By Sarie

When asked to share my story, the first thought I had was about my claim not being addressed or viewed as a victim. 

I was 14 when I was trafficked to Lebanon and forced into child labour under the Kafala system, but I am not a victim. I am a survivor. 

I do not want my story to be one used for narratives of reducing the complexity of my years in Lebanon to be about me as a victim without the ability to fight for my rights independently. I have spent over 16 years in Lebanon, experiencing hardships that others won’t in an entire lifetime, but what I want people to take away from me sharing my life is the ability to persevere through the hardest of lives and to see the strength of survivors fighting not only for their rights but also fulfilling their dreams. 

My story of being trafficked began in a village in Ethiopia, where I lived the ordinary life of a teenager with my mother. My sister had travelled to Lebanon for work, and when her employer was looking for a domestic worker for his daughter’s household, my sister made a decision that changed my life, without my consent. I had no say in what happened next. I believed I was simply travelling to visit my sister in Lebanon, but instead, I was sent into the trap of the kafala system. My family made the decision for me. My age was altered on my passport, and in what felt like an instant, I found myself on an aeroplane to Beirut, heading into a future I had not chosen.

The route of trafficking led me through another country between Ethiopia and Lebanon. I don’t know which country it was, only that it was another Arab country and that I spent three days waiting at the airport before arriving in Beirut. Once in Beirut, I was picked up to go see my sister at her employer’s house. At this point, I still thought the purpose of my travel was to visit my sister and not to be forced into domestic work as a child. I spent two weeks with my sister teaching me the ins and outs of domestic work and cleaning, after which I was sent to the employer’s daughter to work in her household. That’s when I finally realised that I am not going to return home anytime soon. I struggled to adapt to this new reality as a 14-year-old teenager, and my relationship with my employer was filled with tensions and struggles. She knew I was 14. She was fully aware that she was partaking in the crime of child trafficking despite my sister explaining to her that I am not an adult. There was no way for her to deny my age; she saw me grow from being a teenager to a young woman. I had my first period while working as a child domestic worker. 

I also experienced sexual harassment in that same household as a young teenager. My employer’s husband did not see me as a child, as a vulnerable person, nor as a domestic worker. To him, I was an object, a commodity. I knew from other domestic workers in our building that he had a history of sexual harassment and exploitation of domestic workers whenever his wife was at work. Most left after 15 days, but I stayed for eight months. Again, I want to emphasise with this particular example, that yes, I was vulnerable, but I was not a victim because I told him that if he didn’t stop the abuse, I would expose him to his wife and her parents. I was strong enough to ensure my safety and well-being.

After eight months, I decided I wanted to leave. I was not willing to stay in this house. My employer’s husband tried to shake my relationship with her by instigating arguments. When I saw a window of opportunity during a family gathering, I went to my employers’ bedroom to retrieve my passport, my iqame (residency permit), a picture of my father and 50,000 LBP (around 33$ back then), thinking this was the salary I was owed for the months of employment. My employer kept my salary for me because I refused to send it to my family, since they were responsible for my trafficking.

Like so many other migrants, I ended up in Dawra, where members of my community took me in. An Ethiopian woman helped me find employment with a young woman. She treated me like a friend, and for as long as she could, she would keep me employed. However, we both realised that the Ethiopian woman who found me the employment tricked us both by making my employer pay the salary to her, rather than me. Once that employer was no longer able to keep me employed, she convinced her stepfather and family to take me in as their domestic worker. So they did, and they did so much more. I stayed with this family for over a year. I was treated like a family member, and with them knowing I was still a minor, they did ask me whether I would be ok if they informally adopted me. I did see them as family, and I did call them ‘Mama and Baba’. However, at one point, I realised that I was getting too attached to them and they were getting too attached to me. I did grow up through my time with them, but I still was a domestic worker, and the fact was that I wanted to earn more money than what they could afford to pay. 

At one point, even though I was with a family that treated me well and cared for me, I still felt a deep need to leave and be independent. One night, I left. I called them afterwards to apologise and explain that if I had told them in advance, leaving would have been too hard. They understood, and to this day, we remain in touch.

The next chapter of my life in Lebanon involved working as a freelancer, taking on a series of jobs where I was taken advantage of, both because of my age and lack of awareness. I was financially exploited by informal job brokers and by Ethiopians I shared a flat with. But through it all, I continued to grow, learn and become stronger. I also started to pursue interests. While continuing to work for businesses such as restaurants and gambling dens, I started to receive lessons in street dance. Like so many other teenagers, I wanted to learn hip-hop. At one point a man I met while dancing took me out on dates, and after a few months, I became pregnant. Despite the father of the child asking me to have an abortion, I decided to keep the child and continue the relationship, while also being the sole breadwinner for our future family. I managed to keep my pregnancy secret until I reached the 3rd trimester. I continued working as a freelancer through informal brokering until one day, seven months pregnant, I started bleeding after trying to lift a couch to clean. The broker was called, and after some arguments, I was let go of my position. I spent the final weeks of my pregnancy coming to terms with the fact that my body was not physically able to give birth naturally. After ten months of carrying my baby, it was decided I should give birth by C-section.

We found a hospital that offered affordable access to C-section, and despite my anxiety and refusal to receive full anasthesia, I gave birth to my beautiful son. There I was, trafficked as a child to end up in Lebanon and now, at just 19, suddenly a mother to a child. My memories of that time in the hospital are filled with moments of being supported and cared for, something I hadn’t often experienced. They did not see me as a black African woman or as a domestic worker, but as a mother. Strangers from adjacent rooms or random visitors would also visit my room to give me words of advice or encouragement. I was held while taking my first steps after surgery, and I was taught how to breastfeed my child. I felt safe and strong in the first few days of motherhood in Lebanon.  

Motherhood brought with it a new wave of energy and strength. Although I remained in the relationship for a few more years, I finally made the decision to leave my son’s father in 2019. The separation was far from easy; it led to conflicts over how to raise our son and included hurtful, derogatory remarks directed at my family. I left while he was working abroad. In response, he threatened to come back and take my son away from me.

The circumstances of my relationship, along with the threat to my role as a mother, pushed me to begin yet another chapter of my journey. I became a migrant activist and, in many ways, a community leader. I started attending migrant community centres and gatherings, taking part in as many trainings and workshops as I could. It was a way to build my skills, find strength in community and continue providing for my child and myself.

I was feeling like I was on the right path to where I was meant to be. At one point, however, the father returned from abroad and was waiting for me in my flat. I was forced to leave my son behind, and managed to leave and get legal support from a local NGO. After several months, during which I was working for a catering company and continuing to build my skills and knowledge through various NGOs and community groups, I was able to reunite with my child.

After gaining experience and knowledge through various trainings and freelance work with employers in the NGO sector, I secured a position with an international medical NGO as part of their outreach team working with migrant communities. This role allowed me to become deeply connected with a broader network of migrant leaders and the many NGOs working with and for migrant workers. During my time with the medical NGO, I met members of a migrant-focused NGO. When they began recruiting for a new team member, prioritising migrant workers, I took the initiative and joined them. It was a step toward working with, for and on behalf of my community.

I am still having struggles, fighting for my son’s legal paperwork and his right to access services and education. Despite his father being Lebanese, until this day, nine years later, my son is stateless. I myself am still undocumented without residency papers, unable to travel or even access adequate services myself. 

I want my story to be seen as a journey of strength and growth in the face of immense challenges. It reflects the realities of so many migrant women and girls who are trafficked into the trap of the kafala system. But it also speaks to our resilience, the determination and achievements of migrant leaders who continue to fight for our rights and freedoms.

Today, I work for an NGO, one of the sectors where migrant workers remain significantly underrepresented. I went from being a trafficked child, to a domestic worker, to a young mother and now to an activist and community representative. My journey is not only personal, it reflects the experiences of many others who are rising, resisting, and reclaiming their power.

I grew from being a trafficked child to being a domestic worker to being a young mother to being an activist.