By Sarie
When asked to share my story, the first thought I had was about my claim not being addressed or viewed as a victim.
I was 14 when I was trafficked to Lebanon and forced into child labour under the Kafala system, but I am not a victim. I am a survivor.
I do not want my story to be one used for narratives of reducing the complexity of my years in Lebanon to be about me as a victim without the ability to fight for my rights independently. I have spent over 16 years in Lebanon, experiencing hardships that others won’t in an entire lifetime, but what I want people to take away from me sharing my life is the ability to persevere through the hardest of lives and to see the strength of survivors fighting not only for their rights but also fulfilling their dreams.
My story of being trafficked began in a village in Ethiopia, where I lived the ordinary life of a teenager with my mother. My sister had travelled to Lebanon for work, and when her employer was looking for a domestic worker for his daughter’s household, my sister made a decision that changed my life, without my consent. I had no say in what happened next. I believed I was simply travelling to visit my sister in Lebanon, but instead, I was sent into the trap of the kafala system. My family made the decision for me. My age was altered on my passport, and in what felt like an instant, I found myself on an aeroplane to Beirut, heading into a future I had not chosen.
The route of trafficking led me through another country between Ethiopia and Lebanon. I don’t know which country it was, only that it was another Arab country and that I spent three days waiting at the airport before arriving in Beirut. Once in Beirut, I was picked up to go see my sister at her employer’s house. At this point, I still thought the purpose of my travel was to visit my sister and not to be forced into domestic work as a child. I spent two weeks with my sister teaching me the ins and outs of domestic work and cleaning, after which I was sent to the employer’s daughter to work in her household. That’s when I finally realised that I am not going to return home anytime soon. I struggled to adapt to this new reality as a 14-year-old teenager, and my relationship with my employer was filled with tensions and struggles. She knew I was 14. She was fully aware that she was partaking in the crime of child trafficking despite my sister explaining to her that I am not an adult. There was no way for her to deny my age; she saw me grow from being a teenager to a young woman. I had my first period while working as a child domestic worker.
I also experienced sexual harassment in that same household as a young teenager. My employer’s husband did not see me as a child, as a vulnerable person, nor as a domestic worker. To him, I was an object, a commodity. I knew from other domestic workers in our building that he had a history of sexual harassment and exploitation of domestic workers whenever his wife was at work. Most left after 15 days, but I stayed for eight months. Again, I want to emphasise with this particular example, that yes, I was vulnerable, but I was not a victim because I told him that if he didn’t stop the abuse, I would expose him to his wife and her parents. I was strong enough to ensure my safety and well-being.
After eight months, I decided I wanted to leave. I was not willing to stay in this house. My employer’s husband tried to shake my relationship with her by instigating arguments. When I saw a window of opportunity during a family gathering, I went to my employers’ bedroom to retrieve my passport, my iqame (residency permit), a picture of my father and 50,000 LBP (around 33$ back then), thinking this was the salary I was owed for the months of employment. My employer kept my salary for me because I refused to send it to my family, since they were responsible for my trafficking.
Like so many other migrants, I ended up in Dawra, where members of my community took me in. An Ethiopian woman helped me find employment with a young woman. She treated me like a friend, and for as long as she could, she would keep me employed. However, we both realised that the Ethiopian woman who found me the employment tricked us both by making my employer pay the salary to her, rather than me. Once that employer was no longer able to keep me employed, she convinced her stepfather and family to take me in as their domestic worker. So they did, and they did so much more. I stayed with this family for over a year. I was treated like a family member, and with them knowing I was still a minor, they did ask me whether I would be ok if they informally adopted me. I did see them as family, and I did call them ‘Mama and Baba’. However, at one point, I realised that I was getting too attached to them and they were getting too attached to me. I did grow up through my time with them, but I still was a domestic worker, and the fact was that I wanted to earn more money than what they could afford to pay.
At one point, even though I was with a family that treated me well and cared for me, I still felt a deep need to leave and be independent. One night, I left. I called them afterwards to apologise and explain that if I had told them in advance, leaving would have been too hard. They understood, and to this day, we remain in touch.
The next chapter of my life in Lebanon involved working as a freelancer, taking on a series of jobs where I was taken advantage of, both because of my age and lack of awareness. I was financially exploited by informal job brokers and by Ethiopians I shared a flat with. But through it all, I continued to grow, learn and become stronger. I also started to pursue interests. While continuing to work for businesses such as restaurants and gambling dens, I started to receive lessons in street dance. Like so many other teenagers, I wanted to learn hip-hop. At one point a man I met while dancing took me out on dates, and after a few months, I became pregnant. Despite the father of the child asking me to have an abortion, I decided to keep the child and continue the relationship, while also being the sole breadwinner for our future family. I managed to keep my pregnancy secret until I reached the 3rd trimester. I continued working as a freelancer through informal brokering until one day, seven months pregnant, I started bleeding after trying to lift a couch to clean. The broker was called, and after some arguments, I was let go of my position. I spent the final weeks of my pregnancy coming to terms with the fact that my body was not physically able to give birth naturally. After ten months of carrying my baby, it was decided I should give birth by C-section.
We found a hospital that offered affordable access to C-section, and despite my anxiety and refusal to receive full anasthesia, I gave birth to my beautiful son. There I was, trafficked as a child to end up in Lebanon and now, at just 19, suddenly a mother to a child. My memories of that time in the hospital are filled with moments of being supported and cared for, something I hadn’t often experienced. They did not see me as a black African woman or as a domestic worker, but as a mother. Strangers from adjacent rooms or random visitors would also visit my room to give me words of advice or encouragement. I was held while taking my first steps after surgery, and I was taught how to breastfeed my child. I felt safe and strong in the first few days of motherhood in Lebanon.
Motherhood brought with it a new wave of energy and strength. Although I remained in the relationship for a few more years, I finally made the decision to leave my son’s father in 2019. The separation was far from easy; it led to conflicts over how to raise our son and included hurtful, derogatory remarks directed at my family. I left while he was working abroad. In response, he threatened to come back and take my son away from me.
The circumstances of my relationship, along with the threat to my role as a mother, pushed me to begin yet another chapter of my journey. I became a migrant activist and, in many ways, a community leader. I started attending migrant community centres and gatherings, taking part in as many trainings and workshops as I could. It was a way to build my skills, find strength in community and continue providing for my child and myself.
I was feeling like I was on the right path to where I was meant to be. At one point, however, the father returned from abroad and was waiting for me in my flat. I was forced to leave my son behind, and managed to leave and get legal support from a local NGO. After several months, during which I was working for a catering company and continuing to build my skills and knowledge through various NGOs and community groups, I was able to reunite with my child.
After gaining experience and knowledge through various trainings and freelance work with employers in the NGO sector, I secured a position with an international medical NGO as part of their outreach team working with migrant communities. This role allowed me to become deeply connected with a broader network of migrant leaders and the many NGOs working with and for migrant workers. During my time with the medical NGO, I met members of a migrant-focused NGO. When they began recruiting for a new team member, prioritising migrant workers, I took the initiative and joined them. It was a step toward working with, for and on behalf of my community.
I am still having struggles, fighting for my son’s legal paperwork and his right to access services and education. Despite his father being Lebanese, until this day, nine years later, my son is stateless. I myself am still undocumented without residency papers, unable to travel or even access adequate services myself.
I want my story to be seen as a journey of strength and growth in the face of immense challenges. It reflects the realities of so many migrant women and girls who are trafficked into the trap of the kafala system. But it also speaks to our resilience, the determination and achievements of migrant leaders who continue to fight for our rights and freedoms.
Today, I work for an NGO, one of the sectors where migrant workers remain significantly underrepresented. I went from being a trafficked child, to a domestic worker, to a young mother and now to an activist and community representative. My journey is not only personal, it reflects the experiences of many others who are rising, resisting, and reclaiming their power.
I grew from being a trafficked child to being a domestic worker to being a young mother to being an activist.
(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.
Human trafficking is defined in the UN’s Palermo Protocol on Trafficking, as the recruitment, transportation, transfer, harbouring or receipt of people through force, fraud, coercion or deception, with the aim of exploiting them for profit. Men, women and children of all ages and from all backgrounds can become victims of this crime, which occurs in every region of the world.
Traffickers often use violence or fraudulent employment agencies and fake promises of education and job opportunities to trick and coerce their victims.
People don’t have to be transported across borders for trafficking to take place. Trafficking is defined by the movement of a person, and this can happen within a single country or even within a single community.
Source: United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime
Lebanon’s Kafala system, and particularly its network of recruitment agencies, both in Lebanon and in sending countries, have repeatedly used methods of deception and coercion to traffick women into the country. Promises of high salaries, good working conditions and benefits have led MDWs to agree to work in Lebanon. However, civil society organisations and community organisations have documented many cases of migrant workers being falsely promised jobs in completely different sectors and positions, such as healthcare, education and private businesses. In many countries, recruitment agencies present the women with fake work contracts, with deceiving provisions, which have no legal standing against the contract they sign upon arrival in Lebanon.
According to estimates, more than 25% of people subjected to modern-day slavery are minors. Children are predominantly forced into domestic servitude, sex trafficking and dangerous as well as harmful manual labour.
Supply needs and industry demand for cheap, unskilled labour are increasing the numbers of children being forced into modern-day slavery. Many of the sectors enabling forced child labour include work requiring physical attributes, such as small stature and agility.
Poverty pushes children into accepting work including their parents asking them to work to supplement the family income. These conditions and circumstances are reinforced by systemic, structural issues such as lack of access to education, inadequate employment opportunities, corruption and social stratification.
Source: End Slavery Now
Although the Kafala system requires MDWs to be over 18 years old, there have been numerous cases of underaged Migrant Workers arriving in Lebanon, therefore being cases of forced child labour/child slavery and child trafficking.
Oftentimes recruitment agencies in sending countries forge legal documents for underaged women to ensure their migration to Lebanon under the Kafala system.
Sex trafficking is a form of forced labour consisting of exploiting a trafficked person for sexual services. Sex trafficking falling under the forced labour definition is characterised by the threat of punishment and for which the person has not offered themselves voluntarily. The UN’s Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, Especially Women and Children (the Palermo Protocol) includes three elements in its definition: the act, the means and the object. Sex trafficking is the recruitment, transportation, transfer, harbouring or receipt of persons who under threat, force, coercion, fraud, deception or abuse of power are sexually exploited for the financial gain of another.
Source: End Slavery Now
Sex work in Lebanon is criminalised under its penal law, which has led to sex trafficking rings taking advantage of undocumented and destitute Migrant Domestic Workers, forcing them into involuntary sex work.
According to a report by LAU and Egna Legna Besidet, 68% of MDWs in Lebanon have experienced one or several forms of sexual harassment by their employers, their agents or by strangers in public.
Domestic servitude is the exploitative and controlling practice of ‘employing’ live-in domestic workers. It is a form of forced labour but with distinct patterns and challenges due to the specific conditions of living in the employer’s household and being invisible to external control or protection. Domestic workers are more vulnerable to various forms of abuse and deprivation of freedoms.
The majority of domestic workers are women, who are at an increased risk of harassment, and abuse including physical and sexual violence. The working conditions in domestic servitude are often characterised by excessive work hours, lack of privacy, limited freedom of movement and low wages or even wage theft.
Source: End Slavery Now
The majority of migrant workers in Lebanon are domestic workers with the latest estimate by the IOM assuming that 42% of them are live-in MDWs residing and working in their employers’ households. Their lives are completely controlled by their employers, including their freedom of movement, increasing their risks of finding themselves in domestic servitude without any access to legal support and services.
In Lebanon’s Kafala system, countless women have experienced human rights abuses including verbal and physical abuse and Sexual and Gender-Based Violence, while simultaneously being forced to do unpaid domestic work. This has particularly worsened with the Lebanese financial crisis, where many employers justify the shortage of US Dollars as a reason to withhold the MDWs’ salaries.
Bonded labour, also known as debt bondage, occurs when people agree to unpaid labour as a security or amortisation against a loan or debt they either assumed themselves or on behalf of someone else. In theory, it is presented as an employment agreement, however, based on unpaid work to repay a debt, which oftentimes is not achievable and with work being under dangerous or extreme conditions.
The difficulty of settling the debts and the potential incurrence of additional debts often lead to a perpetuation of the exploitative situation.
Source: End Slavery Now
The Kafala system’s illegal and unethical recruitment practices include agencies in sending countries recruiting Migrant Domestic Workers with the requirement of upfront recruitment fees, which leads to many MDWs taking up loans with the agencies themselves, pushing them into the trap of debt bondage.
In some cases the MDWs covered the expenses of their legal/travel documents, flights and administrative fees, unaware that their employers themselves cover some of these fees.