《華盛頓郵報》:為中國血汗工廠裡的受苦勞工發出最強烈吶喊

她只有19歲，在一個被我們當中的許多人描述為「花季」的最美好的人生年華里，她生命的花蕾甚至還沒有來得及完全盛開，就匆匆地夭折了。而與此同時，許多她的同齡人，此刻也許正坐在寬敞明亮的大學教室裡，為自己的未來做著最美好的規劃和設計：或出國留學，或外企白領，或踏上仕途。他們的人生，何以會有天壤之別？

的確，她實在太渺小，太微不足道了，因為她是一個貧苦農民的女兒。即使比起過去幾個月裡那些幾百個埋葬在深深地下煤層裡的出身相同的兄弟們，她也是孤獨的，所以，她的死，實在是算不上什麼了。自從5月份看到這篇刊登在《華盛頓郵報》的報導以來，我也一直默默地等了兩個多月，等著有比我更優秀更有良知更有責任感的人們將它譯出，讓更多的人瞭解這一個微不足道的生命的死。然而我錯了，也許是精英們對這樣一個弱小的生命根本就不屑一顧，也許是一例接一例的死亡數十上百的空難、礦難麻痺了人們的神經，遮擋了人們的視線，總之，她被我們中的絕大多數可恥地忽略了。搜遍這兩個多月來的國內各主要論壇，我沒有發現有誰提到過這篇文章。至少，北大論壇是沒有的。

我們的確是可恥的，因為和我們生活在同一片天空下一樣黑髮黃膚的兄弟姐妹，卻要靠遠隔重洋的那片大陸上的金髮碧眼的洋人來為之吶喊，為之鳴不平，為之伸張正義，難怪有人偏激地要「從美國退職前總統中選舉中國總統」（馬悲鳴語）了。

我不想再這樣可恥地生活下去，不想再讓自己那點僅存的良知承受著日復一日的痛苦煎熬，所以，儘自己最大努力，將這篇文字譯了出來。

以此獻給我那些天堂裡的姐妹兄弟們，願你們安息。

（所附照片為本文主人翁李春梅，刊登在《華盛頓郵報》網頁上。Li Chunmei stands in her impoverished hometown of Xiao'eshan before she traveled to Songgang to work i n a toy factory. (Family photo) ）
干到累死－－中國的新勞工缺乏保護

By Philip P. Pan

松崗（深圳附近的一個鎮，譯者注），中國。－－－在她死去的那個晚上，李春梅（音譯，以下所涉當事人名皆為音譯，譯者注）一定被耗盡了最後一絲精力。

工友說她已經在一家名為白南的玩具工廠裡前前後後不停地跑了近16個小時，把玩具部件從一臺機器運送到另一臺機器。當下班的鈴聲最終在午夜過後不久響起時，她年青的臉上已經滿是汗水。

這是一個繁忙的生產季節，在聖誕節到來之前，來自日本和美國的訂單數量在這家生產填充玩具的工廠達到了頂峰。工人們被強制加班。李春梅和其他的工人上一次享受星期天的休息已經是兩個月以前的事了。

她的室友回想起來，那天晚上躺在床上時，這位剛滿19歲的女勞工盯著她上方的鋪位床板，抱怨著說她感到筋疲力竭。她按摩著她那疼痛的雙腿，咳嗽著，告訴她的室友她感到飢餓。工廠的飯菜很差，她說，她感到自己好像根本就沒吃到什麼。

「我想不幹了」她的一個室友，黃家春，回憶起她這麼說道，「我想回家。」

最後，熄燈了。當李春梅開始咳出血來時她的室友們都已經睡熟了。幾個小時以後她們在浴室發現她蜷伏在地板上，在黑暗中輕微地發出呻吟，血從她的鼻子和嘴裡流出來。有人叫了急救車，但在急救車到來之前她死去了。

李春梅的確切死因尚未確知。但李春梅的家人、朋友以及工友將去年11月在廣東東南部的這個工業化小鎮發生在李春梅身上的這一切描述成為越來越大膽的中國報紙稱之為「過勞死」 中的一例。這個詞彙的意思是指由於過度工作導致的死亡，通常發生在日復一日由於超時加班而導致猝死的年輕工人當中。

有關這些死亡的原因和發生頻率的調查很少。當地的新聞記者說每年僅僅在香港以北的新興製造業地區珠江三角洲一帶估計就有幾十例這樣的死亡，但很多從未被登記備案。

這些死亡的故事使得這些對中國新一代工人而言都非常普遍的工作環境受到了人們的關注。這些為數上千萬的工人是從這個國家貧困的農村湧向發達的沿海省份的。

歷史發生了輪迴，如今這些（工作在中國私營血汗工廠裡的）民工數量估計達到了2000萬人，多於中國那些日益衰退的國營企業裡的800萬職工數。

這些新工人更年輕，更貧窮，對那些曾經是共產黨統治的意識形態基礎的勞工權利和勞動安全更不熟悉。他們更願意為那些通常有外資作為後盾的沒有社會主義傳統的終身福利的私營公司工作。

這些年輕的民工也是（這個社會的）二等公民。他們很少和那些軟弱無能的法庭以及行業協會打交道。這些機構在中國從社會主義轉向資本主義轉變的過程中有時候也能調節一下市場的力量。最主要的是，他們是外來者，在遠離家園的地方艱難地謀生。

「出去賺錢」

李春梅的家位於遙遠的四川省西部的高山上一個叫小峨山的村子裡，離她喪命的松崗的工廠有700英里，完全是另一個世界。這一帶依然是中國最窮的地區，沒通公路，只有一部電話和有限的供電以及鉛管製造業。

這裡沒有拖拉機，只有耕牛和一些原始的生產工具。農民們徒手耕種著土地。幾乎沒有人能夠讀懂一張報紙，會說這個國家的語言普通話的人更少。到那裡去必須要沿著狹窄的有如泥濘的平衡木一般的小徑，翻越霧氣籠罩的大山才可抵達。

李春梅是在這一貧瘠的地區艱難地生存的家庭中五個孩子中的老二。他們在沿著山腰開墾出的小塊梯田裡勞作，日復一日，沿著山爬上爬下，以到達那些種著小麥和稻穀的零星散佈的田地。

「這是一個窮村子，所有的父母都希望他們的孩子儘可能快地離開這裡到城市裡去」李春梅的父親李志民坐在他用夯實的泥土建造的房間裡說道。「他們走得越早，就能越早地支撐起這個家庭。」

這裡的經濟很簡單，居民說。小峨山的人們吃掉他們所種植的糧食中的絕大部分，剩下的一部分賣掉，這樣他們每年可以獲得平均約25美元的收入。但當地的官員要求他們每人繳納約 37美元的稅費。去年有幾個拒絕交納的農民被逮捕。

居民們說要活下去只有一條路：讓孩子們輟學，然後把他們送往遙遠的城市去尋找工作。

李志民讓他的大女兒李梅輟學了，當她讀到三年級的時候。她甚至還沒來得及學會正確地書寫自己的名字。李春梅也是在讀到三年級的時候輟學的。這些女孩開始從事放養牲口的工作。

當李梅15歲的時候，她登上了一輛開往深圳的公共汽車，那是一個毗鄰香港的經濟特區。

「我們家庭有困難，」她說，「我要自立和掙錢幫助我的父母。我想讓我的妹妹們留在學校。」

兩年以後李梅帶著積攢下來的100多塊錢（應指美元，譯者注）回家了。李春梅那時也15歲了。她宣布她準備和她姐姐一道到城裡去打工掙錢。這個家庭需要錢，她不希望自己的父親工作得那麼辛苦，李梅回想起她當時這麼說。

假期快結束的時候李志民陪著他的女兒一路穿過大山到達最近的公共汽車站。李春梅默默地哭了，他回憶道。

「當然，我為她們感到擔心...但我告訴她別哭了，」她的父親說。「我告訴她，『有啥哭的，出去掙錢吧。』」「我還告訴她，『倒霉才哭呢』。」

最差的工作

旅途花了三天三夜。

當她們到達銜接廣州和深圳的高速公路時，李春梅才第一次見到了珠江三角洲的工廠建築群，她的姐姐說。土褐色混凝土建造的宿舍沿著公路排成行，只有從一個窗戶到另一個窗戶上掛著的晾衣服用的繩子點綴其上。 深夜裡，過往車輛上的乘客可以透過工廠的窗子瞥見成排的年輕女工俯身在機器之上，在盞盞燈光之下工作著。

李家姐妹在東莞下了車。這是一個有著900萬居民的快速增長的城市，其中超過700萬人是民工。過去的兩年李梅就在那裡度過，從一個工廠轉到另一個工廠。有一份工作在等著她，她說為她妹妹安排一份工作也無需太久。

但由於李春梅在工廠的第一年因在過街道的時候一輛摩托車撞折了她的腿而忽然中止了。他的父親說他趕到東莞把女兒接回家休養。

一年多以後17歲的她再次回來時李春梅在松崗安頓了下來。松崗是一個位於深圳西北方向的衛星鎮，她的姐姐在一家名為開明工業公司的韓資玩具製造廠找到了工作。姐姐又一次幫了妹妹一把，李春梅在那裡也得到了一份工作。

朋友和親戚們說，在她死去的前兩年裡，李春梅曾經在三個不同的生產填充玩具的工廠裡幹過，一家是由開明公司運作的，另兩家則經常從開明公司那裡接到訂單。

松崗那裡遍佈著毫無規劃的、戒備森嚴的工廠，那些工廠為世界市場生產各種各樣的服裝、玩具以及電器產品。晚上放工以後，成群結隊的青年男女工人湧上小鎮的街頭漫步閑逛，他們的工廠身份證別在他們的制服上，考勤卡折放在襯衣的口袋裡。

在一個農村女孩看來，這個小鎮是一個令人激動的新世界，到處是街燈，mahjong營業室，走調的卡拉OK歌曲飄溢在溫暖的空氣中。但朋友和工友們說李春梅很少走出廠門到外邊去玩。

在工廠裡面，生活遵循著一成不變的程序，工友們說。李春梅早上7：30起床，8點鐘她必須穿著制服出現在工作崗位。中午，她有一個半小時的時間用於午餐和迅速地打個盹。5：30她有30分鐘吃晚餐。6點以後是加班時間 ，而下班的鈴聲通常要在午夜才會響起。

工人們說絕大部分工廠的僱員被分配到那些把填充玩具縫合起來的裝配線上。一個工人裝上眼睛，下一個工人則縫上一隻耳朵。他們整天坐在縫紉機前，重複著簡單的工作。

李春梅是一個傳遞者，工友們說，靠著一雙腿跑來跑去。當一個工人完成了一件任務，傳遞者撿起玩具迅速地將其傳遞給下一個工人。一條流水線有25個工人，兩到三個傳遞者，一天大概生產1000個左右的玩具。

「她的工作是最差的，老闆還總是朝她咆哮快點。」一位姓劉的工人說，他是和李春梅同一條生產線上的工人。「中間沒有休息，也沒有空調。」他還說空氣當中充滿了纖維，還有機器發出的熱量，有時候室溫會達到90度以上。（原文如此，估計為華氏度，譯者注）

工人們說，傳遞者不需要什麼特別的技術，收入是最低的，大約每小時12分。（原文如此，估計為美分，譯者注）在生產旺季，包括加班收入，李春梅可以一個月掙到65美元。

但還會有扣除。工人們說公司每月會扣下約12美元的住宿和伙食費，還會以他們從未得到過的好處為名收取費用。例如，工人們說他們為能夠讓他們合法地在松崗生活和工作的暫住證付了錢，但從未得到過暫住證。

管理人員還擁有任意罰款的權利。在浴室裡呆的時間超過5分鐘，浪費食物，以及生產數量不達標都會被罰款，工人們說。

李春梅經常抱怨（惡劣的）工作條件，不過她看起來對能掙到錢而感到高興，朋友們說。有一次，她告訴她們，她正在為自己的嫁妝攢錢。

「她害羞，誠實，是我們當中最窮的一個，」瀋秀春，來自李春梅家鄉的一個工友說。「她沒有男朋友，也不喜歡音樂，當我們都出去的時候她通常留下來。」

另一個叫張發勇的同事，回想起李春梅曾經買過一件新衣服，但從未穿過。張說李春梅對自己在這上頭花了錢感到驚異，擔心自己會不小心毀了這件衣服。她死後，她的父親在她的遺物中找到了這件衣服，衣服折放在一個塑料包裝盒裡，他說。

他還找到了幾張過塑的快照，是在當地的照相館裡照的，每張5角錢。照片上李春梅和她的朋友站在假的風景前面，穿著這樣的服裝：一件軍服，一件傳統的中國長袍。她看起來非常的年輕，只不過是一個留著長長的黑髮的少女，手持著花束，或敬禮，或坐著，身份牌別在她的上衣上。

她僅僅在一張照片裡露出了笑容。

「我們被套住了」

在她死前的兩個月，李春梅被從開明公司的主工廠調到了街下面的另一家叫白南玩具廠的新工廠。那是一棟毫無特色的褐色建築。工友們說，她和其他約60名的開明公司的僱員在開明公司的管理員吳多琴的監督下在三樓車間生產玩具。

在那裡，工作條件變得更差了。生產旺季到了，吳逼迫她的僱員工作的越來越久，有時候工作會持續到凌晨2、3點 ，工人們說。她們每天都這樣地工作了60多天。

「每個人都必須加班。你別無選擇，即使你生病也必須工作。」一個姓趙的李春梅的工友說。

「但我們甚至連全部的加班報酬也得不到，」她接著說，「例如，我們加了6、7小時的班，但他們只在我們的考勤卡上打上3、4個小時。」

在她死前不到一週，李春梅請求她的生產線管理員給她放一天假，她說她感到精疲力盡。但是他拒絕了。後來李春梅偷懶了一個晚上去睡覺，她因此被扣掉了三天的工錢，她的工友回憶道。

朋友們說李春梅經常談起辭職回家。但工廠已經兩個月沒發工資了，假如她不幹了，她擔心自己得不到那些錢。有好幾個工人都處於相同的境地。「我們被套住了，」一個來自四川的 17歲女孩說。「我們能做的只是繼續工作。」

李春梅的工友們所描述的許多工作條件都違反了中國的法律。在松崗，最低的工資是大約每小時3角錢。在中國，加班被（法律）限制在每月不超過36小時，而且必須是自願的。隨意罰款和剋扣工資是被（法律）禁止的，但是法律的實施從來就是軟弱的。

「這也許不合法，但是很普遍。」25歲的吳春林說。他是來自四川的民工，過去的5年裡在許多不同的工廠裡幹過。「不管我們去哪裡，都大同小異。」

一個調查過珠江三角洲的工作條件的中國記者說，這種問題是由於當地的官員和工廠管理者 「利益和並」導致的。他說，官員們急切地想刺激投資以產生稅收和收取賄賂，因此他們樂於忽略勞工權利以及安全事故。

李強，一個兩年前逃到美國的勞工組織者，描述了他幫助一群約400名的民工起草了一份控訴工廠工作條件的文件，結果這份文件被當地的官員又轉回到了廠裡。

「他們說，『回廠裡去吧，你應該更清楚，哪裡都一樣。』」李強回憶說。「問題在於這些地方官員有親戚或者朋友們在這些工廠裡被僱用為管理人員。那有一張關係網，民工們被排斥在外。」

在許多方面，民工們是中國勞動階級裡最容易受到傷害的一部分。在一個意圖限制人口遷徙的政府體制裡，民工們所享有的權力和福利比起那些老的國營工廠裡的工人們都要少，警察可以任意地逮捕他們並把他們遣送回老家。

要把他們組織起來進行抗議或者在運作遲緩的法庭打個官司也非常困難。「國營工廠裡的工人呆在一起的時間已經很久，有時他們是一起長大的，因此把他們團結起來要容易得多，」 李強說。「但民工們來自四面八方，他們沒有共同的根，很容易被驅散。」

比起城市裡的工人，民工們受教育水平通常更低。很多人都不清楚他們有什麼權利。幾乎沒有人屬於政府控制的行業工會。在採訪中，很多人甚至從未聽說過「工會」這個詞。

在民工們通常工作的私營工廠，管理者主要關注於利潤。與此相反，儘管面對市場壓力，國營工廠裡的管理者通常像是個政治領導人，對他們的工人的一切福利負責。

一些國外的政府和組織為這些血汗工廠裡的勞工鳴不平，使得一些跨國公司對它們的工廠以及直接供應者的生產條件加強了監控。但一個轉包體制破壞了這樣的措施。

例如，開明工廠從許多大牌公司那裡接到訂單生產玩具，而這些大牌公司的巡視員很少來開明工廠，即使來也會予以提前宣布，一個匿名的管理者說。

他說工廠保持著良好的勞動標準。這不難做到，他說，因為那些利潤最微薄的以及製造最困難的訂單被分配給了那些包括白南廠的低勞動標準的工廠，只需要一紙委託書。白南工廠，回過頭來又把它的一部分工作量分配給像僱用了李春梅的吳多琴這樣的次承包者。

「因此你看，她並不為我們工作。」他說。「這不是我們的問題。」

一個女人接聽了打給白南工廠的電話，但拒絕透露她的名字。她重複了相同的回答：「是的，我們聽說了（李春梅猝死）這件事。但她並不為我們工作，這不是我們的責任。」

沒有人能找到吳多琴。開明和白南的職員說他們和她失去了聯繫。她曾經用過的一個電話號碼無法接通。

一個父親的悲痛

得悉女兒的死訊後，李志民立即趕到了松崗。在過去的28天裡，他試圖找到某人對所發生的一切承擔責任。

警察將他送到當地的勞動部門的辦公室，他們又把他送到了白南工廠，但是那裡的管理人員拒絕見他。然後他又求助於區一級的勞動部門，他們又把他送往當地的商業部門和深圳的勞動局。

最終，警察給他一份通知，告訴他一名地區醫學檢查官斷定李春梅的「猝死是由於她生前所得的疾病導致的。」沒有其他的詳細資料，當地的勞動部門宣布她的死「與工作無關」。

李志民說他對這樣的結果並不高興，但他孤立無援。他說，最終開明公司對吳多琴施加了壓力，讓她支付了李春梅的喪葬費用，以及他在松崗其間的花銷和回去的車票錢。他的大女兒，李梅，陪著他回了家。

現在，這個家庭又一次掙紮著靠微薄的收入為生了。李梅打算明年就回到那些工廠裡去打工。

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A8254-2002May12.html

Worked Till They Drop--- Few Protections for China's New Laborers

By Philip P. Pan Washington Post Foreign ServiceMonday, May 13, 2002; Page A01
SONGGANG, China -- On the night she died, Li Chunmei must have been exhausted.

Co-workers said she had been on her feet for nearly 16 hours, running back and f orth inside the Bainan Toy Factory, carrying toy parts from machine to machine. When the quitting bell finally rang shortly after midnight, her young face was c overed with sweat.

This was the busy season, before Christmas, when orders peaked from Japan and th e United States for the factory's stuffed animals. Long hours were mandatory, an d at least two months had passed since Li and the other workers had enjoyed even a Sunday off.

Lying on her bed that night, staring at the bunk above her, the slight 19-year-o ld complained she felt worn out, her roommates recalled. She was massaging her a ching legs, and coughing, and she told them she was hungry. The factory food was so bad, she said, she felt as if she had not eaten at all.

"I want to quit," one of her roommates, Huang Jiaqun, remembered her saying. "I want to go home."

Finally, the lights went out. Her roommates had already fallen asleep when Li st arted coughing up blood. They found her in the bathroom a few hours later, curle d up on the floor, moaning softly in the dark, bleeding from her nose and mouth. Someone called an ambulance, but she died before it arrived.

The exact cause of Li's death remains unknown. But what happened to her last Nov ember in this industrial town in southeastern Guangdong province is described by family, friends and co-workers as an example of what China's more daring newspa pers call guolaosi. The phrase means "over-work death," and usually applies to y oung workers who suddenly collapse and die after working exceedingly long hours, day after day.

There has been little research on what causes these deaths, or how often they oc cur. Local journalists say many of them are never documented but estimate that d ozens die under such circumstances every year in the Pearl River Delta area alon e, the booming manufacturing region north of Hong Kong.

() The stories of these deaths highlight labor conditions that are the norm for a new generation of workers in China, tens of millions of migrants who have floc ked from the nation's impoverished countryside to its prospering coast.

In an historic shift, these migrant workers now number more than 200 million by some estimates, more than the 80 million employees working in China's shrinking state industries.

These new workers are younger, poorer, and less familiar with the promises of la bor rights and job security that once served as the ideological bedrock of the r uling Communist Party. They are more likely to work for private companies, often backed by foreign investment, with no socialist tradition of cradle-to-grave be nefits.

The young migrants are also second-class citizens, with less access to the weak courts and trade unions that sometimes temper market forces as China's economy c hanges from socialist to capitalist. Most of all, they are outsiders, struggling to make a living far away from home.

'Go Out and Make Money'

Li Chunmei's home was the village of Xiaoeshan, a remote hamlet high in the moun tains of western Sichuan province, 700 miles and a world away from the factories of Songgang, where she died. The area remains among the poorest in China, with no roads, one telephone and limited electricity and plumbing.

There are no tractors, just oxen, a few primitive tools and peasants who till th e earth with their hands. Few residents can read a newspaper, and fewer still sp eak the national language, Mandarin. Traveling there entails a hike through fog- shrouded mountains, along narrow paths that resemble muddy balance beams.

Li Chunmei was the second of five children born to parents who squeeze out a liv ing from this rough terrain, farming small plots of land on terraces carved into the mountainside. Day after day, they climb up and down the mountain, tending t o scattered patches of wheat and rice.

"This is a poor village, and all the parents here want their children to leave f or the cities as soon as possible," said Li's father, Li Zhimin, sitting inside a house he built out of packed dirt. "The sooner they go, the sooner they can he lp support the family."

The economics are simple, residents said. People in Xiaoeshan eat most of what t hey grow, and by selling the rest they earn an average annual income of about $2 5 each. But local officials demand about $37 per person in taxes and fees. Sever al peasants who refused to pay last year were arrested.

Residents say there is only one way to survive: Pull the children out of school, and later send them to find work in faraway cities.

Li took his eldest daughter, Li Mei, out of school in the third grade, before sh e learned to write her name properly. Li Chunmei left school in the third grade, too. The girls were put to work farming and feeding the livestock.

When Li Mei was 15, she boarded a bus to Shenzhen, the special economic zone adj acent to Hong Kong.

"Our family was having difficulties," she said. "I wanted to support myself and earn money to help my parents. I wanted to help keep my other sisters in school. "

Two years later, Li Mei returned home with more than $100 in savings. Li Chunmei was 15 then, and she announced she was ready to join her sister in the city. Th e family needed the money, and she didn't want her father to work so hard, Li Me i recalled her sister saying.

At the end of the holiday, Li Zhimin accompanied his daughters on the long walk through the mountains to the nearest bus station. Li Chunmei was crying quietly, he recalled.

"Of course, I was worried, . . . but I told her not to cry," her father said. "I told her, 'There's no reason to cry. Go out and make money.'

"I told her, 'It's bad luck to cry.' "

The Worst Job

The ride lasted three days and three nights.

When they reached the elevated expressway between Guangzhou and Shenzhen, Li Chu nmei caught her first glimpse of the factory complexes of the Pearl River Delta, her sister said. Drab, concrete dormitories line the road, decorated only by li nes of laundry hanging from window to window. Late at night, passing motorists c an peer through the factory windows and see rows of young women hunched over mac hines, working under florescent lights.

The Li sisters disembarked in Dongguan, a fast-growing city of 9 million residen ts, of whom more than 7 million are migrant workers. Li Mei had spent the past t wo years there, moving from one toy factory to another, and she had a job waitin g. She said it didn't take long to arrange one for her little sister, too.

But Li Chunmei's first year in the factories ended abruptly when a motorcycle st ruck her and broke her leg while she was crossing the street. Her father said he traveled to Dongguan and took his daughter home to recuperate.

When she returned more than a year later, at the age of 17, Li Chunmei settled i n Songgang, a satellite town northwest of Shenzhen where her sister had found wo rk with a Korean toy manufacturer, Kaiming Industrial Ltd. Sister helped sister again, and Li Chunmei landed a job there, too.

In the two years before her death, friends and relatives said, Li worked in thre e different plants that produced stuffed animals, one run by Kaiming and two oth ers that regularly received orders from the company.

Songgang is dominated by sprawling, fenced-in industrial complexes that produce all manner of clothes, toys and electronic goods for world markets. In the eveni ngs, after quitting time, groups of young men and women stroll through the town, their factory ID tags pinned to their uniforms, time cards tucked in shirt pock ets.

The town presented an exciting new world for a country girl, a place with street lights and mahjong parlors, and off-key karaoke songs drifting through the warm air. But friends and co-workers said Li rarely ventured outside the factory gate s.

Inside, life followed a rigid routine, co-workers said. Li was out of bed by 7:3 0 a.m. and in uniform and at her post by 8. At noon, she could take 90 minutes f or lunch and a quick nap. At 5:30 she had 30 minutes for dinner. Overtime began at 6, and the quitting bell usually didn't ring until after midnight.

Workers said most of the factory's employees were assigned to assembly lines tha t stitched together stuffed animals. One worker attached an eye, and the next se wed on an ear. They spent the whole day sitting in front of their sewing machine s, performing a single task again and again.

Li was a runner, co-workers said, always on her feet. When one worker finished a task, the runners picked up the toy and raced it to the next worker on the line . An average line had 25 workers and just two or three runners, and produced as many as 1,000 toys a day.

"She had the worst job, and the bosses were always yelling at her to go faster," said one worker on Li's assembly line, who asked to be identified by his surnam e, Liu. "There were no breaks, and there was no air conditioning." He added that the air was full of fibers, and with the heat from the machines, sometimes the temperature climbed above 90 degrees.

Runners required no special skills, and were paid the least, about 12 cents per hour, workers said. During the busy season, including extra pay for overtime, Li could earn about $65 a month.

But there were deductions. Workers said the company withheld about $12 a month f or room and board and charged them for benefits they never received. For example , workers said they paid for the temporary residence permits they needed to live and work in Songgang legally, but never received them.

Managers also had the power to impose arbitrary fines, including penalties for s pending more than five minutes in the bathroom, wasting food during meals and fa iling to meet production quotas, workers said.

Li often complained about the conditions, but she also seemed happy to be earnin g money, friends said. Once, she told them she was saving for her dowry.

"She was shy and honest, and the poorest of all of us," said Shen Xiuqun, a co-w orker from Li's hometown. "She didn't have a boyfriend. She didn't like music. W hen all of us went out, she usually stayed in."

Another colleague, Zhang Fayong, recalled that Li once purchased a new dress, th en refused to wear it. She said Li was amazed she had spent the money on it, and afraid she somehow might ruin it. After her death, her father found the dress a mong her belongings, folded and wrapped in plastic, he said.

He also found a stack of laminated snapshots, taken at local photo parlors for 5 0 cents apiece. They show Li with her friends, standing in front of false landsc apes, dressed up in costumes: a military uniform, a traditional Chinese gown. Sh e looks surprisingly young, just a teenager with long black hair, holding flower s, or saluting, or sitting with an ID tag pinned to her blouse.

She was smiling in only one picture.

'We Were Trapped'

Two months before she died, Li Chunmei was transferred from the main Kaiming fac tory to a new plant down the street, the Bainan Toy Factory, a featureless brown building. She and about 60 other Kaiming employees began making toys in a third -floor workshop under the supervision of her manager at Kaiming, Wu Duoqin, co-w orkers said.

There, conditions got worse. The peak season had arrived, and Wu pressed her emp loyees to work longer and longer hours, sometimes past 2 a.m. or 3 a.m., workers said. They worked every day for more than 60 days.

"Everyone has to work overtime. You have no choice. Even if you're sick, you hav e to work," said one of Li's co-workers, who asked to be identified only by her surname, Zhao.

"But we don't even get paid for all of the overtime," she added. "For example, w e might work six or seven hours extra, but then they just put down three or four hours on the timecards."

Less than a week before she died, Li begged her line manager for a day off, sayi ng she was exhausted. He refused. Then Li skipped a night shift to catch up on s leep and was docked three days' pay, co-workers recalled.

Friends said Li often spoke of quitting and returning home. But the factory had not paid her for two months, and if she quit, she was afraid she might not get t he money. Several workers were in similar situations. "We were trapped," said on e, a 17-year-old girl from Sichuan province. "All we could do was keep working."
Many of the conditions described by Li's co-workers violate Chinese law. The min imum wage in Songgang is about 30 cents per hour. Overtime is limited in China t o no more than 36 hours per month, and it must be voluntary. Arbitrary fines and pay deductions are prohibited. But enforcement of the law is weak.

"It may be illegal, but it's normal," said Wu Chunlin, 25, a migrant from Sichua n who said he has worked in a half-dozen different factories in the region over the past five years. "It's more or less the same wherever we go."

One Chinese journalist who has investigated working conditions in the Pearl Rive r Delta said the problem is a "merger of interests" between local government off icials and factory managers. The officials are eager to stimulate investment and generate taxes and bribes, so they are often willing to overlook labor rights a nd safety violations, he said.

Li Qiang, a former labor organizer in China who fled to the United States two ye ars ago, described helping a group of 400 migrant workers in Shenzhen file a com plaint about factory conditions, only to be turned away by local officials.

"They said, 'Go back to the factory.' They said, 'You should know better. It's l ike this everywhere,' " Li Qiang recalled. "The problem is a lot of these local officials have relatives or friends who are hired as managers in the factories. There's a network of connections, and migrant workers are on the outside."

In many ways, migrant workers are among the most vulnerable in China's working c lass. Under a government system intended to restrict population movement, migran ts enjoy fewer rights and welfare benefits than workers in the old state factori es, and police can arbitrarily arrest and repatriate them to their hometowns.

It is also more difficult for them to organize protests or follow through with a complaint in the slow-moving courts. "The state workers have been together a lo ng time. Sometimes they grew up together, so it can be easier for them to stick together," Li Qiang said. "But migrant workers are from different places, and th ey don't have deep roots. They're easily scattered."

The migrant workers usually are less educated than their urban counterparts, and largely unaware of their rights. Very few belong to government-controlled trade unions; in interviews, many had never even heard of the Chinese word for labor union.

In the private factories where migrants often work, managers are primarily conce rned about profit. By contrast, despite new market pressures, managers of state factories in China often resemble political leaders, responsible for the overall welfare of their workers.

Foreign outcry over sweatshop labor has led some multinational firms to monitor conditions in their factories and among their direct suppliers. But a system of subcontracting has undermined such measures.

For example, Kaiming Industrial receives orders to produce toys for a variety of brand-name companies, but their inspectors rarely visit the company and always announce visits in advance, according to a senior manager who spoke on the condi tion of anonymity.

He said the factory maintains good labor standards. It can afford to do so, he s aid, because it farms out the least profitable and most difficult orders to fact ories with lower standards, including Bainan, and then just takes a commission. The Bainan factory, in turn, distributes some of its workload to subcontractors such as Wu Duoqin, the supervisor who employed Li Chunmei, he said.

"So you see, she wasn't working for us," he said. "It's not our problem."

A woman who answered the phone at the Bainan factory but refused to give her nam e said the same thing: "Yes, we heard about that. But she wasn't working for us. It's not our responsibility."

Wu Duoqin could not be located. Officials at Kaiming and Bainan said they had lo st touch with her, and a phone number she once used was disconnected.

A Father's Sorrow

Immediately after learning of his daughter's death, Li Zhimin traveled to Songga ng. For 28 days, he said, he tried to get someone to take responsibility for wha t happened.

The police sent him to the offices of the local labor bureau, which sent him to the Bainan factory, where managers refused to see him. Then he tried the distric t-level labor bureau, which sent him to the local commerce department and the Sh enzhen city labor bureau.

Finally, police gave him a letter that said a district medical examiner had conc luded Li Chunmei "suddenly died because of an illness while she was alive." Ther e were no other details, and the local labor bureau declared her death "non-work -related."

Li said he was unhappy with the finding, but was helpless to do anything about i t. Eventually, he said, Kaiming Industrial pressured Wu Duoqin to pay for his da ughter's funeral, for the expenses he incurred while in Songgang and for his bus ticket back home. His eldest daughter, Li Mei, returned with him.

Now, the family is again struggling to make ends meet. Li Mei is planning to return to the factories next year.

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