Collapse of Dignity

by Napoleon Gomez

  As the threatening phone calls, the rumors of arrest, and the national campaign of slander against the Miners’ Union grew more intense, I and the seven of my colleagues who had remained in Coahuila decided it would be best to change the location where we spent each night. Starting about a week after the tragedy, we began moving around Coahuila, from San Juan de Sabinas to Múzquiz to Nueva Rosita to Allende to Nava and even up to Piedras Negras on the Texas border, in an attempt to stay close to the families of Pasta de Conchos but evade our persecutors and the spies who reported to them. We traveled from place to place in a two-car caravan, one car traveling about half a mile ahead of the other; if they spotted anything suspicious, the passengers of the first car would warn the trailing car by cell phone. For lodging, we stayed in small, rundown motels or relied on the hospitality of miner colleagues who welcomed us into their homes.

  From Canada, Leo W. Gerard, president of the United Steelworkers, had been observing the escalation of the unfounded attack against me and the union in the wake of the mine collapse. He and the other senior leaders of the USW offered me full and unconditional support, inviting me and my family to come to the United States and stay with them as long as necessary. We had supported the USW in their previous strike against Grupo México, and they understood the lengths to which Germán Larrea would go to protect his profits. They knew, too, that Larrea had Salazar, Abascal, Fox, and Marta Sahagún in his back pocket. Gerard and his colleagues didn’t hesitate to join with the Miners’ Union in solidarity against this political persecution. In early March, following an executive board meeting on the matter, the leaders of USW sent a letter to President Fox on behalf of the organization’s 850,000 members in the United States and Canada. “We call upon all labor organizations throughout the world to publicly condemn the actions of the Mexican government,” it read in part, “and to take strong steps to get their countries’ governments to put pressure on the Mexican government to reverse its illegal actions immediately.”

  Many others besides our friends at the USW had encouraged me to leave before I was either arrested or killed, yet the option of leaving Mexico did not appeal to me. My initial reaction was that I needed to stay in the country to continue the fight. I thought that the aggression would die down soon and that I could then return to Mexico City within a couple of months and continue my work as general secretary of Los Mineros from there.

  Eventually, though, I began to be swayed by the argument. If Morales and his corporate sponsors did convince a court to begin action against us, I could end up a political prisoner. To both Grupo México and the Fox administration, it was highly undesirable to have me alive and free on Mexican soil. Dead or imprisoned, I would be of little use to Los Mineros. If I wanted to ensure the permanence of the organization and preserve its autonomy, I finally admitted to myself, I would have to leave my country.

  About a week after the Pasta de Conchos accident, my colleagues and I were staying in a small, modest hotel in Piedras Negras, a border town about seventy miles from Pasta de Conchos. We were all anxious about the intensifying situation, and I was still wrestling with the question of whether it was best for me to leave for the United States. To relieve some stress, we decided to drive over to a nearby major-league baseball park owned by the union, one of its most important assets, thanks to its prime location near the border and next to a mall. The diversion would do us good, and we could check on the condition of the property.

  Our hotel was famous for its breakfast dishes, and after a morning meal of barbacoa, eggs, fried beans, and handmade tortillas, we left for the park, which sits right by the border bridge. When we pulled up to the stadium, it was mid-afternoon, and the entire area was empty. We stepped out of the car and began walking around the deserted ballpark. We found all of its twelve square acres in great condition—the grass was lush and green, the stands were clean, and all the surfaces had been recently painted.

  I found an abandoned baseball, and with a stick from the parking lot that functioned as a makeshift bat, my colleagues and I began hitting the ball around. As we played, memories from my childhood flooded back to me. In 1956, my hometown of Monterrey had hosted the first Little League tournament in all of Mexico. My father, at the time serving as the head of a local branch of the Miners’ Union, worked for Grupo Peñoles, and I played first base for the Peñoles Miners. We were national champions for two consecutive years, and in 1957 and 1958—just after I’d become too old for Little League—our team from Monterrey won a worldwide championship in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, for the first time in the team’s history.

  My passion for baseball stems from my family’s history. San Juan, Nuevo León, my father’s hometown, is considered the birthplace of Mexican baseball, because it was there, in 1893, that a group of American workers, working with Mexican workers on a bridge over the San Juan River, introduced their fellow laborers to the game. It was that game that enabled me to play Little League baseball decades later. I cherish memories of accompanying my father and his brothers to Monterrey Sultans games, where we watched the game while enjoying soft drinks, hot dogs, hamburgers, and—for the adults—cold beer. My friends and I idolized professional ballplayers from Mexico and especially from the United States.

  When my colleagues and I had grown tired and ended our impromptu game, I picked up the old baseball and wrote on it, “Piedras Negras, Coahuila, February 27, 2006.” Knowing in my head that I would soon be leaving, I kept the baseball and vowed that I would one day return to that park, after the conflict was over.

  Once I’d fully accepted that I needed to temporarily leave Mexico, I called Oralia and explained why we had to go. As always, she was fully supportive and ready to do whatever was necessary. I also called my three sons, all young adults by now, and explained to them, one by one, that it would be best if we left the country. I advised that each of them depart discreetly and as soon as possible. For tactical reasons, we decided that the family would be divided in groups to leave for the United States, and I recommended that no one ever travel alone. My sons were all reluctant to leave, especially our youngest son, Napoleón, who was very committed to continuing his studies at the university, but they nevertheless understood the severity of the situation. In preparation for my departure, I asked Napoleón to drive up from Monterrey with my visa and passport.

  None of us was happy about leaving, but my family understood the threat of physical harm, not only to me but to them as well. By this time, we were living a nightmare: The threats were becoming increasingly aggressive, and some of our friends—people we thought were close to us—had turned their back on us. They didn’t have the nerve to stand against the government’s aggression with us. We felt alone, without anyone to turn to. The always-loyal mine, metal, and steelworkers, both of Mexico and the United States, were the exception. These steadfast workers had become like an extended family in our time of crisis. Our permanent gratitude to all of them.

  On Friday, March 3, about two weeks after the explosion, I left Mexico in a black Suburban, escorted by staff and executive committee members Marcelo Familiar, José Angel Hernández Puente, and Héctor Rodarte. I departed my homeland with great anger and sadness, never intending to leave indefinitely. I hadn’t even been able to go back to Mexico City, because of the aggressive attacks against the union. The Texas border was less than seventy miles from Pasta de Conchos, and we all decided that would be the simplest way to go. We left for the border town of Piedras Negras on Friday afternoon, crossed over into Eagle Pass around five o’clock, and made our way to San Antonio, where we spent our first night out of Mexico. We still weren’t sure where our ultimate destination was, but at least San Antonio was familiar to me. Oralia has family there, and I’d visited many times.

  The next day, we dove into a deep analysis of the strategy President Fox and the businessmen who wanted me out of power—Germán Larrea and the Villarreal Guajardo brothers, among others—were likely to use against us. We concluded that Grupo México, Grupo Villacer
o, President Fox, and key members of his cabinet, as well as the Mexican media, including Televisa and TV Azteca, were all colluding to drag my name through the dirt and, ultimately, compromise the democracy and autonomy of Los Mineros. The tragedy at Pasta de Conchos had begun to unmask part of this conspiracy, which had most likely been brewing for a very long time. These parties were now working even harder to defend themselves against our accusation of industrial homicide.

  From San Antonio, we drove to Houston. Oralia and her sister, Darlinda, had headed there from Mexico; Oralia had a medical test coming up, and I wanted to be with her for it. When we arrived in Houston, Oralia told us about her and Darlinda’s nocturnal departure from Monterrey. The two of them had left Monterrey together around 10:00 p.m. and crossed the Texas–Mexico border in the middle of the night. On the way out of town, they noticed a car tailing them, and they took many last-minute turns in an effort to lose them. They finally shook the followers—most likely state or federal police officers—about sixty miles out of Monterrey.

  Our sons had left separately around the same time. Our youngest two sons were single at the time, but our oldest son, Alejandro, brought his wife and children with him to the United States. Despite the danger we faced, and despite having to uproot their lives in Mexico, my wife and sons showed incredible strength and solidarity, and they rose to the challenge in a way that heartened me more than I can say.

  As I traveled through Texas, I remained in close contact with Leo Gerard and our friends at the USW, who had urged me to leave Mexico and continued to offer encouragement and aid on our trip. They suggested that we move on to Albuquerque, New Mexico, nearly 1,200 miles away, saying that they could accommodate us there and that we would be safer. Texas was President Bush’s state, and they didn’t trust him; plus, the USW had very little presence in that state.

  After a few days in Houston, my wife and José Angel returned to San Antonio in the Suburban, while Hector, Marcelo, and I set off for the three-day drive to New Mexico in a rented silver Durango. From Houston we drove northeast to Dallas, and then continued toward Amarillo.

  Once we left Amarillo, we were headed west along the path of what was once the mythic Route 66, the highway that once stretched from Chicago to Los Angeles. Called “the Mother Road” by John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath, the route has come to symbolize the vastness of the American West and the adventurous spirit of those who traveled it.

  Our drive along Route 66 was an unexpected gift—a time to reflect and renew our spirits. The landscape on the trip to Albuquerque was for the most part austere and desertic, interrupted by patches of farmland. For long stretches of highway, we were alone, passing only the occasional car or trailer. For all three days, the weather was overcast, and we went through a few storms. The tragedy of Pasta de Conchos was still fresh and painful. The whole trip still didn’t feel real. I couldn’t quite believe it was happening.

  Small towns dotted our long, straight path, and driving through them reminded me of my high school days. There were little stores, restaurants, and coffee shops, some looking like they were straight out of the 1960s. I was flooded with memories of rock ’n’ roll’s heyday, of the music and films of that time—Janis Joplin, Elvis Presley, Bob Dylan, James Dean, Marlon Brando, Paul Newman. We stopped at one place for a burger, fries, and milkshake—it was like reliving the good old days, complete with a jukebox. Elsewhere, in small-town coffee shops and gas stations, we met kind locals. Their quiet rural existence seemed a world away from hectic Mexico City and the conspiracy we were now fleeing. Passing through one small town whose name I no longer recall, I saw a handsome little ballpark and immediately thought of my commitment to return to the union’s park at Piedras Negras.

  As my colleagues and I traveled along seemingly endless stretches of Texas highway, I gave many press interviews with the Mexican media, mainly by telephone, though it was at times difficult to find points with adequate cell phone reception. At times we had to stop so I could use phones in hotels and restaurants to make collect calls to reporters. In each interview, I explained the justice of our fight and defended our right to protect the welfare of Mexico’s miners and steelworkers, even though some reporters seemed more interested in the superficial aspects of the story, like the spectacle of our journey, than in the underlying truth of the conflict. Some reporters were fair and seemed genuinely interested in my side of the story, while others peppered me with loaded questions designed to get the answers they wanted to hear. Regardless of their bias, all the reporters asked where I was. Many insisted I was on a private ranch somewhere in Coahuila, while others were sure I was in London or Madrid. My answer was always “Closer than you probably imagine.” They pressed me, unsatisfied: “Where, exactly? Can we meet you for a face-to-face interview?”

  From the road, I read reports in which press secretary Ruben Aguilar continued to speculate about whether I was in Coahuila, in my hometown of Monterrey, in San Antonio, in London, or in countless other places. (Aguilar, in addition to his own frequent mistakes, was famous for having to explain President Fox’s erroneous and misleading statements. “What the president meant to say is . . .” was his constant refrain. Without exception, Aguilar said the fault was the media’s, for distorting the president’s words.) We also read and listened, with great disappointment, to the many biased reports that defamed my peers and me. They had succeeded in portraying the union’s leadership as a group of self-serving frauds, though nothing could have been further from the truth.

  On the road, I was also in frequent contact with my fellow union members as well as other labor leaders in the United States. I was pleased to find out how relatively easy it was to communicate and coordinate from afar with the use of a cell phone and email, and it gave me new hope that I could be an effective leader, even from afar.

  During the trip to Albuquerque, I had time to reassess the life I was leading and the struggle the union was waging against powerful opponents. In the twelve-, fourteen-, and sometimes even sixteen-hour days I was putting in as leader of the union, I rarely paused to take a break and get perspective on the miners’ ongoing struggle. Our trip along Route 66 allowed me to put some distance between myself and the daily grind of leading the union, and I found myself fleshing out new ideas for the modernization of the union. Surrounded by the desolate beauty of New Mexico and the deep history of the landmarks along Route 66, I saw more fully than ever before how the Miners’ Union could be a key factor in transforming the economic, political, and social life of Mexico.

  Now that I was away from the country of my birth, I began to see Mexico in a new light. I came to the conclusion that Mexico must stop being a country of injustice and exploitation. My passion for transforming Mexico into a modern, educated nation that embraces the majority of the population—including workers, women, and young people—grew stronger. Many Mexicans are eager to live in such a country, one that has transitioned from backwardness to modernity, and I realized that leaders who have an open and progressive mind can be the agents to bring this change, whether they are union leaders, politicians, or even business leaders. Mexico, like other nations, has an increasing need for radical changes and demands a governing class that is prepared to serve every part of the Mexican population. Though I was far from Mexico, I felt closer than ever to my people.

  Of course, the trip also gave me time to think about how we could realistically defend ourselves against the constant stream of attacks coming from some of the most powerful men in Mexico. I saw that if we wanted to move our union forward and take the rest of the country with us, we needed to think about not just fighting off the attacks one by one, but about how we could survive in the medium and long term. In a strange way, I felt encouraged by the bull’s-eye that had been placed on the Miners’ Union. It meant that we were on the right track, and that our honest, committed leadership proved a real threat to the reactionary politicians and businessmen who were intent on raking in money at all costs.

  All these travel
meditations led me to one rock-solid conclusion: We could not allow Grupo México and its cronies in the PAN to get away with the irresponsibility that cost sixty-five miners their lives that day at Pasta de Conchos. We had to continue to demand the recovery of our sixty-five fellow miners who were still at the bottom of the mine and insist on punishment for those responsible for the explosion. On top of that, we had to keep demanding fair and adequate compensation for each of the victims’ families, so they could rebuild their lives and move on without their husbands, brothers, fathers, or sons.

  On the road to New Mexico, we got news from the volunteer rescuers who had stayed behind at Pasta de Conchos after Salazar and Grupo México had both departed. Weeks after the cave-in, bodies of two our colleagues were found in a diagonal communication tunnel close to the mouth of the mine. That left the number of dead or missing men at sixty-three. The two newly discovered bodies were intact and not damaged by the explosion, lending further credibility to those who believed that some of the miners could have survived the explosion. Even if the miners had initially been knocked unconscious, the layer of oxygen—topped by the lighter methane—could have kept them alive for some time, as it had the nine survivors of the accident.