Stefan van Boesschoten
Stefan van Boesschoten (37) has worked at the IJmuiden site since 2008. He arrived as a young recruit, fresh from military service and searching for direction. His father once pointed out an advertisement for the vocational school run by the former Hoogovens. “Couldn’t that be something for you?” It marked the beginning of a working life shaped by shifts — vocational training, a degree in engineering, the energy plant — and ultimately his current position as shift supervisor at the coke and gas plants.
The two plants stand just over a kilometre apart, linked by systems older than Stefan himself. For years, they have faced intense criticism from environmental campaigners and repeated penalty orders from the environmental regulator.
He knows the culture from the inside.
“In the old days, it really was like the Wild West,” he says.
“That has changed in recent years.” He readily acknowledges that pressure from outside played a part. Safety, emissions and inspections now rank much higher on the agenda than when he began.
Still, he sometimes reads allegations that Tata deliberately conceals information or neglects maintenance. That bothers him, especially because what he sees on the shop floor is very different: the men who inspect the ovens every day, seal leaks or stand on the scorching-hot roof wearing Airstream helmets, monitoring the process through the heat and smoke.
“It is our plant,” he says.
“People work here their entire lives.”
That loyalty is palpable, but the criticism from outside does affect him — particularly the idea that “anything goes” at night. For decades, a saying in Wijk aan Zee has claimed: “They either do it secretly or they do it at night.”
“Nonsense,” Stefan says. “We are always being watched by cameras. Nobody wants to cause emissions.”
The plant is older than most of the people working there, but its days are numbered: Coke and Gas Plant 2 is scheduled to close in 2030, a firm commitment made by Tata Steel. Until then, every step is closely scrutinised. Every malfunction and every emission is held against the coke plants. Cameras operated by environmental campaigners and the environmental regulator record every failure.
“Technology fails,” he says. “Just like a car.” Sometimes things simply go wrong: valves, doors or systems fail to operate as they should. “But we want to do the best job possible until 2030. You close something down properly.”
I tell him that I have often thought about him in recent weeks — a young father of two boys, like me — and read aloud what Jacob de Boer, professor of environmental chemistry and toxicology, told me earlier: that working at a coke and gas plant amounted to “suicide in the long run.”
There is a brief silence. The words hit home.
Then he composes himself. Almost instinctively, he falls back on his professional knowledge. He counters the statement by calmly explaining how the Airstream helmet works and how filters and PAH tests are used to monitor exposure. Calmly and precisely, as if bringing the conversation back to the ground he knows.
He is not particularly worried about his health. Not because he does not care, but because he trusts the measurements and precautions: the helmet, the protocols and the positive-pressure systems.
“If you use your PPE — your personal protective equipment — you’ll be fine,” he says. “Everything is monitored.”
He understands how difficult it is to rebuild trust among local residents. “Sometimes people outside do not want to hear what we are doing better here.” Yet he considers that essential. “You need the local community if the transition is to succeed.”
He describes the day Greenpeace entered the site: three hundred people carrying flags and banners, during his crew’s shift. It was an intense and tense day, but it ended without escalation.
“You find yourselves facing one another, but you still want everyone to remain safe.”
Some of the demonstrators genuinely wanted to understand how the process worked. Others had come to blockade the site. He clearly appreciated the conversations with the former more.
Towards the end of our conversation, he speaks almost in passing about the quiet moments during night shifts; about eating frittata — a kind of substantial omelette — with the crew on a Sunday; and about the view from the coal tower on New Year’s Eve, with oliebollen, hot chocolate and fireworks above the IJmuiden sea locks.
These are the moments that sustain the work.
“It is heavy industry,” he says. “In its purest form.”
He wants to remain until Coke and Gas Plant 2 closes. What happens after that, he will decide when the time comes. He once spent six months working elsewhere, but returned.
“Tata is a good employer,” he says.
“And you work as a team. You know one another. You carry that plant together until its final day.”