Tales of a Domestic Worker
When I look back and think of how long the journey has been since I left my previous employer’s house, and where I am today, I take a deep sigh. I look at myself standing in front of the mirror and wonder how I ever let someone treat me like that for so long in the first place. I ask myself repeatedly how I could have done things better. Where could I have started to ask for help? Yet while I still had questions floating like bubbles across my mind, I had one comforting thought – the thought that I did the right thing by fighting for my rights.
I feel proud of myself for taking the decision to take legal action against my former employer for not paying me my salary. I remember her lack of remorse the night I begged her, my roughly packed bags at my feet, my voice shaky and my tear-filled, pleading eyes looking into hers. I remember telling her that I did not have money to even take a train or taxi home if I was getting deported the following day, and she looked away showing no sympathy. I can never forget the pain, and a lump that stayed in my throat all night so that I could not eat.
There is a Zulu proverb that translates as ‘My tears will not drop onto the ground’, meaning that one’s suffering and pain cannot end, just like that, while the one who causes that hurt keeps rejoicing. I realised that I had started believing in that, and that it not only works for those who believe in God but also those who believe in the universe responding to situations we as humans have no power to control.
When I went to Migrant Rights Centre Ireland (MRCI) for advice, I was asked if I wanted to claim my wages from my employer through legal channels. I said ‘yes’ without any blink of hesitation whatsoever. I did not care about the money that much as I did not know if I would get any, but I knew how hurt I was not to be paid, to be used as cheap labour. I did not know if my employer would respond to the legal letters but I didn’t care. I wanted the letters sent, for her to know I was still around and that I was not just deported overnight as she may have wished so she wouldn’t have to be reminded of me.
It was about seven months after the first letter was sent that I received notice that a date was set for us to go to the Labour Court. Normally I would have been terrified of the word ‘court’ but this time I could not wait. I knew I had no written evidence that I had worked for this woman, and she could easily claim anything, but I told myself that this was my life and my story, that no piece of paper was going to tell it better than I would myself. I thought if she knew what was good for her, she would not dare show her face, but to my surprise she arrived with a bang, along with her ‘don’t care’ attitude. Little did I know she had such huge commotion planned for the day…
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.
