Dominique Manotti: Lorraine Connection

The first lorry turns into the factory access road. It’s now less than twenty metres away, nosing its way forward, its huge bonnet looming above their heads. The men close their eyes, speechless. We’re not afraid … Less than five metres, don’t think about bodies being run over, the wheel that crushes, don’t think. United. A solid wall, stand firm. And don’t fall Less than two metres. An order comes from the back, passed forward from row to row: ‘When you hear shouts of “Fire” scatter to the sides as fast as possible!’ The bumpers touch the men in the front line, and the lorry continues to inch forward. Who can hold back ten tonnes?

A prolonged shout, coming from six voices in chorus: ‘Fire!’ The human chains break apart: ‘Get the driver, quick!’ Six men armed with lengths of wood furiously push forward a heap of burning pallets, scraping the ground and sending out a shower of sparks. They slide them towards the bonnet of the lorry now level with the gate.

‘Let’s burn the bastards in their cabs!’ yells Nourredine, pouring with sweat, his hands burned, completely carried away.

Panic aboard the first lorry. The driver throws it into reverse, retreats a few metres, too fast, the trailer careers off the road, its wheels sink into the soft earth, it jackknifes. Armed with baseball bats, the other two men jump down from the cab to protect the lorry. Hafed and a dozen or so workers step in.

‘Stop now, that’s enough. We stay on the factory premises, on our own ground. We don’t set fire to the lorry. We’ve won. They’re leaving. We let them go.’

Behind their window, the security guards contemplate the scene without moving a muscle.

The mass of workers are clustered behind the blazing pallets. The wood is well-ventilated and dry, it gives off a lovely clear bright flame. They watch the heavy articulated lorries attempting to manoeuvre their way out. Laughter and jeers: ‘Watch out, you’ll burn out your engine!’ The drivers are none too adroit and a few clods of earth, a few stones, are hurled at the windscreens. It’s a way of letting off steam, nothing really nasty. Nourredine has torn off his grey overalls and thrown them into the fire. Then the lorries leave in slow convoy, the same way they came. As they disappear into the distance, hazy through the flames, silence falls and lasts for a few minutes after they vanish in the direction of Luxembourg. Each person pictures a section of bonnet, the edge of a bumper, the tip of a wing, a wheel, each person relives the feeling of serried bodies, battling fear, the heat of the fire, and the overwhelming joy at the routing of the juggernaut, savouring the shared feeling that together we are strong, the world is ours. Fists raised in the direction of the blind windows of the executives’ offices.

If we hadn’t been warned, the lorries would have got in easily, thinks Nourredine, dazed and elated.

Then Hafed grabs a chair from inside the porter’s lodge and clambers on to it.

‘Since they’ve declared war on us, we must get organised and fight back.’

Early on this sunny afternoon the news of the strike, the offensive action and the victory over the bosses has spread throughout the neighbourhood. The factory is like a magnet and people have come from all over — the unemployed, the retired, on foot, by bicycle and car, to catch up on the news, see how the youngsters are coping, relive their own memories. When all the surrounding valleys were involved in the steel industry, when the word ‘strike’ meant something, when they attacked police stations with bulldozers, when they went on a mass march on Paris, when intentions were far from peaceful … Memories that reduce what has just happened at Daewoo to a mere blip. People cluster outside the gates, on the central reservation all the way to the roundabout. Amrouche comes out to greet a few old acquaintances. Workers from the night shift chat to the veterans before going inside the factory. There are also a few skivers like Karim Bouziane, off sick for six months for a supposedly sprained back as a result of shifting furniture for the Korean CEO during working hours. He soaks up the atmosphere outside the gates for a while then enters the factory. Nourredine lets him through with bad grace. What reason could be given for stopping him?

Rolande arrives with a radiant smile, pushing a trolley laden with potatoes, onions, eggs and bread.

‘I heard about the occupation when I was at the supermarket, so I went round and asked the local shopkeepers for donations. All this is for you so you can have a hot meal tonight. My way of saying thank you.’

Nourredine, touched, lets her in.

‘Come in, Rolande. At least as long as we’re in charge, you’re welcome here.’

Then it’s the turn of the dignitaries, in their dark saloon cars and dark suits. All ill at ease, very ill at ease, the mayor with his tricolour sash, the deputy, more discreet, and the regional health and safety inspector who keeps a low profile. They shake a few hands, force a few smiles, tap Amrouche on the shoulder then come and talk to Nourredine and his crew in front of the gates.

‘The valley needs these jobs … Watch what you do … Mr Park, the CEO, is a reasonable man, we know him well … You should try negotiating …’

What do they know of life in the factory, these three? And this health and safety inspector, with his useless site visits, his reports that are always favourable, not a single infringement in two years, in the most dangerous factory in the whole region, what does he know about the man who had his head sliced off, about Émilienne, Rolande or Aisha? Nourredine feels self-conscious in his tight-fitting jacket and grubby jeans. He’s seized by a kind of rage and fantasises about grabbing the health and safety inspector by the lining of his jacket, shaking him and banging his head against the gatepost, smashing his forehead, his nose, seeing blood pour down his smart navy-blue suit, then letting him go and watching him crumple in a heap on the ground.

‘… If Daewoo were to close down as a result of this strike, which is a possibility, I warn you, it would be disastrous for the entire valley.’

‘We worked hard to set up this factory here,’ adds the mayor. ‘I know what it cost the town.’

Nourredine can’t think of anything to say to them.

The fourth man, who has kept in the background until now, goes up to Nourredine, smiling, and holds out his hand. Tall and sturdy, he has a direct, straightforward manner. And his handshake clearly states that he’s not afraid of sullying himself by shaking hands with a worker. The manner, the gesture, the tone of voice — imperceptible signals of kinship: they’re from the same world, that of the factory, not exactly the same, but similar.

‘Maurice Quignard. I represent the European Development Plan committee.’ European subsidies, the great cash cow, translates Nourredine. ‘I spoke to your CEO on the telephone before coming. You know, he’s not a bad guy. I think this business is all a big misunderstanding. From what he tells me, the immediate sale of stocks should make it possible to pay some bonuses …’ Nourredine reels, finds it hard to breathe. After all, it is possible we rushed into this without thinking … ‘We just need to find grounds on which to negotiate.’

‘Negotiate, that’s all we’ve wanted to do since this morning.’

‘There’ll be no negotiations while the managers are being held.’ Nourredine is frankly taken aback.

‘Nobody’s being held. We’re stopping people from coming in, not from leaving.’

‘And the negotiations won’t take place here, under pressure, but at the town hall.’

‘I’m not the sole decision-maker.’ He casts about. ‘We’ll have to discuss it. Speaking for myself, there’s no problem.’