Collapse of Dignity (17 page)

The fear and anger of antiunion businessmen and PAN politicians was such that their campaign against the union and me personally was as vicious as if we were a group of dangerous drug traffickers. They were infuriated by our accurate assignment of responsibility for the loss of life at Pasta de Conchos, and they were now more desperate than ever to discredit us and place Morales at the head of the union. There, he would destroy the autonomy of the Miners' Union and smash it into two pieces: one for mining and one for the iron and steel industry. Of course the union under Morales—whether in one or two pieces—would be purely for show. Every one of its actions would be in the service of companies like Grupo México and Grupo Villacero. This was their dream. The pressure Los Mineros exerted on mining and steel companies in defense of the workers would finally be at an end.

As the media campaign heated up in the week after Pasta de Conchos, unveiled threats began reaching me in Coahuila. I got death threats and anonymous calls saying that terrible things would happen to my family and me if I didn't end my accusations of industrial homicide. As soon as Oralia got to Monterrey, she too began receiving the same warnings through phone calls and emails. The phone would ring, and a voice, using vulgar, violent language, would tell her that if I didn't stop they would kill our children and cut her up into little pieces. She got email stating that they would use all their power to destroy our family. My youngest son, Napoleón, then a student at the University of Monterrey, UDEM, got out of class one day soon after the Pasta de Conchos tragedy and found a note and a bullet on his windshield that threatened the same thing: If I didn't shut my mouth about the government and Grupo México's lies and abuses, my family would pay with their lives. Phone calls to his cell phone, the phones of my other sons, and the union's headquarters in Mexico City reiterated the point.

These menacing messages came steadily, and the senders always knew where my family and I were located. They had access to our private numbers. It was clear that we were being spied upon by professionals—most likely by the government, through CISEN, its equivalent of the CIA.

The threat of death and bodily harm from our enemies was real, but there were also rumors swirling that members of the executive committee would soon be arrested in Coahuila based on Morales's false complaint against us. We stood firm in our innocence, but we knew not to underestimate the abuses of law that could be practiced in Mexico. Though no formal charge had been made against us, were a judge to issue an arrest warrant based on the false accusations, we could be thrown in jail with no way to defend ourselves. Presumption of innocence, a crucial principle in many countries, was and is not respected in Mexico, especially in cases like ours, cases of political persecution, where powerful interests have cause to keep an innocent person in jail. If they arrested us, we could be held for years with no bail and no access to a fair trial—or even worse. And with men like Germán Larrea and Francisco
Javier Salazar at his back, we had little doubt that Elías Morales would eventually procure such help from the justice system.

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 Villacero, 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.