On Labour Day, the world celebrates workers and the dignity of labour. For migrant domestic workers in Lebanon, this day remains a reminder of exclusion.
Despite the essential work migrant domestic workers do every day, caring for homes, children, and families. They remain excluded from Lebanese labour law and trapped under the Kafala system. Their legal status is tied to their employers, leaving them vulnerable to exploitation, abuse, and abandonment. And when war escalates, migrant domestic workers are once again left to face it alone.
During the 2024 Israeli war on Lebanon, now continuing into 2026, migrant domestic workers have been among those most abandoned and most excluded from protection and humanitarian assistance. As employers fled, many workers were left behind without shelter, food, wages, or access to their documents.
But migrant workers have never waited for systems to protect them; they have organised for and among each other. In the absence of humanitarian assistance, migrant domestic workers and migrant-led networks mobilised emergency relief by operating community kitchens, opening shelters, sharing resources, and making sure no one was left alone. They have acted as first responders not only for migrant communities, but for all those affected by war and displacement.
This is not new. This is how migrant workers survive and resist every day. Building community, organising collectively, and creating systems of care in the face of ongoing injustice.
This Labour Day, we honour the labour of migrant community leaders as first responders and humanitarian workers on the frontline of conflict, and we recognise their resistance, leadership, and collective power.
Migrant domestic workers are workers. Their labour is work. Their rights must be recognised and protected.
There can be no labour justice while migrant domestic workers remain excluded.
Support the work of community leaders by donating to the Reclaim Our Rights Collective’s GoFundMe Campaign
After a year of deep self-reflection, Myra, migrant community leader, co-founder of Tres Marias, and member of ROR, offers this poem as a quiet but powerful tribute to leadership rooted in care, solidarity, and collective strength. Through her words, she reminds us that true leadership does not stand above others but walks beside them, planting seeds of hope, connection and shared possibility.
With eyes that see beyond the day,
A leader rises, lights the way.
No grand decree, no gilded throne,
Just seeds of kinship, gently sown.
They walk among us, hand in hand,
A quiet strength across the land.
They hear the whispers, feel the plea,
For shared endeavour, unity.
A spark ignited, faint at first,
A tiny hope, about to burst.
They gather threads of a common dream,
And weave a vibrant, flowing stream.
Through open doors and willing hearts,
They mend the broken, play new parts.
Connecting spirits, side by side,
Where doubts diminish, fears subside.
No task too humble, burden great,
To build a future, a guiding light
Transforming darkess into bright.
For in their vision, clear and bold,
A story yet to unfold.
A community, strong and true,
Because of leaders, just like you.
By Myra Aragon – Tres Marias
Up to 99% of migrant domestic workers (MDWs) in Lebanon are women. Their average age is 29, an age when many are menstruating and require private access to sanitation and hygiene facilities. Most live and work in private households, excluded from Lebanon’s labour law and instead governed by the Kafala system. This structure gives employers near-total control over workers’ movement and daily life. Their access to water, hygiene, and toilets is entirely dependent on their employers. In a country where public infrastructure is collapsing, this control often extends even to the most private aspects of their lives, including the free use of a toilet.
This year’s World Toilet Day theme, Accelerating Change: Sanitation for All in a Changing World, is an opportunity to reaffirm that safe sanitation is a human right, not a privilege, and to encourage both global and national actors, including policymakers in Lebanon, to make this right a reality for all. Yet, for MDWs in Lebanon, that right remains out of reach. As a state party to the International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (ICESCR), Lebanon is obliged to guarantee everyone’s right to an adequate standard of living, including access to safe water, sanitation, and hygiene (WaSH). However, MDW testimonies reveal a grim reality of neglect, control, and daily humiliation. A particularly alarming pattern documented in interviews is the restriction or denial of access to bathrooms.
“When I was living with my employer, I did not have a private bathroom. I had to wait until no one was around to change my pad. Sometimes I waited too long and leaked onto my clothes. I couldn’t wash properly. I felt dirty, but there was nothing I could do.”
“I can’t take a shower when my employer is at home.”
“It makes me feel dirty and ashamed. I worry all day about leaks when I don’t have enough pads. I try not to stand too close to customers because I don’t want them to smell me.”
These accounts show that access to sanitation is far from guaranteed. For some, the bathroom is their only place to be alone, cry, or regain composure; it serves as a small refuge of fragile privacy in a life otherwise ruled by surveillance and confinement.
“I’m used to it, I let the moment pass when I’m in too much pain, I hide in the toilets if I’m at work.”
As a result of the escalation of the Israeli war on Lebanon at the end of 2024, these violations took an even harsher form during displacement. One woman shared:
“There was no bathroom to wash or even go. We used to do it behind a tree or at a friend’s house.”
Such testimonies, echoed across MWA and Jeyetna’s research on period poverty, show that denial of sanitation and menstrual care compounds gendered and racialised inequalities. Fear, shame, and anxiety accompany every attempt at basic hygiene, linking physical suffering to emotional distress. These conditions are not accidental; they result from structural systems that devalue migrant women’s bodies and labour.
Lebanon’s sanitation crisis is not just a failure of infrastructure. It is sustained by political and social exclusion. The Kafala system, paired with the absence of migrant inclusion in national WaSH and humanitarian frameworks, continues to deny MDWs basic health, dignity, and autonomy. Without privacy, safety, and cleanliness, migrant women endure constant stress and humiliation that takes a profound toll on their well-being.
As Lebanon continues to face instability, the sanitation crisis needs more than short-term aid. It requires dismantling structures that perpetuate inequality.
On this World Toilet Day, we call on the Lebanese government, international organisations, and local actors to:
Sanitation is not just about toilets. It is about dignity, equality, and every woman’s right to live with safety and self-respect, regardless of her status.
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.