Belching Out the Devil (16 page)

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.

 

Mrs Pomba in her big dark housecoat puts a plate on the table. It's the best china. A perfect ring of royal blue on each plate's border is overlaid with golden threads of vines and leaves.

‘After you were dismissed did you go to the protests outside the plant?'

‘Every day. I was going on a daily basis. As if I was going to work.' He clears his throat softly, ‘I was going there at 8am and was leaving at 6pm' He motions to his daughter Ebru and she comes and sits on the chair next to him. Her face flushes as she looks up and places her folded hands on her lap. She was on the demonstration with her father and two younger sisters. ‘I wanted to get my father's job back,' she says tucking her chin into her chest.

‘We had a lot of hope, expectation of getting our jobs back,' Mr Pomba explains, ‘we were very joyful when we went there.'

 

Silently, neatly folded triangular serviettes and tiny dessert forks are put on each plate, just as Mr Pomba reflects on how close they were to getting reinstated when the police attacked. ‘The head of the union was just about to get a deal with the company. We probably needed another ten minutes and we would have got a resolution.'

 

He smiles and offers his hand to table indicating I should take some food. There are plain puff pastries on serving plate. I have been given the best food in the house. I unfold my serviette and slowly pick apart the layers with the dessert fork.

 

Hot black tea is poured into my glass and two cut-glass sugar bowls added to the table, the sugar in each one piled into a perfect mound. Opposite me Mr Pomba continues. ‘Then they start spraying gas at us and attacked us…they were beating us and putting whoever they caught inside the police vehicles. My youngest child's eyes have been affected by the gas….she had to have an operation.'

 

Ebru was there when this happened, she too was gassed and so I say, ‘How did you feel when all of this happened?'

‘Don't even remind her,' says Mr Pomba, shaking his head. Ebru cannot look up, ‘I am upset even now, with my father just talking about it…'

 

She stops and silence takes over and I notice the steam rising gently from our glasses. Alpkan stirs some sugar making a small sound with his spoon. Ebru's head stays firmly down. Her father looks to her. Then her mother, the nigh invisible tea lady suddenly screams across the living room, ‘I would kill those police!' She explodes with unrestrained rage. ‘I'd shoot
them now if they were here!' We're staring as her fists beat the sky, declaiming to the heavens. ‘The dogs sprayed gas in my people's eyes! Like you see on TV - the Israeli police and the way they treat people! They are like them!'

 

And then she catches herself and with a flutter of her hands to fidget herself calm, she is quiet. Her voice is gone as quickly as it came. She shakes her head, collects herself, Mr Pomba clears his throat and his wife pours another glass of black tea.

 

For this family there is no doubt, ‘Coke is responsible. They are responsible for the whole thing. They made the police attack us.'

I genuinely don't know if they did or did not, but I ask ‘Do you really think Coca-Cola could have stopped the police attacking you?'

‘Yes, they could have if they had wanted to,' he sighs and forces a smile on to his reddened face.