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.
World Mental Health Day 2025
Over the past six years, Lebanon has endured one compounded crisis after another: economic collapse, political paralysis, social unrest, the Beirut Port explosion, and now, the devastating war that has once again exposed the deep inequalities shaping the country. These crises have had a profound impact on the population’s mental health, but their toll has not been evenly felt. Among those most affected are the approximately 230,000 migrant domestic workers trapped in Lebanon’s abusive and exploitative Kafala system.
This year’s World Mental Health Day theme, Access to Services: Mental Health in Catastrophes and Emergencies, emphasises the urgent need to ensure that mental health care remains accessible to all, especially in times of crisis. However, for migrant domestic workers (MDWs) in Lebanon, access to such services has always been systematically denied.
During the Israeli war on Lebanon, migrant women were once again reminded of their invisibility. Countless MDWs were denied access to emergency shelters, humanitarian aid, and evacuation efforts, as their lives were deemed expendable. While embassies struggled to provide even minimal assistance, many women were left trapped in employers’ homes under conditions of fear, confinement, and isolation. These experiences did not occur in a vacuum; they are the latest manifestation of a decades-long culture of exclusion and abuse enabled by the Kafala system, which ties a worker’s legal status to their employer and grants near-total control over their mobility and freedom.
The mental health impact of these intersecting layers of violence is staggering yet persistently overlooked. MDWs face a daily reality of institutionalised racism, misogyny, and labour exploitation, compounded by the trauma of displacement, separation from family, and the burden of caregiving responsibilities under oppressive conditions. For many, the cumulative stress has led to an epidemic of depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress, and suicidal ideation. This epidemic remains unacknowledged by most humanitarian actors and state institutions in Lebanon.
While the international community often frames mental health in emergencies as a universal need, it rarely addresses the structural barriers that determine whose mental health is prioritised. In Lebanon, MDWs are largely excluded from national health and social protection systems. They are rarely seen in public health campaigns, and when services do exist, they are often linguistically inaccessible, culturally insensitive, or unaffordable. The result is a silent humanitarian crisis within a crisis, where the women sustaining households across Lebanon are left without the basic right to care for their own minds and bodies.
The problem is not only one of access but also of recognition. The trauma endured by MDWs is not incidental but rather a direct consequence of an economic model that devalues migrant labour, a migration regime that normalises confinement, and an aid sector that frequently reproduces exclusionary hierarchies. Even well-intentioned organisations struggle to respond adequately, constrained by limited funding, donor priorities, and fragmented mandates. Trauma-informed, community-based, and holistic psychosocial support approaches, ones that center migrant women as agents of healing rather than passive beneficiaries, remain rare exceptions rather than the norm.
As Lebanon continues to navigate instability, it is crucial to understand that mental health is not a luxury, but a right, and one that cannot be realised without dismantling the systems of violence that undermine it. Addressing MDWs’ mental health means ending the Kafala system, reforming migration and labour laws, and ensuring that humanitarian responses are inclusive, equitable, and migrant-led.
On this World Mental Health Day, we call on the Lebanese government, international organisations, and local actors to:
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.
Today, we honour the resilience of migrant domestic workers in Lebanon — and we demand justice.
Through this illustrated story, we follow Mary, 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.
The recruitment through the Kafala system lures these young women with dreams and aspirations into a trap of labour exploitation and abuse. On the occasion of this year’s International Workers’ Day, we want to remind the world that migrant domestic workers are people with dreams, hopes and ambitions, which get taken away upon arriving in Lebanon.
From having their passports confiscated at the airport to enduring constant labour exploitation, harassment, physical, verbal and sexual abuse, as well as wage theft, migrant domestic workers in Lebanon are denied fundamental freedoms and rights.
This Labour Day, we reject a system that treats workers as property.
It is time to abolish the Kafala system and include domestic work under the Lebanese Labour Law.
On this Labour Day, we also honour the strength and resistance of migrant workers — not just as labourers, but as community leaders, organisers, and advocates for change.
The Kafala system continues to exploit and dehumanise migrant workers across West Asia. But from shelters to childcare collectives, legal aid to protest lines, migrant-led communities are building power and fighting back.
Abolishing the Kafala system isn’t just a demand — it’s a call to centre migrant voices, fund grassroots organising, and reimagine a world where no worker is owned, silenced, or left behind.
✊🏾 This Labour Day, stand with migrant workers. Stand with community power. Stand for abolition.
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.