There is a proverb in Arabic:
لم أشرب ماء البحر مثلك كل يوم، لكني أعرف شعور وطعم الملح في الفم
I never drank seawater like you every day, but I am familiar with its saltiness in my mouth.
I believe that the essence of this proverb is at the core of why I have dedicated my life to fighting for human rights. It encompasses the idea of empathy or understanding for another person’s suffering despite not having the exact same experience. It is about relating to the struggle or hardships of others to the extent that it feels part of one’s own experience.
I remember my first encounter with the concept of humanitarian assistance and civil society organisations. I was only ten years old when a Japanese organisation visited the Palestinian refugee camp where I lived in the heart of Beirut. During an activity for children, we stood in a circle and were asked to share our dreams for when we grow up. I immediately knew that my goal was to help people. So I stepped into the circle and proclaimed that I wanted to become a nurse because, as Palestinians, we often don’t receive medical attention.
I will never forget the moment when the interpreter, a Palestinian man, chuckled and told me that I would change my mind the minute I reached adulthood and would most likely end up in my husband’s kitchen. This moment became my awakening as an advocate of women’s rights with the ultimate goal of breaking out of these patriarchal limitations that my own circumstances would force on me.
As a Palestinian, I am fully aware of the limitations that the Lebanese state has put in place, with many of my rights being denied. Yet, these limitations and this lived experience of marginalisation are what push me to advocate for the rights of others. The thought that whatever little I can do, whatever problem I can resolve, and whatever help I can provide gives me the power and satisfaction to continue. I refuse to watch the perpetuation of injustice passively and instead want to be actively involved in the process towards change and justice.
This is what has led me to be part of the movement of working for Migrant Domestic Workers’ rights and against the Kafala system. I do understand the feeling of being away from my own land in a strange and hostile environment. I experienced the hardships of being a refugee in Europe and being reduced to a country of origin, which eventually also led to my decision to return to Lebanon.
I work for rights while at the same time don’t have rights myself. I don’t have a passport, and I am stuck as a Palestinian refugee in a country that treats me as a nuisance. This reality I am living is shared with the MDWs in Lebanon. I want to liberate myself from the consequences of Zionism, the same way I want migrant workers to be liberated from the Kafala system.
Palestinians don’t have the protection of the Lebanese labour laws. I share this main concern of exclusion with the MDW community that has repeatedly campaigned for change and inclusion under the legal framework of labour protection.
In Arabic, we say:
نقطة ماء في بحرك
Which translates into “A drop of water in your sea.” This expression is used to convey the idea that something is a tiny or insignificant part within a much larger and more significant context. In the Lebanese context, my drop of injustice is a drop in the sea of injustices that exist. I did suffer a drop of your suffering, so I do know its bitter taste.
Particularly, the limited access to services and the denial of rights are experiences I know myself, which is why I want to work against them on behalf of the MDW community in Lebanon.
This year, the experience of being Palestinian and working in the human rights field feels both cynical as well as necessary. The same colonial powers that deny me my right to return are also responsible for the capitalist exploitation and systemic abuse of women of colour under the Kafala system. The experience of Palestinian women being reduced to victimhood is a similar experience of MDWs being reduced to commodities in the households of the rich and privileged.
My faith in human rights has been shaken. The hopes I previously held on reclaiming the right to my land and fighting for the right to existence have been dampened by the current situation. This also has had a similar effect on my hopes of abolishing the Kafala system and the reality of achieving the goals of the MDW community towards true and real change.
If there is no justice for innocent civilians suffering under the relentless bombing in Gaza, then how can I hope for justice for the women trapped under the Kafala system?
يقولون إن فاقد الشيء لا يعطيه لا والف لا، فاقد الشيء يعطيه وبقوة
They say someone who misses something can’t give (offer) it. I say, on the contrary, someone who misses something offers it a thousand times more.
This expression conveys the irony or contradiction of privileges, suggesting that those who lack something are often more generous in giving it to others. Although I am struggling for my own rights, I also work even harder for the struggle of other people’s rights.
We share the same trauma of violence by white supremacy, colonialism and patriarchy. The perpetrators and the circumstances might differ, but the trauma experienced is the same, which is why the fight for justice and liberation is the same.
MWA developed a short brief focusing on the role of the IOM Lebanon Office following several concerns expressed by partner organisations. The brief summarises the challenges and concerns MWA has found through its work with migrant domestic workers, their communities, and CSOs. It aims to shed light on gaps within IOM’s system and work that lead to confusion, as experienced by MDWs in Lebanon. The brief is intended to advise IOM in its work by providing recommendations on current challenges.
On the occasion of International Day For the Abolition of Slavery, MWA is launching its report on the plight of Kenyan Migrant Domestic Workers on their migration journey to Lebanon. The report is the first of MWA’s In-Focus research series committed to providing an in-depth understanding of localised contexts and key drivers of migration in sending countries, leading MDWs to travel to Lebanon, as well as their experiences under the Kafala system in Lebanon.
Something changed in me my last few months in Lebanon before returning home. It has been almost three years since I returned to Sierra Leone. I arrived a different person, I have taken my fate into my own hands, I am within my own culture, I am organising among my community, I founded DoWAN*, I am fighting and I am rising up against the injustices I faced under the Kafala System in Lebanon.
I have shared my story many times, over and over. But there is something missing from the conversation when we talk about human trafficking. Why are women in the position that they are being trafficked to countries like Lebanon? What situation is so bad that we are risking our lives to then live through the injustices of the Kafala system? It is because people are hungry! The severe effects of the climate crisis, droughts, dying crops and food shortages are starving our communities. Seventy percent of the population in Sierra Leone go without their daily bread. The Government falls short in providing any basic provisions and we are trapped in socio-economic instability.
The climate crisis is indirectly causing our daughters, mothers and sisters to leave their loved ones behind and falling victim to human trafficking. Our community often sees poverty as the main reason to leave our country and the main cause of hardships. But poverty is a symptom of the climate crisis. Powerful systems of oppression are causing a multitude of detrimental social, economic, health, food insecurity and other impacts on communities who have contributed the least to the climate crisis.
When we arrive in Lebanon we become victims of abuse, exploitation and marginalisation. Even while living inside of the employers/sponsors’ homes, we as Migrant Domestic Workers are the first people to suffer from the consequences of the climate crisis and the extreme weather caused by it. We are the most vulnerable part of Lebanese society suffering from the weather and climate in a country that isn’t ours.
In Lebanon we are pushed into living conditions, where we are exposed to extreme heat during the summer months, or to extreme cold and dampness during the winter months. Our ‘rooms’… I never slept in a room in Lebanon. My sleeping place was the kitchen in the village and in the living room in the city and are not equipped with appliances providing comfort such as heaters or ACs. We can count ourselves lucky to be given mattresses.
The climate crisis and government corruption impacting the Lebanese who are suffering from electricity and water shortages is unjust. This has a greater impact on migrants particularly Migrant Domestic Workers in Lebanese homes who are prohibited from drinking clean water, denied battery lamps, and denied a safe ventilated place to sleep. We are expected not to complain or ask for improvement of our conditions that come from the extreme weather conditions, we are considered as ungrateful and greedy. Where none of the employers/sponsors would accept the discomfort of the extreme heat or lack of electricity and clean water, we are expected to do so in silence.
Our advocacy and work as community organizers and as survivors of the Kafala system and human trafficking is always reduced to abuse and we are tokenized as victims in the general discussion surrounding labor migration to the Middle East.
We are more than just victims or survivors, we are experts based on our lived experience. We have the knowledge of our local context and community in our home countries as well as the reality of living as Migrant Domestic Workers in Lebanon.
The research and discussion around the consequences of the climate crisis and its impact leading to migration and human trafficking need to be more inclusive. Current and former Migrant Domestic Workers must be actively involved, implementing and engaged in the discussion.
There are still countless women migrating to Lebanon, some of them aware of what awaits them but many also unaware of what is going to happen to their rights and freedoms once they step out of the aeroplane. This is why there is a need to continue fighting. Looking for a solution to our main problems, the climate crisis, poverty and hunger that led us to Lebanon is the best way out of the Kafala. Despite corruption and policies that are restraining our women we see it vital in taking collective affirmative action to build a socio-economic alternative through our ‘Seeding Solidarity’ project to prevent other women from becoming trapped in the Kafala system.
It is in this context of human trafficking and the global threat of climate collapse and food insecurity that we connect to our land and farming practices through agricultural activism and justice.
The real power is within our activism and our work. There is a world of possibilities and solutions. Climate and social justice are rooted in recognising that to tackle modern day slavery and human trafficking we must address the climate crisis to create real change and a more equitable future.
* DoWAN – Domestic Workers Advocacy Network (and Dowan as in Sisterhood in Krio) was established in 2020 as a community-led effort for returnees in their fight against the Kafala system.
J’ai Peur – Viany
Partout où le mensonge devient la seule façon de convaincre, il y a trafic .
Partout où il y a esclavage il y a trafic.
Ou il y a exploitation il y a trafic.
Ou il y a escroquerie il y a trafic.
J’étais en première année BTS (Brevet de Technicien Supérieur) à l’université de Douala au Cameroun et ma famille m’a parlé du Liban. Elle aussi avait entendu parler du Liban de la voisine et la voisine avait entendu parler du Liban d’une femme qui avait été au Liban et qui est revenu au Cameroun.
(J’aime bien le fait que ça soit moi qui écrive ma propre histoire. Je suis fatigué des mensonges et des gens qui se disent bienveillants et capables de décider pour nous).
Après plusieurs tentatives de me convaincre j’ai accepté de voyager pour le Liban. Sans vraiment savoir ce qui m’attendait.
Le gros argument qui m’abreuvait quand j’avais soif, me soutenait quand couchée au coin de la cuisine le bruit de la machine à laver du frigo et du four fusionnaient et m’empêchait de dormir. Je pensais à cette promesse. Cette promesse que m’avais faite cette femme, le premier maillon de la chaine, celle qui une foie de retour au Cameroun s’est convertie en trafiquante: “tu vas travailler pour 6 mois et avec ton salaire tu pourras dire à ta madame de faire tes papiers pour que tu ailles en France continuer tes études de couture”. Tout mon voyage prenait appui sur cette promesse la. J’avais pris avec moi tous mes diplômes et mes documents qui pouvaient être utiles pour une inscription. J’avais apporté avec moi mes plus belles créations de couture. J’avais apporté aussi mon matériel pour éviter de dépenser trop en fournitures quand je devais reprendre les cours.
Pendant mes 6 premiers mois de contrat j’étais comme dans un coma profond. J’étais concentrée sur le jour où je devais arriver à 6 mois. Je ne voyais rien et ne comprenais rien, je vivais dans le futur. Les maltraitances étaient sans effet. J’avais le corps et le cerveau sous anesthésie.
Mes camarades à l’université au Cameroun et même les professeurs me demandais comment j’allais, mais j’étais concentré sur un objectif plus grand. Tout allait changer après 6 mois.
Et oui… tout à changé après ces 6 mois.
Je me souviens encore de comment ils étaient assis au salon tous les deux un vendredi à 17h00: “Mme, s’il vous plaît, j’ai déjà passé 6 mois chez vous est ce que vous pouvez utiliser mon salaire pour faire mes papiers et me faire voyager pour la France pour que j’aille continuer mes études?” Les regards se mélangent, un silence s’installe pour au moins une minute.
De mon côté, c’était une évidence qu’elle devait dire oui. Je n’avais qu’à prier pour que la procédure soit rapide.
C’est là que ma Madame me demande “Qui t’as dit ça?”. “C’est la fille qui m’a fait venir au Liba[…]. A peine j’ai fini qu’elle m’interrompt. “Tu es venu ici travailler et tu n’as rien a faire a part travailler. Tu ne peux pas sortir sans mon accord. Tu es à moi et si je pouvais c’est moi qui devait aller en France mais pas toi. Ça fait longtemps que j’essaye. Et ça coûte trop cher.”
J’avais 21 ans.
Ce jour là je suis sorti du coma
L’anesthésie était finie.
Place à la réalité du système Kafala.
En toute sincérité même à un Libanais je ne le souhaite pas.
Le système Kafala c’est de l’esclavage et c’est de la traite d’être humain.
C’est lourd à lire et à dire mais c’est vrai ça existe. Beaucoup s’enrichissent et ont une vie de rêve grâce à la souffrance des femmes comme moi. Mais je ne le souhaite à personne, même pas à une Libanaise.
Si chaque victime mettait par écrit son expérience, tu pourras comprendre comment chaque vol qui se pose au sol dans un pays qui applique le système Kafala fait couler des larmes rouges à chaque fois.
Nous sommes mortes tout en étant vivantes.
Tu le sais, et moi aussi tu ne fais rien et moi j’ai peur.
Viany De Marceau
ENGLISH TRANSLATION
I am afraid by Viany
When lies are the only way to convince, there is trafficking.
Where there is slavery, there is trafficking
Where there is exploitation, there is trafficking
Where there is fraud, there is trafficking.
I was in my first year of my college degree at the University of Douala in Cameroon when my family spoke to me about Lebanon. They had also heard of Lebanon from the neighbour, and the neighbour had heard of it from a woman who had been there and came back to Cameroon.
(I like the fact that it is me who gets to write my own story. I am tired of the lies, and of people who pretend to care yet decide for us).
After several attempts to convince me, I accepted to travel to Lebanon. Without really knowing what awaited me.
The biggest argument which quenched my thirst, which gave me strength when I was lying down in the corner of the kitchen with the sound of the washing machine, fridge, and oven – all together preventing me from falling asleep. I would think of the promise. The promise that this woman made to me, the first link in the chain, who after returning to Cameroon became a trafficker herself: “You will work for 6 months and with your salary you will be able to tell the Madame to do your papers and go to France to finish your studies in fashion design”.
My entire trip was based on this promise. I had taken with me all my diplomas and relevant documents that could help with my registration. I had also brought with me all my most beautiful fashion designs and all the sewing material I would need to save some money when I start my course.
During those first 6 months of my contract I was in a deep coma. I was focused on the day the 6 months would arrive. I didn’t see anything nor understood anything. I was living in the future. The abuse I faced didn’t affect me. My body and mind were under anaesthesia.
My university friends in Cameroon and even the professors were asking about me but I was just focused on a bigger goal. Everything would change after 6 months.
And yes… Everything did change after those 6 months.
I still remember how they were seated in the living room, on a Friday at 5pm. “Madame, please, I already spent 6 months with you. Can you please use my salary to do my papers and pay for my trip to France so I can continue my studies?”
Looks were exchanged, and a silence took place for at least one minute.
For me, it was obvious she would say yes. I just had to keep praying for the process to be quick.
This was when my Madame asked me “Who told you this?” “The girl who told me to come to Leba[…]I barely started my sentence, when she interrupted: “You came here to work, and you have nothing else to do but work. You cannot leave without my permission. You are mine. If I could, I would be the one to go to France, not you. I have been trying for a long time and it costs a lot of money”.
I was 21 years old.
That day, I woke up from the coma.
The anaesthesia wore off.
The reality of the Kafala system took over.
In all honesty, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even a Lebanese.
The Kafala system is a form of slavery and human trafficking.
It’s hard to read and to write, but it’s true, and it exists. Many profit from it and have a dream life thanks to the suffering of women like me.
But I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even a Lebanese woman.
If every victim could write about her experience, you could understand how each flight that lands in a country that uses the Kafala system causes many tears of blood, every single time.
We are dead, whilst still alive.
You know it, and me too,
You don’t do anything about it,
And me, I am afraid.
Viany De Marceau
To Muslims, Ramadan is considered the holiest month of the year. One of the ways in which we expand our spirituality during this period is by reflecting on our privileges, the purpose of which is to strengthen our relationship with God and improve our compassion for others. For many people in our community, we think of compassion as something that solely involves donating money to those who live far away from us, and I believe many of us overlook the importance of practicing compassion everyday starting with those who live in our households. This obviously does not reflect the behaviour of all Muslims or all Arabs in any way, but unfortunately, such attitudes are common in countries that employ migrant workers through the Kafala system.
I grew up as a privileged Kuwaiti girl surrounded by migrant domestic workers, and unfortunately, I was not raised to show compassion towards them. During Ramadan, my parents would preach about the importance of being grateful for what we have because some other people do not have our privileges, but they did not consider the fact that they violated this ethos while they mistreated and abused the domestic workers who migrated to our country and worked beyond the point of exhaustion to make our lives easier. The only reason many of us even have a meal when we break our fast at sunset is because of the labour of migrant domestic workers, and this labour is a product of deliberate systemic exploitation by the Kafala system. It seems to me that it is hypocritical to preach the importance of compassion and achieving God-consciousness during Ramadan while we continue to uphold modern slavery, deny migrant workers fair compensation for their labour, and even refuse to treat them as equal human beings who deserve the same rights and dignity that we believe we are entitled to.
There seems to be an assumed superiority over migrant workers in communities that use the Kafala system, which is evident in the fact that we force migrant workers to work in unfair conditions even though we would not accept those working conditions for ourselves. If we – as individuals who benefit from the Kafala system and employ migrant workers through that system – do not accept others to treat us this way, why do we continue to act as though it is okay to mistreat migrant workers in this way?
When our compassion towards others is limited to those who are removed from our lives, we are admitting that we are only interested in caring about or helping others so long as that does not interfere with our privileges. In countries that employ migrant workers through the Kafala system, many nationals who benefit from the Kafala system maintain the belief that employers deserve “ownership” over the lives of migrant workers. As individuals who benefit from the Kafala system, we complain about fasting from dawn to sunset without being mindful of the exhaustion of the domestic workers who live in our households and have to work harder during Ramadan to prepare elaborate meals and serve our extended family members during gatherings, without granting them breaks or any accommodations to their needs. In Kuwait, nationals even complain about racism and Islamophobia from Westerners, while we continue to refuse to allow domestic workers to even eat at the same table as us, regardless of the fact that some domestic workers are Muslim and fasting themselves. These may seem like minor things that we have normalised as a cornerstone of our lifestyle and our culture, but to migrant workers these instances of dehumanisation are a constant reminder that we perceive them to be inferior to us.
While we can freely practice our religion and fast during this holy month, and ahead of Eid celebrations, I invite us to reflect on the fact that we continue to unjustly deprive migrant workers of their religious freedom. Recently in Kuwait, a shop was reported to the Ministry of Commerce for merely having a banner promoting deals for Easter. In many households, including my own, domestic workers and drivers were punished, and in some cases even abused, for asking to go to Church. Of course, the Kafala system permits such deprivations of religious freedom and it shameful to imagine how many migrant workers feel excluded and degraded by our communities as a result of this system.
It should not be controversial to state that migrant workers deserve human rights and dignity, and especially during this holy month, we should reflect on the ways in which we continue to uphold a hierarchy of rights depending on a person’s nationality and practice challenging these systems of oppression to support our migrant worker siblings.
They say, the most important conversation is often the most difficult one to have.
I’ll argue the most important stories are often the most difficult ones to write.
The journey of BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and people of color) and racialized people born in Lebanon resembles the one of Theseus and the minotaur Greek mythology tale.
It is the epitome of navigating a wild labyrinth while attempting self-protection and preservation from systematic and systemic racism.
The idea that we are not affected by racism equally holds partial truth!
In our case, as children of MDWs (Migrant Domestic Workers) born in Lebanon, we certainly share in common a dualistic experience of anger against our parents’ malevolent years of oppression within the Kafala system, and in contrast the benevolent reaction of few liberal citizens who admire our hybrid identity.
Our mastery of Arabic and other spoken languages intrigues…
Locals ponder about our deemed mysterious identity: we are labeled as African, Asian, American or coming from a remote island, but rarely the optionality of being born in Lebanon occurs.
Our livelihood is embedded on a constant steady walk in between edges: a blossoming interpersonal activism while fighting racism, inequity and stereotypes.
The fight to exist and coexist drains our spirit! We dream to enjoy the freedom of being human, holding equal rights, striving, not worrying about residential permits or our parent’s legal statuses, precarity, fighting sexual harassers, being followed around in the streets, bullies at school, university, the lack of job opportunities, being in the sideline while we are aware of our richness, capabilities, and high potential.
The fighting loop may at times drain our spirit, however we resist, and continue to resist! Children of migrant domestic workers resist compliance, systemic racism, generalization, biases experienced from locals.
We opt for intentional dissociation from a generalized one-size-fits all mentality through finding solace within our safe community and the what we call “good ones”; they are our childhood Lebanese friends, and many uplifting souls we’ve encountered through the years. However, the retreat is short-lived, because we are born front fighters – being in between many worlds: the migrant domestic workers community and “our not our country” reality!
As we mature, we relinquish power and settle for belonging to humanity as a whole. The soul search culminates once we unlock self-appropriation, acceptance and embrace being us – BIPOC born in Lebanon!
It is not a secret that migrant domestic workers in Lebanon suffer from discriminatory labels – a trendy curse within a country practicing and endorsing modern-day slavery.
I remember my first encounter with racism; I was 5 years old, and seriously questioned why my bullies would scream: “Sri Lankiye”, it was irrelevant, I’m not from Sri Lanka.
The bullies made sure to emote their intentions: the nationality; “Sri Lankiye” was stripped from it meaning, it was transformed into a racial slur.
To add context, in the nineties a high number of migrant domestic workers in Lebanon were Sri Lankan, currently the majority of MDWs migrate from Ethiopia and the Philippines.
BIPOC witness how racial slurs mirror the racial origin of each migration waves! A common verbal racial slur we experience is being called “Habashiye” referring to Habesha, the people of Ethiopian and Eritrean heritage. “Habashiye” replaced “Sri Lankiye” as a mean of inducing disdain through altering the true etymology of a beautiful word.
The question is how to find a place when there’s no space for children of migrant domestic workers in Lebanon?
The hard truth is you carve your own space within a feeble system. We tap into our unrecognized potential. We are given agencies and capabilities to change policies, fight against systemic racism, societal practices and attitudes embedded in discrimination.
Education and constant self-actualization are one crucial weapon. This will depend certainly on a multitude of external factors like the oppressive system shift, access to education, one’s upbringing, level of administrative challenges, undocumented or documented parents, life experiences, environments, outside influences, beliefs, and numerous other metrics.
On International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, we children of migrant domestic workers dream of visibility, respect, and holding mutual rights as any other individual. We have names and multiple identities that produce, if allowed positive diversity.
We love Fairouz and Tems, we want to live in peace and not be shattered in pieces by the Kafala system!
B.K. – Child of a Migrant Domestic Worker in Lebanon
Everyone in life has a role model. We all have that one person we look up to because they exude confidence and strength. One of my greatest role models is my mother. In honour of Lebanese Mother’s day, I interviewed my mother, who has worked in Lebanon for about 30 years. She came to Lebanon in 1992 as a migrant domestic worker with the hopes of getting a better opportunity to provide for her younger brothers. She, along with her two sisters, sacrificed to put her younger brothers to go to school and then eventually college. She was a pioneer and warrior but even soldiers have moments of weakness and defeat. I remember once when I was 13 years old, I saw her sitting at the bottom of the stairs in the kitchen and contemplating on life. She was silently grieving. She saw me then let out a cry “I am a terrible mother, because I am not able to raise my own children. My daughter sleeps from home to home and I have to send you to a boys’ home in order to keep my job.”
My mother came to Lebanon under the Kafala system. It is a broken immigration and labour system. The system was structured in a way that the laws being placed didn’t ensure a worker’s security, but it gave a margin for a lot of exploitation to happen. My mother lived at her boss’ home and had a “room” in the kitchen (which is a small attic with a bathroom). She worked from Monday to Saturday afternoon and was paid a mediocre salary.
My mother had a desire to leave a legacy and have her own family and she had me a few years later. At the time of my birth it was uncommon for domestic workers to have a family. The work conditions forced migrant mothers to go home, give birth and let their child be raised by a family member while they provided financial support. My mother hid her pregnancy in fear of losing her job and did a lot of hard labour. Even though she temporarily lost her job, her boss’ daughter cried and pleaded for my mother to come back. As a premature baby, I had to stay in the hospital for several days after my birth and my mother’s boss decided to cover the fees. However, she refused to let me be raised by my mother because she thought I was a hindrance to my mother’s job and I only stayed with her for two months then started sleeping at her friends’ homes. I saw her on the “weekends” and we continued this routine until I was sent to my residential boys’ home where I saw her once a month . She challenged the system because she believed in her motherhood.
A few years later my mother had my little sister and multiple people were outraged by the fact she was having another child in the same work conditions. Once a fellow domestic worker asked her why she decided to have another child, my mother responded, “As domestic workers we get a wonderful opportunity to raise our bosses’ children like our own. We can love and cherish them but at the end of the day, they are not our own. They have a family and they will soon grow and not see us as such. Why would I deny myself the gift of motherhood and live my life in regret?”
In my mother’s 30 years of employment in Lebanon, she gained a lot of wisdom. She believes that domestic workers are workers with dignity and should be treated with respect and not as an object. She said that women are seen in multiple careers from business owners to merchants and they all get the opportunity to be mothers. Their children should have the opportunity to live with their families and be given rights as well as Lebanese nationality. While many Lebanese people enjoy that luxury in the Ivory Coast, many domestic workers’ children will never have this opportunity. My mother is an active member in multiple nonprofit organisations in hopes of a better future for domestic workers and their families. She concluded the interview saying “ no one can take away my motherhood because I have the right to be a mother.”
Ochienga – Son of a Migrant Domestic Worker in Lebanon
A Call for Intersectionality & Inclusion
The Kafala system is an oppressive, racist, patriarchal structure that exploits and abuses migrant workers that disproportionately affects women of colour. The system relies heavily on human trafficking and other organised crimes, exposing migrant domestic workers to severe human rights violations. Women of colour from South-East Asia and Sub-Saharan Africa have been lured and trapped by the system for several decades now without any real attempts towards sustainable change . Migrant Workers’ Action believes that unless a new movement of solidarity and support emerges to amplify and include Migrant Domestic Workers in all human rights conversations happening in Lebanon, the status quo of abuse and exploitation under the Kafala system will continue unchallenged.
Throughout the years, Lebanon has developed an active and engaging civil society space advocating for women’s rights among many other issues. However, within the shadows of this flourishing civil society work, exists the persistent and problematic normalisation of racism and exploitation of migrant domestic workers through the Kafala system, which remains condoned and unaddressed. The Lebanese feminist movement has many challenges and barriers to tackle. It is in this effort towards equity and liberation that the movement should adopt an intersectional and inclusive approach including refugees, members of the LGBTQIA community as well as migrant domestic workers.
The adversities women in Lebanon experience are harsh, unforgiving and cruel. For migrant domestic workers this reality is even more harsh. Their predicament is one of forced labour, racial, sexual and physical abuse in a legal system sanctioned by the government and normalised by the local population perpetuating a culture of impunity. Failing to take into consideration the intersections of migrant domestic workers may lead to the Lebanese Women’s Rights movement to be exclusionary thus capitulating to elements of the patriarchy. Migrant Domestic Workers are women of colour, who are marginalised by multiple systems of oppression, both in their country of origin as well as Lebanon. Addressing their needs and challenges requires the Lebanese civil society as well as international actors to adopt an intersectional approach to women’s rights, as it allows the movements to take into account the Migrant Domestic Workers’ multiple intersecting experiences and identities.
It is important to note that focusing on an intersectional feminist approach does not negate the existence of Lebanese women’s struggles but instead offers a more comprehensive and inclusive approach to the struggle for women’s rights within the country that include the migrant and refugee population.
Migrant Workers’ Actions invites the women’s rights movement to reach out to the extensive networks of migrant domestic workers communities in Lebanon and to build bridges working together towards achieving equity and freedom.