To send content items to your account,
please confirm that you agree to abide by our usage policies.
If this is the first time you use this feature, you will be asked to authorise Cambridge Core to connect with your account.
Find out more about sending content to .
To send content items to your Kindle, first ensure email@example.com
is added to your Approved Personal Document E-mail List under your Personal Document Settings
on the Manage Your Content and Devices page of your Amazon account. Then enter the ‘name’ part
of your Kindle email address below.
Find out more about sending to your Kindle.
Note you can select to send to either the @free.kindle.com or @kindle.com variations.
‘@free.kindle.com’ emails are free but can only be sent to your device when it is connected to wi-fi.
‘@kindle.com’ emails can be delivered even when you are not connected to wi-fi, but note that service fees apply.
Seeing the writing on the wall and in the ledgers, in March 1987, Joel Morán Olmos resigned as general manager of Pezca after some five years in that post. By the time the Banco Agrícola Comercial (BAC) intervened in May 1987, the signs of a severe crisis of liquidity were ubiquitous. Subsidized meals for live-in white-collar employees ceased and only seafood was available.1 The company stopped providing shrimp to its unionized workers as a monthly benefit. More seriously, by April, only 10 of the company’s 32 boats were functioning; the others were docked due to a lack of maintenance funds. The company began to fire and lay off fishermen and fell behind in salary payments to all its workers. From January to June 1987, monthly production in the entire shrimp industry dropped from 136 to 26 metric tons as the number of docked fishing boats increased from 37 to 78.
Even before his graduation from Menlo College in California in 1974, Alfredo Mena Lagos became active in his family businesses. In 1973, he was on the board of directors of Pesquera del Pacífico, one of the fishing companies tied to Pezca, of which his father was president. The following year he returned to El Salvador and continued to work in the company. He also developed friendships with right-wing political figures including the famous General Jose Alberto Medrano, the founder of Organización Democrática Nacional (ORDEN), an organization that, by the late 1970s, became a 100,000-member-strong paramilitary organization based in the countryside.
The Perez family sets sail at dawn. José, Marta, and their three kids aged 6 to 15 paddle in their cayuco (dugout canoe) from their island hut across the Bay of Jiquilisco in search of curiles (a mollusk). The beauty of the dawn on the bay dissipates as they enter into the deep shade of the mangrove swamp. Marcos, the 15-year-old, ties up the cayuco as the rest of the family gather their nets and buckets. The youngest children stay closest to the cayuco but Marcos scrambles across low-lying tree branches until he locates a mud bank deep in the jungle. The five of them labor in the heat and mud, digging out curiles and placing them in hemp bags. They all puff on homemade cigars to ward off the masses of insects. By mid-afternoon, they wash themselves off in the bay, place their catch in the cayuco, and begin the trek across Jiquilisco to Puerto El Triunfo, an hour away. At a cantina by the municipal pier, José haggles with the owner before selling him the day’s catch. The curiles that the family worked so hard to collect do not have much value insofar as they are a boca (snack) to accompany beer. The family earns between US$80 to $120 a month for their arduous labors, 365 days a year. The children cannot attend school, a casualty of their familial struggle for survival.1
On November 10, 1977 some 1,500 Bloque Popular Revolucionario (BPR) activists gathered in the Mercado Central of San Salvador. The military regime had previously blocked their efforts to hold a demonstration in Cuscatlán Park in support of two textile worker strikes. Protected by the large crowds of people who shopped, worked, and congregated around the Mercado Central, the radical Left organization held a “lightning” demonstration and then marched to the Ministry of Labor several blocks away. They blocked off the street in front of the ministry and set up loudspeakers. When some militants saw that security agents were closing the iron doors, they rushed over to occupy the building. Although unarmed, they were able to take 100 employees hostage including the Minister of Labor and the Minister of Economy. They called upon the Minister of Labor to intervene in favor of the unions and to raise the minimum wage from 6.20 colones to 11 colones (US$4.40) a day. After 48 hours, following the minister’s promise to intervene, the BPR activists left the building.1 Across town, unionized workers occupied US-owned Eagle International, a glove manufacturer, in protest against low wages and anti-union repression. Union militants not aligned with the BPR held three US citizens hostage for 24 hours. The regime’s response was immediate. In the words of an US embassy observer: “These two incidents (the occupations and strikes) were among the factors that caused the government to promulgate the Law of Defense and Guarantee of Public Order, which among other provisions outlawed strikes and demonstrations. Steadily growing pressure from the wealthy elite and the military were contributing factors … Labor disturbances thus had been significant factors in the passage of the law.”2
On October 15, 1979, junior officers carried out a bloodless coup. They entered into coalition with civilians of the moderate Left and formed the Junta Revolucionaria de Gobierno (JRG) that issued a proclamation promising structural (including agrarian) reforms, an end to human rights abuses, the abolition of the paramilitary group ORDEN (Organización Democrática Nacional), freedom for political prisoners, the protection and extension of union rights, and the democratization of society.1 The subsequent failure of the JRG signaled a rapid descent toward a civil war that cost some 75,000 lives.
We approached the corner store along a dusty side street of Puerto El Triunfo, El Salvador, 70 miles southeast of San Salvador. Guillermo leaned out the car window and asked a young man who was sweeping in front of the store for directions to 14th street. We were going to film an interview with a former packinghouse worker. The young man replied with equanimity, “here everything is 18th street,” referring to the Calle 18 gang. As we turned around and headed out of the neighborhood, I pondered how the high level of loyalty, legitimacy, and solidarity that several decades ago had been associated with the Sindicato de la Industria Pesquera (SIP: the fishing industry union) now belonged to the Calle 18 gang, which, in addition, commanded widespread fear.
Ovidio Granadeño knew about repression before he arrived in Puerto El Triunfo. In 1974, in the cathedral of San Vicente, he had voiced a statement of protest against the removal of the Liberation Theology–inspired priest, David Rodriguez, from his parish. From that moment on, Ovidio faced harassment and discrimination from local landlords who viewed him as a subversive. He had an increasingly difficult time obtaining work as a farm laborer. Gradually, his sympathy with Liberation Theology, his prior experience in the Bakers’ Union in San Salvador, and the landlord reaction pushed him toward activism in the Bloque Popular Revolucionario (BPR) and the Federación de Trabajadores de Campo (FTC).
Gunshots ring out frequently as the two main maras (gangs) in Puerto El Triunfo battle over turf on which they can engage in petty extortions. One day in 2016 a group of mareros approached Ovidio Granadeño, 72-year-old former Sindicato de la Industria Pesquera (SIP) activist turned baker. They demanded that he start paying “la renta” or face serious consequences. He responded, “Look guys, you know I spent a lot of years dealing with death squads and the National Guard. So, now I’m just going to go about my business.”1 Perhaps the old man’s response stirred a sense of respect or bafflement, but regardless they didn’t demand “renta” again. He already pays a different kind of “renta” in the exploitative hours he labors to barely break-even; he works from 4 AM until 2 PM six days a week. Yet, Ovidio’s story is one of the precious few bright spots in the bleak panorama of tropical deindustrialization that envelops the port.
Gloria García was born and raised in a tiny seashore village on El Salvador’s eastern coast.1 When she was 10, her father brought her and two sisters to Puerto El Triunfo. She immediately started work on a nearby cotton hacienda. She planted, pruned, and picked cotton for 25 cents a day. She recalls the unrelenting sun, the exhaustion, the prohibition against play, and her infected hands. Gloria’s father found work at the shrimp processing plant Pezca S.A. Her older sister also got a job there peeling chacalín (sea bob). Even though they paid little rent for their mangrove bark dwelling, they were barely making ends meet. Her dad eventually got Gloria a job in the plant, but they had to change her birth certificate so she appeared to be 14 instead of 12. The foreman complained that she was so skinny that she looked like she was nine. And the work was hard at first. After a day’s labor, her hands were cut, raw, and infected but it was better paid and less onerous work than on the cotton hacienda. She got to play on the Pezca baseball team against the other plants, Atarraya and Mariscos de El Salvador. She also went to night school the rest of the year and finished the sixth grade. Despite doing well at school, her work schedule was too intense and unpredictable to continue her education.
Shortly before 3:00 AM on June 2, 1985, several men carried a person in a stretcher past a picket line and into the emergency room of a San Salvador hospital. Once inside, they pulled out guns and pointed them at doctors, nurses, and employees of the hospital. The gunmen were plainclothes members of the Policía Nacional on a mission to evict the strikers who had occupied the premises for nearly a month. Chaos ensued as soldiers barged through the barricades. Imagining a guerrilla assault, the police opened fire. In the ensuing firefight, four policemen were killed. The soldiers grabbed doctors, nurses, and paramedics and forced them face down on the floor. The soldiers tied them up and then combed through the hospital searching for “arms.” In the process, they removed babies, so they could search their cribs. They found no arms; doctors claimed that a patient suffered cardiac arrest during the shooting and they couldn’t help her because their hands were literally tied. At 5:00 AM, Colonel Enzo Rubio, Chief of Department III of the police force, triumphantly turned over the hospital to its director, Dr. Jorge Bustamante. They carted away four union leaders. Troops raided 25 other hospitals and clinics as part of the anti-strike effort.1
El Salvador's long civil war had its origins in the state repression against one of the most militant labor movements in Latin American history. Solidarity under Siege vividly documents the port workers and shrimp fishermen who struggled yet prospered under extremely adverse conditions during the 1970s only to suffer discord, deprivation and, eventually, the demise of their industry and unions over the following decades. Featuring material uncovered in previously inaccessible union and court archives and extensive interviews conducted with former plant workers and fishermen in Puerto el Triunfo and in Los Angeles, Jeffrey L. Gould presents the history of the labor movement before and during the country's civil war, its key activists, and its victims into sharp relief, shedding new and valuable light on the relationships between rank and file labor movements and the organized left in twentieth-century Latin and Central America.
To determine the clinical diagnoses associated with the National Healthcare Safety Network (NHSN) pneumonia (PNEU) or lower respiratory infection (LRI) surveillance events
Retrospective chart review
A convenience sample of 8 acute-care hospitals in Pennsylvania
All patients hospitalized during 2011–2012
Medical records were reviewed from a random sample of patients reported to the NHSN to have PNEU or LRI, excluding adults with ventilator-associated PNEU. Documented clinical diagnoses corresponding temporally to the PNEU and LRI events were recorded.
We reviewed 250 (30%) of 838 eligible PNEU and LRI events reported to the NHSN; 29 reported events (12%) fulfilled neither PNEU nor LRI case criteria. Differences interpreting radiology reports accounted for most misclassifications. Of 81 PNEU events in adults not on mechanical ventilation, 84% had clinician-diagnosed pneumonia; of these, 25% were attributed to aspiration. Of 43 adult LRI, 88% were in mechanically ventilated patients and 35% had no corresponding clinical diagnosis (infectious or noninfectious) documented at the time of LRI. Of 36 pediatric PNEU events, 72% were ventilator associated, and 70% corresponded to a clinical pneumonia diagnosis. Of 61 pediatric LRI patients, 84% were mechanically ventilated and 21% had no corresponding clinical diagnosis documented.
In adults not on mechanical ventilation and in children, most NHSN-defined PNEU events corresponded with compatible clinical conditions documented in the medical record. In contrast, NHSN LRI events often did not. As a result, substantial modifications to the LRI definitions were implemented in 2015.
This article focuses on the political thought and practice of the martyred Jesuit intellectual during the late 1970s. It employs the concept of desencuentros, probing the relationship between linguistic misunderstandings and political division. The article highlights Ignacio Ellacuría's novel analyses of the relationship between the ecclesial and the popular organisations, led by the radical Left. It discusses his political thought in relationship to the author's research on the base communities of northern Morazán. The article also discusses the Jesuit scholar's critical support for the Junta Revolucionario de Gobierno (15 October 1979–2 January 1980). The concluding section discusses Ellacuría's relevance for contemporary Latin American politics.