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Riders without rights

The workers who deliver and don’t get paid


30/07/2025

For three freezing months over the winter of 2022, Sharmila, an international student from India, biked across Berlin delivering food for Wolt. She followed every ping on the app, waited outside restaurants in the cold, and messaged support when things went wrong. “I was tracking hours like an employee would,” she later said, but unlike an employee at virtually any other job, Sharmila was never paid.

Between November 2022 and January 2023, Sharmila worked through Wolt’s app, navigating a digital interface that issued orders and scheduled her shifts. But the job wasn’t with Wolt directly, at least not on paper. 

Instead, she had been routed through a third-party subcontractor or so-called ‘fleet partner’ Mobile World, a phone shop on Karl-Marx-Strasse run by a man named Ali Imran. It was Imran who collected her documents, set up her rider profile, and promised regular payments. When the first payday passed without wages, she was told there were delays. A month later, the same excuses followed. By January, Sharmila was owed over €3,200 and still hadn’t received a single cent.

She wasn’t alone.

Ashish, another international student from India, first joined Wolt in 2021 on a direct contract. He was hired through a recruitment ad, issued gear from the company’s Ostbahnhof office, and trained to use the app. The work started off steady at €4.70 per delivery, plus tips and bonuses. But over time, the bonuses were removed, the base rate was cut, and the number of orders shrank. Eventually, access to shifts disappeared completely, so Ashish left the platform, only to return months later but this time through Mobile World. By January 2023 he was owed €1,800.

Javed, a Master’s student from Pakistan, also worked directly for Wolt before his contract ended. In October 2022, he responded to a Facebook ad that led him to Mobile World. Imran told him he was recruiting for Wolt and assured him that everything—the app, the hours, the payments—would function as before. “The process was exactly the same,” Javed said. “When I asked why Wolt wasn’t doing this directly, I was told, ‘they want to hire a lot of people and use our services.’” Javed began delivering orders in good faith, but like the others, his wages also never came.

By mid-January, dozens of workers had flooded the WhatsApp group Mobile World had set up asking about their missing wages. Some shared that their rents were due. Others said they were owed even more than Sharmila or Ashish. Then came a final message from Imran: Wolt hadn’t paid him, so he wouldn’t be paying them. Any work after January 15th, he said, would be at their own risk. After that, he disappeared.

Some riders, increasingly desperate, attempted to contact Wolt directly through support chats, email, and even by showing up at the company’s office. But their appeals were met with silence or deflection. Wolt insisted it bore no responsibility, referring all complaints back to the subcontractor.

“The scale of the deception didn’t immediately register,” Javed said. “This is such a big company. We still thought the amounts would come because this was Germany.” But Germany, it turns out, is exactly where a multinational can hide behind layers of legal opacity and leave its workers unpaid.

What began as a student job to make ends meet soon turned into a fight for wages, recognition and justice. In June, Sharmila brought her case to Berlin’s labour court. She argued that the subcontracting structure Wolt had built was not a genuine partnership with independent operators, but a deliberate system to avoid labour law while retaining control over the work.

The court disagreed and Sharmila didn’t receive her owed earnings. It found there was insufficient evidence to prove a direct employment relationship with Wolt. The decision underscored how platform companies can design their operations to escape responsibility while still directing every part of the job.

According to workers’ collectives supporting the case, more than 120 couriers have reported similar experiences, with over €100,000 in unpaid wages linked to subcontractors operating under Wolt’s name.

A business model designed for distance

Wolt’s defence, like many digital labour platforms, depends not just on the physical distance between rider and office, but on legal distance. They essentially create a chain of subcontracting that separates them from liability. In the courtroom, lawyers for Wolt insisted the company had nothing to do with Sharmila’s employment. She had signed a contract with IMOQX GmbH (trading as Mobile World), and any failure to pay was theirs to answer for.

But Sharmila’s daily reality told a different story. She received orders through Wolt’s app, responded to Wolt’s support system, and was bound by its shift-booking rules and geofenced delivery zones. When the company had previously employed workers directly, the interface was identical. As were the tasks. What had changed was not the job, only the line on the contract where the employer’s name appeared.

Aju Ghevarghese John, a Berlin-based lawyer and researcher has been supporting many of the riders’ cases. He believes it’s not a bureaucratic accident or loophole, but a designed legal architecture meant to obscure accountability, saying, “The subcontractor model is built to make workers disappear from the platform’s responsibilities.” The couriers, he explained, operate in a legal twilight zone, hired and managed in practice by Wolt, but not recognised in law. “Even when the platform decides everything about the job—where the worker goes, how fast, how much they get paid, the company can say: ‘we are not the employer.’”

Germany’s labour protections, but not for everyone

The case against Wolt exposes more than one bad subcontractor. It lays bare how Germany’s legal framework, while robust on paper, fails to protect those most dependent on it: migrant workers operating on the fringes of formal employment.

Sharmila, Ashish, and Javed weren’t undocumented. Like hundreds of others, they arrived in Germany on student visas or skilled worker pathways—legal, regulated, and vetted. But once inside the country, the system that brought them in left them to navigate a digital labour market with no oversight. “These workers are being brought in through formal schemes,” explains John, “but once they arrive, they’re not integrated into any institutional systems. There is no training or language support, no workplace induction, no orientation to their rights.”

In that vacuum, subcontracting thrives. Fleet partners often charge illegal onboarding fees of up to €500, skim wages, and pay workers in cash. Riders are routinely left without payslips, proper contracts, or any legal documentation of what they’ve earned, making it nearly impossible to file a claim later. 

It’s also not just lost wages that riders are burdened with. Equipment used for deliveries—e-bikes, charging kits, thermal bags—is often leased in the rider’s own name. “It’s a system where the platform doesn’t own the equipment, but it’s leased out in the rider’s name,” said John. “So if anything goes wrong, the liability falls entirely on them.”

And when things go wrong, they can go horribly wrong. In at least two cases, faulty lithium battery chargers for the e-bikes sparked fires in workers’ apartments, destroying not only the bikes but also their homes, documents, and belongings. No compensation or support was offered. “The risk is completely shifted onto the workers,” said John. “The company designs the structure, profits from the labour, but the worker is the one who’s legally and financially exposed.”

Paper rights, no reinforcement

Germany has some of the strongest labour protections in Europe, but many of them function more as theoretical safeguards than enforceable rights when applied to migrant gig workers. That’s not because the laws are weak, but because they depend on enforcement mechanisms that barely exist in sectors like food delivery.

For John, the problem isn’t the law, it’s who the law listens to. “Implementation of labour law in Germany is dependent to a large extent on union density,” said John. “In a sector such as this, where there is such low union density, the actual implementation of labour law will also be very minimal.”

And that union density is low for a reason. Many workers in this industry don’t join unions—not out of apathy, but because the work is so precarious. For international students and newly arrived migrants, the job is seen as temporary, a way to survive between semesters or status transitions. Platforms exploit that short-termism to keep workers atomised and disposable.

Without unions, workers lack not just bargaining power, but access to legal advice, grievance channels, and collective visibility. It’s not that riders are outside the law, it’s that the law doesn’t follow them into the app-based gig economy.

The EU has recognised this gap. In 2026, the Platform Work Directive is due to take effect, introducing a presumption of employment and holding companies jointly liable for abuses by subcontractors. But until then enforcement will depend on what Germany chooses to do with the laws it already has. And right now, the platforms are still a step ahead.

What you can do

It’s easy to forget that behind every food delivery is a person pedalling through traffic, in rain or snow, to bring a meal they might never afford themselves. And while the apps promise convenience and efficiency to customers, they conceal a system where the people doing the hardest work are also those with the fewest rights.

Workers like Sharmila, Ashish and Javed are not anomalies. They represent a growing share of the platform economy, where flexibility often masks exploitation, and where a missed paycheck can mean unpaid rent, mounting debt, or even legal jeopardy. These aren’t problems the algorithm can solve. They require public attention, legal pressure, and solidarity.

It may be tempting to respond with a boycott. But for many riders, these jobs are among the only ones available. International students and migrant workers face restrictions on working hours, language barriers, and unstable residency, all of which limit access to more secure employment. As flawed as the platform economy is, it often remains one of the few entry points into paid work. Boycotting it won’t fix the structure and might only make life harder for those already struggling in it.

But if you are ordering food through one of these platforms, there are ways to support the people delivering it for you: 

  • Start by tipping in cash when you can. Many riders — especially those working under subcontractors — never receive tips added through the app, as those earnings are often withheld, miscalculated, or quietly siphoned away. A cash tip goes directly into their hands.
  • You can also support the grassroots organisations stepping in where the law has fallen short. Groups like Berlin Workers Support, Lieferando Workers Collective, and the Migrant Workers Solidarity Movement offer legal aid, organise demonstrations, and help riders challenge the systems that keep them invisible. These organisations are often the only shield between precarious workers and the full weight of legal and corporate indifference.
  • And perhaps most importantly, talk to the riders themselves. As John put it, “If you want to know what’s really going on, talk to the workers, ask them how they’re being paid, how they got the job, who they report to.” Listening to their experiences cuts through the abstraction and makes the system visible. Then sharing what you learn is a first step in pushing back against the silence these companies rely on.

So, the next time a delivery arrives at your door, consider the labour that made it possible. Not just the ride across town, but the ongoing fight for recognition, dignity and a fair wage that too often remains invisible.

Please note, all the riders’ names mentioned are aliases.

Filipinos, solidarity allies hold People’s SONA outside PH Embassy

Report from an action in Berlin, 28th July 2025


Filipinos and solidarity allies gathered outside the Philippine Embassy for the Filipino People’s State of the Nation Address (SONA)—a bold counter to the official narrative delivered annually by the Marcos-Duterte regime.

Organized by ALPAS Pilipinas, Gabriela Germany, Migrante Germany, Bayan-EU, and RESBAK Germany, with support from BPSO (Berlin Philippines Solidarity Organisation) and ICHRP (International Coalition for Human Rights in the Philippines) Germany, the protest was one of over 30 actions worldwide exposing the truth behind the glossy government address.

Speakers condemned the Marcos regime’s neglect of national crises, its deepening foreign dependency, and continued repression. ALPAS slammed Marcos’ recent U.S. visit amid deadly monsoon rains and flash floods in the Philippines. “While the Filipino people were literally drowning, Marcos was breaking bread with the likes of Donald Trump and selling off […] our sovereignty,” said ALPAS Pilipinas. They noted how Marcos has been accommodating foreign military interests, and how Germany, too, is complicit through the signing of a recent Germany-Philippines defense agreement.

Gabriela and Migrante spotlighted worsening conditions for women and migrant workers, linking mass migration to poverty and systemic injustice. Gabriela renewed its urgent call for a national minimum wage of ₱1,200/day, saying it’s a step toward “economic justice and dignity for every Filipino worker.” Migrante added that “Filipinos face backbreaking workloads, racism, and discrimination abroad, and this is the direct result of poverty and joblessness at home. Migration is a right, but it should never be forced by desperation.”

RESBAK and solidarity allies decried human rights abuses and the expansion of U.S.-led military influence in the region. BAYAN-EU exposed elite impunity, denouncing dynastic rule, corruption, and militarized governance. “He upholds the very machinery Duterte built—one that silences the people while protecting dynasties and plunderers.” 

As Marcos enters his his fourth year in power, Berlin’s People’s SONA echoed a growing global call: Marcos Singilin, Duterte Panagutin!

Photo Gallery: Internationalist Queer Pride 2025

Berlin-Neukölln, Saturday 26th July 2025


29/07/2025

6 August 1945: US drops a nuclear bomb on Hiroshima

This week in working class history


At 9:15 a.m. on August 6, 1945, the U.S. aircraft Enola Gay dropped a nuclear bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. The attack killed 140,000 people—about 40% of the city’s population. Japanese news agencies reported: “The impact of the bomb was so terrific that practically all living things, human and animals, were literally seared to death by the tremendous heat and pressure engineered by the blast. All of the dead and injured were burned beyond recognition.”

Three days later, the U.S. dropped a second nuclear bomb on Nagasaki, killing another 80,000 people. The number of civilians immediately killed in Hiroshima and Nagasaki was more than double the number of American troops killed during the entire Pacific War. Hundreds of thousands more would later die from radiation poisoning and its long-term effects.

U.S. President Harry S. Truman claimed the bombs were dropped to “shorten the agony of war” and “save the lives of thousands and thousands of young Americans.” Yet there was no ethical justification for using them. The war in Europe had ended one month earlier, and Japan was already on the verge of surrender. Even the warmongering British Prime Minister Winston Churchill admitted: “It would be a mistake to suppose that the fate of Japan was settled by the atomic bomb.”

The real reason, as Truman himself admitted, was to “put us in a position to dictate the terms of the end of war.” As World War II was drawing to a close, the Cold War with the Soviet Union was beginning. Demonstrating the U.S.’s ability to kill hundreds of thousands with a single bomb projected military dominance. In response to the bombing, U.S. Chief of Staff Admiral Leahy remarked: “We had adopted an ethical standard common to that of the barbarians of the Dark Age.”

Nuclear weapons have not stopped conventional warfare—just look at the many wars being fought today, often by nations with nuclear arsenals. What they have created is the permanent threat of total annihilation at the push of a button. They are also a symbol of how far the world’s rulers are willing to go to cling to power, even at the cost of humanity. The best way to mourn the dead of Hiroshima and Nagasaki is to demand the complete and permanent abolition of nuclear weapons.

Berlin vs. Solidarity with Palestine

Berlin prosecutes Palestine solidarity while shielding systemic violence and silencing dissent


The German police and state have been criminalising solidarity with Palestine for decades, from resolutions against the BDS movement in 2019 to banning Nakba anniversary commemorations in 2022 and 2023.

For the past 22 months, the German government—particularly in Berlin—has intensified its attacks on the Palestine solidarity movement, justifying its actions through Staatsräson, or unconditional support for the genocidal state of Israel. Bans and cancellations of events, speakers, talks, and exhibitions have become the norm.

Peaceful demonstrations have been systematically attacked by riot police, who have made thousands of arrests and left many injured—some seriously. Riot police also evicted student occupations and camps at the so-called Free University of Berlin and Humboldt University after the university presidents reported their own students. Police investigators are now monitoring social media, likely with AI assistance, to track down the infamous “imported antisemitism”—while ignoring the homegrown kind, “made in Germany.”

Most cases involving detained individuals, and many targeted through police surveillance on social media, are handed over to the Berlin public prosecutor’s office. The latest estimates suggest that, since 7 October alone, there have been 9,000 proceedings in Berlin.

An unknown number of these cases are dismissed or settled out of court, while the rest proceed to trial. The volume of cases related to Palestinian solidarity since 7 October has been so high that the public prosecutor’s office reorganized the section responsible for hate crimes after the latest phase of the genocide. As a result, most cases are now handled by Section 231, which also investigates antisemitic offences and so-called “criminal” acts during demonstrations. All of these defendants are being tried in Berlin’s criminal court.

The court’s cases fall into three interrelated categories, all stemming from the police actions described above.

1. “Offences” related to slogans and symbols deemed antisemitic or linked to organizations designated as terrorist in Germany, such as the Samidoun network or Hamas. These include slogans like “From the River to the Sea, Palestine Will Be Free,” “Zionists are fascists, they kill children and civilians,” as well as symbols like red triangles and raised fists.

2. Trials of students reported by their universities for attempting to initiate political discussions on campus and demanding an end to institutional collaboration with the genocide in Gaza. These individuals are typically charged with trespassing and disturbing the peace.

3. Arrests carried out at demonstrations and sit-ins, typically after slogans are chanted or “dangerous” symbols—such as watermelons—are displayed. Riot police then enter aggressively in groups of 10 to 15 to make arrests. For each arrest, they often detain additional people, accusing them of interference or verbal assault. Arrests also occur when police unilaterally declare a demonstration over. Recently, there has been a rise in arrests of individuals already “known” to the police.

Nearly all those arrested under these three categories are charged with resisting arrest. Those who are injured, many of whom require hospitalization, are often additionally accused of assaulting the police.

4. Trials concerning social media posts, often involving the use of “prohibited” slogans or statements considered Holocaust denial in Germany. This includes any comparison between the genocide of the Palestinian people and the German genocide of the Jewish people—even when made by anti-Zionist Jews whose families may have been exterminated by the very predecessors of those persecuting them today.

All of these cases are tried in Berlin’s central criminal court, with an excessive number assigned to the court’s high-security chambers. It is, to say the least, astonishing that 19-year-old students accused of trespassing—or peaceful protesters—are treated as dangerous criminals in a country where racist murders routinely go unpunished.

These trials offer a glimpse into the psyche of the German state. Defendants—especially Palestinians—frequently face racist and paternalistic comments, accused of disturbing the German rule of law simply for protesting the extermination of their family members and friends. Many experience their first humiliation when judges, upon asking where they come from, refuse to write “Palestine” and instead label them as stateless.

Many judges still passionately cite 7 October and the protection of Jewish life in their verdicts, while entirely ignoring the genocide, classifying it as a matter of “freedom of opinion.” In other words, the existence of an ongoing genocide is not treated as fact, but as a debatable opinion.

Verdicts and sentences often hinge on three main factors: the judge, the skin colour of the accused (with darker skin seemingly a frequent disadvantage—especially when the goal is to “teach a lesson” about integrating into German society), and whether video evidence exists from the moment of arrest. Such footage is crucial in countering the police narrative, which the courts tend to accept, sometimes despite obvious contradictions.

Particularly ridiculous are the trials for contempt of authority. The Berlin police appear genuinely offended when those they pepper-spray or beat respond by insulting them.

A new wave of trials is being driven by Zionist activists who incite violence at demonstrations and then accuse protesters of misconduct. The police, without collecting evidence, arrest the identified individuals, and prosecutors take the cases to court. Most of these trials end in “not guilty” verdicts, but this has not deterred the activists, the police, or the prosecution from continuing to criminalize whomever they choose.

A German politician known for attending anti-genocide demonstrations—flanked by at least ten police officers, holding flowers, and a sign reading “rape is not resistance”—has been raising money online while accusing anyone who challenges her. Among them is journalist Jakob Reimann, whom she accused and temporarily prevailed against in court, simply for quoting her verbatim, including a video clip of the interview. In that footage, this German Zionist made startling statements about reports then emerging concerning Israeli torture prisons, including rape.

Reimann’s statement on the day of his verdict captured the resolve of pro-Palestinian activists: no matter how relentless the state’s lawfare becomes, they will not stop until they see a free Palestine.

“We are, of course, disappointed that the right-wing influencer Karoline Preisler managed to push through her attack on press freedom. But in a Germany governed by “Staatsräson,” which unconditionally and unwaveringly sides with the far-right Israeli regime despite the extreme crimes committed by the IDF, such a verdict hardly comes as a surprise.

We reject the opposing side’s claim that Preisler’s reference to the ‘more humane actor’ was about the alleged prosecution of rape allegations in Israel, and we were able to refute this on several points. However, the presiding judge made it clear from the outset that she was siding with the plaintiff’s position. That Preisler used such words at all in the context of brutal rapes is symptomatic of the appalling brutalization we are witnessing in the German discourse on Israel-Palestine.

We will not give up and will appeal the verdict.”