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A Ukraine Factory That Can’t Close, and Workers Who Won’t Quit A Ukraine Factory That Can’t Close, and Workers Who Won’t Quit
(about 11 hours later)
AVDIIVKA, Ukraine — The armored Mercedes-Benz pulled up to a factory chimney discharging an endless column of milk-white steam and out stepped Musa Magomedov, the broad-shouldered, bespectacled 45-year-old general director of the Avdiivka Coke and Steel plant.AVDIIVKA, Ukraine — The armored Mercedes-Benz pulled up to a factory chimney discharging an endless column of milk-white steam and out stepped Musa Magomedov, the broad-shouldered, bespectacled 45-year-old general director of the Avdiivka Coke and Steel plant.
“When the bombing started he did everything right, he ran for the nearest tunnel,” Mr. Magomedov said, standing on the spot where a young mechanic and father of two had died in a Feb. 4 rocket strike, five strides from safety. “We tried to fix him up, but he died in the ambulance before he could reach the hospital.” “When the bombing started he did everything right, he ran for the nearest tunnel,” Mr. Magomedov said, standing on the spot where a young mechanic and father of two died in a Feb. 4 rocket strike, five strides from safety. “We tried to fix him up, but he died in the ambulance before he could reach the hospital.”
Caught on the front lines of a grinding artillery war since last July, Avdiivka’s several thousand workers have held on, stubbornly returning to work every day despite 160 documented rocket and artillery strikes, periodic blackouts (one lasted 27 days), an endless list of repairs and, worst of all, the deaths of five colleagues.Caught on the front lines of a grinding artillery war since last July, Avdiivka’s several thousand workers have held on, stubbornly returning to work every day despite 160 documented rocket and artillery strikes, periodic blackouts (one lasted 27 days), an endless list of repairs and, worst of all, the deaths of five colleagues.
An act of heroism in Ukraine’s civil war, for sure, but also one of pragmatism: If the plant, the largest coking operation in Europe and a vital cog in Ukraine’s steel industry, ceases operation, it will almost certainly be for good.An act of heroism in Ukraine’s civil war, for sure, but also one of pragmatism: If the plant, the largest coking operation in Europe and a vital cog in Ukraine’s steel industry, ceases operation, it will almost certainly be for good.
Coke, the fuel used in steel-making furnaces in Ukraine, is a purified form of coal, produced by special ovens. When the furnaces cool, they crack, and the cost of repairing and restarting them could run to a prohibitive $1 billion or more. Those in the business like to say that a coking plant can only be shut down once.Coke, the fuel used in steel-making furnaces in Ukraine, is a purified form of coal, produced by special ovens. When the furnaces cool, they crack, and the cost of repairing and restarting them could run to a prohibitive $1 billion or more. Those in the business like to say that a coking plant can only be shut down once.
“We are like a shark,” said Mr. Magomedov, an economist by training. “It has to swim all the time because if it stops, it drowns. We are the same. We always have to be working.”“We are like a shark,” said Mr. Magomedov, an economist by training. “It has to swim all the time because if it stops, it drowns. We are the same. We always have to be working.”
Avdiivka Coke and Steel sits on the Ukrainian side of the front lines, just five miles from the ruins of Donetsk International Airport. The area is one of several focal points where two cease-fires in the last six months have gone largely unheeded. Wayward rocket and mortar strikes happen so often and are over so fast, Mr. Magomedov says, that sometimes workers simply ignore them and stay at their posts.Avdiivka Coke and Steel sits on the Ukrainian side of the front lines, just five miles from the ruins of Donetsk International Airport. The area is one of several focal points where two cease-fires in the last six months have gone largely unheeded. Wayward rocket and mortar strikes happen so often and are over so fast, Mr. Magomedov says, that sometimes workers simply ignore them and stay at their posts.
No hiding place above ground guarantees safety at the plant, a sprawling 52-year-old behemoth that produces blast-furnace coke, the fuel used in Ukraine’s steel mills, as well as dozens of chemical products, electricity and heat, along with an acrid stench that stays in clothing for days.No hiding place above ground guarantees safety at the plant, a sprawling 52-year-old behemoth that produces blast-furnace coke, the fuel used in Ukraine’s steel mills, as well as dozens of chemical products, electricity and heat, along with an acrid stench that stays in clothing for days.
After repeated attacks at the plant, rain pours through a gaping hole in the machine-room roof. Mortars rounds have slammed into the coke ovens that heat coal at a temperature of more than 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit (about 1,000 degrees Celsius). One rocket strike nearly obliterated a turbine crucial to production. Another ruptured a gas pipe, igniting a nine-hour blaze that Mr. Magomedov still seems surprised he was able to extinguish.After repeated attacks at the plant, rain pours through a gaping hole in the machine-room roof. Mortars rounds have slammed into the coke ovens that heat coal at a temperature of more than 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit (about 1,000 degrees Celsius). One rocket strike nearly obliterated a turbine crucial to production. Another ruptured a gas pipe, igniting a nine-hour blaze that Mr. Magomedov still seems surprised he was able to extinguish.
“You can’t wait until tomorrow,” he said. “You can’t wait until they stop shooting. We wait a few moments and then we act. To extinguish the fires, plug the gaps, replace power sources. And you keep going until you fix all the holes.”“You can’t wait until tomorrow,” he said. “You can’t wait until they stop shooting. We wait a few moments and then we act. To extinguish the fires, plug the gaps, replace power sources. And you keep going until you fix all the holes.”
The plant is critically important to Ukraine and its efforts to revive an ailing economy. Prime Minister Arseniy P. Yatsenyuk has named the factory a strategic asset for Ukraine’s ailing economy.The plant is critically important to Ukraine and its efforts to revive an ailing economy. Prime Minister Arseniy P. Yatsenyuk has named the factory a strategic asset for Ukraine’s ailing economy.
The steel mills of Mariupol, an industrial hub also threatened by the separatists, run on coke produced in Avdiivka. If the supply of coke stopped (production has already fallen by more than half), the steel mills would be stranded.The steel mills of Mariupol, an industrial hub also threatened by the separatists, run on coke produced in Avdiivka. If the supply of coke stopped (production has already fallen by more than half), the steel mills would be stranded.
“They are purposely bombing Avdiivka in order to destroy the coking plant, to stop the Mariupol factories,” Mr. Yatsenyuk said during a news conference broadcast on national television last month. “To leave 30,000 people without work and to provoke a social explosion, to leave us as a government without currency.”“They are purposely bombing Avdiivka in order to destroy the coking plant, to stop the Mariupol factories,” Mr. Yatsenyuk said during a news conference broadcast on national television last month. “To leave 30,000 people without work and to provoke a social explosion, to leave us as a government without currency.”
Political views within the factory are mixed. Many workers, hailing from territory controlled by the separatist Donetsk People’s Republic and with family still living there, sympathize with the separatists. Others, including some top managers like Mr. Magomedov, favor the government.Political views within the factory are mixed. Many workers, hailing from territory controlled by the separatist Donetsk People’s Republic and with family still living there, sympathize with the separatists. Others, including some top managers like Mr. Magomedov, favor the government.
But the plant, owned by Rinat Akhmetov, once Ukraine’s richest man, continues to pay salaries and is a lifeline for the thousands who work there, so politics takes a back seat.But the plant, owned by Rinat Akhmetov, once Ukraine’s richest man, continues to pay salaries and is a lifeline for the thousands who work there, so politics takes a back seat.
Fearing what they call response fire, the workers have opposed placing artillery positions near the plant or the town of Avdiivka, which is in the throes of a humanitarian crisis.Fearing what they call response fire, the workers have opposed placing artillery positions near the plant or the town of Avdiivka, which is in the throes of a humanitarian crisis.
Despite the danger of shelling and extensive damage, the factory is considered one of the safest places in the area. Because roads to the plant are contested and the nearby towns where workers live lack electricity and water, nearly 2,000 employees are living on the factory grounds, sleeping on cots just a few feet from where they work.Despite the danger of shelling and extensive damage, the factory is considered one of the safest places in the area. Because roads to the plant are contested and the nearby towns where workers live lack electricity and water, nearly 2,000 employees are living on the factory grounds, sleeping on cots just a few feet from where they work.
Four of the five workers who died amid the shelling were on roads near the plant or in the city of Avdiivka. But there have been many close calls.Four of the five workers who died amid the shelling were on roads near the plant or in the city of Avdiivka. But there have been many close calls.
Anna Skvortsova, a personnel director, grew up in Avdiivka. But for the last several months she has been living in the factory’s Soviet-era nuclear bomb shelter, which has been converted into an office and living space. As bomb shelters go, it is surprisingly cheerful, with good lighting, a bank of computers with access to the Internet and plans for a new heating system.Anna Skvortsova, a personnel director, grew up in Avdiivka. But for the last several months she has been living in the factory’s Soviet-era nuclear bomb shelter, which has been converted into an office and living space. As bomb shelters go, it is surprisingly cheerful, with good lighting, a bank of computers with access to the Internet and plans for a new heating system.
Ms. Skvortsova and a colleague, also named Anna, work in a concrete-walled boiler room. Earlier, they traveled occasionally to Avdiivka to see if their apartments had been damaged. Now, the trip of several miles into town, even under the cease-fire negotiated last month, is too dangerous.Ms. Skvortsova and a colleague, also named Anna, work in a concrete-walled boiler room. Earlier, they traveled occasionally to Avdiivka to see if their apartments had been damaged. Now, the trip of several miles into town, even under the cease-fire negotiated last month, is too dangerous.
The two moved into the bomb shelter when two shells crashed through the roof of their office on the second floor of the factory’s administrative building. Ms. Skvortsova, who had just left the room to speak with a colleague, was thrown to the ground by the explosion. If she had been at her desk, she said, she would have been killed.The two moved into the bomb shelter when two shells crashed through the roof of their office on the second floor of the factory’s administrative building. Ms. Skvortsova, who had just left the room to speak with a colleague, was thrown to the ground by the explosion. If she had been at her desk, she said, she would have been killed.
“I didn’t see it; I felt it,” she said, still shaken by the experience. “I was only saved by a miracle.”“I didn’t see it; I felt it,” she said, still shaken by the experience. “I was only saved by a miracle.”
Nearly every worker at the factory has a similar story. Nikolay Skhadyak, 39, was pouring superheated coal from the ovens into a transfer cart when mortar rounds began falling about 100 yards away. It was the third time he had been under fire.Nearly every worker at the factory has a similar story. Nikolay Skhadyak, 39, was pouring superheated coal from the ovens into a transfer cart when mortar rounds began falling about 100 yards away. It was the third time he had been under fire.
When asked why he did not quit on the spot, Mr. Skhadyak gave a familiar answer.When asked why he did not quit on the spot, Mr. Skhadyak gave a familiar answer.
“How can I not work? I have to feed my family,” he said, sitting soot-faced in an aging control booth that glides back and forth among the ovens. Through a window, an open coking furnace, a 20-foot-high maw of fire, appeared to sail by.“How can I not work? I have to feed my family,” he said, sitting soot-faced in an aging control booth that glides back and forth among the ovens. Through a window, an open coking furnace, a 20-foot-high maw of fire, appeared to sail by.
“There is no way out,” Mr. Skhadyak said. “And there is no work anywhere else in the chemical business.”“There is no way out,” Mr. Skhadyak said. “And there is no work anywhere else in the chemical business.”
Every other major factory in Avdiivka has closed, and other coking plants in the region have either stopped or are producing a tenth of their normal output.Every other major factory in Avdiivka has closed, and other coking plants in the region have either stopped or are producing a tenth of their normal output.
Since the bombing began, 600 workers have quit or taken extended leave from the plant, while 324 others agreed to come in periodically, receiving two-thirds salaries, Mr. Magomedov said.Since the bombing began, 600 workers have quit or taken extended leave from the plant, while 324 others agreed to come in periodically, receiving two-thirds salaries, Mr. Magomedov said.
But thousands more stayed on full time. They did so for their salaries, for their safety, or out of fealty to the plant.But thousands more stayed on full time. They did so for their salaries, for their safety, or out of fealty to the plant.
Pavel Zhelavy, a grizzled foreman, has been working at the plant for 36 years, since he was 24. When he planned to retire, he was asked to stay on as an adviser because of his knowledge of the coking process.Pavel Zhelavy, a grizzled foreman, has been working at the plant for 36 years, since he was 24. When he planned to retire, he was asked to stay on as an adviser because of his knowledge of the coking process.
He was moving in earlier this month, carrying a folding cot into the administration building.He was moving in earlier this month, carrying a folding cot into the administration building.
“There are two reasons I’m moving in. First, I’m almost always needed here. Second, because it’s cold in my house,” he joked. He had moved his family away from danger to an apartment in Berdyansk, well behind the lines. But now he needed the money to pay the rent.“There are two reasons I’m moving in. First, I’m almost always needed here. Second, because it’s cold in my house,” he joked. He had moved his family away from danger to an apartment in Berdyansk, well behind the lines. But now he needed the money to pay the rent.
His two brothers live near Donetsk. He said he had not seen them since the fighting began because he had not crossed the front lines.His two brothers live near Donetsk. He said he had not seen them since the fighting began because he had not crossed the front lines.
“We don’t need a cease-fire,” he said. “We need peace.”“We don’t need a cease-fire,” he said. “We need peace.”