When I first started blogging about the H-1B topic, I was pretty much alone in the wilderness. It wasn’t until other insurgents picked up my posts and started linking them elsewhere that I got any sort of readership. Initially, I was intrigued by the spike in traffic. When my blog started getting mention on Dice.com and ImmigrationVoice.org, I suddenly got tons of comments, many of them vicious and threatening, usually in Hinglish. I eventually had to turn on comment moderation, because the slumdogs would swarm and flood my blog with literally hundreds of vile comments a day.
But I kept blogging, and eventually other insurgents started to try to contact me, first by email. When I could validate their identity, I responded back, anonymously. After a few email exchanges, they would give me a phone number to call. I was hesitant at first, so I used Skype. That is how I first talked to Business Week writer Mora Herbst.
Eventually, I learned whom I could trust and whom I couldn’t. Many insurgents use “nyms”, or aliases in the many online forums dedicated to this incendiary topic. That is tragic, because it means that proud Americans cannot speak openly about this high-tech slave trade without fear of being blacklisted or targeted in some way.
So when I would get an email from a fellow insurgent, I would pay close attention to their contact info and check to see if I recognized the “nym”. After months of activity on these anti-H-1B sites, I had begun to pick up on the communication patterns of the regular posters. I would only call them if they were familiar, and even then through an anonymous Skype call or a blocked caller id.
I think there is something utterly vulgar about Americans having to sneak around like this, communicating with code names and hiding their identity in order to discuss what is essential a campaign of ethnic cleansing that is going on inside their profession. But that is what the Indian outsourcing regime has brought us to – literally an American equivalent of a “French Underground”, sneaking around, passing communicades to fellow insurgents, always watching our backs. We that are left working, much like the French Resistance that was left alive, must protect our reputations and our careers. The high-tech junta has made it clear, with their proxies like Vivek Wadhwa and Stuart Anderson, that anyone that speaks out against their campaign of occupational genocide will be labeled a xenophobe and marked as unfit to work in the I.T. industry that is being overrun by the low-wage scabs from that shithole subcontinent called India.
Funny, I never once got a nasty email, blog comment, and threatening phone call from an Chinese, Russian, Polish, or Brazilian H-1B, even though that visa goes to many other nationalities besides Indians. It must be a genetic thing, this urge to lash out at people who dare to express contempt for the Hindu-fascists and their misogynistic and nepostic behavior that is destroying the global I.T. industry. We are dealing with a breed of people that is rivaled only by the radical Islamists in their lust for global domination.
Anyway, when I recently got an email from a legacy insurgent with an offer to get together and chat, I was elated. By “legacy” I mean a man who had been in the forefront of the battles against the upper-caste Hindu invasion for years. Many of us in the insurgency are new to the game, and we marvel at the stamina of these warriors. This invite was almost like one of Castro’s foot soldiers getting an invitation to share rice and beans with Che Guevara during the Cuban revolution.
He would be in town for only a couple of days. The meeting would be clandestine, arranged on short notice. All I knew was that he would call midweek.
I got the call on a Tuesday afternoon.
“I’m in Vegas. I should be in your neck of the woods around 6 PM,” he said over a mangled cell phone connection.
“Cool. Call me when you are inbound,” I replied.
For the next few hours I Googled his name, which he had finally revealed to me after several emails. The results were impressive.
An article in a major newspaper about American technical professionals being displaced at a major Silicon Valley tech firm…
A YouTube video of him testifying before a congressional committee discussing fraud in the H-1B program…
A clip from a San Francisco NBC affiliate, detailing the fake want ads posted by an immigration law firm, with an interview of my legacy insurgent…
And there was more. Pages of search results, all with his name and the term “H-1B” attached. This guy was a hero in movement. He had taken a bullet for this cause, and was still fighting. Props to him.
I figured that he was blacklisted by now, unemployable in the American tech industry. Here was a guy with a degree from an impressive American university, literally a rocket scientist; he had worked at JPL. His resume was a stellar collection of Fortune 500 experience. Big names. Banks, I.T. companies, you name it.
But a high-tech hobo. I had heard from another insurgent that this guy had been out of a job for almost a year. Something was not right.
We finally hooked up at an Irish pub off the 405. His car was packed with boxes and clothes on hangers. I thought to myself, was he living out of his Ford Taurus? WTF? I had heard of all sorts of homeless I.T. refugees before, but I thought this guy was still in the game. Turns out he was, in a big way.
He greeted me as I stood outside the bar.
“TR?” he asked, offering his hand.
“It’s an honor,” I said.
We got a table in the bar packed with people watching the Lakers take on the Suns in the playoffs. I ordered a Coors Light draft and he interrogated the clueless, rather hot waitress about their wine selection. I think he just wanted to eye-fuck her gorgeous bod. My kind of guy.
“You know, where I’m from, you don’t get this sort of talent,” he said.
“I hear ya’,” I told him.
Over fat-drenched appetizers, my beer and his Merlot, we swapped war stories. I asked about his congressional testimony, the stories in the press, his wars with the high-tech junta. I was fascinated by this grizzled warrior.
"So how's business?" I asked. I expected some horror story.
"I'm pretty much virtual now. I got a good gig doing some packet analysis for a telecom."
To my surprise, he was as interested in me as I was in him.
“What made you join the Marines?” he asked.
“I wasn’t getting far in junior college, working on an engineering degree, and stumbled into a Marine Corps recruiting office. The guy asked me if I liked the outdoors, and I said, yeah, kinda, and the next thing I know, I am humping a Prick-77 in Kuwait.”
The legacy insurgent laughed and dipped further into his beef stroganoff. By now, the Lakers were up by ten and the place was thumping.
“I always admired you military folks. Thanks for your service,” he said.
We moved on to more serious business.
“Can you imagine Detroit auto workers, union guys, getting a bunch of Japs shipped into some assembly line in Dearborn, and told by management to train them?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I know for a fact that in many unions, you got your tires slashed if you got on their wrong side.”
“Yeah, but techies are pussies, for the most part,” I added. “We are the only fuckers that can be relied upon to train our replacements.”
“That’s gotta change.”
The legacy insurgent went on, detailing the legal manipulations by other insurgents to fight the high-tech slave trade in the courts, in academia, in the press. He mentioned Norm Matloff, a professor at U.C. Davis.
“That motherfucker needs to get a real website,” I said. I was now rather drunk.
“Yeah, but he’s an academic.”
“I see his newsletter, and it looks like something from the web, circa 1993.”
The legacy insurgent shrugged.
We drank and ate. At one point, my guest pulled a copy of the U.S. Constitution from his fanny pack and read a few passages.
“You should talk to your congressman, what’s his name…Rorback-something” he said.
“Dana Robacker? Fuck him. I’m sure he’s simpatico, but these politicians are bought and paid for. You and others can meet with them, testify in front of committees, do all that shit. I’m in for the real shit, man, the fuckin’ action,” I told him.
The hot waitress came by, and I ordered another round.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Look, ya’ know when there was all this Northern Ireland shit going’ on, and there was the IRA and there was the, uh, the Sin, uh, Fun, their political wing…”
“Senn Fien?” he asked.
“Whatever. What I’m a sayin’ is that we mothafucka’s need to organize like those bastards. Look, you run around and do all the political shit, like the Sinn Fein, and me’s and the rest of the radical insurgents, we’ll be like the IRA, throwin’ bombs an’ shit.”
“Not real ordinance, bro,” I said, slamming my pint on the table. “Rhetorical shit. 4Chan shit. We fuck up the enemy online, maybe in the workplace too.”
“Is that legal?” he asked.
“Legal? What da’ fuck is legal anymore? When I followed that slumdog with the phony resume into the head and slammed his putrid face into the sink, was that legal? Hell no! But who gives a fuck? He was gone the next day, to go get his dental work done on some street in Mumbai. “
“Go on…” The legacy insurgent sopped up his stroganoff with the rest of the soda bread.
“And if some slumdog shows up in interview, and I so happen to be one of team that has to screen him, guess what? If that bitch has some shit on his CV, like four years at HCL, and an Oracle cert, and that fucker can’t tell what the hell ‘Select Sysdate From Dual’ means, I get to go medieval on his slumdog ass! Right there in the middle of the interview, with my whole team watching. They then will know that most of these slumdogs are fakes, and we should stay clear da’ fuck away from them.”
“So you’re talking about working within, to intimidate and harass the, uh, slumdogs?” he asked.
He was finally getting it. “Dude, you go that right. You and that clinical professor in NoCal do your shit, an’ we’ll do ours. IRA and Sinn Fein.”
Lakers lose to the Suns, and the place clears out.
“I’m with you on that,” the legacy insurgent says. “You know, a while back, I came across another blogger that was writing about this H-1B stuff, like you. I emailed her. Turns out she was in I.T. and her whole department got outsourced, to Patni, WiPro, or somebody. She wrote well. Talked about how she had to train her replacement in QA...”
“And?” I asked.
“So I didn’t hear from her for awhile. She stopped blogging. Nothing.”
“No shit,” I said. “I can relate.” I thought of all the “Missing Antis”.
“I finally get an email from her daughter. She had killed herself, and left a list of contacts that she wanted notified. I was one of them.”
“What da’ fuck? She killed herself?”
“Turns out she had worked twenty years, something like that, at HP, and they just shit-canned her,” he said. “She just couldn’t take it. She was blogging while she was looking for work, and started getting all these death threats from the, uh, slumdogs, phone calls…”
“I hear ya’…”
“…and then she was on these painkillers with Tylenol and took a shitload with a bottle of wine... ”
The place was empty now, shutting down, just me and the legacy insurgent, and the closing bartender wiping up the bar. Someone had some songs spinning on the jukebox that lets you pick from dozens of CDs. The last song was playing….
“…Welcome to the jungle
It gets worse here every day
Ya’ learn ta live like an animal
In the jungle where we play
If you got a hunger for what you see
You'll take it eventually
You can have anything you want
But you better not take it from me…”