Mariaam Bhatti: Tales of a Domestic Worker
I felt warm tears running down my cheeks, and I kept looking towards the direction I had come from as if I was expecting somebody. I had finally done it: I was going away with my broken heart, I was turning my back to the only family I had known since birth, to the only place I had known as a home, all my friends, my job.
I had never cared about any of that when making arrangements to leave, but when I was at the airport, done with all immigration and security checks, and was walking in the corridors heading to the plane, almost certain I was really leaving, I cried my eyes out for the first time.
I really had no idea why I felt that way. It could have been that I feared what the future had in store for me, or it could have been the fear of travelling to a new country alone to meet a total stranger who was going to be my new and only family.
I sat there on a plane trying to avoid eye contact with the other passengers as I did not want people around to notice my tear-filled eyes. A few hours later, I was in Dublin Airport. At immigration I was asked three or four questions and that was it. I was out in the arrivals hall by 6am. I phoned my new employer as soon as I was cleared, but by 8am she still had not showed up and it made me nervous. I tried to stay calm, though my mind did not even allow me to sit, and I stood until she finally arrived at 9am with a short apology for being late. I politely told her it was okay, managed to put a smile on my face and hugged her.
I stopped thinking of the rubbish in the car and looked around as she drove. I noticed that Ireland looked like some small farm in South Africa: no tall buildings, no wide roads. After a while we got to the house and I was introduced to two children. She had only mentioned one child when I was back home, and I thought to myself that maybe I had misunderstood her, yet I remembered her every word.
I greeted the kids and their minder with a smile and hurried upstairs from where she beckoned me. I was shown my room, with a bed, wardrobe, a small radio and a white urine-stained and stinking duvet on the bed. I was very surprised as she had known well in advance that I was coming; even if the linen had been dirty she could have washed it before I got there. I used it anyway. Neither did she give me a proper job description; I had to figure out what to do on my own. I had no starting and finishing time, and I felt like a total slave.
Some weeks later I was very sad, depressed and considered going back home. I had not been out of the house, not even to the local shops. I was working about 14 hours a day, six days a week, and I was also worried about the time I had been allowed in the country by immigration, although my boss and her husband did not seem bothered. According to them I was making a big fuss out of something very little.
I made her aware of the things I was worried about but she got very upset, claiming that I thought things should only work the way I like. She told me that if I wanted to return home I could, but she would not pay me for the three weeks I had already worked, as she would pay me at the end of every month and only then. I thought to myself, I had just bought a ticket with a year’s savings to just come and render free labour to some rude woman.
To be continued...
Mariaam Bhatti is a former domestic worker originally from South Africa.
