I Tried to See Where My T-Shirt Was Made, and the Factory Sent Thugs After Me

http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2013/11/india-garment-factories-sumangali

had already spoken to a mother who said that two of her daughters were recruited to KPR Mill's spinning facility in a village near Coimbatore when they were 16 and 17. The agent promised that they would work mornings and go to school in the afternoons. Instead, the girls allegedly worked between 8 and 12 hours daily, plus overnight shifts. Care-T, which later helped the girls get counseling and job training, told me that the 16-year-old was badly injured by a machine belt that snapped and hit her eye; the company did not grant her any medical leave, instead forcing her to pay a quarter of her monthly salary for treatment. Care-T says that the girls tried to escape but were brought back to the mill and had their phone calls monitored until they were sent home for a holiday break. They never went back, and a KPR Mill spokesman says that the mother's allegations are "far from reality."

The spokesman tells my translator over the phone that I can't visit the grounds unless I know someone who works there, so I decide to ask in person. As we dodge cows and scooters on a dusty road in the outskirts of Coimbatore, my Tamil translator begins to look worried. "This isn't a good idea," she says, smoothing the scarf of her shalwar kameez for the tenth or hundredth time. After an hour of U-turns and badgering bewildered locals for directions, we finally find the plant. And I begin to see why my translator is nervous: The building, a vast compound with tall, guarded gates, could be mistaken for a military base.

We pull up across the street and my photographer snaps some pictures. Within seconds, a man with a thick mustache arrives, knocking on our window. "What are you doing here?" he yells. "Delete that photo!" I apologize and offer to leave immediately—but then I realize that we can't: At least two dozen men have run from the gates and are surrounding our car, putting their hands on the bumper. The man with the mustache, who appears to be the boss, is apoplectic. He says that he won't let us leave if we don't delete the pictures and demands a copy of our IDs. Members of the mob are yelling in Tamil, and my driver throws his hands off the steering wheel, warning us that if he touches the gas, they are likely to break the windows. "We sell to American and European companies!" the boss warns. "What gives you the right to think you can take photos here? Foreigners can't take photos in Coimbatore!"

He lets us go after we apologize profusely and our driver gives him the address of the hotel we checked out of earlier that morning. The company, we later learn, sends representatives straight to the hotel; they end up calling us from the police station, threatening to have us jailed. An officer recommends that our photographer leave her hotel in Coimbatore because he's concerned about her safety. That night, even though we are hundreds of miles away at a hotel in Chennai, I double-bolt the door and don't sleep.