An examination of the diverse patterns of women's migration challenges abiding stereotypes of Indian history: the urban worker as a male “peasant-proletariat” and women as inhabiting a timeless rural past. When men opted for circulation between town and country, wives and children undertook the actual labor of cultivation for the survival of “peasant-proletariat” households. Men retained their status as heads of the family and, even though absent for long periods, their proprietary interests in the village. Yet towards the end of the nineteenth century, many unhappy, deserted, and barren wives, widows, and other women were able to escape to the burgeoning cities of Calcutta and Bombay and the coal mines, where they experienced new processes of social and economic marginalization.

Much attention has been given to women's migration to overseas colonies and the Assam teagardens. Such migration has been seen as doubly negative, not only harnessing women to the exploitative contract regimes, but also subjecting them to sexual violation. A general assumption is that women were deceived, decoyed and even “kidnapped,” since there was no possibility of “voluntary” migration by women. Such a view of women's recruitment was produced by a variety of interests opposed to women's, especially married women's, migration, and eventually influenced the colonial state to legally prohibit, in 1901, women's “voluntary” migration to Assam plantations. This provision was an explicit endorsement of male claims on women's labor within the family.

This article surveys the evolution of labor history writing as an increasingly vibrant subfield of Ottoman history. It addresses labor historians outside of Ottoman history and for their benefit traces why and how workers almost completely were left out of Ottoman historical writing until c. 1970. Thereafter, Ottoman historians have more frequently discussed workers and their histories. At first focusing on organized workers and their relations with the state, these writings then shifted to labor in action. Thus, Ottoman labor history writing paralleled, in many respects, that of other fields of history. More recently, attention has been given to non-guild, non-union labor—including women and children—and its activities in the workplace.

The hand has long been a symbol of what makes human beings human. It is still used to convey this meaning, despite the decline of manual labor and the replacement of manual dexterity by machines, robots, and computers. A number of twentieth-century images remind us of the hand's labor power: for example, Fernand Leger's 1951 homage to Vladimir Mayakowsky, his earlier 1918 painting, “The Mechanic,” which is a veritable icon of the worker whose hand forms the dynamic compositional element (Fig. 1), and Diego Rivera's “Detroit Industry Frescoes,” where gigantic hands symbolize humanity's struggle with the material world. In European visual traditions, the iconography of the hand as labor power is imprinted by three types of images: Renaissance imagery, industrial allegory, and artisan and worker iconography. In Renaissance art, Michelangelo, in “The Creation” in the Sistine Chapel, reinterpreted the Biblical reference to God's breathing life into the world by adding the barely touching hands of God and Adam, thereby suggesting the virtue of active work. Industrial allegory, developed in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, emphasized the “bourgeois” view of work as a sign of goaloriented, planned achievement and success in the world, with the hand depicted as a tool that creates new tools and hence the organ that makes humanity the crowning work of creation.

Why is Slave and Citizen, Frank Tannenbaum's influential comparative book on slavery and race relations, still referenced by modern scholars? How is it that a book that is frequently described as flawed continues to inform contemporary scholarship on race and slavery? This article seeks to answer these questions by reconstructing some of the scholarly debates sparked by Slave and Citizen. Specifically, the article discusses how some of the central premises of Tannenbaum's approach continue to inform the work of current scholars. Three of these premises are discussed in some detail: first, that “Anglo” and “Latin” America constituted two separate entities; second, that race relations in each area were fundamentally different; and third, that differences in modern race relations could only be explained by their divergent “slave systems.”

When factory inspectors first used the word “sweatshop” at the turn-of-the-last century, they sought to describe much more than the cramped garment workplaces where immigrants labored. They also tried to explain the social dangers posed by these workplaces. Inspectors relied on their sensory responses. Citing odors as evidence, inspectors united fears of poverty, pestilence, and promiscuity in their definition of the sweatshop. Clothing produced in filthy shops by diseased workers could infect consumers and male and female immigrants working in close quarters were becoming an enfeebled, immoral race. Workers eschewed the language of racial decline, but pointed to their weak bodies as evidence of the exploitative nature of the sweatshop.

The subjectivity of definitions of the sweatshop presents a challenge, especially to public historians. How, in the process of exhibition and reconstruction, can public historians represent the competing moral judgments and racial, class, and gendered fears that shaped initial definitions of the sweatshop?

Struggles over social reproduction intensified and took on new forms in Japan during the interwar period, as the state found it increasingly difficult to secure the foundations for the continued accumulation of capital. Landlord-tenant disputes that erupted nationwide in the midst of Japan's post-World War I agricultural recession was one concrete manifestation of these struggles. While the significance of tenant disputes has been analyzed in great detail by scholars, there has been a surprising lack of historical scholarship on the role that female tenant farmers played within them. This absence is a manifestation of two tendencies: First, gendered assumptions surrounding the figure of the tenant farmer have led scholars of agrarian social movements to work from a relatively limited understanding of what constitutes struggle and by extension, who its protagonists have been. Second, the conflation of waged work as productive work and by extension, non-waged work as unproductive has unwittingly relegated many forms of struggle that working women participated in to the realm of the pre-political. This paper contends that far from being mere supporters – the wife corps – of what was ultimately a male-driven movement, female participants in tenant disputes produced their own powerful critiques of the way that the Japanese state and capital undervalued their lives and labor. As such, they should be understood as one link in a rich history of proletarian feminist struggle both within and outside of the Japanese empire.

In the 1930s, the “consumer problem” captured the attention of American working-class leaders, consumer activists, and liberal economists. As sociologist and New Dealer Robert Lynd warned, “There is a ‘consumer problem' of national proportions and it is here to stay as a big white elephant on the doorsteps of business.” He continued: “The only way that democracy can survive, if indeed it is not now too late for it to survive at all, is through the quality of living it can help its rank and file of its citizens to achieve.” Progressive reformers feared that the modern consumer was powerless in the face of corporate market manipulation, mass technology, and the maldistribution of income. Without well-informed, independent, and financially secure consumers, their argument ran, the nation risked economic and political decline. Indeed, to many Americans, the Great Depression made clear that consumers did not possess enough purchasing power to sustain the economy. Moreover, the rise of fascist regimes in Europe suggested that poverty could in fact threaten liberal capitalism. According to this conception of economic citizenship, only powerful consumers with both economic and political clout could prevent economic ruin and civic decay.Robert Lynd, “Introduction,” in Persia Campbell, Consumer Representation in the New Deal (New York, 1940), 9–10, 23.

This essay uses German East Africa as a historical example to illustrate some of the complex interrelationships between colonial labor and military practices. Analysis of African soldiers' roles in colonial labor regimes underscores the degree to which colonial militaries, labor, and punitive structures reinforced each other on a daily basis. Colonial states depended on their African soldiers, and the free and unfree laborers they recruited, conscripted, and supervised, for preservation of the German colonial state's political authority and economic viability. Moreover, these military labor practices tied soldiers' households to colonial state interests, laying the basis for new colonial cultures and campaign communities.

One of the less noticed events of the “January 25 Revolution,” as Egyptians call the popular uprising that ousted President Hosni Mubarak, is the formation of the Egyptian Federation of Independent Trade Unions (EFITU). Its existence was announced at a press conference on January 30, 2011, in Cairo's Tahrir Square—the epicenter of the popular movement. The independent unions of Real Estate Tax Authority workers, healthcare technicians, and teachers established since 2008 initiated the new federation. They were joined by the 8.5 million-member retirees' association, which has just received permission to reorganize itself as a professional syndicate, as well as representatives of textile, pharmaceutical, chemical, iron and steel, and automotive workers from industrial zones in Cairo, Helwan, Mahalla al-Kubra, Tenth of Ramadan, and Sadat City. The independent trade union federation was the first new institution to emerge from the popular uprising, and it linked the cause of workers to what was, after January 28, an explicitly revolutionary movement.

Oil workers played a pivotal role during the Iranian Revolution of 1978–1979. Involving tens of thousands of workers, oil strikes paralyzed the state and paved the way for the Shah's downfall. Various accounts of these strikes, however, ignore the subjectivity and agency of the oil workers by focusing exclusively on the role of political agitation. Addressing this deficit, this article explores the oil workers' experiences in and out of the workplace in the 1970s in order to contextualize their participation in the revolution. After analyzing the oil strikes and their goals, the article makes two arguments: First, oil workers were conscious of the considerable power they had to disrupt the economic and political routine of the country. Second, the demands of the oil strikes reflected grievances that, while reflecting sentiments in the wider society, were embedded in their own specific conditions and experiences.

The historical circumstances which led to the end of the indentured labor trade suggest that its abolition was only partially the result of humanitarian concern for the welfare of workers. It was the development of nationalism, both in sending and receiving countries, that prompted a rethinking of the racialized labor organization of indenture. In Australia, the introduction of the White Australia policy in 1901, with its restrictions on non-white immigration and employment, is usually thought to coincide with the abolition of the indentured labor trade. But the Australian pearl-shelling industry continued to employ indentured Asian workers up until the 1970s. This case study extends the historical analysis of indenture well beyond its supposed international abolition. In doing so, it demonstrates a degree of continuity of colonial thought and practice which persisted in the face of global decolonization.

This article analyzes household workers’ discursive strategies before the Tribunal of Domestic Work (TDW) between 1956 and 2013. The TDW is an institution created in 1956 to arbitrate labor relations within domestic service in Buenos Aires. This article shows that workers’ strategies use alternatively a language of rationality and labor relations on the one hand, and of affection and family-like bonds on the other. The overlap of languages of rationality and affection persisted during the entire period under analysis. However, it did not have the same significance over time. Specific articulations of affect or rationality legitimated workers’ rights at different moments in relation to particular labor relations. Based on a close reading of more than 800 case records, the article shows that, despite the particularities of any individual cases, patterns of argument emerged, connected to changes in the world of labor and transformations in the dynamics of domestic service.

The first decade of the twenty-first century has seen extraordinary political developments in the Latin American left. Indeed, there is no historical precedent for the simultaneous election across the region of governments that can be identified with the political left. From Tabaré Vasquez in Uruguay to Martín Torrijos in Panama; from Néstor and Cristina Kirchner in Argentina to Daniel Ortega in Nicaragua; from Michelle Bachelet in Chile to Hugo Chavez in Venezuela; from Evo Morales in Bolivia to Rafael Correa no Ecuador—as well as Luis Inácio Lula da Silva in Brazil and, more recently, Fernando Lugo in Paraguay—representatives of practically all of the region's formative leftist currents have taken over the governments of large, medium, and small countries.

This article takes Brazil under Lula's government as a case study in order to explore the relationship between the various dimensions of the region's lefts: the social and the institutional, civil society and the state, the national and the international, and stability and transformation. Indeed, the election to the presidency of a survivor of the extreme poverty and harsh droughts of northeastern Brazil, a one-time metalworker with little access to formal education, had a profound impact on both the country's social movements and the political party that he founded and led. By examining the hopes and frustrations, dilemmas, and accomplishments of Lula's government, we can better achieve a more dense and nuanced understanding of the larger historical process through which the Latin American Left has reached power.

This article investigates the changing construction of masculine identities among working-class males in a large Canadian factory city, Hamilton, Ontario, in the half century before the Second World War. It argues that, long before individual working men embraced the patriarchal identity of breadwinner and head of family, they had learned and practiced how to be “masculine” in family homes, schools, city streets, workplaces, and pleasure sites. The result was a complex bundle of contradictory attitudes and practices in which the processes of class, ethnic/racial, and gender formation were closely interwoven and in which the male body became a crucial vehicle for expressing gender. The article stresses that working-class masculinities were not fixed, static, or universal, but shaped in specific ways in different contexts and subject to challenges and re-negotiation over time. In the period under study here, working-class males faced new forms of institutional regulation in schools, workplaces, streets, and military trenches, the commercialization of many of their pleasures, and new independence and assertiveness in the pubic sphere among the women of their communities. Negotiating these challenges brought both continuities and significant changes in masculine identities.

During World War Two Alexander Saxton, the great historian of race and class, was a young activist working in the railroad industry. In a lengthy article for the Daily Worker he caught the complexity of racial discrimination among railway unions. The brotherhoods which organized railroad labor inculded several unions which had historically established the worst records of attempting to enforce what one commentator called the “Nordic closed shop” in their crafts. By the time Saxton wrote, however, the railwayunions had joined in campaigns against the poll tax and against lynching. What they avoided was agitation against “alleged” racism in their own workplaces. When the Fair Employment Practices Committee canceled hearings inquiring into discrimination in railroad employment, the unions rejoiced. Their newspaper observed that in any case such hearings would be illegitimate if African Americans joined in the deliberations. “Thereshould be on the Committee,” according to Labor, “no representative of any race or special interest.” Saxton added, “Apparently white men belongto no race.”

Labor historians from Europe and North America frequently assert that their discipline is not in a healthy state. Such a picture is a distortion, however, for the world does not stop at the equator: in various regions of Latin America, Africa and Asia the historiography of workers and labor movements has made great strides in the last twenty to thirty years. Labor history's “globalization” calls for a new type of historiography, which transcends old-style labor history from North America and Europe by incorporating its findings in a new globally-orientated approach. This article discusses some of the main issues involved: problems of a general theoretical nature, of conceptualization, multidisciplinarity, and sources. The article also identifies a few research desiderata.

They push in different directions, these two great debates. The first, on the relationship between capitalism and slavery, invites us to consider how closely the two systems were connected, to the point where more and more scholars argue that slavery itself was a form of capitalism. The second, on the origins of the American Civil War, highlights the fundamental difference and growing divergence between the free labor system of the North and the slave society of the South, to the point where some scholars see an irreconcilable conflict between the two. Can these competing tendencies be reconciled? Is it possible to define southern slavery as essentially “capitalist” without losing sight of the crucial distinctions between free and enslaved labor? A number of recent books suggest that scholars have begun to recognize the problem but have not quite figured out how to solve it.

Why have labor movements in Mozambique, Zambia, and South Africa increasingly been marginalized from the economic debates that are taking place in their countries, even though they have supported ruling parties? Policy reforms such as trade liberalization, privatization, and revisions to labor legislation in all three countries partially account for the loss of power by organized labor as many scholars have claimed. Yet, these policy “adjustments” have also interacted with long-run, structural changes in production, distribution, and trade of goods as well as with processes of democratization to undermine the position of trade unions across much of southern Africa. The article explores this puzzle by first examining the different historical trajectories of organized labor in Mozambique, Zambia, and South Africa. It then analyzes how policy reforms, global restructuring, and democracy had similar consequences across all three cases; collectively, they produced declines in trade-union membership and weakened the influence of organized labor. Although trade unions face a number of daunting challenges, the conclusion traces emerging opportunities for labor to recover from its current malaise.