Friday, September 11, 2015

Coke’s Colombian victims and their union



For the People's World



Coke’s Colombian victims and their union

 

By W. T. Whitney Jr.

 

797 words

 

 

A corporation currently ranking 32nd in the world for market value and accumulating $7.1 billion in profits in a recent year for decades has abused and even killed workers who want better lives. Coca Cola, the Goliath in this Colombian story, has had to contend with the Sinaltranail food and beverage workers’ union that, as David, defends the Coca Cola workers.

 

On June 25, 2015 thugs killed retired Coca Cola worker Wilmer Enrique Giraldo. Wilmer had been injured at work, was forced from his job, received death threats, and fled in fear to Medellin.  Luis Enrique Girado Arango, his father, also worked for Coca Cola and also belonged to Sinaltrainal. Paramilitaries assassinated Luis Enrique Girado in 1994.

 

The 14 murders of Sinaltranail’s Coca Cola workers since 1990 represent a tiny fraction of the 2800 murders of Colombian unionists occurring between 1984 and 2011. In addition during those years, tens of thousands of other social movement activists and protesters met violent deaths.

 

The 105 Colombian unionists killed between 2011 and the present are of special significance.  During that time the Labor Action Plan of the U. S. – Colombian Free Trade Agreement has been in force. The Plan was a U. S. - inspired effort “to stop violence against unionists,” according to a Colombian NGO.

 

Sinaltranail defends employees of Nestle Corporation, Nutresa, and other Colombian companies in addition to Coca Cola. But the fight against huge and famous Coca Cola is special, inasmuch as that corporation exemplifies transnational corporations receiving support and protection from Colombia’s neo-liberal government.

 

This is a big-league contest.  Coca Cola in Colombia teams with the giant Mexican food and beverage distributer FEMSA. Coca Cola claimed almost 50 million consumers there in 2013, 5000 employees, and “413,200 Points of Sale.”  In fact, “Colombia made up 47.1 million (15%) of Coca-Cola’s 313.7 million drinkers of the soft drink in Latin America and the Philippines.” Unfortunately from the union’s point of view, Coca Cola farms out most of its workers to subcontracted “facade companies.”

 

Sinaltranail has resisted the company’s firing of new recruits and its refusal to relocate workers who’ve received threats of violence. The union defends workers from intimidation at the hands of private security firms and from real danger posed by militarized police attacks against striking workers, in one instance with tanks. Over the years Coca Cola has used paramilitary forces as its ultimate enforcer, not only as murderer, but once as the means for forcing workers out of the union by entering a bottling plant.  Sinaltrainal has advocated for the environment, notably in early 2015 when it protested Coca Cola’s having diverted almost 70 percent of Tocancipá’s underground water supplies to its plant there. 

 

Beginning on April 13, 2015, five Sinaltrainal Coca Cola workers carried out a hunger strike for ten days in Bogota’s Plaza Bolivar. Acting for Coca Cola workers nationwide, they were protesting low wages, Coca Cola’s sub-contracting for workers, its firing of 1500 workers at a closed – down bottling plant, and abuse of water resources. The hunger strike ended with an agreement on establishing a review board to monitor water use and deal with environmental abuses. News reports indicated that remaining issues, like wages and sub-contracting, would be discussed later.

 

On May 22, 2015, Coca Cola service workers belonging to Sinaltranail chained themselves to Coca Cola factory entry ways in Cúcuta, Bucaramanga, Barrancabermeja, Cali, Medellín, and Barranquilla. They were reiterating demands made a month earlier.

 

In this fight against long odds, Sinaltranail has gained international solidarity. The United Steelworkers of America and the International Labor Rights Forum filed lawsuits in the United States in 2001 and 2006. The charge, which did not prevail, was that Coca Cola in Colombia "contracted with or otherwise directed paramilitary security forces that utilized extreme violence and murdered, tortured and unlawfully detained or otherwise silenced trade union leaders."

 

In a 2012 letter to President Obama, AFL-CIO President Richard Trumka expressed his "profound shock" at the murder of a Coca Cola worker and Sinaltranail leader in Barranquilla. Alleging that Coca Cola is “complicit in violence against union leaders in Latin America, particularly Colombia and Guatemala,” the American Federation of Teachers in late 2014 resolved to ban Coca Cola products in schools. Since 2004, dozens of union locals and state and central labor councils have issued similar statements. The American Postal Workers Union, Communications Workers of America, International Longshore and Warehouse Union, and Service Employees International Union have done likewise.

 

Yet the struggle continues and the stakes are high. Or in the words of Sinaltranail leader Juan Carlos Galvis:  “If we lose this fight against Coke, first we will lose our union, next we will lose our jobs, and then we will all lose our lives!"


Down At Duke’s Place-With Duke Ellington In Mind

Down At Duke’s Place-With Duke Ellington In Mind
 

 

From The Pen Of Bart Webber  


One night Sam Eaton was talking on his cellphone to his old friend from high school (Carver High, Class of 1967), Jack Callahan about how his grandson, Brandon, his oldest grandson from his daughter Janice from his first marriage (first of three all ending in divorce but that is merely a figure for the Census Bureau and not germane to what following so enough) had beguiled him recently with his arcane knowledge of classical jazz (the jazz from the age of King Oliver say until the death of the big bad swings bands which died in the late 1940s for the most part giving way to cool ass be-bop and what followed). Jack braced himself for the deluge, got very quiet and did say word one, since lately the music Sam mentioned, maybe even thought about mentioning the slightest thing connected with jazz he knew he was in for it, in for a harangue of unknown duration on the subject. Sam, recently more conscious that Jack, who hated jazz, hated it worse when as a child of rock and roll as Sam was, his father would endlessly play Count this, King that, Duke the other thing and not allow the family record player centered in the family living room to be sullied (his father’s word) by heathen stuff like Roll Over Beethoven or One Night With You, would go silent at the word “jazz” said not to worry he would only say a few words from his conversation with Brandon:        

No, Jack, my man, this will not be a screed about how back in the day, back in the 1950s the time of our complete absorption into rock and roll, when be-bop jazz was the cat’s meow, when cool was listening to the Monk trip up a note, consciously trip up a note to see if anybody caught it and then took that note to heaven and back, and worked it out from there or Dizzy burping then hitting the high white note all those guys were struggling against the limits of the instruments, high as hell on tea, you know what we called ganja, herb, stuff like that, to get to. Frankly I was too young, you too but I knew how you felt since I couldn’t listen to rock in my house either since the 1940s Andrews Sisters/Perry Como/Frank Sinatra/Peggy lee cabal were front and center in our living room and I was reduced to listening on my transistor radio, way too young to appreciate such work then and I only got the tail end, you know when Hollywood or the popular prints messed the whole be-bop jazz “beat” thing up and we got spoon-fed Maynard G. Krebs faux black and white television beatnik selling hair cream oil or something like that, and ten thousand guys hanging around the Village on Saturday night in full beret and whatever they could put together for a beard from the outreaches of Tenafly, New Jersey (sorry but Fort Lee was out) and another ten thousand gals, all in black from head to toe, maybe black underwear too so something to imagine at least from Norwalk, Connecticut milling around as well. Square, square cubed. No, this will not be some screed going back further in the hard times of the Great Depression and the slogging through World War II when “it did not mean a thing, if you ain’t got that swing” when our parents, the parents of the kids who caught the end of be-bop “swang,” did dips and twirls to counts, dukes, earls, princes, marquises even leading big band splashes to wash that generation clean. Come on now that was our parents and I wasn’t even born so no way I can “screed” about that. And, no, no, big time no, this will not be about some solitary figure in some dank, dusty, smoke-filled café, the booze flowing, the dope in the back alleys inflaming the night while some guy, probably a sexy sax player, blows some eternal high white note out against some bay, maybe Frisco Bay, and I was hooked, hooked for life on the be-bop jazz scene.

No, it never even came close to starting out like that, never even dreamed such scenes. Unlike rock and roll, the classic kind that was produced in our 1950s growing up time and which we have had a life-long devotion to or folk music which I came of age, political and social age to later in the early 1960s, jazz was a late, a very late acquisition to my understanding of the American songbook. Oh sure I would hear a phrase, a few bing, bang, bong  notes blowing out the window, out the door, sitting in some bar over drinks with some hot date, maybe hear it as backdrop in some Harvard Square bookstore when I went looking for books (and, once somebody hipped me to the scene, looking for bright young women who also were in the bookstore looking for books, and bright young men but that scene is best left for another time), or at some party when the host tired of playing old-time folk music and decided to kick out the jams and let the jazz boys wreak their havoc. But jazz was, and to a great extent still is, a side bar of my musical tastes.          

 

About a decade ago, a little more, I got seriously into jazz for a while. The reason: the centennial of the birth of Duke Ellington being celebrated when I was listening to some radio show which was commemorating that fact and I heard a few faint bars which required me to both turn up the volume and to listen to the rest of the one hour tribute. The show played a lot of Duke’s stuff from the early 1940s when he had Ben Webster, Harry Carney, and Johnny Hodges on board. The stuff blew me away and as is my wont when I get my enthusiasms up, when something blows me away, I grabbed everything by the Duke and his various groupings and marveled at how very good his work was, how his tonal poems reached deep, deep down and caught something in me that responded in kind. Especially when those sexy saxs, when Johnny or Cootie blew me away when they let it all hang out.

 

Funny though I thought at the time that I hadn’t picked up on this sound before, this reaching for the soul, for the essence of the matter, before since there are very definitely elements of the blues in Brother Duke’s work. And I have been nothing but a stone blown blues freak since the early 1960s when I first heard Howlin’ Wolf hold forth practically eating that harmonica of his on Little Red Rooster and Smokestack Lightnin’. Moreover I had always been a Billie Holiday fan although I never drew the connection to the jazz in the background since it usually was muted to let her rip with that throaty sultry voice, the voice that chased the blues, my blues, away.




 
So, yes, count me among the guys who are searching for the guys who are searching for the great big cloud puff high white note, guys who have been searching for a long time as the notes waft out into the deep blue sea night. Check this out. Blowing that high white note out into the surly choppy Japan deep blue seas foaming and slashing out into the bay the one time I was sitting in fog-bound Frisco town, sitting around a North Beach bar, the High Hat maybe, back when Jimmy La Croix ran the place and a guy with a story, or a guy he knew could run a tab, for a while, and then settle up or let the hammer fall and you would wind up cadging swigs from flea-bitten raggedy- assed winos and sterno bums.

On Monday nights, a slow night in every venue you can name except maybe whorehouses and even then the business would only fall off a little since guys had to see their wives or girlfriends or both sometime, Jimmy would hold what is now called an “open mic” but then, I forget, maybe talent search something like that but the same thing. The “Hat” as everybody called it was known far and wide by ex hep-cats, aging beats, and faded flower child ex-hippies who had not yet got back to the “real” world once those trends petered out but were still looking, as I was, looking for something and got a little solace from the bottle and a dark place to nurse the damn thing where you could be social or just hang out was the place around North Beach where young talent took to the boards and played, played for the “basket” just like the folkies used to do back in the 1960s when that genre had its heyday, and probably get a few dollars from the mostly regular heavy drinker crowd that populate any gin mill on Monday, whether they have seen their loved ones or not. Jimmy would have Max Jenny on drums and Milt Bogan on that big old bass that took up half the stage, if you remember those guys when West Coast jazz was big, to back-up the talent so this was serious stuff, at least Jimmy played it that way.

Most of the stuff early on that night was so-so some riffs stolen from more famous guys like Miles Davis, Dizzie, Coltrane, the cool ass jazz from the fifties that young bud talent imitates starting out, maybe gets stuck on those covers and wind up, addled by some sister habit, down by the trolley trains on Market hustle dollars from weary tourists waiting to get up the damn hill. So nothing that would keep a steady drinker, me, from steady drinking in those days when I lifted low-shelf whiskeys with abandon. Maybe half a dozen other guys spread out around bar to prove they were there strictly for the drinking and chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes to fill up Jimmy’s ashtrays and give Red the bartender something to do between pouring shots (otherwise the guys hungry for women company would be bunched near the dance floor but they must have had it bad since Monday night the serious honeys were not at the “Hat” but home getting rested up for the long week ahead of fending guys off).

Then I turned around toward the stage, turned around for no particular reason, certainly not to pay attention to the talent, when this young guy, young black guy, barely out of his teens, maybe sixteen for all I know and snuck out of the house to play, Jimmy wasn’t taking ID cards in those days and if the kid wasn’t drinking then what did it matter, to get play to reach the stars if that is what he wanted, slim a reed, dressed kind of haphazardly with a shiny suit that he probably wore to church with grandmother, string tie, clean shirt, couldn’t see his feet so can’t comment on that, maybe a little from hunger, or had the hunger eating him up. Kind of an unusual sight for ‘90s Frisco outside of the missions. But figure this, figure his eyes, eyes that I know about from my own bouts with sister, with the just forming sad sack yellow eyes of high king hell dope-dom and it all fit.

The kid was ready though to blow a big sexy tenor sax, a sax as big as he was, certainly fatter, blew the hell out of one note after another once he got his bearings, then paused, paused to suck up the universe of the smoke filled air in the place (a whiff of ganja from the back somewhere from some guy Jimmy must have known since usually dope in the place was a no-no), and went over to the river Jordan for a minute, rested, came back with a big blow that would get at least to Hawaii, rested again, maybe just a little uncertain where to go like kids always are, copy some somebody and let it go at that for the Monday crowd or blast away, but even I sensed that he had something going, so blew up a big cloud puff riff alternating with pauses hard to do, went at it again this time to the corner of paradise. Stopped, I thought he was done, he looked to hell like he was done, done in eyes almost closed, and then onward, a big beautiful dah, dee, dah, dee, dah, dee, blow, a “max daddy” blow then even this old chattering wino in a booth stopped to wonder at, and that big high white note went ripping down Bay Street, I swear I could see it, on into the fog-bound bay and on its way, not stopping until Edo, hell maybe back to Mother Africa where it all started.  He had it, that it means only “it” and if he never blew again he had that “it” moment. He left out the back door and I never saw him at the “Hat” again so maybe he was down on Mission or maybe he went somewhere, got some steady work. All I know was that I was there when a guy blew that high white note, yeah, that high white note. So yeah count me too among Duke’s boys, down at Duke’s place where he eternally searched for that elusive high white note.

See I didn’t take too long, right.             

WYNONIE HARRIS ~ HEY-BA-BA-RE-BOP ~ 1946


I Hear The Voice Of My Arky Angel-Once Again-With Angel Iris Dement In Mind

I Hear The Voice Of My Arky Angel-Once Again-With Angel Iris Dement In Mind



 







SWEET FORGIVENESS (Iris DeMent)
(c) 1992 Songs of Iris/Forerunner Music, Inc. ASCAP
Sweet forgiveness, that's what you give to me

when you hold me close and you say "That's all over"

You don't go looking back,

you don't hold the cards to stack,

you mean what you say.

Sweet forgiveness, you help me see

I'm not near as bad as I sometimes appear to be

When you hold me close and say

"That's all over, and I still love you"

There's no way that I could make up for those angry words I said

Sometimes it gets to hurting and the pain goes to my head

Sweet forgiveness, dear God above

I say we all deserve a taste of this kind of love

Someone who'll hold our hand,

and whisper "I understand, and I still love you"

 
AFTER YOU'RE GONE (Iris DeMent)

(c) 1992 Songs of Iris/Forerunner Music, Inc. ASCAP

There'll be laughter even after you're gone

I'll find reasons to face that empty dawn

'cause I've memorized each line in your face

and not even death can ever erase the story they tell to me

I'll miss you, oh how I'll miss you

I'll dream of you and I'll cry a million tears

but the sorrow will pass and the one thing that will last

is the love that you've given to me

There'll be laughter even after you're gone

I'll find reason and I'll face that empty dawn

'cause I've memorized each line in your face

and not even death could ever erase the story they tell to me

Every once in a while I have to tussle, go one on one with the angels, or a single angel is maybe a better way to put it. No, not the heavenly ones or the ones who burden your shoulders when you have a troubled heart but every once in a while I need a shot of my Arky angel, Iris Dement. Now while I don’t want to get into a dissertation about the thing, you know, that old medieval Thomist argument about how many angels can fit on the end of a needle or get into playing sided in the struggle between pliant god-like angels and defiant devil-like angels in the battles in the heavens over who would rule the universe that the great revolutionary English poet from the time of the English revolution of blessed memory, John Milton, when he got seriously exercised over that notion in Paradise Lost I do believe we our faced, vocally faced with someone who could go mano y mano with whoever wants to enter into the lists against her.
Yes, and I know too that that “angel” thing has been played out much too much in the world music scene, the popular music scene, you know rock and roll in the old days and now mainly hip-hop what with in my day every kind of angel from some over the top earth angel that had some guy all swooning, Johnny Angel who just couldn’t keep one girl happy but had to play the field, going to the distaff side (nice old-fashioned word, right) some honkey-tonk angel who was lured into the night life by her own hubris, Hank’s morbid angel of death that seemed to hover over his every move until the big crash out, and my favorite, no question, teen angel, some, I don’t know how else to say it, some bimbo whose boyfriend’s car got stuck on a railroad track, the boyfriend got her out and yet she went running back, running back to get his two-bit class ring, a ring that he had probably given to half the girls in school before her, and did not come out alive, RIP, sister, RIP. No, I will take my Arky angel, take her with a little sinning on the side if you can believe there is any autobiographical edge to some of the songs, take her with a little forlorn lilt in her voice, take her since she has seen the seedy side of life. Yeah, that is how I like my angels.                  
Every once in a while when I am blue, not a Billie Holiday blue, the blues down in the depths when you have to just hear her, flower in hair, maybe junked up, maybe clean, hell, it did not matter, when she hit her stride, and she “spoke” you out of your miseries, but maybe just a passing blue I need to hear a voice that if there was an angel heaven voice she would be the one I would want to hear.    
I first heard Iris DeMent doing a cover of a folksinger-songwriter Greg Brown tribute to Jimmy Rodgers, the old time Texas yodeler discovered around same time as the original Carter Family in the late 1920s, on his tribute album, Driftless. I then looked for her solo albums and for the most part was blown away by the power of Iris’ voice, her piano accompaniment and her lyrics (which are contained in the liner notes of her various albums, read them, please). It is hard to type her style. Is it folk? Is it Country Pop? Is it semi-torch songstress? Well, whatever it maybe that Arky angel is a listening treat, especially if you are in a sentimental mood.
Naturally when I find some talent that “speaks” to me I grab everything they sing, write, paint, or act I can find. In Iris’ case there is not a lot of recorded work, with the recent addition of Sing The Delta just four albums although she had done many back-ups or harmonies with other artists most notably John Prine. Still what has been recorded blew me away (and will blow you away), especially as an old Vietnam War era veteran her There is a Wall in Washington about the guys who found themselves on the Vietnam Memorial probably one of the best anti-war songs you will ever hear. That memorial containing names very close to me, to my heart and I shed a tear each time I even go near the memorial when I am in D.C. It is fairly easy to write a Give Peace a Chance or Where Have All the Flowers Gone? sings-song type of anti-war song. It is another to capture the pathos of what happened to too many families when we were unable to stop that war. The streets of my old-time growing up neighborhood are filled with memories of guys I knew, guys who didn’t make it back, guys who couldn’t adjust coming back to the “real world” and wound up in flop houses, half-way houses, and along railroad “jungle” camps and guys who could not get over not going into the service to experience the decisive event of our generation.
Other songs that have drawn my attention like When My Morning Comes hit home with all the baggage working class kids have about their inferiority when they screw up in this world. Walking Home Alone evokes all the humor, bathos, pathos and sheer exhilaration of saying one was able to survive, and not badly, after growing up poor, Arky poor amid the riches of America. (That may be the “connection” as I grew up through my father coal country Hazard, Kentucky poor.)  
Frankly, and I admit this publicly in this space, I love Ms. Iris Dement. Not personally, of course, but through her voice, her lyrics and her musical presence. This “confession” may seem rather startling coming from a guy who in this space is as likely here to go on and on about Bolsheviks, ‘Che’, Leon Trotsky, high communist theory and the like. Especially, as well given Iris’ seemingly simple quasi- religious themes and commitment to paying homage to her rural background in song. All such discrepancies though go out the window here. Why?
Well, for one, this old radical got a lump in his throat the first time he heard her voice. Okay, that happens sometimes-once- but why did he have the same reaction on the fifth and twelfth hearings? Explain that. I can easily enough. If, on the very, very remotest chance, there is a heaven then I know one of the choir members. Enough said. By the way give a listen to Out Of The Fire and Mornin’ Glory. Then you too will be in love with Ms. Iris Dement.
Iris, here is my proposal, once again. If you get tired of fishing the U.P., or wherever, with Mr. Greg Brown, get bored with his endless twaddle about old Iowa farms or going on and on about Grandma's fruit cellar just whistle. Better yet just yodel like you did on Jimmie Rodgers Going Home on that Driftless CD.



No union mines left in Kentucky, where labor wars once raged


Sep 5, 11:09 AM EDT

No union mines left in Kentucky, where labor wars once raged
 
By DYLAN LOVAN
Associated Press
AP Photo
AP Photo/David Goldman

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HARLAN, Ky. (AP) -- Kentucky coal miners bled and died to unionize.
Their workplaces became war zones, and gun battles once punctuated union protests. In past decades, organizers have been beaten, stabbed and shot while seeking better pay and safer conditions deep underground.
But more recently the United Mine Workers in Kentucky have been in retreat, dwindling like the black seams of coal in the Appalachian mountains.
And now the last union mine in Kentucky has been shut down.
"A lot of people right now who don't know what the (union) stands for is getting good wages and benefits because of the sacrifice that we made," said Kenny Johnson, a retired union miner who was arrested during the Brookside strike in Harlan County in the 1970s. "Because when we went on those long strikes, it wasn't because we wanted to be out of work."
Hard-fought gains are taken for granted by younger workers who earn high wages now, leading the coal industry to argue that the union ultimately rendered itself obsolete. But union leaders and retirees counter that anti-union operators, tightening environmental regulations and a turbulent coal market hastened the union's demise in Kentucky.
The union era's death knell sounded in Kentucky on New Year's Eve, when Patriot Coal announced the closing of its Highland Mine. The underground mine in western Kentucky employed about 400 hourly workers represented by the United Mine Workers of America.
For the first time in about a century, in the state that was home to the gun battles of "Bloody Harlan," not a single working miner belongs to a union. That has left a bad taste in the mouths of retirees: men like Charles Dixon, who heard the sputter of machine gun fire and bullets piercing his trailer in Pike County during a long strike with the A.T. Massey Coal Company in 1984 and 1985.
"I had my house shot up during that strike," said Dixon, the United Mine Workers local president at the time. "I was just laying in bed and next thing you know you hear a big AR-15 unloading on it. Coal miners had it tough buddy, they sure have."
The shots fired at Dixon's home recall the even deadlier organizing battles of the 1920s and `30s, many in Harlan County.
One ambush shooting in 1937 ended with the death of union organizer Marshall Musick's 14-year-old son, Bennett, when "a shower of bullets tore through the walls of the house," according to union leader George Titler's book, "Hell in Harlan."
Organizing battles raged in Appalachia throughout the last century, most notably the 1921 Battle of Blair Mountain in West Virginia, where thousands of striking miners fought a shooting war with law enforcement and replacement workers, ending in dozens of deaths. One year earlier, 10 people had died in Matewan, West Virginia, in a skirmish over eviction notices served to miners who had joined the union.
In Harlan County, Kentucky, the 1931 Battle of Evarts ended in four deaths. More recently, the strife of the mid-1970s Brookside mining strike here was captured in the Academy Award-winning documentary, "Harlan County U.S.A."
Johnson, who appeared in the film when he was 22 years old, returned this summer to the scene of his first picket line arrest along state Highway 38 in Harlan County.
He had stood there, near the Highsplint mine entrance, with other union members and gasped as state troopers set up a machine gun across the street. After about four hours of noisy picketing, a tall trooper stuck a baton between Johnson's legs and raised it up to his groin.
"We just came to lend them a hand that day, and ended up going to jail," said Johnson, now 63 and battling health issues.
Johnson, Dixon and union leaders worry that the union's disappearance in Kentucky has opened the door for coal operators to lower worker standards.
"When the coal industry rebounds to the extent that it does, and non-union operators take a look around and see that there's no union competition, and they'll see that they can begin to cut wages, they can begin to cut benefits, they can begin to cut corners on safety, they'll do that," said Phil Smith, a national spokesman for the miner's union.
Smith pointed to operations run by former Massey Energy chief Don Blankenship, who closed union mines in the 1980s and now faces criminal conspiracy charges in the 2010 deadly explosion at the Upper Big Branch mine in West Virginia that killed 29 workers.
But industry leaders argue that higher wages and safer mines in recent decades have reduced the desire for workers at non-union mines to organize.
"Anymore, I just don't think there's that level of discontent between the company and working coal miners, which I think is a very good thing," said Bill Bissett, president of the Kentucky Coal Association, an industry group. "If anything, they've won, which I think they've worked themselves out of a job, in that respect."
Bissett said mines have become safer despite the union's diminished presence in Kentucky.
"We're in some of the safest time in the history of U.S. mining right now and a time when the UMWA is at their lowest level," he said.
More vigorous federal enforcement and the closing of older Appalachian mines in a turbulent coal market have also contributed to declining injuries and deaths.
Union membership remains substantial in West Virginia, with more than 30,000 members, largely because that state wasn't affected by the environmental regulations on high-sulfur coal that essentially halted mining in western Kentucky in the 1990s. Smith said those western Kentucky mine shutdowns led to the loss of about 20,000 union members in two years.
Patriot Coal cited the slumping market when it told workers the Highland Mine had to close.
"You could've heard a pin drop," said mine worker Scottie Sizemore.
A safety officer at Highland for just a few months, Sizemore had left another coal job and his family behind in Harlan County, 300 miles away.
Union miners at the Highland mine were making about $24 an hour and working four 10-hour shifts a week. Workers at non-union mines typically work long shifts six days a week, and benefits vary from mine to mine. Sizemore, who was not in the union at Patriot, has since moved back to Harlan County to work for a smaller mining company. He took a hefty pay cut.
Wages were less of a priority than safety during the Brookside strike of the 1970s. Organizers were pushing the mine's owner, Eastover Coal Company, to sign a contract establishing a United Mine Workers local there.
Returning to the scene of his arrest four decades ago, Kenny Johnson looked past a small bridge that leads to a mining operation. Coal is still being mined there today, just not by union miners.
Johnson recalled the hard lessons he took from that clash.
"I realized that day that it was very serious and that people would fight you, even to the point of having you put in jail for standing up for some of the ideals that coal miners hold dear," he said.
As he spoke, a young, burly miner drove across the bridge, smudges of coal dust on his face. He angled his truck across, a few feet away from where Johnson was standing.
As he accelerated away, a cloud of dust kicked up behind him.


In Colombia, it’s killer Coke the union must fight

In Colombia, it’s killer Coke the union must fight

anticoke520x320
For decades a corporation currently ranking 32nd in the world for market value and accumulating $7.1 billion in profits in a recent year has abused and even killed workers who want better lives. Coca Cola, the Goliath in this Colombian story, has had to contend with the Sinaltranail food and beverage workers' union that, as David, defends the Coca Cola workers.
On June 25, 2015 thugs killed retired Coca Cola worker Wilmer Enrique Giraldo. Wilmer had been injured at work, was forced from his job, received death threats, and fled in fear to Medellin.  Luis Enrique Girado Arango, his father, also worked for Coca Cola and also belonged to Sinaltrainal. Paramilitaries assassinated Luis Enrique Girado in 1994.

The 14 murders of Sinaltranail's Coca Cola workers since 1990 represent a tiny fraction of the 2,800 murders of Colombian unionists occurring between 1984 and 2011. In addition, during those years, tens of thousands of other social movement activists and protesters have met violent deaths.

The 105 Colombian unionists killed between 2011 and the present are of special significance.  During that time the Labor Action Plan of the U. S. - Colombian Free Trade Agreement has been in force. The Plan was a U. S. - inspired effort allegedly intended to stop violence against unionists.

Sinaltranail defends employees of Nestle Corporation, Nutresa, and other Colombian companies in addition to Coca Cola. But the fight against huge and famous Coca Cola is special, inasmuch as that corporation exemplifies transnational corporations which receive support and protection from Colombia's neo-liberal government.

This is a big-league contest.  Coca Cola in Colombia teams with the giant Mexican food and beverage distributer FEMSA. Coca Cola claimed almost 50 million consumers there in 2013, 5,000 employees, and "413,200 points of sale."  In fact, "Colombia made up 47.1 million (15 percent) of Coca-Cola s 313.7 million drinkers of the soft drink in Latin America and the Philippines."

Unfortunately from the union's point of view, Coca Cola farms out most of its workers to subcontracted "facade companies."

Sinaltranail has resisted the company's firing of new recruits and its refusal to relocate workers who've received threats of violence. The union defends workers from intimidation at the hands of private security firms and from real danger posed by militarized police attacks against striking workers, in one instance with tanks.

Over the years Coca Cola has used paramilitary forces as its ultimate enforcer, not only as murderer, but once by entering a bottling plant to force workers out of the union.  Sinaltrainal has advocated for the environment, notably in early 2015 when it protested Coca Cola's having diverted almost 70 percent of Tocancipá's underground water supplies to its plant there.

Beginning on April 13, 2015, five Sinaltrainal Coca Cola workers carried out a hunger strike for 10 days in Bogota's Plaza Bolivar. Acting for Coca Cola workers nationwide, they were protesting low wages, Coca Cola's sub-contracting for workers, its firing of 1,500 workers at a closed - down bottling plant, and abuse of water resources.
The hunger strike ended with an agreement on establishing a review board to monitor water use and deal with environmental abuses. News reports indicated that remaining issues, like wages and sub-contracting, would be discussed later.
On May 22, 2015, Coca Cola service workers belonging to Sinaltranail chained themselves to Coca Cola factory entry ways in Cúcuta, Bucaramanga, Barrancabermeja, Cali, Medellín, and Barranquilla. They were reiterating demands made a month earlier.

In this fight against long odds, Sinaltranail has gained international solidarity. The United Steelworkers and the International Labor Rights Forum filed lawsuits in the United States in 2001 and 2006. The charge, which did not prevail, was that Coca Cola in Colombia "contracted with or otherwise directed paramilitary security forces that utilized extreme violence and murdered, tortured and unlawfully detained or otherwise silenced trade union leaders."

In a 2012 letter to President Obama, AFL-CIO President Richard Trumka expressed his "profound shock" at the murder of a Coca Cola worker and Sinaltranail leader in Barranquilla. Alleging that Coca Cola is "complicit in violence against union leaders in Latin America, particularly Colombia and Guatemala," the American Federation of Teachers in late 2014 resolved to ban Coca Cola products in schools.

Since 2004, dozens of union locals and state and central labor councils have issued similar statements. The American Postal Workers Union, Communications Workers of America, International Longshore and Warehouse Union, and Service Employees International Union have done likewise.

Yet the struggle continues and the stakes are high. Or in the words of Sinaltranail leader Juan Carlos Galvis:  "If we lose this fight against Coke, first we will lose our union, next we will lose our jobs, and then we will all lose our lives!"
Photo: Stop Killer Coke! Facebook page

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