Maintaining the delicate, dynamic balance of power between people and profit

Scales of Justice – Frankfurt Version by Michael Coghlan 

“When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint,” said Brazilian Archbishop Hélder Pessoa Câmara. “When I ask why they are poor, they call me a communist.”

So forgive me if I sound a tad communist in this blog.

Because the “why” almost always comes down to a matter of power, doesn’t it? That delicate balance of power between employers and employees, the dynamic tension between the drive for shareholders to make a profit and the need for workers to earn a living…

The last century’s most influential, Nobel Prize winning economist, Milton Friedman said: “a corporation’s responsibility is to make as much money for the stockholders as possible.”

I realise it is presumptuous for a mere A level economist to contradict a Nobel Prize winner, but that doesn’t sound very fair to me. There’s an awful lot of people slogging away throughout the supply chain to make the corporation its money – why should just the stockholders (shareholders) get most of the loot? Sure, maybe they should get a bit extra for taking the financial risk, but “as much money as possible…”?

I’d like to put it to the playground test. Children have a powerful sense of fairness. Imagine a group of kids setting out to collect sweets for Halloween. How would it go down if some big kids who provided the costumes decreed that the whole purpose of the exercise was to collect the maximum amount of sweets for them and that the rest – who would be doing the actual collecting – would get just one sweet each? Wouldn’t go down too well, I’d imagine. And there’s a name for kids who make decrees like that.

Friedman did add the caveat to his maximum-money-for-stockholders pronouncement; “so long as it stays within the rules of the game”. But lots of clever business people have found that those rules can be awfully bendy. And that there are an awful lot of shadowy places where rules don’t quite apply…

For example, looked at unemotionally and objectively, slavery is the most effective employment model for maximising shareholder profit. But, of course, slavery is no more morally acceptable than Jonathan Swift’s highly cost-effective “Modest Proposal” of selling off poor Irish children as meat for the dining tables of the rich. So on the whole, we don’t do it. And yet it persists. (Slavery, that is, not eating Irish children). Lurking down there in the distant reaches of the supply chain. Bendy rules. Shadowy places…

But even if you are lucky enough not to be a slave, being an employee, especially an unskilled worker in a country with a large and generally poor population, puts you immediately at a disadvantage on the balance of power scales. The fact that you can be replaced at the drop of a hat seriously limits your leverage against the temptations of those in power to squeeze you for just that little bit more…

That’s why the right to form or join trade unions – and for those unions to be able function effectively – is so crucial. 

Britain was the birthplace of trade unionism. The right to bargain collectively – for workers to negotiate jointly as a workforce with their employer – was born out of the choking, grinding engine of Britain’s industrial revolution – and spread around the world.

Yet the current British government is continuing the process, begun by Margaret Thatcher, of destroying the power and influence of the trade unions.

Thatcher’s rise to power, according to the BBC, “coincided with a spreading belief that union power was getting out of hand.”  And the one thing that the powers that be fear more than anything is the counterpower that trade unions provide. But it’s one thing to rebalance the scales of power -it’s quite another to keep kicking a man when he is down. To destroy his power altogether. That’s just not cricket.

The Trade Union Bill currently working its way through the corridors of power is described by human rights campaigners such as Liberty as a “major attack on civil liberties”.  The bill proposes fines of up to £20,000 for breaking rules on Tweeting and wearing armbands – it’s “little” things like that that chip away at power.

A lot of that choking and grinding that went on during the industrial revolution was by workers – like the young Sheffield steel workers coughing with a sound “as if air were driven through a wooden tube” from “Grinder’s disease”. (The same symptoms are familiar to many workers today, like those in Rajasthan’s sandstone quarries producing the world’s paving stones. Nowadays we call it silicosis.) Deprived of the right to organise, these workers resorted to violence.

The same has been known to happen in the tea plantations of India where workers who have been exploited and suppressed for generations are then deprived of their wages for months – with no outlet for their rage and frustration they have been known to boil over and kill their manager.  Sometimes even when trade unions do exist but cease to genuinely represent workers they will rise up, like Munnar’s women did.

So the powers that be should be wary of pushing too hard to deprive workers of their right to organise and to strike. Because grievance against injustice will always find a way to make itself heard. It could sound like the gentle hissing of a well oiled steam engine where the opposing powers are equally balanced. Or it can sound like the violent explosion that happens when pressure has no other outlet.

But the driving power behind enabling workers to negotiate collectively should not be fear of violence. It should be the fact that not to do is just isn’t cricket. 

Scales symbolise the balance of power, but they also symbolise justice.

That’s why I signed the TUC’s petition to protect the right to strike


From puny schoolgirls to protesting tea pluckers – proof that transformation is possible

When I first arrived in England, a small, shy, 12-year-old, fresh from the tea plantations of Assam, I was taken under the wing of a small, shy, pale kid with mousy hair. She taught me how to survive in the large, rowdy comprehensive school and we became inseparable.

But despite our close friendship, we lost touch when our families both moved away from the area. Then along came the internet and Friends Reunited. After a gap of about 20 years, to my great joy, I found her again.

But I almost didn’t recognise her. That small, shy, pale kid had transformed herself into a strong, self-assured and razor smart woman. And I mean really strong. She had become a body builder and a champion dead-lifter, as well as a mother and a trainer of personal trainers.

Particularly surprising considering we were both rather puny at school and hated PE. We even skived it once, then lost our nerve and tried to sneak back in, only to get caught in the act. So much more humiliating than being caught actually skiving…

And she even had a new name to go with her new body – Crow Dillon-Parkin.

Since the renewal of our friendship, she has transformed herself again. This time into a conceptual artist, tackling issues of gender and  body image. She read my blog about the uprising of Munnar’s women just as she was preparing for an exhibition in a former tea warehouse, now an art gallery but imminently facing a further transformation of its own, into luxury flats and offices.

Crow, dressed from head to toe in raven black, except for her cropped, platinum blonde hair, showed me round the exhibits. A collection of inherited kitsch tea towels, building bricks caked in dried tea leaves, tea stained “tea”-shirts, delicately embroidered trade winds – white on white, a photo of a tea-cosy bleeding real wool out of its frame and down the wall…

Then we came to Crow’s  piece. She had called it Unity of Women after the Munnar women’s movement, ‘Pembila Orumai’.

A homely tea-tray bearing a stainless steel tea-pot and a recently used tea strainer on a cup and saucer. That was it. It all looked perfectly ordinary and utterly mundane.

Somewhat perplexed, I asked Crow to explain it to me.

“Well, look more closely…” she challenged me. I peered again. And suddenly I saw it. The golden-brown “tea leaves” in the strainer were actually miniscule figures of broken women’s bodies.

The piece, with devastating eloquence, sums up the stark truth behind your cuppa. It has become such a mundane and cosy part of our lives that it is only when we are challenged to look more closely that we can see the reality of what it’s doing to the women who produce it. Their bodies are being strained and broken; their legs are scratched and bleeding from the rough bushes and from leeches. Carrying the heavy loads through steep hill paths injures their backs and knees and causes high rates of uterine prolapse. In parts of India, they suffer from malnutrition and pesticide poisoning… yet their trade unions, government and employers have agreed they should be paid less than the national minimum wage for other agricultural labourers.

It doesn’t have to be like this. If we told our supermarkets and our favourite tea brands that we don’t want our tea so cheap that women’s bodies have to be broken to produce it, they could challenge the way that tea prices are set so that there’s more for the workers. Seriously. Write to them. Speak up at their AGM. They can add their voices to those of local organisations calling for the improvement of pay and conditions on Indian tea plantations. They can support the creation of trade unions that genuinely represent the workers, so that they can negotiate for safe working conditions, decent accommodation and a living wage.

Then maybe there will come a time when the once powerless women who produce our tea can say, like Crow when she became the World Champion Deadlifter in her category, “I am the strongest I have ever been…”

Detail from ‘Unity of Women’ – an installation by Crow Dillon-Parkin

Are you whole-leaf or dust?

tea grades

On my last visit to India I was given two packets of tea. One kilo bag was sewn into a linen sleeve and contained full bodied, delicately flavoured whole-leaf tea. The moist used leaves swell until they fill almost half the tea-pot, they are thick, black and rich enough to nourish the driest rose bed.

The other packet – somewhat less than a kilo – was wrapped in pages from a Tamil language newspaper. Inside, the open mouth of the plastic bag was carefully taped shut, the partly used tea it contains is a coarse, dark brown powder. Its flavour is fuller and more distinctive than anything you would get from a tea bag, but there is a rough edge to it that the whole leaf tea in the linen sleeve does not have. This tea was made to be boiled with milk and sugar to make strong, earthy chai.

The two teas represent the extremes of the grading process that green leaves go through once they are emptied into the factory’s drying trays.

The whole-leaf tea was given to me by the family of a former tea estate manager who continues to receive it as an annual retirement gift from the company. They generously “re-gifted” it to me knowing that I have a strong feeling for the stuff and for the place it grew.

The powdered tea – or “dust” – was given to me by an employee on the same tea plantation. His family used to work for mine when we lived there. When I visited in September, I had planned to stock up with local tea from the sales outlet on the ground floor of the company headquarters. But when I arrived it was surrounded by police, and soon afterwards by thousands of women tea pluckers protesting at their low wages, poor housing and healthcare and the failure of their trade unions, politicians or managers to stand up for them.

The plantation employee and his wife had invited me to breakfast on the second day of the strike and we were discussing its underlying causes and the likelihood of its success, when I selfishly asked whether they thought there was any way of getting hold of some tea now that the shop was closed (in fact the protestors had made all the shopkeepers and hoteliers close for the duration of the strike).

The next day I was presented with the carefully re-wrapped packet of tea, clearly from their own kitchen shelf. The company sells tea, along with other basic provisions, at a discount to employees.

I invited this old friend and his family to have tea with me at The Club which had been the social hub of our community when I was a child and where I was now staying. But when they arrived, all dressed up and bearing gifts, the club management would not let the family onto the premises. “Because… well, you know why” smirked the manager. So we went out and ate together at a restaurant in town.

The club manager’s position in this hierarchy would be somewhere below tea estate manager but above the plantation employee, who himself is positioned above the tea pluckers.

Later the manager explained that although the striking tea pluckers were technically shareholders in the company which has a participatory management system in place “thinking power is not there” to enable them to truly benefit from it. They are just “lazy” and yes, their work is hard and dangerous, but it is their “duty” to do it and they “should be grateful” for what they get.

But not everywhere in India maintains such strict admission rules as The Club. My whole-leaf tea benefactor told me of her horror when, sitting in an elegant bar in Cochin, a common fisherman in a dhoti had casually walked in and bought himself a drink at the same bar. “Why do you allow these people in?” she asked the barman with genuine pain and distress. “That is the law now,” he said.

And that is really what lies at the heart of the plight of workers on India’s tea plantations today. The strict colonial hierarchy brought in by the British at the end of the 19th century suited the Indian caste and economic class system like a glove. And while Indian law is (very slowly) becoming more egalitarian, plantations are a state-within-a-state still trapped in a sociological time-warp.

The striking women workers, whether they know it or not, are rebelling not only against their low wages and poor living and working conditions, but against a mind-set – embedded for generations – that grades human beings like tea itself, equating one group with “whole-leaf” and another with “dust”.

And as long as those of us who buy Indian tea continue to turn a blind eye to that mind-set and the impact it has on the lives of the workers, we contribute towards perpetuating it.

The views in this blog are the personal views of Sabita Banerji and do not reflect the views or policies of the Ethical Trading Initiative.

Can there be a ‘socially responsible’ tea? Ashwini Sukhtankar and Peter Rosenblum

Shocking, saddening, sickening…



Almost four years ago, we first traveled to Rungamuttee, a tea estate in the Dooars, so far north that it nuzzles the Bhutan border. The region has recently fallen prey to the craze of “tea tourism,” and the estates jostle for space with eco-green-homestay lodges that lure middle class families with the opportunity to play at a mythic British sahib-memsahib life, sitting on verandahs sipping tea while gazing out over vast reaches of picturesque monoculture, with rows of squat green bushes as far as the eye can see.

We were not unmoved by the beauty and the weight of history, but we were there to talk to workers and to understand what plantation life meant for them in the 21st century.

At Rungamuttee, we sat perched in red plastic chairs, almost brushing knees with a sinewy old man, also in a red…

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The Ascent of Munnar’s Women

Womens march
1. “Women’s March on Versailles” by Unknown – Bibliothèque nationale de France. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons 2. Women workers joining Pengal Otrumai march 7/09/15. Photo: Sabita Banerji

A tea plucker once came to her manager and said, “I have now turned into a man, so I should be paid at the higher rate.” A medical examination confirmed that this miraculous transformation had indeed taken place and the higher rate of pay was duly approved. Mesmerised by the spontaneous sex change aspect of this story that I’d heard in my childhood in Munnar, South India, it never occurred to me at the time to question why the male rate of pay should automatically be higher.

A few weeks ago, revisiting Munnar, I did start to question it as I witnessed the birth of a women workers’ “rebellion” against low pay, poor living and working conditions and the male dominated management, politics and trade unions that keep them that way. It has been dubbed ‘Pengal Otrumai’ (Unity of Women). Coincidentally, around the same time, the BBC was screening an episode of its ‘The Ascent of Woman’ documentary series entitled ‘Revolution’, beginning with a reminder that it was the 1789 women’s march on Versaille that triggered the French revolution.

“I want to look at the women who were central to the revolutions that shaped the modern world.” Dr Amanda Foreman starts the programme by saying. “Courageous, visionary figures who fought for change and challenged the status quo.” The courageous figures who are central to Pengal Otrumai are Gomathi Augustine, Lisy Sunny and Indrani Manikandan. When they are not organising thousands of women workers to stage a sit-in outside management offices, or chasing trade union officials and politicians away from their protest or negotiating for better pay and living conditions, they are plucking tea. Contrary to the impression given by the smiling faces of colourfully clad tea pluckers on your pack of 80 tea-bags, tea plucking is an arduous and dangerous job.  Gomathi pointed out to a reporter from Mathrubhumi the steep hills the workers have to climb to pluck the tea “We make the up and down journey carrying 75-100 kg of leaves. On the way we confront elephants sometime. A minor slip from the heights can cost you your life.”

The slashing of their 20% festival bonus to 10% was the last straw. She and her fellow tea pluckers staged an historic 9-day sit-in outside the head office of the Kanan Devan Hills Plantation company (KDHP). They drove away men, trade unions and politicians, claiming the stage entirely for themselves. Their bonus demand was finally agreed and a promise made for the Plantation Labour Committee (PLC) to discuss a pay rise. The tripartite wage negotiations that should take place every three years were already nine months overdue.

Dr Foreman believes that “a revolution is going to take place around women, their equality, their participation…” But this does not yet appear to be the case in South India, because when the wage negotiations took place on Saturday, the women were excluded as they were not PLC members. Ironically, the trade union officials whom they had explicitly driven away from the protest were, and it was they, not the women who had prompted the negotiations, who took part in it. Hopefully this does not presage for Pengal Otrumai the fate Dr Foreman observed for many women revolutionaries, that “revolutions all too often are about exchanging one power dynamic for another leaving women betrayed and excluded from the new societies they had helped to create.” The PLC negotiations failed to reach a conclusion, so perhaps they will relent on the basis that fresh (female?) blood may break the ancient stalemate between management and trade unions.

KDHP is, understandably, worried that a 100%+ increase in labour costs in a labour intensive industry already struggling with falling prices will destroy it. But without these women there would be no tea industry at all. Again there are parallels with Foreman’s documentary citing the Russian revolutionary conviction that “women’s participation in the workforce makes the country more prosperous.”  The tea industry has relied on the willingness of these women to work for low wages from the very beginning; the British pioneers of the Kerala plantations, unable to persuade local people to work for the wages they were offering, brought in impoverished dalit labourers from neighbouring Tamil Nadu. Was it just the alleged dexterousness of the women in plucking two leaves and a bud, that made them so ideal for the job, or was it also the fact that women were less likely to object to poverty wages for piteously hard work? But as the events of September 2015 showed, today’s more educated and socially networked generation is very likely to object.

Pengal Otrumai has triggered much soul-searching among politicians. Kerala’s Chief Minister, Oommen Chandy observed that “Successive governments failed to catch the lapses of the management [in observing laws on the humane treatment of workers].” He went on to confess that “All those who had power, are equally responsible for the events that unfolded at Munnar.”  Trade unions too, have been forced to examine their consciences. According to The Hindu, “Indian National Trade Union Congress (INTUC) State president R. Chandrasekharan described the events in Munnar as “a clear failure on the part of the local trade union leadership…” and has sought an urgent meeting of all INTUC-affiliates in the plantation sector to discuss the issue.

Only the KDHP remains unrepentant, in a hurt and bewildered kind of way. In a statement on their Facebook page they plaintively repeat their pride in the worker-shareholder and participatory management system, how well they treat their workers and bemoan the huge financial losses the strike is causing them. Having recently received a glowing response from its workers’ satisfaction survey, and being held up globally as a shining example of ethical management, this must indeed have come as a shock to them. Elsewhere, they cite the fact that Munnar tea workers’ wages are among the highest in the sector. But as Justin Rowlatt’s recent BBC expose on conditions on Assamese tea plantations shows, this is not saying much. Plus, workers’ rights are not about how much better or worse off someone else is, they are about decency and fairness. They continue to believe that the strike was stirred up by outsiders, ‘militant elements’, despite the overwhelming evidence that the women drove away all outsiders – even their own husbands – from the protest.

Dr Foreman concludes her documentary saying “I believe that the future depends on the inclusion of women and to do this we have to break from the past and create a new model for social revolution.”  KDHP made a valiant step in this direction in 2005 when it enabled its workers to become shareholders, but now it needs to ask itself if those changes were truly radical and genuine or if they were just a public relations-friendly mask for the continuation of an old system that effectively keeps workers, particularly women, doing the maximum amount of work for the minimum reward and with the minimum voice?

Now that Munnar’s women have descended their treacherous hillsides and ascended the civil rights platform to make their voices heard, KDHP, and the Indian tea industry in general, would be wise to take heed. It would be wise to treat this as a wake-up call, to make a clean break from its own feudal and colonial past and remould itself in a new business model that ensures a decent living for all its workers, especially the women on whom it relies so heavily.

The views in this blog are the personal views of Sabita Banerji and do not reflect the views or policies of the Ethical Trading Initiative.

The real meaning of the ‘fairer’ sex?

Leaders of the Munnar women tea workers strike. Photo: Aravind Bala in Onmanorama
Gomathi Augustine, Lisy Sunny and Indrani Manikandan; leaders of the Munnar women tea workers strike. Photo: Aravind Bala in Onmanorama


A recent interview with the chairman of the UK’s Living Wage Foundation and witnessing the birth of Kerala’s Pengal Otrumai (Unity of Women) got me thinking…

The UK Conservative government’s recent (mis)appropriation of the term ‘living wage’ is the sincerest form of flattery. Its increased minimum wage level for over 25’s may not be an actual living wage, but the fact that it has seen fit to ‘borrow’ the term shows its recognition of the power of those words. There are now over 1,400 accredited Living Wage employers in the UK, and the number keeps rising. From boutique real ale breweries to – most recently – retail giants like Lidl, employers across the country are realising the moral, reputational and/or economic sense of paying their workers enough to live on.

So what political powerhouse is behind this radical transformation process?

The answer is there isn’t one.

Although the last Labour government introduced the minimum wage (to alarmist predictions of mass unemployment which never materialised), it is the Living Wage campaign of the East London Community Organisation (now London Citizens) that has persuaded employers voluntarily to pay way above that level to ensure people can earn enough in a standard week (ie without overtime) to support themselves and their families to a decent standard of living. It is the politicians who are following in the footsteps of civil society.

The movement began at the grass roots of British society when a group of East London parents, faith leaders, trade unionists and workers who were struggling to make ends meet despite working two or three jobs staged a peaceful protest outside the Barclays Bank head office. They offered cake to passers-by– perhaps to make a point about the way the ‘cake’ is divided in the economy, or perhaps simply because cake is a nice friendly way to introduce yourself to people and to sweeten the conversation.

Is a similar revolution now starting in the hills of South India? Two weeks ago I witnessed the birth of an unprecedented protest by thousands of women tea plantation workers voicing their disgust at a recent bonus cut, low wages and poor living conditions.  The Indian press is referring to it as a “rebellion”. If rebellion is defined as “behaviours aimed at destroying or taking over the position of an established authority…” then the term is an appropriate one. Because the protesters weren’t just saying we want better pay and conditions, they were also challenging the “established authority” of men.

As Amrith Lal says in the Indian Express “The women were discovering agency and identifying trade unions as a male preserve…” Their message (to paraphrase various interviews) was ‘men do not represent us, (male dominated) trade unions do not represent us, (male dominated) politicians do not represent us. We represent ourselves. We do the hard work of plucking the tea and carrying 50kg sacks on our backs. We also do the majority of the domestic work in the tiny two room huts provided by the company. The men just spray pesticides on the tea bushes and drive the lorries (for the same pay). So stay away all of you. This is OUR rebellion.’

And the power of the ‘Pengal Otrumai’ (Unity of Women), as they call themselves, is spreading. Other women tea workers have since come out on strike and women working for peanuts in the shrimp peeling sheds of Kerala have also staged a protest, saying “We have no faith in trade unions. We are inspired by the success of the Munnar women’s agitation because we too are fighting for our livelihood.”

In a recent interview, Living Wage Foundation chairman, Neil Jameson, says that during his time as a social worker; “We looked at many of the people that we looked after and they had two things in common: they were poor, and they had no power”. Such is the condition of almost half of humanity; the women toiling as domestic servants, sex workers, homeworkers, or as workers in flower farms, fruit orchards, salad farms, shrimp peeling sheds and not least in the millions of garment factories that have sprung up in so many developing countries generating billions of dollars’ trade. In addition to the powerlessness that comes with poverty (and the poverty that comes with powerlessness), they are further handicapped by social norms which place women firmly below the status of men.

Eighty per cent of workers in the Bangladeshi garment sector, which is the driving force of the country’s economy, are women. Yet last week a Bangladeshi described his country to me as “woman-hostile”. None but the bravest of women dare aspire to becoming supervisors because of the burden of domestic responsibilities weighing them down, because they know women are not supposed to be in charge (despite the country having a powerful woman prime minister). Especially since the horror of the 2013 Rana Plaza factory collapse killing over 1,100 mostly women workers – and prompted by the global outcry it elicited – Western brands have been making efforts to improve working conditions in their supply chains. Yet women workers themselves continue to remain powerless and poor. Gargantuan garment factories, glittering five star hotels and the office blocks of factory owners tower above their one-story huts.

Jameson says: “There are three important sectors: one is the state, one is the market, and one is civil society. Civil society is the weakest, the most fractured, the most misunderstood; yet it is, of course, the most important because it is where millions reside, and it is the place where people develop children. It is where families lie” He describes civil society assemblies as “the political tool for non-partisan people to show their power”. This is a perfect description of the Pembila Orumai protests. The women of Munnar literally chased away politicians who turned up to support (or appropriate) their protest. They threw stones at trade union offices. And while their menfolk, laughing like children, threw armfuls of green tea leaves as passing traffic, they sat for nine days in a solemn ‘dharna’ outside the Headquarters Office of KDHP, the company of which they are supposed to be shareholders and management participants.

Their actions say loud and clear that they feel let down by those who claim to (and perhaps genuinely believe that they) represent them and have their best interests at heart. The management, unions and politicians have, whether intentionally or not, ensured through their systems, negotiations and social norms that the women their industry thrives off receive as little as possible in return.

The women workers of Munnar’s tea plantations have spoken. How much longer will the women garment workers of Bangladesh (and China and Vietnam and India and Cambodia) stay silent? How much longer will they tolerate their pathetic wages, their long working hours, the bullying and sexual harassment that come with their jobs? How long will they accept being lorded over by male supervisors, male trade unionists, male politicians and by their husbands, uncles, brothers and fathers?  Could the Pembilla Orumai rebellion spread to the garment sector and all the other sectors which rely on women’s labour and women’s silence to generate vast profits? Could these women, quietly and with cake like the East London community or with noisy dignity like the women of Munnar, rise up from the grass roots and achieve what politicians, trade unions, NGOs and CSR programmes have so far failed to achieve; a fair day’s wages for a fair day’s work for everyone? If so, it would bring a whole new meaning to the term ‘the fairer sex’.

The views in this blog are the personal views of Sabita Banerji and do not reflect the views or policies of the Ethical Trading Initiative.

The scent of crushed tea leaves…and dreams

P1000625The morning started quietly – I was the sole guest in the dimly lit High Range Club dining room. The rain was lashing down outside and mist wreathed the tops of the nearby hilltops.  The Club lent me a rainbow coloured umbrella and I decided to walk the mile or so into Munnar over one of its many bridges. A crowd of ladies in colourful saris was streaming across it, shouting jokes back and forth, laughter rippling from the front to the back of the procession. I wondered where they were off to on this Monday morning; clearly not to work in the tea plantations.

My plan was to catch up with my emails in an internet café over a coffee and then meet up with the HR manager of the worker-owned Kanan Devan Hill Production Company Pvt Ltd, which also operated a ‘participatory management’ system which involved workers at every level of the estates. He said he was a bit busy this morning. Last year he’d told me about the “happiness survey” of KDHP which had revealed that the majority of workers rated their employment and lives here as ‘good’ or ‘satisfactory’.  This time I hoped he would help me to meet some workers to hear about Munnar’s ground-breaking system from their point of view.

I was surprised to see the KDHP sales outlet on the ground floor of the Head Quarters Office building was closed. Policemen were gathered outside the HQ Office door.  A little further on, a crowd of people stood waving black flags on thin bamboo poles. I heard slogans being chanted from another direction, and another crowd of protesters marched in. Over the next hour or so more and more of them poured in from every direction, mostly women, shouting slogans, punching the air, waving their black flags and cardboard placards.  I could see why the HR manager might be a tad busy this morning. A man singled me out with my rainbow coloured umbrella and, in the midst of the yelling protesters and ranks of police, asked if I would be interested in an ayurvedic massage. You have to admire the entrepreneurial spirit.

I asked a lady beside me what was going on. With my barely existent Tamil I couldn’t understand much of her answer except the bit about the fact that they were protesting against their low pay and bonuses. I took a photo of someone ripping strips off a large poster of a grinning politician, but I was immediately surrounded by young men saying no photos, unless I wanted to go up to the front with the media.  But they did want to tell me about the strike and for me to “Whatsapp” their message to London as they put it. They said workers worked 7-8 hours a day, their work is very hard, they face “elephant, tiger, blood sucking leeches” and only get paid Rs230 (about £2). “Don’t they get money from shares in the company?” I asked. They shrugged.  The language barrier was too great to get to the bottom of how workers in a worker-owned company with participatory management could be striking in the first place.

I found a prime position under an awning on the steps of a hotel – along with several policemen and a few other civilian gawkers like me.  The street was by now carpeted with tea leaves and crowds of men were beckoning cars, minibuses and auto-rickshaws on towards them, laughing as if challenging them to a game, and then showering them with armfuls of the leaves, stuffing them in through the windows. The drivers and passengers were laughing too (a little more nervously). The unmistakable bouquet of tea that normally wafts up from a pot or freshly roasted from a factory now rose from fresh leaves crushed under tyres, sandals and boots. It was almost a carnival atmosphere – but I couldn’t help thinking that any minute it could all turn nasty. And indeed at one point I did see some men roughly shoving an elderly man in a white dhoti – though luckily nothing more seemed to come of it. Later, another shout went up and a small but vociferous group of BJP supporters carrying orange lotus symbol flags, all dressed in white marched off – strangely in the opposite direction to the main protest.

WP_20150907_052Suddenly the hotel manager I was chatting with rushed inside and started to close the metal shutters of the hotel – in a flash the policemen all dived inside too. I looked around and realised I was now completely alone on the steps… and although I couldn’t sense any immediate danger from the crowd, I succumbed to the natural human instinct, when all around are losing their heads, to panic. There was still a small gap under the metal shutters – I thought about throwing myself on the ground and rolling in at the last moment like they do in the movies, but opted instead to squat down and shout pathetically through the gap, “Can I come in too, please?” It was opened again enough for me to crawl in.

Inside the hotel lobby, there was a back window with a good view of the bridge behind the Office – now a flood of protesters’ black umbrellas – and glimpses of other parts of the town that twisted around itself with the river. The policemen were laughing at something happening on the bridge – so clearly they had not rushed in to avoid violence and anarchy. They soon trooped out again but the civilians stayed, pointing out where trouble spots were flaring (in the direction that the BJP group had gone) and debating what was going on. One of them repeated to me the explanation about the workers getting only Rs230 a day and working hard under dangerous circumstances. Again I asked about the shares. Again my informant didn’t seem to know much about it. He said that the trouble that was flaring up in the otherwise peaceful protest was because the workers were not happy about the political interference in the strike. He also said that the strike was not organised by any trade union but by workers themselves. In fact, he said that the unions who themselves were affiliated to different political parties- Communist, Congress, BJP etc – were part of the problem, skimming a percentage off the workers’ negotiated salary. The papers today say workers attacked the union offices with stones for “failing to protect the interests of the workers”.

I was getting hungry, but this time virtually every shop, restaurant and hotel’s metal shutter was firmly down. As I queued at the counter of one of the few little shops still open for something to eat, groups of women marched down the street shouting sternly at the shopkeepers to close them too. The atmosphere was starting to feel less carnival-like and I was feeling increasingly conspicuous and vulnerable with my rainbow coloured umbrella.

In the compound of the slightly safer feeling Munnar Post Office raised above street level, I got talking to a man who was equally sympathetic with the workers and also equally mystified by whether or not they get income from their shares. “And it’s the first time the ladies are being activists!” he said, widening his eyes and waggling his head in admiration at their pluck.

Like the others I had spoken to, he said he’d never known a strike like this to be called in Munnar before. But I had. It was in 1968 when I was seven. Then, too, workers had surrounded the Head Quarters Office to demand higher bonuses, only that time my Dad was inside it. And when he and the General Manager tried to leave, the protesters surrounded the car and threw stones at them, the smashed glass of the windows cutting their faces and arms. It could have ended with worse bloodshed than that, but a solitary policeman appeared in the midst of the crowd, bravely swinging his baton. The crowd hesitated long enough for the car to escape.

While I was planning my own “escape” from the increasing intensity building up on the streets, my new friend at the Post Office, who was an hotelier and real estate agent, took the opportunity to try to sell me some land, explaining that good money could be made by building a guest house here. Again, you have to admire the entrepreneurial spirit.

I have no idea how to end this post. I have no wise summing up statements to make that neatly tie up this story because I don’t know what to think or who to believe… where I thought there was hope, there is strife; where I thought I saw clarity there is confusion… I’m still hoping that I will somehow get to the bottom of it, and that when I get there, there will still be a glimmer of hope.

The views in this blog are the personal views of Sabita Banerji and do not reflect the views or policies of the Ethical Trading Initiative.

And sometimes fate gives in to temptation…

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It was a perfect summer day by the seaside. We sat on the beach looking out over a cloudless blue sky – the sea sparkling beneath it. Behind us, over the Shoreham Airfield, we could see a small plane doing crazy loop-the-loops and barrel rolls, climbing to the top of an arc of white smoke and then plummeting downwards. For a few moments it would disappear from sight behind the buildings between us and the Shoreham Airfield, just a couple of miles away. My heart was in my mouth each time. But then it would rocket upwards again. Relief!

Then a large fighter plane flew in over the sea. I didn’t notice where it came from. It’s sleek, triangular shape like a dark bird of prey in the summer sky. We tried to guess what kind of plane it was, laughed as we made up names for it, forgot it as it disappeared over our heads. And we went on getting ready to swim in the sea.

There was something so simple and peaceful about the sea. The purity of the horizon. The ice cold entry and the gradual acclimatisation of my body and then letting the waves take over. Floating on my back I listened to the rustle of pebbles being raked forwards and backwards underwater. Back on the beach one of the kids said quietly. “There must have been an accident…” We all turned to see a vast cloud of black smoke unfolding over the direction of the airfield.

There could have been no doubt as to what had happened, but somehow we all seemed to enter a long period of denial, reluctant to admit that people might have died. Reluctant to give up the peace and joy of the summer seaside. “Oh, you know, they sometimes re-enact World War II scenes, it’s probably that”. But when no more planes entered the sky, we knew it was not a re-enactment. The lady in the chip shop told us that the pilot had managed to escape and was in hospital. “Oh, thank god,” we said. “What a miracle! That’s alright then.” And we went on enjoying our day with a sigh of relief.

We didn’t want to even entertain the idea that others might have been hurt or killed or traumatised, although, thinking about it now, we should have realised that was a strong possibility. We kept checking twitter – mainly to see how our journey home would be affected – and no more news of fatalities came through. As we joined the gridlocked traffic on the roundabout outside the entrance to the air show, the smell of burning fuel and metal drifted in through the open windows. Ambulances and police cars carved a path through the stationary lines of cars. But very soon we were out of the jam and back on our usual road home.

It was only when we got home – reconnected with the internet – that we saw the video footage of the Hawker Hunter climbing to the top of its loop and plummeting downwards – just like the little plane had done. But this one never did reappear. It was only then that we learned that at least seven people had lost their lives and many others been injured when the plane crashed into cars and motorbikes at a red traffic light on the A27…

These two images keep playing simultaneously in my mind.

The vast, perfect blue sky and being supported in the chill green ocean – chips and ice cream and dogs leaping into the sea after flung tennis balls, children shrieking with joy.

And – just a couple of miles away – a vast fireball tearing through the lives of seven people like a bomb. A bomb whose impact waves will crash through the lives of each of those seven people’s families, their friends, their colleagues… waves of horror for everyone who witnessed it.

If the image keeps coming back to me, who only saw a cloud of smoke, what nightmares must those who were there, or whose loved ones were killed, be having, over and over?

On the packed train back to London, as often happens when disaster strikes, strangers started speaking to each other. A couple who had been part of the audience at the airfield were still stunned. They said that when the plane crashed there was complete silence on the airfield. The commentator just stopped talking as everyone tried to readjust their take on reality from lovely day out to unspeakable horror. “We had packed a picnic and a bottle of wine, but we just haven’t had the heart to open it…” the husband said quietly.

Also in the news today the attempted terrorist attack on a French TGV train and a man killed by police in a siege in South London. The fallout from the chemical factory explosion in China continues… reminding us that every moment someone somewhere is dying, in less or more horrifying circumstances.  When it happens a mile or so away from you (or yards away, or to someone you know and love) your natural barrier to that knowledge breaks down. You feel guilty for enjoying the sea, your chips, laughter with your family, for having a picnic and a bottle of wine. It all seems so trivial in comparison. The danger then is that you won’t be able to close that breach. That the horror, and potential horror, will continue to pour in and overwhelm you so that you can no longer function.

But the truth is that we live in a far safer and more peaceful world than in any other time in history. Fewer people are being killed in wars, violent crime is reducing, there are fewer maternal deaths in childbirth and more children are surviving too. The HIV pandemic is slowing down, we seem on the verge of a breakthrough in the treatment of cancer… And for all our frustration with and mocking of the Health and Safety brigade, we are undeniably safer and more healthy because of them.

After the crash, a friend recalled watching the Red Arrows performing earlier in the week and reflected that it is a human trait to tempt fate. And sometimes fate gives in to temptation. But we cannot give in to the temptation to let the horror take over. It’s vital to see beyond the horror at the countless normal everyday acts of reassurance that people love each other and are safe, however banal and trivial that may seem. They are not trivial – they are the very core of life. Also on that packed train was a Rastafarian father bonding with his tiny baby, tickling laughs from it, bursting with love at the sound. A couple of tattooed gay guys got on at Gatwick glowing from their holiday. A mother and son of about seven hugged and giggled after having to sit on the floor under the luggage racks of the overcrowded train.

An interview with a mother who escaped with her children from her car just 15 meters from the crash contained the expression “…it was great”. She was talking about the way the police had reacted, arriving in seconds, keeping everyone at a safe distance in case of a second explosion. She was talking about how people helped each other and gave each other advice…

In everyday life, just as in the heat of a disaster, this is what we all need to do. Take care of each other. Take care of yourself – so that you are safe and so that you can take care of others. Take care of the planet.

Background: At least seven people were killed and many injured when a Hawker Hunter plane crashed into cars on the A27 during Shoreham Air Show on Saturday August 22nd.

Before you put your money where your mouth is, put your mouth where your heart is

“Living wage? Oooh, that’s a tricky question. Should it be imposed? What level should it be set at? Won’t lots of people lose their jobs? Shouldn’t people just be paid what the free market says they are “worth”? It’s better than the alternative, though, isn’t it? They are actually lucky they have jobs at all, aren’t they?”

These are some of the rhetorical questions that people ask when faced with the question of whether anonymous burger fryers in New York or distant garment factory workers in the East should be paid a living wage.

So let me put it another way.

Imagine your daughter slogging her way through a series of minimum wage jobs, coming home at four in the morning, feet blistered and clothes covered with beer slops; gritting her teeth while restaurant customers fling insults at her for the state of the food she did not cook; being stood over and yelled at while scraping chewing gum trodden into the opera house carpet.  She doesn’t complain (well not much) because she knows all this is temporary. She knows this is a stepping stone on to better things. She sticks it out and as soon as she can get a “proper job” she puts it all behind her.

She is one of the lucky ones. She had a free education and a bit of financial backing from her parents. At the end of her shift she could come home and have her laundry done by Mum. She did – eventually – have alternative ways of earning a living. But what if she hadn’t? What if she and her partner had a baby? What if the only way they could make enough to feed the baby was for both of them to do two or even three of these jobs because they were paid so little for them that there were barely enough hours in the day to make enough to live on from them? Would you consider them “lucky” for having these jobs?

What if they had had to get into debt to pay their bills and the loan sharks started getting violent? What if the stress of it all drove them to drink and their baby was taken into care? Is this a situation a civilised society should consider acceptable? Is this within the realm of those precious “British values” we’re supposed to be teaching Johnny Foreigner?

What if your daughter had happened to be born in a country with no social services? What if someone said to them, “Your child is six already, he could come and work in my carpet factory? Of course, I can’t pay him a living wage (don’t make me laugh!) but you’re lucky I’m offering him this chance to help the family out.”  What if the baby was a girl and someone offered them even more money to take the child – my granddaughter, your granddaughter – somewhere far away, promising a new life… (but in your heart of hearts you know it may be to a fate worse than death)? But if the alternative is starvation for them and for you (because by now you, the grandparents, are dependent on your daughter too as there’s no state pension and no NHS), is the little girl “lucky” to have this offer?

Oh, but I’m losing you, aren’t I? This is all getting too melodramatic, too exotic, too far from your own experience. You can’t relate to it any more. Thank your lucky stars that you can’t, that your daughter will never go through such a nightmare. It is the reality for millions of people – but what have they got to do with you? Ponder on that when you buy your next really cheap top or discount pack of tea.

Of course, I’m not blaming you. It’s not your fault. You don’t decide how much workers get paid. Actually neither does the shop where you bought your top or your tea bags. Neither do the agents who find the factories to source from. Even the factory owners are constrained by the prices they are paid for their products. Everyone’s just trying to survive, trying to do the best they can for their own daughters and sons, just as you are when you reach for the cheapest tea bags. There’s a whole complex system (they call it a supply chain but it’s more like a supply labyrinth) out there. You’re just a tiny part of it. You have no power…. or do you?

Did you know that retailers see you – yes you –as the most powerful person in the supply chain? They’ve done surveys of your opinions and you’re telling them that the way workers are treated is the most important issue of all to you. But then you always go for the cheapest option.  Mind you, they are always advertising their relative cheapness, which may be the lead you are following.  So lots of you abandoned Tesco and and Sainsburys for Aldi and Lidl because they’re cheaper, and now the big boys have started what the media is calling a “bloody” price war.

But the only people bleeding are going to be the workers in the darkest recesses of the supply labyrinth who will now have to work even harder to cover their bills. To feed their children and their parents. To fend off the debt collectors.

Of course you can afford to pay a little bit more and of course you would choose the fairer option if you knew what it was – but it’s hard to know, isn’t it? Unless it has a Fairtrade label on it, how can you tell? We’ve seen the documentaries that prove a higher price is no guarantee that workers are better paid, that it may just mean that factory owners or shareholders are better paid…

But there is one thing you can do, and it may surprise you. Before you put your money where your mouth is, put your mouth where your heart is. Let your regular supermarket and top shop know you care AND that you’re willing to pay a bit more. Send them a postcard, email, blog, Tweet and Facebook them. Buy shares and stand up and speak at their board meetings… Not to attack and insult them, but to show that you know you and they are in it together and that if they’re willing to do their bit, so are you.

If they know you’re serious they’ll try to do something about it. Really. They can’t do it on their own, but they can work with trade unions and NGOs and governments and their suppliers and each other to improve the lot of the millions who make what we wear and eat and use. And believe it or not many already are doing this.

We can all say, “You know what? Actually, no, it’s not acceptable that some people should have to live through hell so that others can buy a cheap top, or make a huge profit”. So let’s shave a little bit off our profits and add a little bit more to the price we pay. Let’s insist that the extra is intended for the workers and not the factory owner. And then there is actually a possibility that nobody will have to do more than one full time job, or work crazy overtime hours, or get into debt or put their kids out to work (or worse), just to live like a decent human being.

And before you dismiss all this as happy-clappy, bleeding heart, Guardian-reading nonsense, may I point out this quote in Forbes magazine from Mark Carney, Governor of the Bank of England; “Inclusive capitalism is fundamentally about delivering a basic social contract comprised of relative equality of outcomes; equality of opportunity; and fairness across generations. Different societies will place different weights on these elements but few would omit any of them.” I’d also like to share this quote from proudly non-bleeding heart The Times, but you have to subscribe to read it…  You can decide whether or not you’re willing to pay for that. You are more powerful than you know. But remember, and my final quote is from Spidey, “With great power comes great responsibility”.