Story by a Survivor of the Kafala System: Agnes

I had hoped to be a neurosurgeon. Or a computer expert.

But life didn't give me a runway to begin with - not even a patch of it.

I met somebody online in 2015. He got me pregnant. Then he ghosted. That was my introduction to motherhood and the realities of survival. 

No manuals. 

No preparation. 

Just my baby and me. 

Alone. 

Years passed. I was offered a job in 2021 in Europe. I waited nine months for a visa that never came. Ghosted again. 

So I found another agent, who promised me a better job in Dubai. Instead, I was told that: "There's a better deal in Lebanon — $250/month."

But I was too young. So I did what I never imagined I would do - I changed my age by adding four years. I created a whole new identity, convinced I was buying my way into a better future. Instead, I walked my way into a trap. When I arrived in Lebanon, I wasn't greeted - I was processed like a product for import. My legal documents were all taken, and I was picked up like a piece of luggage, handed over like property. That moment was when I came face-to-face with the reality of the Kafala system, without knowing the word itself. 

My employer’s house was lovely on the exterior. But inside, it was too quiet. Too clean. Too staged. My voice wasn't of any interest. My name wasn't important. I was instructed when to wake, eat, and sleep. Instructed not to shower more than two times a week, then shamed for having body odour. Even shampoo had to be earned. And somehow… it was considered normal to treat me, another human being, this way. After only one month, I was moved to a second family.

My situation went from bad to worse. I had to wake up earlier than I did in the previous house and clean everything before anyone else woke up. And then, clean again when the Madam woke up, because, according to her, “it was not clean enough.”

Occasionally, I was punished if I didn’t meet their expectations. And sometimes I would go a whole day without even one square meal, and when it came to sleep and rest, I wasn't allowed to go to bed before her, despite her regular sleeping time being after midnight, which meant I had to wake up at 6 AM at the latest.

I was instructed not to use the washing machine and was instead forced to wash her clothes by hand. No complaints were allowed. No compassion was offered. This situation continued for nine months, extending to three homes. I was forced to clean the house of my employer, her daughter, and her granddaughter, all while working for one boss for a poverty wage of merely $200, which was at times threatened to be reduced to $150. I broke inside by the blatant exploitation and decided to run away. I chose to try my luck as a freelancer, working on an hourly rate as a live-out domestic worker.

I managed to find the consulate and met other girls from my country. That is when I finally learned the name of my prison: The Kafala System. I became houseless and destitute, forced to sleep behind buildings. I begged for help. Life as a freelancer was not easy, considering I was still trapped under the Kafala System, still tied to my sponsor who had already put a letter of arrest out for me, consequently pushing me into an undocumented status with no residency permit. With no means of going back to my home country, I decided to report my exploitative employment conditions to the police, expecting deportation and a return home. I naively hoped the police would look into my eyes and see the desperate and vulnerable situation I was in. Instead, I was faced with the opposite and told, "Go tell your sponsor you want to go back." The same sponsor who would have probably locked me up, or worse, was supposed to be my solution. That was the day I gave up hoping and started surviving. 

I had no other choice but to embrace my new reality: I had to live. I had to stay alive for my son. That was the promise I had made, and I wasn't ready to break it. I slowly descended into the secretive, invisible life of undocumented migrant workers in Lebanon.

A community of broken pieces like me: illegal, invisible, but still breathing. I started asking questions, trying to understand even a fraction of what lay ahead of me. But most of it, I had to learn the hard way, relying only on myself.

A taxi driver, God bless him, took pity on me and got me a job at his friend's small shop for only $150 a month. But I counted my blessings, having work which included food and a place to sleep. Anything was better than a life on the streets of Beirut. I remained there for nine months. Met people and finally learned the ins and outs of the city. I built contacts, which eventually landed me a job again as a housemaid for $350. The family didn't look very rich, but I disregarded the warning signs. I needed the money. But after a month and a half, I still haven’t received a salary. They told me to “Go get it from an office.” I did not even know where. Then one day, I saw $150 in cash lying around. I took it. I left.

Survival. Again, friends came through. Sheltered me. Helped me get a new job in Nabatieh, where I worked for one month. Again, no salary. Again, I left. It became a cycle. Try. Get used to it. Leave. Repeat. 

Then, a miracle finally brought me some relief. A family on vacation in Lebanon offered to pay me $500 for one month as a domestic worker. I immediately jumped at the opportunity. For once, I had employers who were kind, fair, and honest. At the end of that short-term employment, I was paid the agreed salary and was offered a ride to the bus station. But my joy was short-lived when, upon my return to the shared house with other Kenyan girls, I was welcomed by a bag with my belongings placed outside the door. An attached message included the blunt and short announcement: “You are no longer welcome here.” No explanation was given as to what led to my sudden eviction; all I was offered was a harsh rejection. I picked up my things and started over again. By now, I had been freelancing for a year. Although life as an undocumented live-out worker wasn’t easy, it was mine, and I was free to make my own choices. I gathered a few other girls, who were also stranded, and we started a small communal life. We worked, we shared rent, and we supported each other.

After some time, I secured a better job. I gave some of the girls my old room and moved into a quieter, safer place with a friend. Finally, I thought I had found peace and comfort, until yet again, we tried to help other migrant women in need. We took in new girls and offered them safe shelter. Our generosity was our mistake. The new flatmates brought trouble by inviting men into our home. Noise and arguments caused problems with our tenancy. One day, while I was at work, the landlord phoned me and complained that some boys had caused a scene outside the house. He had had enough with the constant issues and was unwilling to continue to house us.  By the time I arrived home, we were evicted. He threatened to call the police and report us if we didn’t leave his property by 10 AM the next day. I had no money and no place to call home. My savings account back home in Kenya was frozen because my brother kept withdrawing all the remittances I had sent. Even the friends I had made before turned away and abandoned me. I ended up sleeping under a bridge with a friend beside me. That was how far down I had fallen. But God didn’t leave us behind; instead offered us a path to overcome our adversities.

A message shared by someone in a Kenyan community group chat was the answer to our hardships. A local organisation was providing shelter and assistance to migrant workers in need and had one available spot for placement. On the very same day, I also found new employment as a housemaid. My friend and I made a deal: My friend would request admission to the organisation’s temporary shelter while I would work in my new employment. But, once again, I found myself in an exploitative situation with no salary being paid after working for over a month. I had reached a dead end with only one solution. I turned to my backup plan: requesting admission to the shelter. I was lucky, and a place was available for me to claim. In total, I lived in Lebanon for three years, during which I faced hardships but also made friends. I found support and the space to heal with the support of the organisation running the shelter. The shelter’s assistance included the coordination of my repatriation process. But my return to Kenya was obstructed by my previous employer and sponsor, who had raised false criminal charges against me, accusing me of theft. She denied my wish to return home and instead wanted me to remain trapped and unable to leave Lebanon. There is no reason other than her malicious intent to extend my suffering. She wished for me to rot. 

I remained in the shelter, able to heal with the support of the organisation’s social workers, and finally, after waiting for ten months, justice finally arrived. Not glamorously. Not loudly. Just enough to set me free and leave Lebanon and the Kafala system behind me. I returned to Kenya empty-handed. No money. No savings. But in defiance of all the experienced adversities, I came back with my spirit intact. My son is still suffering and unwell, waiting for a treatment to alleviate his condition. But for now, he is strong enough to keep his heart beating. Many people around me kept making remarks about my circumstances: "You came back with nothing?" And I continue to answer with an unwavering smile: "Nothing in my hands, but with all the hope and faith still beating in my heart.”

I did not return rich, but I returned alive. And now I can finally speak and share my story of how I prevailed against the Kafala system and all its forms of abuse. For I know what it is like to be silenced, I want to raise my voice on behalf of all my sisters still suffering and surviving in Lebanon and use my hard-fought freedom to raise awareness about the plight of migrant workers trapped by the Kafala system. To the countless migrant women who stayed behind: You are not what they say you are. You are not your bruises. You are not their maid. You are a mother, a daughter, a sister, a human being. You are a warrior. You are invincible.