Argentinas labor reform and the state we still expect

Argentina’s labor reform is currently being debated as if it were a spreadsheet problem. Lower costs, fewer lawsuits, more flexibility, and more formal jobs. I understand the logic. I even sympathize with parts of it. But every time I hear it described as simple “modernization,” I think of my mother. My mother is 75. She has worked her entire life in Argentina, trusted the system, saved for retirement, and watched inflation chew through those savings more than once. Like many of her generation, she now identifies as a libertarian. She wants less state, less bureaucracy, and less weight on her shoulders. And yet. When we travel to a rural area and someone offers her homemade jam or artisanal salami, she hesitates. “Be careful,” she tells me. “You don’t know how that was made.” When I push her — why? — she eventually says it: because the state didn’t oversee it. That is the Argentine paradox. We are furious at the state, yet we were raised inside it. We distrust it and depend on it with the same breath. This reform isn’t just about changing clauses in the Labor Contract Law; it’s attempting to shift a social reflex. For decades, Argentina built its labor regime around a protective logic where the state didn’t just arbitrate; it dictated the terms. Mandatory overtime, strict severance, and uniform standards. The system assumed a fundamental imbalance and stepped in to tip the scales. Today, that system is clearly failing. When 40% of workers are “en negro” (informal) and youth unemployment in provinces like Chaco hits double digits, you can’t argue the status quo is working. Something is broken. Supporters of the reform argue that rigidity is exactly what produced this informality. They point to Spain’s 2012 shift or Uruguay’s gradual mix of flexibility and enforcement. But reforms don’t land on blank slates; they land on cultures. Argentina is not Denmark or New Zealand. Here, labor rights are political symbols, almost religious ones. When I’ve asked people to name two articles of the Constitution, eight out of ten point to Article 14 bis—the one covering labor rights. In this environment, you don’t just think the state regulates contracts; you assume it is your only shield against risk, even if that shield is currently made of cardboard. Now, the reform signals a move toward “contractual freedom” and a lighter hand from the state. Technically, that reduces friction. Psychologically, it feels like the inspector just left the building. This is where my mother’s jam conundrum becomes real. We say we want deregulation, but the moment we face a product without a visible seal of approval, instinct kicks in. “Who checked this?” If overtime rules become “flexible” and dismissal risks change, the legal language may say “modernization,” but to a worker in a volatile economy, it feels like exposure. In the United States, where I’ve spent years, a Python developer has the mobility to walk away from a bad deal. In the Argentine north, a factory worker often doesn’t have a second option. For them, “flexibility” isn’t a tool — it’s a vulnerability. The reform’s success won’t depend on the text of the law, but on what replaces the state’s retreat. If we move away from a state-centered identity, do we get faster courts? Real inspection capacity? Macro stability? Without those, deregulation doesn’t produce freedom; it just redistributes risk downward. Talking to my mother, I realized she doesn’t actually want “no state.” She wants a state that works. She resents the waste and the corruption, not the idea of protection itself. Argentina is trying to switch operating systems overnight. But it’s one thing to say you want to be free of control. It’s another thing entirely to live without it and not feel the chill.