Mariaam Bhatti: Tales of a Domestic Worker
No matter how hard I tried to shake it off my mind, I kept turning to the unpleasant thought of the possibility that I was just another statistic, one of the many numbers of migrant workers who find themselves exploited in foreign countries without anyone to turn to. It deeply hurt, and made me sick to my stomach so much that I lost my appetite.
The only thing that seemed to help was looking at the leaflets about volunteering I collected at reception on my way to the dining area. I was still amazed at the many volunteering opportunities out there, but I wondered how I could contact them. I was pondering this one day when a girl I had seen a few times in the centre but had never spoken to joined me at the table. She always came to meals alone and hardly spoke to the other residents. Something was surely bothering her, but I too had been preoccupied with my own worries to care about anything else.
“Hi, are you new here?” she politely asked with a soft but low and lazy voice, as if she was too tired to talk. “Yeah,” I replied, not so keen to have a conversation, especially since that was the same question everyone asked me since my arrival.
“Where are you from?” she continued. “South Africa,” I responded in a short manner. But it turned out she was South African too – and maybe a sisterly talk in our native language, one I had not spoken in a very long time, is what both of us needed. We immediately switched from English to IsiZulu.
“Why are you in this place?” she asked – a common question at the centre and one of the many things that made me feel like I was an inmate. Everybody wanted to know how the other people ended up there. I didn’t waste time and told her I had been sheltered following a negative experience with the family I worked for. When I was finished, she did not seem shocked, and went on to relate her own horrific experience, one that lasted way longer than mine had. I shook my head in dismay as she spoke.
I could not understand how some people could be so proud of themselves yet treat their domestic workers like dirt. I wondered if such people had any genuine love for their own children if they can expose them to such cruelty. Is that treatment of other human beings something they want their children to witness and adopt? To such people it’s all about power, greed and having no conscience.
My wandering thoughts were interrupted by the voice of my new friend. “I know an organisation that can help you get your money,” she said. I raised my eyebrows, but didn’t want to get my hopes high. I calmly listened as she told me about the Migrant Rights Centre Ireland, and she did not have to convince me hard.
I wanted my salary; I had toiled hard for it, and I was not going to let my employer get away with not paying me, no matter how powerful she thought she was.
To be continued...
Mariaam Bhatti is a member of the Domestic Workers Action Group and Forced Labour Action Group of the Migrant Rights Centre Ireland.
