On the occasion of International Domestic Workers’ Day, Mariam, a former MDW, community leader and member of MWA shares her journey from being a domestic worker to being trapped under the Kafala to finding herself as a community leader. This is her story:
It was my dream to study and become a journalist or magistrate. I grew up in Africa, in a country, where most women still remain at home to take care of the household rather than to pursue a career. I already believed back then that more women should be involved in changing our country the way journalists or magistrates did. So I graduated high school as a teenager in the city and planned to attend college to follow that dream.
Despite my dreams and aspirations being clear, my family and I did not have the financial means to cover the costs of going to college. So when I was 17 years old, a family friend told my mother about this ‘programme’ to go to the Middle East to earn money. It was clear from the beginning that I would do domestic work while working in Lebanon. I didn’t mind that. For me domestic work would be the stepping stone to get closer to my dream of studying journalism or law.
So my mother and I agreed that I should make the decision to travel with one of these programmes and earn money. In order for me to be prepared, my mother started to teach me the most important skills of domestic work and child care. Although I did grow up as a daughter in an African family, I was not expected to help in the household. My mother was always taking care of tidying up for us, so it was necessary for me to be introduced to the basics, such as making the bed or cleaning up the kitchen.
I don’t know why the broker recruiting me was different from the ones many of my African sisters met. When I prepared to leave my country in 2015, I was not required to pay a fee. All I had to pay for was the renewal of my passport and the transportation to the offices in the city. I think I was an exception, because in my case, the sponsor / Kafeel paid for all my expenses. However, even if I was an exception in regard to paying fees, I was not an exception in being given false promises regarding the working conditions. I was promised new clothing and a new phone, so I left most of my personal belongings back home and gave some of them away to friends, including my phone.
I arrived in Lebanon, as a minor, 17 years old, still steadfast that this ‘programme’ will open a door of opportunities for me to save enough money and return with the financial means to attend college. Although my arrival should have already given me clear signs that something was wrong. At the airport, my employer didn’t pick me up immediately and I remained in that infamous waiting room for migrant domestic workers inside the airport. The General Security officer at the airport immediately confiscated my passport and handed it over to the recruitment agent responsible for my employment. The agent then brought me to the office, where I had to undergo medical tests before being placed with my employer. I arrived at my employer’s house, where my Madame immediately received my passport and then showed me my room. I didn’t even know where I was; all I knew was that I was in a village far away from the capital, Beirut. I realised that things were not as great as I was promised, but I still remained positive. My situation became clear when I realised I wasn’t allowed a phone and that the ‘new clothes’ I was promised were old rags that I wouldn’t have even worn back home, and that my bedroom was a small pantry with a foldable bed. I was explained what my responsibilities were in the household, such as waking up at 5 am to prepare breakfast and ensure the children are ready to go to school, as well as managing the entire household for the family. Although I was only a 17-year-old girl, it became very clear very soon how I was perceived by my employer. Very quickly, there were signs that the Mister objectified me, while his wife, the Madame, blamed me for her husband’s interest in me. Until today, I am not sure what happened, but during my employment, within a few weeks, I kept getting sick and losing consciousness. After this repeated several times, at one point, I ended up unconscious and woke up in a hospital. My agent met me there and said it was time for me to be placed in another household. There was an implied concern that I was poisoned.
I ended up being placed with another family closer to Beirut. Despite having hope for a better experience, I was proven wrong. During the 18 months I worked in that house, I experienced the worst forms of abuse and violence, which eventually led to my decision to escape at night and get away as far and as quickly as possible, despite losing my passport and immediately voiding my residency, pushing me into becoming undocumented in Lebanon.
I remained on the streets for several hours in the middle of the night until I met another migrant worker, who recommended that I contact a local CSO. I received support to find shelter and heal from my traumatic experiences. In order to survive and ensure an income, I started to work as a freelance domestic worker, receiving payment on an hourly basis. While working for my own survival, I also started to become a part of the various networks of migrants resisting their oppression and being able to attend sessions and capacity building. I came to the realisation that I am not alone in this experience. It became clear that many MDWs have had similar experiences and that this normalisation of violence wouldn’t change unless we start mobilising.
It was in that moment, as a freelance domestic worker, that somehow my dreams from back home became reality, even if in a different form: instead of a journalist or magistrate, I naturally developed into a community organiser.
As a community organiser, I amplified the voice of my community and shared their stories, similar to a journalist, and I also advocated with INGOs and the consulate for many cases, similar to a magistrate. Throughout the years, I built my skills and my network to advocate for the MDWs trapped as live-in workers in abusive households under the Kafala system. Throughout the years, I experienced the transformation of being a minor, trafficked into Lebanon as a migrant domestic worker, to being a survivor of violence and abuse, to becoming a community leader advocating for our rights. I always knew I had it in me: being an activist, but I didn’t have the opportunity to explore it. It was through being a domestic worker and experiencing the abuses under the Kafala and then being part of networks that I was able to discover my true calling.
Throughout my time in Lebanon, domestic work was what gave me the income to be able to support myself as well as my community. I only worked as a live-in domestic worker for a little bit over two years, but I did continue to work as a freelance / live-out domestic worker for nearly eight years. I worked several part-time jobs as a domestic worker and provided childcare.
My message is that domestic work is work, and it was the income generated through domestic work in Lebanese households that led me to become a community leader and provide support to my community, which is who I am today. In the same way that many activists have jobs to earn money and then use a part of that income for their causes, the same can be applied to domestic workers and their activism.
Although my dream used to be a magistrate or journalist, many years ago when I was a 17 year old minor arriving in Lebanon, looking back, I am exactly where I want to be. When asked if I would want to go to college now to study journalism or law, I would say no. I am doing exactly what I am meant to do. Despite the Kafala system, I am living my dream.
On the occasion of International Menstrual Health Day, MWA, together with Jeyetna and six Migrant Community Leaders, is launching its participatory research report on Menstrual Experiences Under The Kafala System. The report is the result of a one-year project on Sexual And Reproductive Rights and Health. Download the full report for insight into the intersections of Period Poverty and the Kafala System.
Today, we honour the resilience of migrant domestic workers in Lebanon — and we demand justice.
It is time to abolish the Kafala system and include domestic work under the Lebanese Labour Law.
Download and read Mary’s story, whose experience under the Kafala system reflects the daily reality of thousands of migrant women trapped in cycles of exploitation, racism, and violence. Like Mary, many migrant workers arrive in Lebanon following the hope to earn money to fund their dreams, whether it is enrolling in university or opening their own small business in their country.
Migrant Workers’ Action has submitted an Input to the UN Special Rapporteur on Trafficking in Persons, after a call for submissions by civil society to discuss trafficking of MDWs as well as the prevention, rights protection and access to justice. The Kafala system is enabling trafficking and, with it, modern-day slavery in Lebanon. Download our briefing to learn more about the issue and read our elaboration based on previous research reports.
Anti-Racism Movement and Migrant Workers’ Action together with ten NGOs and ten community leaders and migrant groups have released a statement for urgent action – The IOM should open a shelter for displaced and stranded Migrant Workers in Lebanon
Migrant Workers’ Action is releasing a statement regarding the vulnerability and obstacles many Migrant Workers are currently facing, due to legal obstacles and the further escalation of violence in Lebanon.
(English Version below)
Le long du port de Beyrouth, les immeubles sont immenses, à perte de vue.
Avec chacun des appartements multiples. Dans les ascenseurs, tu peux aller jusqu’au douzième étage.
Sans l’aide d’un guide, tu peux passer des heures à chercher l’appartement de la dame qui t’as demandé de venir chez elle pour nettoyer.
Du portail jusqu’à l’intérieur de la maison, les employées se succèdent. Nous sommes plus nombreuses que les habitants de l’immeuble, et constamment de nationalités diverses.
En fonction des postes, les couleurs de peau changent.
Tout est en verre, les appartements sont immenses. Les pièces sont meublées de bois importé, le sol est toujours propre. Des marbres aux parquets en bois en passant par les vitres, ils y vont sans modération. Je me perds dans des couloirs de miroirs, dépourvus d’empreintes et de traces. On dirait des appartements inhabités.
Pour le nettoyage, il y a toujours une main qui passe et une autre qui repasse. Le long du port de Beyrouth, deux ménagères pour un appartement. Pour eux, c’est insignifiant. Plus tu as de ménagères, mieux tu es vu. Pour une famille de deux enfants, on peut avoir six employées. Aucun appartement ne compte moins de deux ménagères. Il y a deux Philippines pour la cuisine, deux Ghanéennes pour s’occuper des enfants, une Éthiopienne ou une Camerounaise pour le nettoyage. On ajoute à la liste le chauffeur et trois filles qui viennent deux fois par semaine pour le grand ménage.
Avec toutes ces Africaines dispersées partout dans ces appartements à se tuer à la tâche pour rendre fonctionnelles vos vies. Pourquoi ?
Pour vous permettre de vaquer librement à vos occupations ?
Pour vous permettre de respirer de l’air pur ?
Ou encore pour vous donner l’assurance de construire encore plus d’immeubles sans vous inquiéter du nettoyage ?
Juste pour votre luxe et votre satisfaction personnelle, vous avez infligé aux personnes noires au Liban et à nos mamans en Afrique, une peine que rien ne peut guérir.
Où sont les africaines mortes dans l’explosion du 4 août 2020 ?
Mon cœur est percé, mes yeux sont pleins de larmes. J’ai envie de crier, d’exploser, de pleurer.
Même mortes, pour vous, on ne compte pas. Après l’explosion du port de Beyrouth, ce 4 août 2020, ils ont retiré les corps, mais n’ont pas mentionné la présence des Noires, notre présence.
Pourquoi ?
Il fallait combien de Noires mortes pour en faire une ?
Il en fallait combien ?
Même mortes, ils ne nous considèrent pas comme des humains. Ils ont comptabilisé les chiens et les chats morts dans cette explosion du 4 août, mais pas les Noirs. Certainement le total ne suffisait pas pour valoir une vie libanaise.
Permettez-nous de pleurer nos sœurs et nos frères.
Rendez-nous les cadavres.
Donnez-nous les chiffres.
De quelles nationalités étaient-elles ?
Quels étaient leurs noms ?
Elles ne sont pas apparues au Liban. Encore moins dans ces immeubles, au contrôle plus strict que celui d’un aéroport.
Les mamans en Afrique multiplient les appels à l’aide, les avis de recherche. Certaines vivent dans l’espoir qu’un jour le téléphone sonne pour entendre la voix de leurs filles. Elles espèrent une surprise devant la porte. Une voix qui dira : ” maman, maman je suis enfin de retour ! Regarde, c’est ta fille qui était au Liban !”
Je suis fatiguée d’imaginer la souffrance de ma mère si cela avait été moi.
Mais ça ne vous dit rien. Mortes ou vivantes, pour vous les Camerounaises, les Congolaises, les Ghanéennes, les Ivoiriennes, les Béninoises, les Sierra-léonaises. Tout ça ne compte pas ?
Dans nos pays, il y a des écoles libanaises et l’église de Saint-Charbel fréquentée par des libanais.es. Vous avez accès à vos passeports et la nationalité, des supermarchés et des maisons à vos noms. Mais chez vous, les noires n’existent même pas mortes.
Je ne demande pas la pitié des libanais.es, ni de la société. Juste les cadavres pour permettre à nos mères de sécher leurs larmes.
Que leurs âmes reposent en paix.
Écrire par Viany de Marceau. Ex travailleuse domestique, styliste e modéliste, écrivaine et activiste féministe. Fondatrice de l’organisation REMAN
In Memory of the Black People of August 4th
Along the port of Beirut, the buildings are immense, stretching as far as the eye can see.
Each has multiple apartments. With the elevators, you can go up to the twelfth floor.
Without the help of a guide, you might spend hours searching for the apartment of the lady who asked you to come clean her house.
From the gate to the inside of the house, the employees come and go. We outnumber the residents of the building and are of diverse nationalities.
Depending on the jobs, the skin color changes.
Everything is glass, the apartments are immense. The rooms are furnished with imported wood, the floor is always clean. From marble to wooden parquets to windows, they go all out. I get lost in hallways of mirrors, devoid of fingerprints and traces. They look like uninhabited apartments.
For cleaning, there is always one hand that sweeps and another that irons.
Along the port of Beirut, two maids per apartment are not enough. For them, it is insignificant. The more maids you have, the better you are regarded.
No apartment has less than two maids. There are two Filipinas for the cooking, two Ghanaians to take care of the children, an Ethiopian or a Cameroonian for the cleaning. Add to the list the driver and three girls who come twice a week for a deep clean.
With all these Africans scattered across these apartments, working themselves to death to make your lives functional. Why?
To allow you to freely go about your activities?
To allow you to breathe fresh air?
Or to provide you with the assurance of building more buildings without worrying about cleaning?
Just for your luxury and personal satisfaction, you have inflicted on black people in Lebanon and our mothers in Africa, a pain that nothing can heal.
Where are the African women who died in the explosion of August 4th, 2020?
My heart is pierced, my eyes are full of tears. I want to scream, to explode with tears.
Even in death, for you, we do not count. After the explosion at the port of Beirut, on August 4th, 2020, they retrieved the bodies but did not mention the presence of the Black women, our presence.
Why?
How many Black women had to die to start the count?
How many did it take?
They counted the dogs and cats that died in this explosion on August 4th, but not the Black people. Certainly, the total was not worth a Lebanese life.
Allow us to mourn our sisters and brothers.
Return their corpses to us.
Give us the numbers.
What were their nationalities?
What were their names?
They did not just appear in Lebanon. Even less so in these buildings, with security stricter than an airport.
Mothers in Africa multiply their calls for help and missing persons notices. Some hope that one day the phone will ring to hear the voice of their daughter. They hope for a surprise at the door. A voice that will say, “Mom, Mom, I’m finally back! Look, it’s your daughter who was in Lebanon!”
I am tired of imagining my mother’s suffering had it been me.
But that means nothing to you. Dead or alive, for you, the Cameroonians, the Congolese, the Ghanaians, the Ivorians, the Beninese, the Sierra Leoneans, do they matter?
In our countries, there are Lebanese schools and the Church of Saint Charbel attended by Lebanese people. You are entitled to your passports and nationality, to supermarkets, and houses in your names. But in your country, Black women do not even exist when dead.
I am not asking for the pity of the Lebanese, nor of society. Only the bodies to allow our mothers to dry their tears.
May their souls rest in peace.
Written by Viany De Marceau. Former Domestic Worker, Stylist and Fashion Designer, Feminist Writer and Activist and Founder of REMAN Organisation.
On the occasion of World Day Against Trafficking in Persons 2024, MWA is releasing its research on the journey of Sierra Leonean migrant domestic workers to Lebanon. The research report is the second part of MWA’s In-Focus research series aiming to provide an in-depth understanding of the contexts in sending countries leading MDWs to travel to Lebanon as well as their experiences under the Kafala system in Lebanon.
The term Kafala means ‘Sponsorship’ in Arabic. The Kafala system is a sponsorship system for migrant workers in Lebanon, as well as several other Arab countries, which governs migrant workers’ immigration, employment, residency and personal status in the country.
The responsibility for all matters relating to the MDWs falls under the purview of the sponsors, who are also the employers of the MDWs. The sponsors/employers have unchecked power over the MDWs’ lives in regards to their legal status, employment, health care, accommodation and private lives. This essentially gives impunity to employers to confiscate their passports, overwork them, deny their wages, deprive them of food and reasonable sleeping conditions and inflict physical and sexual abuse. In addition, the Kafala system does not allow for workers to change jobs or leave the country without the employers’ consent.
In short, the Kafala system is an exploitative system that gives employers tremendous and often-abused power over migrant women who work, sleep and eat in the homes of these same employers.
In many cases, the Kafala system enables or promotes the practice of one if not most of the previously mentioned international legal concepts, including human trafficking, modern-day slavery, debt bondage and domestic servitude.
It is clear that the Kafala system is not justifiable under international human rights law and the governments of Lebanon and other Arab countries applying it as an immigration system for cheap labour should be held responsible. The international community should encourage these governments to abolish the Kafala system completely and replace it with a fair and just immigration and labour system based on international human rights law and international labour standards.
Labour migration is defined as the movement of persons from one state to another, or within their own country of residence, for the purpose of employment. Employment is one of the primary drivers of contemporary migration. It can involve paid employment or self-employment, and it can occur on a temporary or longer-term basis. As many as 169 million international migrants were either employed or seeking employment in a country of destination, accounting for 62 per cent of international migrants worldwide.
Source: International Organisation for Migration
In theory, the migration of workers from countries in Sub-Saharan Africa and South-East Asia to Lebanon falls under the definition of Labour Migration. However, due to the exclusion of migrant workers from Lebanese Labour Law and the Kafala’s system being based on restrictive private sponsorship by employers, its practice doesn’t fulfil the international legal standards of protection of migrant workers. The movement towards the abolition of the Kafala system doesn’t imply the prevention of labour migration but rather intends to provide government regulations and oversight according to labour and migration standards of international law. As long as the system continues to exist under its current set-up, it should be considered as state-sponsored labour exploitation enabling modern-day slavery and human trafficking.