By Yiannis Androulidakis, recently sacked from the DOL news group
On Friday, at 11 am, I received the call I had been waiting for a long time by the Director of the newspaper. He invited me to his office, where he told me that "he regrets having to announce this". He did not tell me what he exactly regrets and I did not bother to get him out of that, by flagging what he regrets. He then told me that himself, he does not really want me to leave the newspaper and that he is very sorry. I consoled him cheerlessly for this unfortunate situation that he had to undergo and he noted that we never know what might happen in the future. I agreed with him that the future is uncertain for everyone, I told him that I am not going to sign my dismissal and left the office with the fake pride of the one who said the best cue in an awkward conversation.
I did not go to my office. I had no personal items to collect, I had already collected them all in June when we were informed of the imminent restructuring of the newspaper in order to reduce costs -I did not know where this 'restructuring' would hit me, nor whether anybody would be still there to gather my things, as we gathered the ones of Thodoris. I called my daughter and told her that from now on I will respect my promise to not go to work in the afternoon. I did not have to say anything to my son, he would not even understand: I just reassured him that on his birthday he would get an excavator or a bike and I went out for a cigarette. During my cigarette, the next names of the list started showing up: Kostas... Anna... Iro... George... Penny who once used to be annoyed by my smoking and yell that I should put it off; what an irony, none of us will find peace from the dismissal of the other.
During the last three years, the restructuring of the DOL news group resembled war communiques from Iraq. "Friday, we lost 32 good soldiers." Since September 2010 we are more than 350 the ones who stumbled. Some found a job, others are still struggling, some work with no salary, Kostas died because his aneurysm burst...
At first they kicked out the administrative personnel - dozens of administrative ones. Administrative stuff are the plebs of the newspapers, they do not see their name printed anywhere not even hope to ever do so, they do not speak with ministers, chancellors and famous doctors, neither can be admired by their mother. The union went on strike and then we saw for the first time how determined the bosses within the crisis are. The bullied us, they pulled guns at us and then they made us vote in order to condemn the strike, otherwise they would suspend the daily version and dismiss people. We did vote for condemning the strike, not all of us, but most. And then, however, the daily edition got suspended. And people were fired. 35 colleagues, whom at some point after joining forces we managed to bring back and then they kicked out them again on a Friday afternoon, when they suspended the Sunday edition. They didn't kick plebs this time. Journalists. Yes, and then they chased us.
Journalists are strange animals. Like pretentious butlers, they think they have some of the kindness of their masters, that they acquire some of the aura of those to whom they serve the Drambuie. They don't feel like workers, they feel like puppeteers who pull strings. They like to underestimate their bank account, it is not the smallest one after all; they don't feel like workers, they say they love what they do, it is not a vocation, it is something smarter. Often, of course, they end up as alcoholics, saving bottles and antidepressants in their offices and they die from heart attacks due to too much sitting, indulgence, bad working hours, stress from self-pity and from acting as a servant, but they don't feel like workers - they know, others do not. Neither do they deal with the relations of production, this is banal, they think that the world is a contest of power and influence that exists by itself. Meanwhile their rate of surplus value is lost in the universe ignored by everyone, like a phone ringing in an empty house. Believe me, journalists are more narcissistic than ballerinas and certainly more naive than unskilled laborers. The idea that the world is something other than what we say is not going through our mind and sometimes we enjoy signing individual contracts with reduced salaries, including written formalities that demonstrate the superiority of our species. Then, another piece of the salary that we worked for is gone and we get into very serious discussions about the "deal".
On Friday, after the layoffs, I saw again some of us to have an air of our class. The guys from in.gr arrayed on the stairs and started discussing what to do: they were discussing having this kind of solidarity that makes you think, against the prejudices, that workers can not only make the world more fair, they can also make it more beautiful. The photographer from the 4th floor, the quietest man I ever met in my life, who came recommended by Marios to meet me and tell me that neither did he sign an individual contract and wanted to be in touch with us, with the calmness of the Indian from the Cuckoo's Nest, was telling me that he will make ends meet for a while, since he does not have a wife and children. Iro hugged me: so many years in the job, she used to be fighting with everyone but never ratted anyone. In return, she was never put on a payroll: she lived and died as a freelancer and God knows in what conditions she got her dismissal. The young woman from the video, Stephania, had tears in her eyes and when she saw us altogether swallowed her tears and smiled. She came back a few months ago to work from her maternity leave. They told me afterwards, that her husband has also been unemployed some years now and that she begged them in tears to keep her in the job with less money and they refused - I wish they have crash their new car on a pole of the recently privatized Power Company and survive to see the car's doors bent. I'm sure she had not been crying for her dismissal, she had been crying because she was blaming herself for having begged for it. If I see her again, I'll tell her to not think about it: we anyway are always in their need.
It has been a long time for me to feel I was there, among people of my class, among those who work to make ends meet and overcome fear with dignity. It was 21 of us, three years ago, who raised our hands in front of the directors and vote again to go on strike and let the newspaper close if needed and we kept our hands raised for quite some time, because we did not know when there would again be a moment to feel so proud. Since last Friday, only three of them are still in the newspaper. The rest of us were being fired month by month, one after another or forced to resign. Dimitris Zacchaeus. Thodoris Barbaris. Mariniki Alevizopoulou. Tasos Anastasiadis. And the rest. They stood against Pretenderis and Pantelis Kapsis, the one who until a few days ago whined that if he does not cut our salaries will not have money for his child to study and then took hundreds of thousands of Euros compensation to become a minister and dismiss everybody from the ERT. And they got reminded of the basic law of consciousness in the capitalist world: knowing that you're a worker is the condition to not be a slave. I proudly baste on their list.
And it is not just them. It's all those who look at you in conspiracy when the boss is shouting. Those who didn't laugh at the bad joke of the director. Those who went to sign individual contracts a few minutes before the deadline -even though they had decided it days ago- just in order to get the financial director worried. It is also others who do not speak at the union meetings and they love you, because when you speak it is the same -because they're the same. It is Kostis, who after spending many hours with us, the redundant ones, without telling us anything, went upstairs and left a paper asking to be included in the layoffs, because he does not want to set foot there again.
It's a huge strength, sarcastic, hidden and powerful, that when it all gets together, will destroy a world that suffers from lack of justice and lack of humour. But it has not got together yet.
***
It's Monday dawn. I'm not going to work. We have a union meeting at 12 -we do not expect much. Most people among us feared too early, it has been a long time that we are less in the meetings. Fewer and fewer. The ones who plan the dismissals have found an algorithm to constantly reduce the viscosity of the bravery. We will meet outside DOL at 3pm. For six years every day, today may be the last time. We will. I do not know how many, I know who: the most beautiful among us, those who sell our work to live. A little bit weak and sometimes a little ridiculous.
But Brecht writes:
“When they make fun of us for our weakness
We should not waste any more time
Thus we must take care
That all weak ones walk together
And then no one will dare to make fun of us any more”
My name is Yiannis Androulidakis, I'm a journalist and I cost about 1,500 euros per month including the insurance. Two years ago I yelled during a union meeting of the Vima newspaper: "140 of us got downstairs, 140 will go upstairs again, not a single person less". I think now, only 70 of them were left. I'm back in the search to sell my labor power. But you should know that sometime soon, this will stop happening and you are going to pay for Stefania's tears.
Because, I forgot to tell you: We will win.
