Mariaam Bhatti: Tales of a Domestic Worker
I was between a rock and a hard place. I could either return home to South Africa without being paid for almost a month’s work, or stay in Ireland and wait to be paid, letting my return ticket expire.
My employer and her husband convinced me that they knew what they were doing and that I should be patient, work for them for at least two years, and save my wages in order to go to a good college like Trinity.
I thought maybe I was overreacting, I should give myself at least three months to settle in the job and to practice a little patience until I earned enough money “to do things properly”, as they had said.
I had little choice at that point. I was paid my €400 monthly salary, but my return ticket and my immigration status had lapsed. My days of fear began, and each time I got more worried and raised the issue, I was told in no uncertain terms that the matter was already discussed. I thought to myself, is this the way I will live all my life here in this country? Toiling so hard, scared to talk to people and having my life completely controlled?
The only rest I had was in my sleep. Almost all my waking hours were spent working like a slave. My employer gave orders left, right and centre without a tinge of sympathy, constantly reminding me she was paying me for my labour. I dreaded every day there but Saturdays were the worst.
On Saturdays I was expected to clean the whole house, including all appliances and furniture, the paintings on the wall and all the spacious and full shelves in the kitchen.
The house was huge, spread over three floors, with four bedrooms, four bathrooms, a massive living area, and a large kitchen with all sorts of fancy cupboards and appliances you can dream of. My employer’s large fancy bathroom with expensive tiles and all-glass shower was far bigger than my own room, and I remember how long it took scrubbing it to leave it sparkling.
I would start cleaning at 7am and work non-stop until about 4pm, without having eaten a single thing. I was always asked to start downstairs in the kitchen and living area, the downstairs bathroom and the laundry room, while the family were having a lazy morning in, so when they woke up they would find the place clean and ready for breakfast while I went on to do the rest of the house.
Scrubbing bathrooms, dusting and sometimes washing walls, doors and staircases, windows and vacuuming – that was every Saturday’s tasks.
And that’s not to mention what I did during the week, from making the kids’ beds as soon as they were up, to bathing them and getting them ready for school or crèche, making their packed lunches, giving them breakfast and taking them to school before returning to clean the bathrooms, sweep and wash the downstairs floors and do the laundry. Then came preparing lunch before going back to pick up the kids from school, help them get busy with their homework and take them to the playground before returning home to make them dinner and get them ready for bed.
When I finally finished each Saturday’s cleaning, I remember being so tired and hungry. I’d check to see if I had been left any food; if not I would find any leftovers in the fridge, or just have slices of bread and tea. It was rare for me to eat the same food as the family – not that it mattered to me, it just emphasised how separate I was from them.
Likewise, in the first few months my room was the only one where the heating was turned off. I always wondered in the evenings when all rooms were warm but mine was freezing...
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.
