlisting in July 2001.

"With that under her belt, she was off to Iraq to conduct interrogations and translate enemy documents."

On a "fallen heroes" message board on the Web, Mary W. Black of Flagstaff wrote, "The very day Alyssa died, her Father was talking to me at the Post Office where we both work, in Flagstaff, Ariz., telling me he had a premonition and was very worried about his daughter who was in the military on the other side of the world. The next day he was notified while on the job by two army officers. Never has a daughter been so missed or so loved than she was and has been by her Father since that fateful September day in 2003. He has been the most broken man I have ever seen."

An A.W. from Los Angeles wrote: "I met Alyssa only once during a weekend surfing trip while she was at DLI. Although our encounter was brief, she made a lasting impression. We did not know each other well, but I was blown away by her genuine, sincere, sweet nature. I donâ€™t know how else to put it-- she was just nice. ... I was devastated to here of her death. I couldnâ€™t understand why it had to happen to such a wonderful person."

Finally, Daryl K. Tabor of Ashland City, Tenn., who had met her as a journalist in Iraq for the Kentucky New Era paper in Hopkinsville: "Since learning of her death, I cannot get the image of the last time I saw her out of my mind. We were walking out of the tent in Kuwait to be briefed on our flights into Iraq as I stepped aside to let her out first. Her smile was brighter than the hot desert sun. Peterson was the only soldier I interacted with that I know died in Iraq. I am truly sorry I had to know any."

<strong>Part II: A Suicide in Iraq
</strong>
<em>[Alyssa Peterson, 27, killed herself in Iraq after protesting 'interrogation techniques.' Now another female soldier who met her a week before she died -- and who also objected to certain interrogations in Iraq -- comments.]
</em>
<strong>By Greg Mitchell
</strong>
(November 04, 2006) -- They served in the same battalion in Iraq at the same time. Kayla Williams spoke with Alyssa Peterson about the young woman's troubles a week before she died -- and afterward attended her memorial service. Williams even has her own interrogation horror story to tell. So what, in Williams ' view, caused Alyssa Peterson to put a bullet in her head in September 2003 after just a few weeks in Iraq?

The death of Alyssa Peterson, 28 â€“ a former Mormon missionary -- is first and foremost unspeakably sad, and what was fully in her mind will never be known, especially since her parents apparently knew little about her death until four days ago. But this tragic incident, which I explored in my previous column (see link at end of column), also begs the question: What interrogation techniques drew her ire?

And were they of such a nature that this might explain why this young woman of faith and, reportedly, good nature, would suddenly turn a gun on herself?

The official Army investigation, weâ€™re told by the radio reporter in Arizona who received the documents after an FOIA request, notes that all papers relating to the interrogations have been destroyed. But what do we know about what was going on in Iraq 2003, beyond credible claims that treatment of prisoners was being "Gitmo-izedâ€?

Perhaps the most specific testimony that may relate to Alyssa Peterson comes from another Arabic-speaking female U.S. soldier who also served in the 101st Airborne at that time in the same region of Iraq. She even wrote a book partly about it.

She is former Army sergeant Kayla Williams, author of the 2005 memoir, â€œLove My Rifle More Than You.â€ Much of the publicity about the book focused on her accounts of sexual tension or harassment in Iraq, but it also holds several key passages about interrogations.

In the book and in interviews at that time, Williams, now 29 and out of trhe Army, described how she had been recruited to briefly take part in over-the-line interrogations. Like Peterson, she protested torture techniques -- such as throwing lit cigarettes at prisoners -- and was quickly shifted away, but in her case, she survived. But she told me Friday that she is still haunted by the experience and wonders if she objected strongly enough. She also wonders if she could have done more to help Alyssa Peterson after their brief chat just before she died.

But what was Alyssa asked to do in the interrogation "cage" and why did she protest?

Williams and Peterson were both interpreters but only the latter was in "human intelligence," that is, trained to take part in interogations. They met by chance when Williams, who had been on a mission, came back to the base in Tal Afar in September 2003 before heading off again. A civilian interpreter asked her to speak to Peterson, who seemed troubled.

Like others, Williams found her to be a "sweet girl." Williams asked if she wanted to go to dinner, but Peterson was not free -- maybe next time, but of course, time ran out.

Their one conversation, Williams told me, centered on personal, not military problems, and it's hard to tell where it fit on the suicide timeline. According to records of an Army probe, obtained by the radio reporter, Kevin Elston, Peterson had protested, and then asked out of, interrogations after just two days in what was known as "the cage" -- and killed herself shortly after that.

This might have all transpired just after her encounter with Williams, or it might have happened before and she did not mention it -- Williams was not then involved in interrogations and they did not really know each other.

Peterson's suicide on Sept. 15 -- reported to the press and public (to this day) in the usual vague way as death by "non-hostile gunshot" -- was the only fatality suffered by the battalion during their entire time in Iraq, Williams reports. At the memorial service everyone knew the cause of her death. They were surprised and "frustrated," she comments, since Peterson had only been in a Iraq a few weeks and many of them had been there six months, going back to the U.S. invasion, and had not cracked.

Shortly after that, Williams (a three-year Army vet at the time) was sent to the 2nd Brigade's Support Area in Mosul, and she described what happened next in her book. Brought into the "cage" there one day on a special mission, she saw fellow soldiers hitting a naked prisoner in the face. "It's one thing to make fun of someone and attempt to humiliate him. With words. That's one thing. But flicking lit cigarettes at somebody -- like burning him -- that's illegal," Williams writes in he book. Soldiers later told her that "the old rules no longer applied because this was a different world. This was a new kind of war."

Here's what she told Soledad O'Brien of CNN on Sept. 26 of this year:

"Actually, my job was not as an interrogator. So, I didn't know what their usual rules were. I was asked to assist. And what I saw was that individuals who were doing interrogations had slipped over a line and were really doing things that were inappropriate. There were prisoners that were burned with lit cigarettes. &hellip.

"They stripped prisoners naked and then removed their blindfolds, so that I was the first thing they saw. And, then, we were supposed to mock them and degrade their manhood. And it really didn't seem to make a lot of sense to me. I didn't know if this was standard. But it did not seem to work. And it really made me feel like we were losing that crucial moral higher ground, and we weren't behaving in the way that Americans are supposed to behave&hellip. "

As soon as that day ended, after a couple of these sessions, she told a superior she would never do it again.

In another CNN interview, on Oct. 8, 2005, she explained:
"I sat through it at the time. But after it was over I did approach the non-commissioned officer in charge and told him I think you may be violating the Geneva Conventions&hellip.He said he knew and I said I wouldn't participate again and he respected that, but I was really, really stunned and struggled a lot with whether or not I should do anything about it because I don't know whether or not it's appropriate technique."

So, given all this, what does Williams think pushed Alyssa Peterson to shoot herself one week after their only meeting? The great unknown, of course, is what Peterson was asked to witness or do in interrogations. We do know that she refused to have anything more to do with that after two days -- or one day longer than it took for Williams to reach her breaking point.

Properly, Williams points out that it's rarely one factor that leads to suicide, and Peterson had some personal problems, to be sure. "It's always a bunch of things coming together to the point you feel so overwhelmed that there's no way out," Williams says. "I witnessed abuse, I felt uncomfortable with it, but I didn't kill myself, because I could see the bigger context.

"I felt a lot of angst about whether I had an obligation to report It, and had any way to report it. Was it classified? Who should I turn to?" Perhaps Alyssa Peterson felt in the same box.

"It also made me think," Williams says, "what are we as humans that we do this to each other? It made me question my humanity and the humanity of all Americans. It was difficult and to this day, I can no longer think I am a really good person and will do the right thing in the right situation." Such an experience might have been truly shattering to the deeply religious Peterson.

Referring to that day in Mosul, Williams says, "I realize when it came down to it, I did not have the moral fiber. I did protest but only to the person in charge and I did not file a report up the chain of command."

Yet, after recounting her experience In Mosul, she asks: "Can that lead to suicide? That's such an act of desperation, helplessness, it has to be more than that." She concludes, "In general, interrogation is not fun, even if you follow the rules. And I didn't see any good intelligence being gained. The other problem is that, in situations like that, you have people that are not terrorists being picked up, and being questioned. And, if you treat an innocent person like that, they walk out a terrorist."

Or, maybe in this case, if an innocent person witnesses such a thing, some may walk out as a likely suicide.

***
UPDATE: A Friday report in The Arizona Daily Sun of Flagstaff reveals that Spc. Peterson's mother, Bobbi Peterson, reached at her home in northern Arizona, said that neither she nor her husband Richard has received any official documents that contained information outlined in the KNAU report. "Until she and Richard have had an opportunity to read the documents, she said she is unable to comment," the newspaper reported.

***

<em>Greg Mitchell (gmitchell@editorandpublisher.com) is editor of E&P.
</em><br /><br />     
<img src=""><a href="javascript:window.open('http://email2friend.com/send?url=http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2006/11/04/us-soldier-takes-her-own-life-after-interrogating-in-iraq/','email2friend','height=,width=);if (window.focus) {newwindow.focus()}
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			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p align="left"><em>http://tinyurl.com/yektuz</em><img width="119" height="178" align="right" alt="alyssa.jpg" id="image153" src="http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/wp-content/uploads/2006/11/alyssa.jpg" /></p>
<strong>Revealed: U.S. Soldier Killed
Herself After Objecting to
Interrogation Techniques</strong>

<em>[The true stories of how American troops, killed in Iraq, actually died keep spilling out this week. Now we learn, thanks to a reporter's FOIA request, that one of the first women to die in Iraq shot and killed herself after objecting to harsh "interrogation techniques." What follows is both parts of a two-part story by E&P, a highly respected source in the world of journalism.]</em>

<strong>By Greg Mitchell</strong>

(November 01, 2006) -- The true stories of how American troops, killed in Iraq, actually died keep spilling out this week. On Tuesday, we explored the case of Kenny Stanton Jr., murdered last month by our allies, the Iraqi police, though the military didnâ€™t make that known at the time. Now we learn that one of the first female soldiers killed in Iraq died by her own hand after objecting to interrogation methods used on prisoners.

She was Army specialist Alyssa Peterson, 27, a Flagstaff, Ariz., native serving with C Company, 311th Military Intelligence BN, 101st Airborne. Peterson was an Arabic-speaking interrogator assigned to the prison at our air base in troubled Tal-Afar in northwestern Iraq. According to official records, she died on Sept. 15, 2003, from a "non-hostile weapons discharge."

She was only the third American woman killed in Iraq, so her death drew wide press attention. A "non-hostile weapons discharge" leading to death is not unusual in Iraq, often quite accidental, so this one apparently raised few eyebrows. The Arizona Republic, three days after her death, reported that Army officials "said that a number of possible scenarios are being considered, including Peterson's own weapon discharging, the weapon of another soldier discharging, or the accidental shooting of Peterson by an Iraqi civilian." (Her parents now say they were never told about her objections to interrogation techniques.)<span id="more-152"></span>

But in this case, a longtime radio and newspaper reporter named Kevin Elston, unsatisfied with the public story, decided to probe deeper in 2005, "just on a hunch," he told E&P today. He made "hundreds of phone calls" to the military and couldn't get anywhere, so he filed a Freedom of Information Act request. When the documents of the official investigation of her death arrived, they contained bombshell revelations. Hereâ€™s what the Flagstaff public radio station, KNAU, where Elston now works, reported yesterday:

"Peterson objected to the interrogation techniques used on prisoners. She refused to participate after only two nights working in the unit known as the cage. Army spokespersons for her unit have refused to describe the interrogation techniques Alyssa objected to. They say all records of those techniques have now been destroyed. ...".

She was was then assigned to the base gate, where she monitored Iraqi guards, and sent to suicide prevention training. "But on the night of September 15th, 2003, Army investigators concluded she shot and killed herself with her service rifle," the documents disclose.

The Army talked to some of Peterson's colleagues. Asked to summarize their comments, Elston told E&P: "The reactions to the suicide were that she was having a difficult time separating her personal feelings from her professional duties. That was the consistent point in the testimonies, that she objected to the interrogation techniques, without describing what those techniques were."

Elston said that the documents also refer to a suicide note found on her body, which suggested that she found it ironic that suicide prevention training had taught her how to commit suicide. He has now filed another FOIA request for a copy of the actual note.

Peterson's father, Rich Peterson, has said: "Alyssa volunteered to change assignments with someone who did not want to go to Iraq."

Peterson, a devout Mormon, had graduated from Flagstaff High School and earned a psychology degree from Northern Arizona University on a military scholarship. She was trained in interrogation techniques at Fort Huachuca in Arizona, and was sent to the Middle East in 2003.

The Arizona Republic article had opened: "Friends say Army Spc. Alyssa R. Peterson of Flagstaff always had an amazing ability to learn foreign languages.

"Peterson became fluent in Dutch even before she went on an 18-month Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints mission to the Netherlands in the late 1990s. Then, she cruised through her Arabic courses at the military's Defense Language Institute in Monterey, Calif., shortly after enlisting in July 2001.

"With that under her belt, she was off to Iraq to conduct interrogations and translate enemy documents."

On a "fallen heroes" message board on the Web, Mary W. Black of Flagstaff wrote, "The very day Alyssa died, her Father was talking to me at the Post Office where we both work, in Flagstaff, Ariz., telling me he had a premonition and was very worried about his daughter who was in the military on the other side of the world. The next day he was notified while on the job by two army officers. Never has a daughter been so missed or so loved than she was and has been by her Father since that fateful September day in 2003. He has been the most broken man I have ever seen."

An A.W. from Los Angeles wrote: "I met Alyssa only once during a weekend surfing trip while she was at DLI. Although our encounter was brief, she made a lasting impression. We did not know each other well, but I was blown away by her genuine, sincere, sweet nature. I donâ€™t know how else to put it-- she was just nice. ... I was devastated to here of her death. I couldnâ€™t understand why it had to happen to such a wonderful person."

Finally, Daryl K. Tabor of Ashland City, Tenn., who had met her as a journalist in Iraq for the Kentucky New Era paper in Hopkinsville: "Since learning of her death, I cannot get the image of the last time I saw her out of my mind. We were walking out of the tent in Kuwait to be briefed on our flights into Iraq as I stepped aside to let her out first. Her smile was brighter than the hot desert sun. Peterson was the only soldier I interacted with that I know died in Iraq. I am truly sorry I had to know any."

<strong>Part II: A Suicide in Iraq
</strong>
<em>[Alyssa Peterson, 27, killed herself in Iraq after protesting 'interrogation techniques.' Now another female soldier who met her a week before she died -- and who also objected to certain interrogations in Iraq -- comments.]
</em>
<strong>By Greg Mitchell
</strong>
(November 04, 2006) -- They served in the same battalion in Iraq at the same time. Kayla Williams spoke with Alyssa Peterson about the young woman's troubles a week before she died -- and afterward attended her memorial service. Williams even has her own interrogation horror story to tell. So what, in Williams ' view, caused Alyssa Peterson to put a bullet in her head in September 2003 after just a few weeks in Iraq?

The death of Alyssa Peterson, 28 â€“ a former Mormon missionary -- is first and foremost unspeakably sad, and what was fully in her mind will never be known, especially since her parents apparently knew little about her death until four days ago. But this tragic incident, which I explored in my previous column (see link at end of column), also begs the question: What interrogation techniques drew her ire?

And were they of such a nature that this might explain why this young woman of faith and, reportedly, good nature, would suddenly turn a gun on herself?

The official Army investigation, weâ€™re told by the radio reporter in Arizona who received the documents after an FOIA request, notes that all papers relating to the interrogations have been destroyed. But what do we know about what was going on in Iraq 2003, beyond credible claims that treatment of prisoners was being "Gitmo-izedâ€?

Perhaps the most specific testimony that may relate to Alyssa Peterson comes from another Arabic-speaking female U.S. soldier who also served in the 101st Airborne at that time in the same region of Iraq. She even wrote a book partly about it.

She is former Army sergeant Kayla Williams, author of the 2005 memoir, â€œLove My Rifle More Than You.â€ Much of the publicity about the book focused on her accounts of sexual tension or harassment in Iraq, but it also holds several key passages about interrogations.

In the book and in interviews at that time, Williams, now 29 and out of trhe Army, described how she had been recruited to briefly take part in over-the-line interrogations. Like Peterson, she protested torture techniques -- such as throwing lit cigarettes at prisoners -- and was quickly shifted away, but in her case, she survived. But she told me Friday that she is still haunted by the experience and wonders if she objected strongly enough. She also wonders if she could have done more to help Alyssa Peterson after their brief chat just before she died.

But what was Alyssa asked to do in the interrogation "cage" and why did she protest?

Williams and Peterson were both interpreters but only the latter was in "human intelligence," that is, trained to take part in interogations. They met by chance when Williams, who had been on a mission, came back to the base in Tal Afar in September 2003 before heading off again. A civilian interpreter asked her to speak to Peterson, who seemed troubled.

Like others, Williams found her to be a "sweet girl." Williams asked if she wanted to go to dinner, but Peterson was not free -- maybe next time, but of course, time ran out.

Their one conversation, Williams told me, centered on personal, not military problems, and it's hard to tell where it fit on the suicide timeline. According to records of an Army probe, obtained by the radio reporter, Kevin Elston, Peterson had protested, and then asked out of, interrogations after just two days in what was known as "the cage" -- and killed herself shortly after that.

This might have all transpired just after her encounter with Williams, or it might have happened before and she did not mention it -- Williams was not then involved in interrogations and they did not really know each other.

Peterson's suicide on Sept. 15 -- reported to the press and public (to this day) in the usual vague way as death by "non-hostile gunshot" -- was the only fatality suffered by the battalion during their entire time in Iraq, Williams reports. At the memorial service everyone knew the cause of her death. They were surprised and "frustrated," she comments, since Peterson had only been in a Iraq a few weeks and many of them had been there six months, going back to the U.S. invasion, and had not cracked.

Shortly after that, Williams (a three-year Army vet at the time) was sent to the 2nd Brigade's Support Area in Mosul, and she described what happened next in her book. Brought into the "cage" there one day on a special mission, she saw fellow soldiers hitting a naked prisoner in the face. "It's one thing to make fun of someone and attempt to humiliate him. With words. That's one thing. But flicking lit cigarettes at somebody -- like burning him -- that's illegal," Williams writes in he book. Soldiers later told her that "the old rules no longer applied because this was a different world. This was a new kind of war."

Here's what she told Soledad O'Brien of CNN on Sept. 26 of this year:

"Actually, my job was not as an interrogator. So, I didn't know what their usual rules were. I was asked to assist. And what I saw was that individuals who were doing interrogations had slipped over a line and were really doing things that were inappropriate. There were prisoners that were burned with lit cigarettes. &hellip.

"They stripped prisoners naked and then removed their blindfolds, so that I was the first thing they saw. And, then, we were supposed to mock them and degrade their manhood. And it really didn't seem to make a lot of sense to me. I didn't know if this was standard. But it did not seem to work. And it really made me feel like we were losing that crucial moral higher ground, and we weren't behaving in the way that Americans are supposed to behave&hellip. "

As soon as that day ended, after a couple of these sessions, she told a superior she would never do it again.

In another CNN interview, on Oct. 8, 2005, she explained:
"I sat through it at the time. But after it was over I did approach the non-commissioned officer in charge and told him I think you may be violating the Geneva Conventions&hellip.He said he knew and I said I wouldn't participate again and he respected that, but I was really, really stunned and struggled a lot with whether or not I should do anything about it because I don't know whether or not it's appropriate technique."

So, given all this, what does Williams think pushed Alyssa Peterson to shoot herself one week after their only meeting? The great unknown, of course, is what Peterson was asked to witness or do in interrogations. We do know that she refused to have anything more to do with that after two days -- or one day longer than it took for Williams to reach her breaking point.

Properly, Williams points out that it's rarely one factor that leads to suicide, and Peterson had some personal problems, to be sure. "It's always a bunch of things coming together to the point you feel so overwhelmed that there's no way out," Williams says. "I witnessed abuse, I felt uncomfortable with it, but I didn't kill myself, because I could see the bigger context.

"I felt a lot of angst about whether I had an obligation to report It, and had any way to report it. Was it classified? Who should I turn to?" Perhaps Alyssa Peterson felt in the same box.

"It also made me think," Williams says, "what are we as humans that we do this to each other? It made me question my humanity and the humanity of all Americans. It was difficult and to this day, I can no longer think I am a really good person and will do the right thing in the right situation." Such an experience might have been truly shattering to the deeply religious Peterson.

Referring to that day in Mosul, Williams says, "I realize when it came down to it, I did not have the moral fiber. I did protest but only to the person in charge and I did not file a report up the chain of command."

Yet, after recounting her experience In Mosul, she asks: "Can that lead to suicide? That's such an act of desperation, helplessness, it has to be more than that." She concludes, "In general, interrogation is not fun, even if you follow the rules. And I didn't see any good intelligence being gained. The other problem is that, in situations like that, you have people that are not terrorists being picked up, and being questioned. And, if you treat an innocent person like that, they walk out a terrorist."

Or, maybe in this case, if an innocent person witnesses such a thing, some may walk out as a likely suicide.

***
UPDATE: A Friday report in The Arizona Daily Sun of Flagstaff reveals that Spc. Peterson's mother, Bobbi Peterson, reached at her home in northern Arizona, said that neither she nor her husband Richard has received any official documents that contained information outlined in the KNAU report. "Until she and Richard have had an opportunity to read the documents, she said she is unable to comment," the newspaper reported.

***

<em>Greg Mitchell (gmitchell@editorandpublisher.com) is editor of E&P.
</em><br /><br />     
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		<title>&#8216;War on Terror&#8217;, Sexism and US Militarism</title>
		<link>http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2006/11/02/war-on-terror-sexism-and-us-militarism/</link>
		<comments>http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2006/11/02/war-on-terror-sexism-and-us-militarism/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 02 Nov 2006 06:27:57 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Carol Pagaduan-Araullo</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Global Justice]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Philippines]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Women]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2006/11/02/war-on-terror-sexism-and-us-militarism/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[<strong>Updating The Subic</strong><img width="211" height="244" align="right" alt="Subic Case Protest" id="image146" src="http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/wp-content/uploads/2006/11/subic%20rape.jpg" />
<strong>Naval Base </strong><strong>Rape Case
in the Philippines</strong>

<strong><em>By Carol Araullo
</em></strong>
Nicole is the pseudonym used by the Filipino victim in the sensational rape case involving "visiting" US troops out for some "rest and recreation" in Subic, formerly the biggest US naval base outside the US mainland. Almost a year after the incident, she appears to be a normal, comely young woman, in the flush of life. But that life came to a standstill close to a year ago when she came across six US marines who jointly took advantage of her vulnerability, abused her and then dumped her like a used rag on the sidewalk in full view of several witnesses.<span id="more-147"></span>

In the beginning, Nicoleâ€™s case appeared strong. The Filipino driver of the hired van where the rape took place gave corroborating testimony. There were witnesses to how she was lifted out of the van "like a pig" by the soldiers and left on the pavement with her pants and panties down to her knees. They threw out a used condom after her.

There were witnesses on how she was so drunk when the soldiers brought her out of the Neptune Club she couldnâ€™t have given her consent to go along with them much less engage in consensual sex as they claimed in their defense.

She was not a prostitute (not that prostitutes canâ€™t be raped). She had just graduated from a reputable Catholic university and was managing a family-owned canteen inside a Philippine military compound. She had come to Subic, Olongapo City, with three of her siblings, one of them a minor, simply to have a good time. They even had their strict motherâ€™s permission to travel thousands of miles to Luzon from their hometown in Mindanao.

Nicole was warned that her story could be turned upside down. She would likely be portrayed as a "loose woman" out to catch herself a handsome, white American boy and easy passage to the US of A, still the "land of milk and honey" for many Filipinos. Against all odds, including the social stigma of being a rape victim, Nicole decided to pursue her case.

But she hadnâ€™t calculated on the sole Superpowerâ€™s latest jingoistic adventure called the "war against terror" and what it meant for the Philippines. She didnâ€™t know that Mrs. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, the de facto president, had taken on the role of number one bugle girl for US imperialism in Southeast Asia, in an astute bid to shore up her shaky hold on power.

She wasnâ€™t even aware that her case would get caught up in the long-running debate on whether the continuing presence of thousands of US soldiers in the country courtesy of the RP-US Visiting Forces Agreement (VFA) was good or bad for the country and its people.

Trouble started to appear when Philippine authorities quite easily gave up custody over the six accused soldiers to US authorities. The VFA provisions regarding criminal jurisdiction over erring US soldiers became exposed as inutile guarantees, especially in the hands of a politically servile and legally inept government, that crimes committed by US servicemen in the country would be dealt with under the Philippine criminal justice system.

A hallmark of any self-respecting sovereign country, its primordial right to independently investigate, arrest, prosecute and punish any foreigner accused of committing crimes inside its territory had been effectively ceded to the countryâ€™s former colonizer. Meanwhile, the presidential spokesperson warned against "Leftists" whipping up anti-US sentiment in the wake of an "isolated" case.

Despite some noises from government quarters, notably the Senate, calling for a review and even abrogation of the VFA, if it were found, in Nicoleâ€™s case, to be prejudicial to Philippine interests, the US government got what it wanted. Custody, the most seasoned Filipino trial lawyers money could buy, and a mandatory one-year trial period during which time it could undertake a well-oiled public relations campaign creating local public opinion favorable to the accused.

The Filipino public would be reminded of how the US armed forces are the bulwark in the "global fight against terrorism" and that US soldiers are "trained to be disciplined ambassadors of good will, sensitive to local culture and values" and could therefore not engage in such a heinous crime as gang rape against a local girl.

Nicole was given the consuelo de bobo of government-provided high-profile women lawyers who, truth be told, appeared to be more concerned about how they looked rather than laying the ground for a successful prosecution of the case. Until Nicole was able to obtain private lawyers willing to work pro bono, whom she could trust, did the uphill struggle to get justice appear to have a glimmer of hope.

The private prosecutors quickly realized however that the justice system could not be relied upon to uphold their clientâ€™s rights and legitimate concerns. One legal setback came after another. Only four of the accused and the driver of the van were eventually found by the first fiscal assigned to the case to be liable for the crime of rape. However, the Olongapo judge, in a highly questionable ruling, dropped the driver from being co-accused by saying that the decision to charge him was an afterthought and that this was motivated by the driverâ€™s recantation of parts of his previous testimony favorable to the accused.

Subsequently, Justice Secretary Gonzales ruled that three of the of the four principal co-accused should have the charges against them downgraded. This decision was met with disbelief by the fiscal who engaged Mr. Gonzales in a public argument but who was eventually forced to resign from the case for disagreeing with his boss.

Mr. Gonzales clearly undermined the governmentâ€™s own case by stating that he would not "bow to the mob" calling for more than one to be charged as part of the conspiracy to commit the crime of rape. He lambasted the Makati City judge who eventually took over the trial and rejected his decision to downgrade.

The new Makati City prosecutors also resigned, likely feeling the heat from the Justice secretary who had made it crystal clear that he would be breathing down their necks during the trial. In their stead, Mr. Gonzales appointed a team from the Justice Department itself headed by a certain State Prosecutor de los Santos. In this way, Mr. Gonzales acquired more direct supervision and control of the public prosecutors and presumably how they would try to win â€“ or loseâ€”the case.

The rest is of public knowledge: how the public prosecutors bungled the cross-examination of Lance Corporal Daniel Smith who admitted to having consensual sex with Nicole; how this provoked the victim and her mother to cry foul and disclose unethical proposals by Prosecutor de los Santos that the victim enter into an out-of-court settlement with the accused; how Ms. De los Santos in turn badmouthed her client on national television as someone who could not be trusted to tell the truth.

Pushed to the wall, Nicole and her mother demanded the replacement of the public prosecution panel but Mr. Gonzales refused. The public prosecutors proceeded to undermine the case with several more highly questionable moves until the trial ended in a climate of betrayal, recrimination and gloom for the victim.

Will Nicole get justice? The US government and the Arroyo administration have done all they can to deny her justice in a court of law. Perhaps only the court of public opinion and the triumph of the Filipino peopleâ€™s struggle against foreign, imperialist domination will eventually vindicate her and many more like her. ###

First Published in Business World
27-28 October 06<br /><br />     
<img src=""><a href="javascript:window.open('http://email2friend.com/send?url=http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/2006/11/02/war-on-terror-sexism-and-us-militarism/','email2friend','height=,width=);if (window.focus) {newwindow.focus()}
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			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<strong>Updating The Subic</strong><img width="211" height="244" align="right" alt="Subic Case Protest" id="image146" src="http://www.solidarityeconomy.net/wp-content/uploads/2006/11/subic%20rape.jpg" />
<strong>Naval Base </strong><strong>Rape Case
in the Philippines</strong>

<strong><em>By Carol Araullo
</em></strong>
Nicole is the pseudonym used by the Filipino victim in the sensational rape case involving "visiting" US troops out for some "rest and recreation" in Subic, formerly the biggest US naval base outside the US mainland. Almost a year after the incident, she appears to be a normal, comely young woman, in the flush of life. But that life came to a standstill close to a year ago when she came across six US marines who jointly took advantage of her vulnerability, abused her and then dumped her like a used rag on the sidewalk in full view of several witnesses.<span id="more-147"></span>

In the beginning, Nicoleâ€™s case appeared strong. The Filipino driver of the hired van where the rape took place gave corroborating testimony. There were witnesses to how she was lifted out of the van "like a pig" by the soldiers and left on the pavement with her pants and panties down to her knees. They threw out a used condom after her.

There were witnesses on how she was so drunk when the soldiers brought her out of the Neptune Club she couldnâ€™t have given her consent to go along with them much less engage in consensual sex as they claimed in their defense.

She was not a prostitute (not that prostitutes canâ€™t be raped). She had just graduated from a reputable Catholic university and was managing a family-owned canteen inside a Philippine military compound. She had come to Subic, Olongapo City, with three of her siblings, one of them a minor, simply to have a good time. They even had their strict motherâ€™s permission to travel thousands of miles to Luzon from their hometown in Mindanao.

Nicole was warned that her story could be turned upside down. She would likely be portrayed as a "loose woman" out to catch herself a handsome, white American boy and easy passage to the US of A, still the "land of milk and honey" for many Filipinos. Against all odds, including the social stigma of being a rape victim, Nicole decided to pursue her case.

But she hadnâ€™t calculated on the sole Superpowerâ€™s latest jingoistic adventure called the "war against terror" and what it meant for the Philippines. She didnâ€™t know that Mrs. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, the de facto president, had taken on the role of number one bugle girl for US imperialism in Southeast Asia, in an astute bid to shore up her shaky hold on power.

She wasnâ€™t even aware that her case would get caught up in the long-running debate on whether the continuing presence of thousands of US soldiers in the country courtesy of the RP-US Visiting Forces Agreement (VFA) was good or bad for the country and its people.

Trouble started to appear when Philippine authorities quite easily gave up custody over the six accused soldiers to US authorities. The VFA provisions regarding criminal jurisdiction over erring US soldiers became exposed as inutile guarantees, especially in the hands of a politically servile and legally inept government, that crimes committed by US servicemen in the country would be dealt with under the Philippine criminal justice system.

A hallmark of any self-respecting sovereign country, its primordial right to independently investigate, arrest, prosecute and punish any foreigner accused of committing crimes inside its territory had been effectively ceded to the countryâ€™s former colonizer. Meanwhile, the presidential spokesperson warned against "Leftists" whipping up anti-US sentiment in the wake of an "isolated" case.

Despite some noises from government quarters, notably the Senate, calling for a review and even abrogation of the VFA, if it were found, in Nicoleâ€™s case, to be prejudicial to Philippine interests, the US government got what it wanted. Custody, the most seasoned Filipino trial lawyers money could buy, and a mandatory one-year trial period during which time it could undertake a well-oiled public relations campaign creating local public opinion favorable to the accused.

The Filipino public would be reminded of how the US armed forces are the bulwark in the "global fight against terrorism" and that US soldiers are "trained to be disciplined ambassadors of good will, sensitive to local culture and values" and could therefore not engage in such a heinous crime as gang rape against a local girl.

Nicole was given the consuelo de bobo of government-provided high-profile women lawyers who, truth be told, appeared to be more concerned about how they looked rather than laying the ground for a successful prosecution of the case. Until Nicole was able to obtain private lawyers willing to work pro bono, whom she could trust, did the uphill struggle to get justice appear to have a glimmer of hope.

The private prosecutors quickly realized however that the justice system could not be relied upon to uphold their clientâ€™s rights and legitimate concerns. One legal setback came after another. Only four of the accused and the driver of the van were eventually found by the first fiscal assigned to the case to be liable for the crime of rape. However, the Olongapo judge, in a highly questionable ruling, dropped the driver from being co-accused by saying that the decision to charge him was an afterthought and that this was motivated by the driverâ€™s recantation of parts of his previous testimony favorable to the accused.

Subsequently, Justice Secretary Gonzales ruled that three of the of the four principal co-accused should have the charges against them downgraded. This decision was met with disbelief by the fiscal who engaged Mr. Gonzales in a public argument but who was eventually forced to resign from the case for disagreeing with his boss.

Mr. Gonzales clearly undermined the governmentâ€™s own case by stating that he would not "bow to the mob" calling for more than one to be charged as part of the conspiracy to commit the crime of rape. He lambasted the Makati City judge who eventually took over the trial and rejected his decision to downgrade.

The new Makati City prosecutors also resigned, likely feeling the heat from the Justice secretary who had made it crystal clear that he would be breathing down their necks during the trial. In their stead, Mr. Gonzales appointed a team from the Justice Department itself headed by a certain State Prosecutor de los Santos. In this way, Mr. Gonzales acquired more direct supervision and control of the public prosecutors and presumably how they would try to win â€“ or loseâ€”the case.

The rest is of public knowledge: how the public prosecutors bungled the cross-examination of Lance Corporal Daniel Smith who admitted to having consensual sex with Nicole; how this provoked the victim and her mother to cry foul and disclose unethical proposals by Prosecutor de los Santos that the victim enter into an out-of-court settlement with the accused; how Ms. De los Santos in turn badmouthed her client on national television as someone who could not be trusted to tell the truth.

Pushed to the wall, Nicole and her mother demanded the replacement of the public prosecution panel but Mr. Gonzales refused. The public prosecutors proceeded to undermine the case with several more highly questionable moves until the trial ended in a climate of betrayal, recrimination and gloom for the victim.

Will Nicole get justice? The US government and the Arroyo administration have done all they can to deny her justice in a court of law. Perhaps only the court of public opinion and the triumph of the Filipino peopleâ€™s struggle against foreign, imperialist domination will eventually vindicate her and many more like her. ###

First Published in Business World
27-28 October 06<br /><br />     
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