Solidarity Not So Forever

My sugar beet plantations appear to have attracted some notice. Not the plantations themselves, mind you, but the relationship I have established with those who actually tend the beets. Apparently Strunsky Enterprises came out on top of a poll conducted by the International Labour Organization (ILO) involving the degree of satisfaction felt by the workers towards management. I was thus invited to give a paper on just how such a high level of worker satisfaction was attained. The paper would be presented at the ILO's International Training Centre in Turin.

I was glad to accept. I had not been to Italy for some time, not since a rather nasty incident involving the takedown of an Albanian gang trafficking women out of a house in a back street of Naples. The gang's crude motto was "See nipples and die", and I was happy to bring about some reality to the last word in the motto.

So it was off to Turin, along with Irving, who was always ever mindful of certain contracts out on yours truly. I stayed, of course, at the Meridien Lingotto. I mean, who wouldn't? Wonderful place, and the finest osso buco in the world.

I wore my little black dress (Thank you, Coco!) which may have been a mistake. The Italian official who introduced me, after mentioning my sugar beet business, went on to mention my four children and, staring pointedly at my breasts, allowed that I was truly a bella figlia of the Labour Movement. This could be taken in a variety of ways, but one should always give Italians some leeway.

The presentation started off well. I stressed the importance of workers uniting to achieve an honest wage, safe working conditions and sane benefits. I got a round of applause from the European participants by pointing out that the first recorded strike was organized by the weavers of Douai in 1245. Thus Europe had led the way. I also gave credit to the brave efforts of the miners in Wales and England, quoting some passages from Orwell's Down The Mine for effect. This was well received by the Brits.

The Americans in the audience came to life when I referred to the work of such Labour luminaries as Eugene Debs and John L. Lewis, and I ended this section with a tribute to the Industrial Workers of the World, better known as "The Wobblies". I even quoted the lines from the Joe Hill song:"But Joe, you're ten years dead. " / "I never died, said he."

So things were going swimmingly. Then the shit hit the fan.

I had stressed the power of a strike when a firm or business is maltreating its workers. The workers suffer financially, but so does the firm, and pressure builds inexorably to one of two conclusions. Either a deal is reached, or the firm goes out of business. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a deal is reached.

The process goes off the rails, however, when those workers work for government. A strike in the public area hurts the workers, but more importantly the public, who really aren't involved at all. The government is not hurt financially, and indeed may gain. The duality of management and labour is now compromised by a third party. This is akin to kidnapping an innocent for ransom, and holding that person powerless. The way out is that if you are going to work for the public, then you must accept that the right to strike disappears, and is replaced by a binding arbitration process. The arbiter, of course, must be acceptable to both union and management, and strategies such as publicizing the job action and 'work to rule' can, and should, be used. But a strike? Never.

Well, you must have thought I had summoned all the demons from hell. . First, a stony silence, then a cascade of boos and hisses, interspersed with terms such as "fascist" and "aristocratic bitch". My Italian host tried to quiet the crowd, but to no avail. Didn't matter -- I was done anyway.

At this point an overlarge (I am being kind here) Frenchwoman stormed onto the stage, and this brought a vision of Dickens' Madame Defarge to mind. She was screaming something about my having forgotten the true doctrine of union thought. The crowd had gone silent, intrigued by this frontal attack, although I suspect only some understood her French.

I looked closely at this personage, and caught a flicker of fear in her eyes -- she could recognize, as most can, when someone has killed.

"Doctrine, you say?" I responded in French. "Doctrine? Madame, I direct you to one of your esteemed authors, Michel de Montaigne, and I paraphrase from that fine mind: 'The doctrine which you have learned could not reach your mind so that it has stayed on your tongue.'" Then I turned to my host and said in his language, "La commedia e finita!"

Which it was.