by Mark Thomas
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’.
If events were going badly upstairs, events downstairs took an expected turn for the worse. On the frontline Erol looked out at the police - ‘they just pulled down the gas masks and that was when we knew.’
Two years later, listening to the men describe these events it is obvious that neither the outrage nor indignity has left them. Erol is on the edge of his seat, Fahrettin and Ahmet are out of theirs as they describe the whirling chaos as the canisters spun furiously, spurting out chemical clouds. Their arms shot into the air in improbable directions to show how it engulfed them. Their eyes widen as they tell of stumbling into each other in panic and blindness, gasping for breath. They curse the police as children were separated from their parents and the men beaten with riot sticks. And they hold out their hands when they talk of being bundled into the police wagons outside, of reaching up to the small windows to gasp for fresh air - only to be sprayed in the face by the police.
After finishing their story the men relax, stirring sugar into their glasses of black tea and lighting cigarettes. Alpkan the translator has not seen these folks for a while so he catches up with the gossip about their families, lives and work. Union staff who up until now have stayed out and left us alone now feel able to wander into the room. A few papers for the President to sign are informally dropped on the desk. Fahrettin has to be dragged away from his mobile phone as we just have time to pose for photos. Erol and I grin madly with our arms around each other’s shoulders, and the while place feels like a post-show dressing room. Though in truth the story is not quite finished…
In the aftermath of the attack the union continued its campaigning. ‘Originally it was about getting jobs back,’ continues President K after the break is over. ‘When we said this to Coke, they said “we have changed the transportation system and can’t give you back your jobs”. After that point we talked about money.’
So they started working on compensation and five months after it all started Trakya settled with the union in October 2005, paying out for the dismissals. Shortly after settling Trakya suddenly and strangely ceased to exist. Though the agreement once again forbids disclosure of its contents, it is understood the payment was approximately £500,000. This was divided amongst the 105 sacked men giving an average of £4,760 per person - about a year’s pay on the minimum wage. However, this settlement was for the dismissals, not the attack by the police at Coke’s HQ, for which Coke has always denied any responsibility.
Turkey is not a country noted for its access to justice or respect for human rights. For example, under Penal Code 301 it is an offence to even mention the Armenian genocide, hampering any inquiry into such a matter, as it is illegal to describe what happened. So as a trade union, especially one banned by the Generals after the military coup in the 1980s, Nakliyat-Is believed they stood a better chance of pursuing their claims through the USA. So they followed the Colombian route, bringing a case against The Coca-Cola Company and Coca-Cola Icecek in the States under the Alien Tort Claims Act. Nakliyat-Is claims in court documents that the Çevik Kuvvet ‘attacked them with a particularly lethal form of tear gas that under international standards is not permitted to be used indoors, and then brutally beat the workers and their family members with clubs. Most people were paralysed from the gas, and when they were felled by the clubbing, they were kicked repeatedly.’11 The writ alleges that the police were acting with the ‘agreement’ of the local Coke managers.12
The Company has a different interpretation of events saying, ‘the Public Prosecutor made the decision that the situation could not be allowed to continue. The Coca-Cola system respects the rights of people to hold peaceful protests and regrets that a peaceful resolution to the illegal occupation of the CCI building could not be achieved.’13
They have also described the situation as a ‘local issue’ that has been ‘resolved’. But once again, while they are publicly dismissive they are privately concerned. In a parallel manner to the way in which Coke handled the Colombian trade unionists, the Atlanta company has been involved in talks to reach a settlement out of court with Nakliyat-Is. As both cases were being brought by the same lawyers, it is my understanding that The Coca-Cola Company decided to tie the labour issues - both Colombian and Turkish - into the same negotiations, enabling them (were an agreement to be reached) to staunch their PR misery regarding trade unions. It is also understood that a figure close to $1 million to settle with Nakliyat-Is was being discussed when Sinaltrainal pulled out of the talks and the Company ended any further discussion on the case. The failure to resolve the issue has left the court case ongoing.
The following morning sees me hunched on a wooden seat at the side of a ferry, clutching a coffee in one hand and in the other a bread ring covered in sesame seeds. The ship’s engine makes a low thrumming sound, harbour air smells of diesel and I’m off to Asia in a minute. The Bosphorus Strait divides the city of Istanbul, leaving part of the city in Europe and the other part of it in Asia.
With a slow blast of the horn the ferry leaves Europe and heads for the declared cultural centre of the Asian shore, the district of Kadikoy, from where the next income bracket down is but a bus ride away and is followed by a car ride literally to the edge of a residential development area. Here fresh builders’ rubble splashes across the grass expanses between the housing blocks, casual litter in the shape of paint pots, timber, copper wire and sacking. The windowpanes in the new builds still have X-shape tape stuck on them and unconnected wires hang from lamp fittings. Beside one such unoccupied set of apartments, opposite a lone cherry blossom, is a modest three-storey affair where Mr Pomba, an ex Coca-Cola deliveryman, lives with his family. He is going to tell me about his experiences inside the plant on the day the police attacked.
He a quiet and gentle man, wearing what looks to be his ‘for best’ V-neck navy blue jumper, with a Windsor knot tie under it. He is older than the other workers and silver hair sits happily on top of his head. Bowing slightly he holds out his arms beckoning me to sit on the sofa. Opposite is his chair, part of a suite, and between us snugly fits a coffee table, with a glass top and a scented bowl of plastic flowers placed precisely in the middle. Two framed texts from the Koran hang opposite a wooden cabinet that is a shrine to his daughter’s passion for Besiktas football club, anything in the team colours of black and white is placed here: scarves, shirts, rosettes, teddy bears and even photos of her in black and white face paint, with the club initials drawn on her cheeks.
Mrs Pomba and her daughter Ebru quietly enter the room, their heads shyly bent and covered with headscarves, carrying a large shiny metal samovar on a tray. This is for the Rize tea, Turkish black tea -cay - it heats the water and brews the cay which comes out of a small tap at the base.
‘Please
make yourself at home,’ Mr Pomba says with a slight clearing of his throat.
The plastic flowers are removed and the samovar is carefully laid on the coffee table. Saucers soundlessly appear with their white rims dotted in red paint like petals and small thin glasses stand in the saucers like daffodil flutes.
‘I wonder if we could start with talking about working at Coke?’ I say.
Mr Pomba’s reply leaves me uncertain as to whether he said ‘yes’ or ‘let us wait until after tea’, he says, ‘Please.’
Not knowing what to do…I begin. ‘Others have said it was a prestigious job to be working at Coke…’
‘Yes it was. It was job number one.’ He says smiling slightly, ‘I really loved my job.’
Ebru produces photos of her father receiving a gift from one of the managers. ‘The present they are giving him is this clock,’ and from the other side of the coffee table she produces a metal encased carriage clock. Smack bang in the middle of the face is the famous script of the Coca-Cola logo. The arms are frozen still as the clock no longer works, but Ebru still carefully places it in a box to return it to safe keeping.