Ümit KARTOĞLU Journalist, filmmaker, documentarian, and writer Ümit Kıvanç produced the film 16 Tons in 2011, approaching the history of humanity through the prism of coal with an ironic gaze, while personally undertaking its full design and production. Ten years later, he re-edited the film using new visual material and techniques. As the film lays bare the destitution of miners, it is interwoven with different interpretations of Merle Travis ’s hit song Sixteen Tons , performed by various artists, forming a documentary reflection on conscience and the free market. When the film turns to Zonguldak and the coal question (under the chapter titled The Age of Diamonds ), Ümit first interrogates - and virtually dismantles - the Uzun Mehmet narrative: “The known history of coal mining in Tü rkiye, like almost everything else related to progress, development, and the free market, is a product of PR. The story is that one Tall Mehmet, when being discharged from the navy was given a piece of coal by his commander, who said,  ‘Go find more of this!’, except Tall Mehmet probably never existed. Nowhere there were any steamboats then in the Ottoman Navy. According to legend to begin his search right here and went to the mill over there - but there was no path between them. The locals have known about coal since the time before Christ long before Tall Mehmet’s ledged discovery in 1829. In a well forested area, they burned wood, and had no interest in smelly coal. That’s the long in a short of it.” Looking at human history, one encounters countless testimonies of prisoners, soldiers, prisoners of war, debtors, and even the mentally ill being forced to work in mines without any safety measures whatsoever. These practices, readable as the reinvention of slavery , clearly show how labor, exploitation, and state power have intertwined throughout history. In this sense, the history of coal mining belongs not only to industrial history but also to the history of oppression, violence, exploitation, and desperation. Over time, the form of slavery and forced labor changed. In places such as the Zonguldak coal basin, mining was presented to the local population as almost the only form of employment , condemning people to this labor. In Zonguldak, the relationship with the mine is not voluntary ; it is compulsory . ANGER ERUPTING IN THE BASIN The great workers’ resistance that erupted in the Zonguldak coal basin in 1965 was the result both of inhuman working conditions and of the anger created by performance bonuses, meant to be distributed from company profits, being allocated only to those close to management. The strike, which began in Kozlu on 10 March, quickly spread across the entire basin. Thousands of workers occupied pitheads, refused to descend into the mines, erected barricades, and blocked strike-breaking. The state responded with a massive show of force involving gendarmerie units, naval personnel, and even fighter jets. Gunfire resulted in the deaths of Satılmış Tepe and Mehmet Çavdar , with many workers and soldiers injured. The city was paralyzed for days; public offices were closed. Yet nothing forced the resistance to retreat. While the government described the events as an uprising , and despite the passive stance of the Türk-İş Syndicate leadership, who accused workers using anti-communist rhetoric, the spontaneous movement rising from below succeeded: bonuses were distributed equally. Arrests and repression, however, left deep scars in the city’s memory. The photograph taken by Özdemir Gürsoy of Milliyet , showing Mehmet Çavdar ’s funeral, became one of the enduring symbols etched into the history of pain. Friends carrying the body of the striking miner Mehmet Çavdar, killed by gendarmerie bullets, back to his village. Photo: Özdemir Gürsoy – Milliyet In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the Gulf Crisis marked not only a geopolitical rupture but also a threshold that made visible the class effects of neoliberal transformation through energy policies. Although discourse favoring domestic resources grew stronger, this did not translate into a shift in favor of labor. Coal was either pushed to be extracted at lower cost or targeted for liquidation to facilitate imports. In Zonguldak, coal was not merely a production input; it was the living space of a city and a class. Yet neoliberal rationality coded this space as inefficient and burdensome . The lingering narratives of imports as a “relieving solution” or strikes as mere cost items are traces of how this period reshaped class perception. THE LANGUAGE OF DARKNESS IN POETRY AND PHOTOGRAPHY Mehmet Yılmaz Karaibrahimoğlu , the great poet of Zonguldak and a miner himself, who passed away in 2020 due to COVID-related complications, described the days of the 1990–1991 strike: “I am lost in the darkness of the earth It wraps my body like a blanket The pitch-black darkness of the mine As if I were tunneling toward the center of the world My overalls on my back, a shroud already prepared I have grown longing for nights with and without moonlight Has the day broken outside Has the sun risen over the oaks Are purple violets heralding spring Did the speckled rooster crow too early At the tip of a pickaxe under a headlamp’s glow Hope is the entire universe The sky is three thousand light-years away” ( Strike Days , 1992) In poetry, the Zonguldak coal mines are not merely a place or an economic activity; they become a dense metaphor for labor, darkness, poverty, death, solidarity, and rebellion. The same emotion can be seen in the photographs taken by Birol Üzmez before the 1990 strike and the 1991 march to Ankara. In one interview, Birol once said: “We don’t really like getting close to people. Rather than deep subjects, we prefer to look from afar. People like landscape photography.” I ask him how this relationship developed and what distinguishes his photographs from other’s images of miners. “For me, the mine is also a metaphor, just like in poetry,” Birol says. “A light emerging from darkness, a resistance kneaded with labor.” Foto Turan , Birol ’s uncle, who worked as a tikeci in the Gelik pits, played a major role in shaping my love for photography from an early age. “Our house was in Soğuksu, right next to the washery. I was born right inside coal. The shift sirens of the Çaydamar pits, the wagons carrying coal to the washery, the firedamp and collapse reports on EKİ radio… That’s how I grew up.” Photograph: Birol Üzmez Birol says that his photography is not about distance but about forming a bond. “I never shoot without permission. I follow the story; I tell a narrative. First I get to know the person, understand them, build trust. Then they open up their world. This takes time - patience and respect. Being with miners means sharing their darkness.” Like Sebastião Salgado , Birol sees documentary photography as a vector, a bridge that connects the visible and the invisible, meaningful only when touched with the heart. “ A mine is not just stone; it is the human soul.” “When I frame the shot, I construct the story. Once I press the shutter, I don’t go back; I don’t cut things out. Documentary work isn’t easy. Entering people’s lives is a privilege and an honor. It humbles you; it sets you free.” Birol ’s photographic philosophy is to “excavate the layers of life like a mine.” What sets him apart from other photographers is precisely this deep bond: seeing through the miner’s eyes, sharing their darkness, finding the light together. That is why his frames are different, because they are also his own story. TOMORROW: The rise of a city