In 1998, I was studying anthropology in Paris, but went home to Tangier for the summer. I’d been given an assignment on food so when a friend mentioned she had a job in a prawn processing factory, I decided to go along and take some shots.
It was a Dutch plant on Moroccan soil, an early example of globalisation. The prawns were fished from the North Sea and brought to Tangier to be peeled. I was told women were preferable as employees because they had less union representation.
I got a tour and took as many pictures as I could, mostly in black and white. I had a few colour rolls in my bag so, towards the end, did some shots with them. This was taken from the changing room upstairs, behind a glass window. The women wore blue hairnets and had numbers on their blouses. The blue light on the ceiling was to kill mosquitoes and that big tube running down the centre pumped in cold air – the sound was deafening.
There were bits of prawn everywhere. The women would peel all day. They’d peel and peel and peel, dropping bits every now and again, then run to the back to have their baskets weighed, before running back to their places. Since they’re paid by weight, they work very quickly but they’re so skilled they can chit-chat as they go. A floor manager – you can see her on the left – walks up and down, telling them to be quiet and get back to work.
I was fascinated by these quasi-medieval labour conditions. It was a non-stop factory. Women are bussed in and out and locked up all day, only allowed very short breaks out front. There’s no common room with a library, no day care, no place to sit down and eat together. Just being there made me feel tense. I kept waiting for someone to ask: “What are you doing?” Although I had permission, it wasn’t entirely above board.
Source:
theguardian
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