Belching Out the Devil (15 page)

 

Their caution was borne out of concern of how the management would react. They were right to be worried. On 19 May 2005, sixty-six days after the Great Coke Pledge was made public - six days after announcing their intention to form a union, they were sacked. Without any indication or warning the five union organisers were laid off. Erol and Fahrettin arrived for work at the Dudullu plant and were informed along with the three other men that they were being sacked for poor performance.
⁵
Considering Fahrettin and Erol had recently been rewarded by the company for their good work this seems an odd reason. ‘I have many awards for being a good worker,' Erol insists, ‘Awards the firm gave me, presents and certificates, for Best Driver.'

 

Which just goes to show how complex business really is these days. Those of us not involved in the corporate world would think that the best driver would be the last driver to be sacked
for poor performance. How wrong we would be. Indeed a quick study of the bonus and share options for the world's top business executives illustrates how the system works: the more the Chief Executive Officer runs a company into the ground the more they are rewarded.

 

To the untrained eye it might appear suspicious that the five men sacked for poor performance just happen to be the five main union organisers. Indeed, Erol alleges that on the day they were sacked, ‘Coke management agrees to have a meeting.' He sits bolt upright as he continues, ‘And I stress this is the Coke management not Trakya…They meet the five of us and they say, “Why are you doing this? You have brought this action upon yourselves but still let's talk”.'

‘We have unionised.' says a friend.

A manager replied, the delivery men could ‘[go] on working by resigning from the union.'

 

According to court documents submitted in the US the union also alleges that one of the managers went on to say, ‘We, as The Coca-Cola Company, shall let no members of the union work for us.'
⁶

 

The next day, 20 May, another fifty deliverymen are sacked at Dudullu; all but a couple were members of the new union, though these non-members joined swiftly afterwards.

 

Five days later on 25 May the unionised deliverymen at the Yenibosna plant were sacked too - another fifty men. Within sixty-eight days of signing up to protect and respect trade union rights Coke had overseen the sacking of over one hundred workers for joining a union. At this point I fear the gap between pronouncement and reality is so great that only the likes of Heather Mills dare brook the chasm.

Every country in the world has its own customs, some old, some new, some cultural, some religious and some just for the tourists, but perhaps Turkey's most enduring tradition has been the random use of excessive force at public gatherings. Though this societal norm is not exclusive to them the Turkish authorities do excel at it, thanks to the notorious police rapid deployment force called the Çevik Kuvvet. It is at this point in the union's saga that these same police enter the story. Now, according to human rights groups the Çevik Kuvvet is responsible for about 80 per cent of the accusations and reports of torture and abuse committed by the Turkish security forces.
⁷
According to Nakliyat-Is ‘Coke arranged for the Turkish Çevik Kuvvet to attack, gas, beat and arrest the union members and their families' so as to terrorise them into accepting ‘mass terminations without further protest'.

 

The events took place 97 days after Coke signed its pledge to respect union rights. Up until then the deliverymen had been busy campaigning for their reinstatement. From May to July they had marched, rallied, petitioned, lobbied and protested, becoming quite a cause célèbre on the way. But after two months there was still no prospect of Coke giving them back their jobs. So the union planned a demonstration for 20 July at the Dudullu plant - the operational headquarters of Coca-Cola Icecek.

This plant at Dudullu is ringed with black ornate iron railings. Inside, there are trimmed hedges and lampposts placed just so to mark out the pathways and borders, while a concrete walkway sweeps to the administrative office. This is a long building, wider than it is high, with a domed tower in the middle of it, like a town hall clock. Except this
building has no features to speak of and appears to be made entirely of dark reflective glass. If Lego made their blocks out of Ray-Bans and Nihilists designed shopping centres, this would be the result. Or if you fancy, imagine Corbusier had rebuilt Trumpton.

 

Beyond the iron railings on the street lies a less precocious construction, the union's protest shelter, erected by the men to keep the heat of the sun at bay while they continue their vigil. The shelter resembles the summer self-assembly shades that crop up in south-London back gardens, long-poled affairs with all the stability of Amy Winehouse, under which entire families sit clutching paper plates while fathers in shorts ritually turn meat into charcoal.

 

The morning of the demonstration finds the men from Dudullu under this same protest shelter, though half of the gathering consists of their wives and children who are with them for the day. The plan is to start the demonstration just as soon as their friends and colleagues arrive from the other Coke plant at Yenibosna. They do not have long to wait. At about 10am a coach draws up alongside the shelter, screeching to a halt with its air brakes hissing. The Dudullu families are instantly up and out of their chairs to welcome the newcomers. Women in headscarves and coats, kids in T-shirts and jeans are climbing off the coach with their fathers in their white Coca-Cola delivery shirts, now adorned with slogans scrawled in marker pen. No sooner have the first protestors got their feet on the ground than a shout goes out, then another, an arm is raised and motions the protestors forward. Suddenly and with no further ado a group of men cross the few metres to the perimeter of the plant's iron railings and start to scramble over them. Hands go up to steady the climbers before they launch themselves from the
top. Hollers and whistles rise as they jump off into the plant. Quickly both groups, those inside the railings and out, start towards the main gates and in an instance they are prised open. Then with a slight look of disbelief at their own audacity 200 people stroll into Coke's plant. Older children hold the hands of the younger ones, women hold bags and banners, men wave flags as they wander past the trimmed hedges. Just for a moment they pause under the Coca-Cola logo that sits above the main entrance of the black-mirrored building. A few kids glance around with a look of ‘Oh blimey, what have we done', then turn back to the entrance and everyone simply walks on in.

 

A handful of police in white T-shirts appear at the door. They were supposed to keep an eye on the demonstration but have been taken completely unawares; frankly, in this situation, a lollipop man would have more authority. Powerless to stop the crowd from walking in, one policeman tries to halt the crowd's progress before a protestor pins the officer's arms to his side and moves him out of the way, lest he hurt himself. As they stride past the stunned constabulary the workers urge, ‘Keep out of this.' And on they go, into the corporate reception area of the main atrium. This is an open-plan and air-conditioned large glass box, placed squarely in the middle of the building - a box within a box. Around its glass walls run corridors and offices. An escalator whirrs to the other floors, while a balcony overlooks the vista of a reception desk and a floor dotted with pot plants - the corporate equivalent of flowers bought from a petrol station. Ceramic and metal basins stuffed with an unimaginative selection of greenery mix with genteelly roped-off sculptures of Coke bottles. This place is bland, grand, almost featureless and easy to wipe clean. It is what I imagine a waiting room looks like in a Swiss euthanasia clinic.

And into this antiseptic lounge surge the protestors, twisting and turning to take in their surroundings, craning their necks, holding hands, shouting ‘Our goal is bread!' and ‘Reinstate the dismissed workers!' clapping, cheering and embracing each other.

 

In their midst President K motions them to sit down on the floor. They have made it into Coca-Cola's Turkish operational headquarters, they want to speak to the Coke managers about getting their jobs back and they are not going to leave until President K negotiates with Coke.

 

Coca-Cola say that the protestors ‘illegally broke into the facility'.
⁸
Which is true. Though there is a certain innocence to their intentions. ‘This was not an occupation, it was simple: we wanted our jobs back and we wanted to talk to the managers or whoever is responsible,' the President tells me.

 

Erol flicks his hair and elaborates, ‘We never declared this an occupation or anything like that, we said - you did an illegal act, we came here to talk about this issue and find agreement.'

 

As the general manager for the entire Coke operations in the region had his office in the Dudullu plant it made complete sense for the families to walk into the place. In their eyes they were simply knocking on the door asking for justice.

 

Most of the white-collar workers had been sent home leaving only key management in the building. Messages were sent up to them and for a while the atmosphere stayed relatively calm. There are a few arrests, but the presence of the children and women (one woman pregnant and some elderly) keeps everyone on good behaviour. The cops even bring in some food and water for the families. ‘At first we didn't eat it,' I am told later by one of the protestors who was
there on the day, ‘as this was from Coke and the police…but then we got hungry.'

 

Both the union and Coke describe a relatively peaceful interim period. Coca-Cola say that ‘No action was taken to remove the protestors for ten hours…and several meetings were held between CCI management and the protestors to try and resolve the situation peacefully.'
⁹

 

That charity was over by 3pm. TV cameras set up at the gates on the street. Police buses park outside the main entrance. Istanbul's second most senior policeman appears at the plant to oversee operations. But the biggest development was the arrival of 1,000 police drafted in to cope with the 200 protestors. The Çevik Kuvvet - ‘robo cops' in full body armour - mass outside and are deployed into the building in groups. They fill the corridors. They occupy the balcony. They take the floor above the workers. Hundreds of police appear in the atrium, with riot shields and batons at the ready. The police charge nets six arrests and forces the protestors into a corner, the women and children huddled at the back by the walls. The men stand in front of them. They have linked arms together in an effort to protect themselves and their families, but when the assault finally comes their efforts are proved to be instinctive rather than practical. In front of them are 1,000 police and behind them the children have started to cry.

 

Finally Coca-Cola's managers agree to talk to the union. So while the police corner the families downstairs President K and the union lawyer go upstairs for talks. It is late afternoon when they gather in a meeting room, which is small. Around a table, which is large. Alongside the managers, which is essential. And next to the police…which is baffling. Why were the police sitting in on reinstatement negotiations? Riot police
are rarely, if ever, known for their roles as conflict resolution facilitators. I tend to think the words, ‘Perhaps you could express your thoughts and feelings,' would ring hollow when uttered from behind a reinforced Perspex visor. It just wouldn't foster confidence in the non-violent aspect of mediation.

 

The union had no say as to whether the police were present or not. ‘We obviously didn't want the police there,' says the President, as the cops ‘said that they would attack the workers at any moment. So the meeting was very tense…On one hand we're talking to the managers and we are near an agreement but the cops are intimidating and abusing the workers.'

 

Despite this the talks seemed to be more fruitful than might be imagined. According to Coca-Cola, the bottlers CCI tried to ‘resolve the situation peacefully, asking the police to delay action'.
¹⁰
Indeed the union thought they were going to reach a positive outcome. ‘The meeting with Coke gave me the impression that we were close to agreeing to the demands,' President K recalls. ‘In the meantime the police are constantly pressuring us in the meeting, “Time is late. You must stop.” We said to the police “You can see we are close to an agreement, please wait a little more”.'

 

In fact it is curious that Coca-Cola's managers did not address this anomaly. ‘They could have said, “please leave now because we are close to an agreement or do not increase tensions”.' The fact that the company did not do this ‘implies that Coke are happy with the police behaviour,' says President K. Perhaps the Coke managers in Turkey were just too busy subcontracting workers into lower wages to read that The Coca-Cola Company (owners of 20 per cent of their shares) respected the rights of trade unions to ‘collective bargaining without pressure of interference'.