As the federal government announced today a multibillion-dollar deal with the provinces and territories to top up payments for low-wage essential workers, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau said that Canada needs to reflect on how it treats frontline and marginalized workers.

NHS staff must wait between 48 and 72 hours to hear back whether or not they are carrying coronavirus, but Premier League clubs and players will receive their results the following day

In March, Hollywood unions applauded a government package to help entertainment gig workers. Flaws in the rollout meant many couldn't access it.

The United States wants Mexico to reopen its border factories, even as the coronavirus spreads and worker deaths rise.

As many as 20% to 25% of healthcare workers in hard-hit areas, experts say, are likely to develop disorders such as anxiety, depression or post-traumatic stress.

For decades, Jaime Montejo fought to bring dignity to sex workers in Mexico City, protecting them from police, pimps and eventually the coronavirus. Then he got sick.

Washington state fruit growers say that a ban on bunk beds in farmworker housing would cut their seasonal work force in half, likely leading to food shortages and price hikes.

Mack Molding and Southwestern Vermont Health Care (SVHC) have partnered to develop an innovative alternative for Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) for healthcare workers.

To help with the increased demand for Personal Protective Equipment (PPE), Suffolk based manufacturer Broadwater Mouldings have turned over its 3D printer to produce protective shield frames for healthcare workers.

Novartis is using familiar faces—real patients from its Cosentyx TV commercials—to thank healthcare workers and promise support for patients. It’s a shift away from product-centered TV ads as Novartis adjusts its Cosentyx DTC effort during the COVID-19 crisis to highlight resources for patients, the drugmaker said.

Global drugmakers are working overtime to keep supplies coming amid the novel coronavirus pandemic. But in manufacturing facilities packed with workers, COVID-19 presents a particularly difficult challenge—and now one Indian plant has been forced to shutter due to a rash of infections. 

Six Miami-Dade County residents have been indicted in connection with an alleged $10 million Medicare fraud scheme operated out of Midway Medical, a Miami clinic that purported to specialize in treating HIV/AIDS patients.

A former officer and two employees of Teamsters Local 743 (Local 743) were convicted today in federal court in Chicago of federal labor fraud and theft charges in connection with stealing union ballots in an effort to rig two elections in favor of an incumbent slate of officers in 2004. A federal jury returned guilty verdicts today, after deliberating since April 29, 2009, against the three defendants whose trial began on April 6, 2009.

The Justice Department announced the indictment of Alec Souphone Sou and Mike Mankone Sou, owners of Aloun Farm in Hawaii, and Thai labor recruiter William Khoo late yesterday for engaging in a conspiracy to commit forced labor and visa fraud.

Defendants Alec Sou and Mike Sou, co-owners of Aloun Farm, pleaded guilty on Jan.13, 2010, in federal district court in Honolulu, to conspiring to commit forced labor.

The Department of Justice reached a settlement today with the Idaho Orthopaedic Society, an orthopedic practice group and five orthopedists that will prohibit them from conspiring with competing physicians in the Boise, Idaho, area to deny medical care to injured workers and to engage in group boycotts to obtain higher fees.

A federal grand jury in Honolulu indicted Mordechai Orian, an Israeli national; Pranee Tubchumpol, Shane Germann and Sam Wongsesanit of Global Horizons Manpower Inc., located in Los Angeles; and Thai labor recruiters Ratawan Chunharutai and Podjanee Sinchai for engaging in a conspiracy to commit forced labor and document servitude.

The Justice Department today announced that a scientist and his wife, who both previously worked as contractors at the Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico, have been indicted on charges of communicating classified nuclear weapons data to a person they believed to be a Venezuelan government official and conspiring to participate in the development of an atomic weapon for Venezuela, among other violations.

Sophia Manuel and Alfonso Baldonado Jr., owners of Quality Staffing Services Corporation, a labor contracting service, pleaded guilty to conspiring to hold 39 Filipino nationals in compelled service in country clubs and hotels in Southeast Florida.

Morris B. Fahnbulleh, 40, and Joe O. Bondo, 39, both of Monrovia, Liberia, were each convicted on one count of conspiracy to defraud the United States, four counts of mail fraud, two counts of wire fraud and four false claims counts. Fahnbulleh was also convicted of one count of conspiracy to commit mail and wire fraud.

Attorney General Eric Holder and the Department of Justice’s Access to Justice Initiative co-hosted a Middle Class Task Force event today with Vice President Joe Biden, announcing a series of steps designed to help middle class and low-income families secure their legal rights.

Sophia Manuel and Alfonso Baldonado Jr., owners of Quality Staffing Services Corporation, a labor contracting service, were sentenced for conspiring to hold approximately 39 Filipino nationals in forced service to work in country clubs and hotels in Southeast Florida.

Two former humanitarian aid workers were each sentenced today to 142 months in prison for defrauding the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) of approximately $1.9 million that was intended to assist impoverished people and towns in Liberia.

Bruce Schwartz, 53, Sam Wongsesanit, 40, and Shane Germann, 42, have pleaded guilty to human trafficking violations involving the Los Angeles based recruiting company Global Horizons.

The Justice Department announced today the launch of an educational video reminding employers that Salvadorans with Temporary Protected Status (TPS) may continue working beyond the March 9, 2012, expiration date of their Employment Authorization Documents.

The Justice Department today announced that a scientist and his wife, who both previously worked as contractors at the Los Alamos National Laboratory (LANL) in New Mexico, have pleaded guilty to charges under the Atomic Energy Act and other charges relating to their communication of classified nuclear weapons data to a person they believed to be a Venezuelan government official.

The Civil Rights Division and U.S. Attorney Carmen M. Ortiz announced today the filing of a complaint alleging that the International Association of Bridge, Structural, Ornamental and Reinforcing Iron Workers Local 7 (the union) and Iron Workers District Council of New England Pension Fund (the Pension Fund) willfully violated the Uniformed Services Employment and Reemployment Rights Act of 1994 (USERRA) by failing to credit U.S. Navy Reserve Member Thomas Shea with service time while he was serving in the armed forces in Afghanistan.

A campaign worker was indicted yesterday by a federal grand jury in the Southern District of Texas for allegedly paying voters to vote in a Donna, Texas school board election. Two other campaign workers were indicted on similar charged last week for alleged vote-buying in the election.

Josh Jambon, 52, a resident of Grand Isle, Louisiana, pleaded guilty today in front of U.S. District Judge Susie Morgan to two counts of federal civil rights violations, announced Acting Assistant Attorney General Jocelyn Samuels for the Justice Department’s Civil Rights Division and U.S. Attorney Kenneth Allen Polite Jr. for the Eastern District of Louisiana

Chastain Montgomery, Sr., 50, of Lavergne, Tennessee, was sentenced to two consecutive life sentences and ordered to pay $70,400 in restitution for federal crimes committed during a six-month spree that included the murders of United States Postal Service employees Paula Robinson and Judy Spray

NORFOLK, Va

by Wendi C. Thomas, MLK50: Justice Through Journalism

MEMPHIS, Tenn. — On her first day at her new warehouse job, Daria Meeks assumed the business would provide face coverings. It didn’t.

She assumed her fellow workers would be spread out to account for the new coronavirus. They weren’t.

There wasn’t even soap in the bathroom.

Instead, on March 28, her first day at PFS, which packages and ships makeup and jewelry, Meeks found herself standing alongside four other new workers at a station the size of a card table as a trainer showed them how to properly tuck tissue paper into gift boxes.

The following day, Meeks, 29, was just two hours into her shift when she heard that a worker had thrown up.

“They said her blood pressure had went up and she was just nauseated, but when we turned around, everybody who was permanent that worked for PFS had on gloves and masks,” Meeks said.

Temporary workers like her weren’t offered either.

Since then, workers have been told twice that coworkers have tested positive for the coronavirus. The first time was April 10 at a warehouse just across the state line in Southaven, Mississippi. The next was April 16 at the warehouse in southeast Memphis where Meeks worked, several temporary and permanent workers told MLK50: Justice Through Journalism and ProPublica.

In interviews, the workers complained of a crowded environment where they shared devices and weren’t provided personal protective equipment. The company has about 500 employees at its four Memphis-area locations, according to the Memphis Business Journal.

In right-to-work states such as Tennessee and Mississippi, where union membership is low, manual laborers have long said they are vulnerable, and workers’ rights advocates say the global pandemic has underscored just how few protections they have.

A spokesman for Tennessee’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration confirmed that the department received an anonymous complaint about PFS in April.

“A few of (sic) people have tested positive for Covid-19 and the company has not taken precaution to prevent employees from contracting the coronavirus,” the complainant wrote. “As of today (04/13/2020) no one have (sic) come to clean or sanitize the building.”

In response, the spokesman said TOSHA sent the company a letter “informing them of measures they may take to help prevent the spread of COVID-19.”

PFS did not answer specific questions about the number of workers infected at its facilities or about specific precautions it takes. Instead the company released a short statement that said PFS “is committed to the safety and well-being of its employees.” It also said it performs temperature checks at the door and supplies workers with masks, gloves and face shields.

But workers said none of these measures were in effect as late as the middle of April, when Shelby County, Tennessee, and DeSoto County, Mississippi, each home to two PFS facilities, were reporting more than 1,600 coronavirus infections and 30 deaths. (As of Friday, there are more than 2,750 infections and 50 deaths in the two counties.) A current employee said the company now provides gloves and masks, but they’re optional, as are the temperature checks.

When Meeks started at PFS, cases in the county were still at a trickle. But she didn’t stick around long.

On her third day at work, workers were split into two groups for lunch, but the break room was still full. “You could barely pull out a chair, that’s how crowded it was,” she said. “Everybody was shoulder to shoulder.”

Meeks said she asked the security guard at the front desk if she could eat her lunch in the empty lobby but was told no.

“I said, this is just not going to work,” said Meeks, who was paid $9 an hour. “You got different people coughing, sneezing, allergies — you never know what’s going on with a person.”

She left during her break and didn’t come back.

Economy Dominated by Low-Wage Industry, Jobs

In cities across the country, workers at Amazon facilities and other warehouses have been infected with COVID-19, as have workers at meatpacking plants nationwide.

What makes Memphis different is the outsized share of the workforce in the logistics industry, which includes warehouses and distribution centers.

The Greater Memphis Chamber of Commerce boasts on its website that the logistics industry employs 1 in 6 workers in the Memphis metro area, a higher share than anywhere else in the country.

The high concentration of these low-wage jobs is a testament to the city’s decades-old campaign to brand itself as “America’s Distribution Center.” Memphis is home to FedEx’s headquarters and its world distribution hub, which is undergoing a $1.5 billion expansion, as well as to Nike’s largest global distribution center, a sprawling 2.8 million-square-foot facility.

According to 2019 data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, more than 58,000 workers in the Memphis metro area fill and stock orders, package materials and move materials by hand.

In Memphis, workers at distribution centers for FedEx, Nike and Kroger have tested positive for the coronavirus. The Shelby County Health Department received 64 complaints about businesses between April 1 and April 29, but could not say how many were about warehouses.

Interim guidance from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention calls for employers to notify workers of positive cases. But it is voluntary. The federal OSHA has no such requirement, and neither does Tennessee’s OSHA.

Although Congress passed the Families First Coronavirus Response Act, which provides two weeks paid sick leave for coronavirus-affected or infected workers, it doesn’t apply to many warehouse and temporary employees, said Laura Padin, senior staff attorney at the Washington-based National Employment Law Project, which advocates for better public policy for workers, particularly low-wage workers.

“The big issue is that it exempts so many employers, especially employers with over 500 employees,” Padin said. “And the vast majority of temp workers and many warehouse workers work for employers with more than 500 employees.”

The coronavirus has disproportionately affected people of color, the very group that makes up the bulk of the warehouse and temporary workforce.

“Black workers make up 12% of the workforce but 26% of temp workers, and Latino workers make up 16% of the workforce but 25% of temp workers,” said Padin, citing Bureau of Labor Statistics data released in 2018.

Add to that the yawning racial wealth gap and low-wage workers like Meeks are in an untenable situation, Padin said.

“They either stay home and they risk their financial security,” Padin said, “or they go to work and risk their lives.”

“You Can Always Go Back”

With 1.45 million square feet of warehouse space among its four area locations, PFS is the ninth-largest third-party distribution operation in the metro area, according to the Memphis Business Journal’s 2020 Book of Lists. PFS doesn’t sell products under its own name but rather fulfills orders for better-known companies.

Pandora, which is perhaps best known for its charm bracelets, is one of PFS’s clients. “Each item shipped for PANDORA is wrapped in customized, branded, and sometimes seasonal packing materials, making every purchase a gift,” PFS’s website says.

Meeks’ favorite part of her job was taking each customer’s personal message, tucking it into a tiny envelope and then into the gift package.

“When we were sending out these Pandora bracelets and these Chanel gifts, I sat there and read all my cards,” said Meeks, who like all of the workers interviewed for this story, is black. “They were so cute.”

One Pandora customer sent a note to “beloved mother,” Meeks said, and another seemed to be from someone in a long-distance relationship.

“He was like: Even though I’m miles and miles away, I always think about you,” Meeks said. He wrote that he hoped the jewelry would “glitter in your eyes, or something like that.”

The day Meeks quit PFS, she said she called Prestigious Placement, the temporary agency that sent her there, asking for another job.

The temporary agency representative “was like, ‘Well, you can always go back to PFS until we get something else,’ and I was like, ‘No.’”

“She said, ‘Well, we haven’t had anyone to get sick,’” Meeks recalled.

Meeks said she tried to explain that regardless of whether some workers had tested positive, the company wasn’t taking enough steps, in her opinion, to keep current workers safe.

The representative said she’d ask the agency’s on-site manager about Meeks’ concerns, but Meeks said that there was no on-site manager present on her second or third day.

Prestigious Placement did not respond to multiple requests for comment for this story.

A local labor leader said Meeks’ experience illustrates the tough situation for temporary workers at warehouses.

“They tend not to have benefits, sick time and insurance and all the things that allow us to keep our whole community safe during a pandemic,” said Jeffrey Lichtenstein, executive secretary of the Memphis Labor Council, a federation of around 40 union locals.

Unlike companies such as Nike and FedEx, which have reputations to protect, the general public doesn’t know who PFS is or what it does, he said. “They have no brand vulnerability,” he said.

With little leverage to exert on businesses, these workers are up against a regional business model that mires them in dead-end, low-wage jobs, Lichtenstein said.

The city’s power brokers, he said, “have a couple of main tenets of their economic philosophy. One, logistics is really, really important, and two, cheap labor is very, very important.”

“Nothing Essential About It”

Memphis Mayor Jim Strickland issued a “Safer At Home” executive order on March 23, mirroring those put in place elsewhere. But the order specifically exempted warehouses and distribution centers from COVID-19 restrictions.

PFS gave workers a letter that cited Strickland’s order and the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s guidance that “transportation and logistics are deemed a critical infrastructure that must be maintained during the COVID-19 crisis,” according to a copy reviewed by MLK50.

If they were stopped by authorities on the way to work, employees were told, this letter would ease their passage.

Some workers questioned whether the distribution center should be open at all.

“I don’t see nothing essential about it,” said one employee who asked to remain anonymous for fear she’d be fired for talking to a journalist. “It don’t got nothing to do with nurses or health.”

When a worker tested positive at a PFS distribution center in southeast Memphis, the employee, who worked at a Southaven, Mississippi, location about eight miles away, worried that the virus could spread if workers were shuffled between sites.

A manager assured her that workers would stay put, the employee said. But on April 16, a supervisor told workers that two Memphis workers, who had been brought in to the employee’s Southaven facility, had tested positive for the coronavirus.

“I said, ‘Well, since y’all got everybody in here messed up, can’t you call and get everyone in there a COVID-19 test?’” she remembered. “They said if you don’t feel safe, you can go home.”

She can’t risk taking the virus home to a relative, who has chronic illnesses, and she can’t afford not to work. “I’m concerned for my health,” she said. “I don’t want to die.”

Padin, who works with workers’ rights centers across the country, said she’s not aware of much being done by advocates to narrow the list of businesses considered essential. “I do think some of these essential worker orders are quite broad,” she said. “Our sense is that it’s a little arbitrary and just seems to be a result of lobbying.”

She pointed to the success of meat processing plants, which were declared “critical infrastructure” by President Donald Trump despite coronavirus outbreaks that sickened thousands and killed dozens.

Days before Trump’s declaration, meatpacking giant Tyson ran a full-page ad in The New York Times saying “The food supply chain is breaking.”

In Memphis, an amended executive order, signed by the mayor April 21, clarified which distribution centers and warehouses could remain in operation, including ones that handle medical supplies, food and hygiene products.

The order would seem to exclude facilities such as PFS. “Products and services for and in industries that are not otherwise identified in this provision constitute non-essential goods and services,” reads the order, which is set to expire at midnight Tuesday. On Monday, Memphis will move into the first phase of its “Back to Business” plan, which means nonessential businesses can operate with face masks, social distancing in the workplace, and symptom checks.

“No Social Distancing”

Because the turnover in warehouses like PFS is high, the need for a steady flow of labor is paramount. And temp agencies are a major source of employees.

One Memphis mother saw a job posting on Facebook for PFS. A family member’s workplace had closed because of the coronavirus, so the woman rushed to find work to make up for the lost household income. She was hired in late March by Paramount Staffing and sent to a warehouse in Southaven, Mississippi. She wanted to remain anonymous for fear of job retaliation.

From the moment workers entered the building, she said, they were close together. A single-file line funneled workers past several time clocks, one for PFS’s permanent workers and one for each staffing agency with temporary workers there.

“Some people have masks on, some don’t,” said the worker, who earned $9 an hour. Workers weren’t provided any personal protective equipment.

She opted to be a packer, a mostly stationary job, but she had to use a shared tape dispenser to seal boxes and her co-workers were within arm’s reach.

Her other job option was as a picker, but they’re in motion most of the shift, selecting products for individual orders from totes and using a shared scan gun. Pickers send the completed orders to packers.

“It’s basically no social distancing at that warehouse,” she said. “They’re gonna have to work on that.”

About two hours before her shift ended April 10, a manager huddled workers in her area together for an announcement.

“He said, ‘Well, we’re just letting y’all know that we have an employee here who tested positive and we are asking everyone here to leave the building immediately and we will clock y’all out,’” the worker recalled.

The manager instructed them not to touch anything as they left, “just go straight out the door and we will let y’all know when to return,” she recalled.

The warehouse was closed for the next day and reopened the following day.

“It makes me nervous because my health is important to me, but at the same time, it’s like that’s the only thing I can do right now,” she said.

She’s grateful for the job but insists she won’t be there long. “I’m going to try to get in a couple more checks and then I’m going to quit.”

She left about a week ago, but hasn’t found another job yet.

Paramount Staffing, which sent the worker to PFS, relies on the client to provide personal protective equipment to workers, said company president Matthew Schubert.

“My understanding is that they’ve been taking temperatures as employees walk in,” Schubert said, plus performing more frequent cleanings and coaching the workers on social distancing, but he acknowledged he didn’t know when any of those measures began.

“What we want to make sure is that they’re doing everything in their power to follow the CDC guidelines,” said Schubert, who estimates Paramount has 75 to 80 workers at PFS’s area warehouses.

“We’re limited as to what we can and cannot do, because it’s not our facility.”

Both Lichtenstein and Padin say it’s the worksite employer’s responsibility to provide personal protective equipment.

A Perfect Combination: Higher Pay and Less Risk

Just days after Meeks quit PFS, she turned to a different agency and was sent to a Memphis warehouse that labels and ships cleaning products.

Her first day was April 17, and she was impressed by the precautions the employer takes.

Before workers enter the building, Meeks said, their temperatures are taken in a white tent outside. If they don’t have a fever, they get a wristband that is a different color each day.

The company provides masks, gloves and goggles, she said, and there are even kickstands on the bathroom doors, so they can be opened by foot.

Working the third shift means fewer people, Meeks said. “We’re not working close to each other.”

Meeks said she wouldn’t put a price on her health, but at her new job, the risks are lower and the pay higher — up from $9 to $11.50 an hour.

Wendi C. Thomas is the editor of MLK50: Justice Through Journalism. Email her at wendicthomas@mlk50.com and follow her on Twitter at @wendi_c_thomas.

Do you work at a warehouse or distribution center in the Memphis area? MLK50 and ProPublica want to hear from you.

• Call or text us: (901) 633-3638
• Email us: memphis@propublica.org

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by Nina Martin and Bernice Yeung

When Alfredo Pabatao told his family that he had helped move a suspected coronavirus patient through the hospital where he’d worked as an orderly for nearly 20 years, he didn’t make a big deal out of it. “My parents are the type of parents who don’t like to make us worry,” his youngest daughter, Sheryl, recalled. But Sheryl was concerned that her father’s vulnerabilities weren’t being given more consideration as he toiled on the pandemic’s front lines in hard-hit northern New Jersey. “Why would they let a 68-year-old man with an underlying heart condition … transport a suspected COVID patient when there’s younger transporters in the hospital who could do it?”

Sheryl’s mother, Susana, was an assistant nurse in a long-term care facility where she often pulled double shifts, saving money for her annual trips back to the Philippines. At 64, she wasn’t much younger than the elderly patients she helped bathe and feed, and she had diabetes, which increased her risk of severe complications if she got sick. The nursing home wasn’t providing adequate personal protection equipment, Susana reported, so Sheryl brought home a stash of surgical masks for her mother to wear on the job. That didn’t go over well with Susana’s managers, Sheryl said: “They gave her a warning, saying she shouldn’t be wearing that. … She was really mad.”

Alfredo fell ill first, his symptoms flaring on March 17. Susana soon developed a fever. The couple had grown up on the same street in Manila and shared a romance that reminded their daughter of a telenovela; after 44 years of marriage and five children, they were all but inseparable. “Where mom goes, my dad goes. Where my dad goes, my mom goes. That’s the way they are,” Sheryl said. The day Alfredo was admitted to the ICU, his heart failing, Susana checked into the same hospital. They died four days apart.

Filipino American medical workers have suffered some of the most staggering losses in the coronavirus pandemic. In the New York-New Jersey region alone, ProPublica learned of at least 30 deaths of Filipino health care workers since the end of March and many more deaths in those peoples’ extended families. The virus has struck hardest where a huge concentration of the community lives and works. They are at “the epicenter of the epicenter,” said Bernadette Ellorin, a community organizer.

Some of the largest Filipino enclaves on the East Coast are in the New York City borough of Queens and northern New Jersey — the very places now being ravaged by COVID-19.

Filipinos are on the front lines there and across the country, four times more likely to be nurses than any other ethnic group in the U.S., experts say. In the New York-New Jersey region, nearly a quarter of adults with Filipino ancestry work in hospitals or other medical fields, a ProPublica analysis of 2017 U.S. census data found. The statistic bears repeating: Of every man and woman in the Filipino community there, one in four works in the health care industry.

“So many people can rattle off five, 10 relations that are working in the medical field,” said filmmaker Marissa Aroy, whose most recent documentary is about Filipino nurses. Her parents were registered nurses in California, and various relatives are in health care professions, including a cousin who works in a rehab center in the Bronx and recently recovered from COVID-19. “Think about all of those family members who are going to be affected,” Aroy said. “We’re talking about huge family structures here.”

The scale of the trauma and the way it is unfolding are “similar to times of war,” said Kevin Nadal, a professor of psychology at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and The Graduate Center of the City University of New York who has written extensively about Filipino American psychology and culture.

The majority of the reported deaths have involved nurses, including Susan Sisgundo and Ernesto “Audie” DeLeon, who worked at Bellevue Hospital in New York City, and Marlino Cagas, who spent 40 years as a pharmacy tech at Harlem Hospital before embarking on a nursing career at the age of 60. A handful, including Jessie Ariel Ferreras, a family practitioner in Bergen County, were doctors. Others worked in support roles, like Louis Torres, 47, the director of food services at a nursing home in Woodside, Queens, and his 73-year-old mother, Lolita, or Lely, a clerk at a nearby hospital. They lived together and fell sick around the same time, both developing pneumonia. Lolita died on April 7, her son, the following day.

Don Ryan Batayola, a 40-year-old occupational therapist, was from a big, tight-knit family and lived in Springfield Township, New Jersey. He is believed to have caught the virus from a patient and was rushed to the hospital on March 31. By April 4, he had improved enough to FaceTime with his wife, also an occupational therapist who was sick and self-isolating at home, their children sheltering with relatives. Then, an hour later, he went into cardiac arrest.

One of the most wrenching aspects of the epidemic is the sense of disconnection and helplessness in a community that stakes its economic well-being on providing care and comfort and cherishes its closeness. So many members of Batayola’s extended family are health care workers, “we could almost open our own hospital,” said his oldest sister Aimee Canton, an oncology nurse in Northern California. But to protect each other, they’ve had to remain apart, with no idea when they’ll be able to come together again. “It’s so sad when you’re a nurse,” Canton said, “and you can’t even help your own family.”

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Almost all the deaths of Filipino American health care workers that ProPublica found involve people, like the Batayolas, who immigrated during the 1970s to 2000s, when critical shortages created opportunities for medical personnel with the right training.

But the story of Filipino nurses in the U.S. goes back much further, to the end of the Spanish-American War in 1898, when the Philippines became a U.S. territory, said Catherine Ceniza Choy, a professor of ethnic studies at the University of California, Berkeley, and author of “Empire of Care: Nursing and Migration in Filipino American History.” One legacy of the colonial era is a network of hundreds of Americanized nursing schools that eventually produced tens of thousands of caregivers a year, making the country “the leading exporter of nurses in the world,” Choy said.

Nursing offered an escape route from economic and political instability and a path to the middle class for those who had few other options. It also appealed to deeply held cultural values: “kapwa,” Tagalog for “a feeling of interconnectedness to all people, putting others before yourself and taking care of the community,” Nadal said, and “utang ng loob,” the idea that people owe a debt to each other and to those who came before.

Most nurses trained in the Philippines who sought work abroad hoped to end up in the U.S. (They also migrated in large numbers to the Middle East and the U.K.) American immigration policies ebbed and flowed depending on labor shortages and political expediency. In the first third of the 20th century, the numbers of Filipino nurses were small; most workers from the islands were sent to the fields of California and the plantations of Hawaii. Then, in the wake of the Great Depression, Filipino immigrants were capped at just 50 per year, rising to 100 after World War II.

After the war, U.S. nursing shortages grew acute. Even as the passage of Medicare and Medicaid made health care more accessible to the elderly and poor, the rise of the feminist movement, which opened up professional opportunities for American women, made caregiver work less appealing, Choy said. The Immigration Act of 1965 swept aside the long-standing system of country-based quotas, instead giving preference to immigrants with professional degrees. Tens of thousands of Filipino nurses answered the call.

Caregivers on the Front Lines

The scale of losses among Filipino Americans from COVID-19 is only beginning to sink in. Clockwise from top left: Don Ryan Batayola, an occupational therapist; Alfredo Pabatao, a hospital orderly; Susan Sisgundo, a neonatal ICU nurse; Ernesto “Audie” DeLeon, a hospital nurse; Susana Pabatao, a long-term care nurse; Daisy Doronila, a correctional facility nurse.

Many ended up at inner-city and rural hospitals that had the greatest difficulty recruiting staff, often working the least desirable jobs and shifts, including, in the 1980s and ’90s, on the front lines of the AIDS epidemic. It was part of a historical pattern, said Nadal, of “immigrants doing a lot of the dirty work that people don’t want to do... being painted as heroes, when in reality they are only put in these positions because their lives are viewed as disposable.”

Yet it was a template for economic security that many of their American-born children and grandchildren embraced. “It’s like any kind of family dynamic,” Aroy said. “You see your parents do the job. And so then you know that that’s accessible to you. As a second- generation kid, I always knew that was a path for me if I wanted it.”

Today, people of Filipino ancestry comprise about 1% of the U.S. population but more than 7% of the hospital and health care workforce in the United States — nearly 500,000 workers, according to census data. They find themselves fighting not just a potentially lethal illness, but the scapegoating stoked by President Donald Trump and supporters who have taken to calling COVID-19 the “Chinese virus.” Since late March, civil rights organizations have received nearly 1,500 reports of anti-Asian hate incidents, mostly from California and New York, including against Filipino Americans.

“This anti-Asian racism that’s happening right now,” Aroy said, “what it makes me want to do is scream out: ‘How dare you treat us like the carriers? We are your caregivers.’”

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A host of factors, from medical to cultural, have put large numbers of Filipinos in harm’s way and made them vulnerable to the types of severe complications that often turn deadly. They begin with the specific type of health care work they do.

A survey by the Philippine Nurses Association of America published in 2018 found that a large proportion of respondents were concentrated in bedside and critical care — “the opposite of social distancing,” said executive director Leo-Felix Jurado, who teaches nursing at William Paterson University in Wayne, New Jersey. Many of the organization’s members have contracted the virus, he said, including the current president, New Jersey-based registered nurse Madelyn Yu; she is recovering, but her husband died.

For Daisy Doronila, employed at the Hudson County Correctional Facility in northern New Jersey for more than two decades, the profession was almost a religious calling. “My mom had a very, very humble beginning,” said her only child, Denise Rendor. “She really wanted to take care of people that no one wanted to take care of.”

Doronila saw her responsibilities to her colleagues no less seriously. The single mother and devout Catholic “was always the most reliable person at the job,” Rendor said. “If there was a snowstorm, people called out, nope, not her: ‘I’ll be there.’” As a kid, Rendor sometimes resented the missed volleyball games and dance recitals. Looking back now, “I don’t think I would have the life that I had had my mom not worked so hard.”

It’s not clear how Doronila contracted the virus, though the Hudson County jail has had at least four deaths. Once she fell ill in mid-March, she was turned away for testing by clinics and doctors on three occasions because her symptoms didn’t meet the criteria at the time, Rendor said. On March 21, Doronila started feeling breathless and drove herself to urgent care, which sent her by ambulance to the hospital. She died on April 5 at the age of 60.

If she hadn’t gotten sick, Rendor is sure she would have been volunteering for extra shifts. “That’s just who my mother was. She was just always willing to help.”

That selflessness is common among Filipino immigrants, said Zenei Cortez, a registered nurse in the San Francisco Bay Area who is the president of the California Nurses Association/National Nurses United. “They have such a profound willingness to work that they would forget their own well-being,” she said. “They would think of their loved ones in the Philippines — if they don’t work, then they can’t send money back home.”

In 2019, Filipinos abroad sent $35 billion back to the Philippines, making it the fourth-largest recipient of overseas remittances in the world; many are also helping to support networks of relatives in the U.S. “That’s the economic factor that is on the minds of a lot of Filipino nurses,” Cortez said. “If we miss work, there will be no income.”

It’s a worry that keeps many Filipinos doing sometimes-grueling labor well into their 70s. Doronila’s colleague at the Hudson County jail, nurse Edwin Montanano, was 73 when he died in early April. Jesus Villaluz, a much-beloved patient transporter at Holy Name Medical Center in Teaneck, one of the worst-hit hospitals in northern New Jersey, was 75. “They cannot in their conscience walk away from patients who need them,” said Maria Castaneda, a registered nurse and the secretary-treasurer of 1199SEIU United Healthcare Workers East, who immigrated from the Philippines in 1984. “At the same time, they are there in solidarity with other co-workers. If they are not there, it adds to the burden of those who are working.”

COVID-19 risks are magnified in people who are older or suffer underlying chronic conditions. Filipinos have very high rates of Type II diabetes and cardiovascular disease, both of which render the virus more dangerous. “They’re doing amazing things and helping others to survive,” Nadal said. “But they’re putting themselves at risk because they have immuno-compromised traits that make them susceptible to severe sickness and death.”

And in many situations, they’ve been forced to do that work without proper PPE and other safeguards, said Ellorin, the Queens-based community organizer and executive director of the advocacy group Mission to End Modern-Day Slavery. They are “being infected and not being protected, and then their families, or whoever they live with, are getting infected.”

Sheryl Pabatao thinks of the many people she knows who are working in hospitals and other medical settings and feel unable to speak out. “Even though they don’t want to do things, they still do it because they don’t want to lose their jobs.”

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When they first applied to immigrate to the U.S. in the 1980s, Alfredo Pabatao was in the car business; Susana was a former nursing student turned housewife and mother of two. By the time their petition was approved about 14 years later, their two eldest children were too old to qualify to come to the U.S. with their parents, so the Pabataos were forced to leave them behind, bringing only their youngest two daughters and son. “To this day, that was one of the hardest things — being separated from everyone,” Sheryl said.

They arrived in the U.S. a few weeks after 9/11. One of Alfredo’s sisters, a registered nurse, helped him get a job transporting patients at her hospital, now known as Hackensack Meridian Health Palisades Medical Center, in North Bergen, New Jersey. “My father grew up with wealth, and when he came here, he had to be modest and humble,” Sheryl said. Susana earned her assistant nursing certification while working as a grocery store cashier, then went to work at what is now called Bergen New Bridge Medical Center in Paramus, the largest hospital and licensed nursing home in the state. Taking care of elderly people helped ease the sadness and guilt at what she had left behind. “She was not able to take care of her own mother,” Sheryl said. “So when she does her job here, she cares for them like her own.”

America proved to be both generous and hard. The couple prospered enough to buy a house, then lost it in the Great Recession. They managed to rebuild their lives and gained their U.S. citizenship, the kids choosing careers in the pharmaceutical side of health care. After 18 years in the same job, Alfredo was waiting for Susana to retire so he could, too.

Then came the pandemic.

Sheryl had been following the news reports from China since early February and was concerned enough about her family to procure a small supply of masks before vendors ran out; “I’d put my parents in a bubble if I can,” she said. Her father was more easygoing: “He has survived so many things in his life. His attitude is: ‘If I get it, I get it. I’ll be OK with it.’”

Sheryl doesn’t know how the responsibility fell to him to transport a patient suspected of having COVID-19 during the second week in March. “But knowing my dad, he agrees to anything. He has that work ethic: ‘This is my job. If I can do it, l do it.’ Knowing him, if one of the other [orderlies] didn’t want to transfer the patient, they asked him and he said yes.”

When Susana found out her husband had been exposed to the virus that way, she was not happy, Sheryl said. Susana was having her own issues at the nursing home. In mid-March, she received an email from her bosses that warned in boldface, “Facemasks are to be used only by staff who have an authorized or clinical reason to use them. Do not wear non-hospital issued facemasks.” It was a policy Susana complained was being made by people who weren’t doing bedside care and didn’t understand the real risks. She was also told the masks would scare patients. She pretended to obey the directive when her managers were around, Sheryl said, “but my mom was stubborn, so when they left, she put [her mask] back on.”

Bergen New Bridge called Susana a “valued” employee who is “greatly missed.” The hospital denied that it has experienced any PPE shortages, but it noted that “guidance from federal and state health officials regarding the use of PPE has been evolving.” Early on, “it was recommended that masks were to be worn only by those individuals who were sick or those who were caring for COVID-19 patients.” Once the virus began spreading within the community, “we quickly moved to universal masking of all employees,” the hospital said. “Like all healthcare facilities, our Medical Center has stressed the importance of using hospital-issued PPE, as guided by the CDC.”

As of April 29, New Bridge’s long-term care facility had recorded 120 confirmed COVID-19 cases and 26 deaths. Hackensack Meridian Health didn’t respond to ProPublica’s requests for comment about Alfredo’s case.

It wasn’t just Alfredo and Susana who fell ill. Sheryl and her brother, both living at home, caught the virus, too. The weekend before Alfredo’s symptoms emerged, he and the rest of the family attended a gathering in honor of a relative who had died in January from cancer. Alfredo spent much of the party talking to his younger brother; later, the brother ended up with COVID-19 and on a ventilator for nearly three weeks. An aunt of Sheryl’s who is a housekeeper in the same hospital system as Alfredo wasn’t at the gathering but fell ill anyway and was out sick for two weeks. Her symptoms weren’t as severe as those of some of the others; she’s already back at work.

The spread of the virus has been unrelenting for Sheryl. When she returned to her own job as a pharmacy tech this past week, a month after her parents died, she learned that someone who worked at her company — who was also Filipino — had died during her absence. “You have no idea about the extent of this,” she said, “until it hits you.”

Sophie Chou contributed reporting.

Correction, May 5, 2020: This story originally misspelled the first name of the president of the California Nurses Association/National Nurses United. She is Zenei Cortez, not Zeine.

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