Kefala is the Fire
By: Josie Elbiry
Tags: Justice, Human Rights, Awareness, Politics, Lebanon

Hana’s daily effervescence and dedication to my family belie the ugly circumstances which delivered her to Lebanon three years ago. A former student at Dagmawi Minilik Health Science College in Addis Ababa, she spent her youth wanting to be a nurse, but her expedient manner and commitment to her studies could not compete with a debilitating illness which left her father bedridden.

With no one else to adequately care for him, Hana strained herself between school and home. Predictably, she began to struggle in her coursework. After three years of study, she couldn’t pass the national examination. Her father survived, but the damage had been done. Hana’s career in nursing was snuffed out before it began.

She worked with an uncle and tried other means to support herself, but these jobs brought little satisfaction. In a country where 30% of the population live below the poverty line, Hana was staring down the barrel of earning at or less than 600 USD per year.

Ethiopia is hailed as an economic miracle baby (experiencing a growth rate of 10% for more than ten years), but the marginalized private sector has not caught up with the trend, and rural areas have been left out. With a median age of only eighteen, Ethiopia looks more like a snag than a safe haven, so her people leave the country seeking opportunity elsewhere. Hana joined the ranks of this emigrati and began to look for work outside of her homeland.

Everyone has the right to rest and leisure, including reasonable limitation of working hours and periodic holidays with pay.

- Article 24, Universal Declaration of Human Rights

Lebanese housework is still conducted in an early twentieth-century model. The electrical grid cannot support the use of modern equipment like vacuum cleaners, large capacity washing machines and electric dryers.

Rugs, weighing more than a hundred pounds when wet, are still washed and beaten by hand. Though many families have adopted modern washing machines, laundry is still often done in old-fashioned tub washers and, in any case, almost exclusively hung to dry. The tile floors, which sprawl through any house, are still mopped with a squeegee and soaked towels, with the water being pushed out of the house through floor drains and outdoor sluices.

Kefala doesn’t just cater to wealthy families. Middle class Lebanese and expatriates take advantage of imported labor as well.

Gardening tools are rudimentary, and soil is still turned with nothing more than manpower and a rusted pitch fork. The homes of thousands of families are made of stone and plaster, which quickly attract dust and bugs, and drainage systems are often hobbled by age and wear, resulting in back-ups and aggressive odors. As such, Kefala doesn’t just cater to wealthy families. Middle class Lebanese and expatriates take advantage of imported labor as well.

“Hana needs a weekly day off,” I tell my husband.

“What the hell would she do?” he replies.

That’s the Lebanese mentality in a nutshell. I have wondered if Hana would accept a day off every week. She might not want it. She might go nuts in such an idle state. Either way, it’s really none of my business what she would do. This endemic assumption of what maids need is among Kefala’s greatest subterfuges.

Maids in Lebanon serve coffee three to five times per day; stay up late to cater to parties and clean up; wake up early to care for kids; serve as nursing assistants for the elderly and expend hours of energy on tough, seasonal chores.

No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel,

inhuman or degrading treatment

- Article 5, Universal Declaration of Human Rights

Upon entering a maid recruitment agency, pictures of healthy, happy maids in clean, candy-striped uniforms adorn the walls. Agents are matter-of-fact on the hierarchy: Sri Lankans and Ethiopians cost 150 USD per month, while Philippine women are more expensive — 200 USD. The man at the desk hands out profiles containing information and work history.

I remember the first time we hired a maid in 2010. My husband brought home four files of different women — with photographs. The conversations around these dossiers were appalling: People openly critique that Sri Lankans are stupid, Nepalese will run away, maids who’ve worked in Saudi Arabia are mentally unstable, and Ethiopians are sluts and will get pregnant.

Employers in Lebanon have withheld food and pay from domestic workers, routinely taken advantage of them, physically and sexually abused them, and robbed them of their dignity in public and private.

Family members warned us that the maid should wear a uniform, that we should not let her choose. She should wear the apron to protect her clothing was the wording used to disguise the social demand that her status be marked.

Our first maid, Suma, from Nepal, took one look at that uniform in 2010 and gestured in no uncertain terms that she would not wear it.

Maids are often shuttled to the domiciles of other family members. Hana works for us and not for extended family. She should never have to clean an aunt’s summer home or serve guests at a party at someone else’s house, and yet the culture here steamrolls any protest, and off she goes. Many maids are paid by family members for this extra work, but it is not guaranteed. Upon her return, I try to tell her to rest for the remainder of the day.

She shrugs it off, and we laugh because we can’t communicate at the intricate levels necessary to say what really needs to be said. Every time Hana confides in me, she tells me with a smile. She shares her indignation dressed as a joke.

In countries ravaged by poverty and instability, people find a way out. These women are so desperate to escape the frying pan that they’ll blindly jump into the fire.

It’s on record with Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch that employers in Lebanon have withheld food and pay from domestic workers, routinely taken advantage of them, physically and sexually abused them, and robbed them of their dignity in public and private.

One day, my husband’s sister arrived to her Beirut apartment with groceries. She encountered a maid who worked for the downstairs neighbors. The young woman gestured inward to her belly, and raised her fingers to her open mouth. Out of desperation for food, this young girl in a clean, pink apron risked her own well-being by contacting an outsider.

In twenty-first century Lebanon, migrant workers aren’t allowed to swim in the pools.

My sister-in-law, who also employs migrant workers, spent weeks sneaking food to the maid, at once feeding her and quietly protecting her from the wrath of her sponsors. She embodies this multifarious aspect of a typical Lebanese sponsor: she would not confront the maid’s employers, but instead took quiet action to right a wrong, if only temporarily, in real time.

The maid rides in the back seat of the car, even if the sponsor is driving alone. The whims of children routinely trump the respect of the maid, and society at large deems domestic workers unclean. At Aquamarina II, an upscale, waterfront complex of condominiums on the Tabarja coast, I lay in the sun, watching a group of maids playing with Lebanese toddlers in the water while the parents lounged. At least they are in the pool, I thought. And they have the camaraderie of each other.

It wasn’t for long. A manager approached and ordered them out of the water. In twenty-first century Lebanon, migrant workers aren’t allowed to swim in the pools. No one bats an eye. It is perfectly normal to ban migrant workers from pools and restaurants, force them to sleep on porches and in closets, and physically and verbally abuse them for making a mistake or for getting firm with a misbehaving child.

Everyone has the right to peaceful assembly, to take part in the government, and to unionize.

- Articles 20, 21 and 23, Universal Declaration of Human Rights

On December 29, 2014, six migrant workers presented former Minister of Labor Sejaan Azzi with a request to form a union. A few weeks later, in January 2015, around 350 house maids gathered for a planned, inaugural event, one overshadowed by Azzi’s refusal to ratify the new group and his subsequent threat to unleash Lebanese Security Forces on the event to break up the union’s establishment.

Though still not recognized by the Labor Ministry, the Domestic Workers Union (DWU) wedges itself into the conversation on Lebanese human rights and is overlooked as long as migrants are joining the union but not leading it.

Because of its inherent limitations, a splinter group called the Alliance broke off in 2016. Its decisions are made unanimously by domestic workers who refuse to be relegated to what they see as passive participants.

No one shall be subjected to arbitrary arrest, detention or exile.

- Article 9, Universal Declaration of Human Rights

Under the Ministry of Interior, Lebanon’s General Security is charged with entry and residency status. It admitted in 2014 to having put forth a new ordinance denying residency permit renewals to children born in Lebanon of low-wage migrants.

General Security continued to summon domestic workers, who upon arrival were detained and told they weren’t allowed to have children in Lebanon.

The mass deportations starting in 2015 included mothers who had worked in Lebanon for decades. It stripped children from school, disrupted livelihoods, and separated families. Women and children landed in “home” countries where they had no ties, no employment prospects, and no food security.

NGO’s were relentless in requesting a copy of this new directive. Their demands fell on deaf ears. General Security continued to summon domestic workers, who upon arrival were detained and told they weren’t allowed to have children in Lebanon.

General Security representatives then wrote to Human Rights Watch, stating that a migrant worker giving birth to a child in Lebanon would be “difficult to achieve without violating many laws and regulations” and “the persistence of violations of applicable laws in any country would set its inevitable outcome on the transgressor.”

The transgressor.

Roja Limbu and Sujana Rana had legal residence and work permits in Lebanon. They were instrumental in the formation of the Lebanese Domestic Workers Union in January of 2015 and openly protested in the streets with hundreds of other workers.

A rising tide of justice was swarming the Kefala system, and NGOs like the International Labor Organization, Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch stepped up documenting and publishing worker abuse. In the week between November 30th and December 5th, 2016, both women were arrested (Roja by plain-clothed men) and detained.

Without recourse, and after Lebanon had racked up a ledger of violations of international law, Sujana was deported, on International Migrants Day, after more than two weeks in prison.

According to the Lebanese Center for Human Rights (LCHR), women do not have exclusive prisons. Women are kept in separate units from men, but are not sexually and personally secure.

More than half of (women) are tortured. They are sexually abused by investigators and guards. All the security services have female staff, yet interrogations, surveillance and searches are conducted by male guards.

In June 2013, Human Rights Watch observed:

Women who are suspected of taking drugs, or of prostitution, are subjected to further sexual violence, from rape to sexual intercourse, in exchange for “favors” (cigarettes, food, more comfortable cell conditions, and more lenient police reports).

More than 60% of Lebanon’s prison inmates are in pre-trial detention. They are not separated from the convicted population. Men and women in the jails suffer from unsanitary conditions, poor ventilation, violence, horrible food, isolation and corruption. It was into this environment that Roja and Sujana were tossed.

They were forced into cells crowded with men to await processing. Neither was told why she’d been arrested. Both were interrogated about their work with the DWU. Both were refused access to a telephone and a lawyer.

There were no case workers, psychiatrists, or counselors. Without recourse, and after Lebanon had racked up a ledger of violations of international law, Sujana was deported, on International Migrants Day, after more than two weeks in prison.

Roja was held long after, to the point that Freedom United submitted a petition with 55, 000 signatures demanding her release. After fifty-five days in jail, she was also deported. Twenty-one organizations have come down on the Lebanese government, and the Ministries of Labor and Justice have new leaders, but no change has been detected.*

Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.

- Article 3, Universal Declaration of Human Rights

As of 2019, it is estimated that domestic workers in Lebanon lose their lives at a rate of two per week. The deaths have been Sri Lankans, Philippines, Nepalese and Ethiopians, countries with no leverage, and the reaction has been thunderously silent.

In Lebanon, Kuwait and the Gulf States, migrant worker suicides are covered up with fraudulent death certificates. Abuses and violations have no official statistics from the Labor Ministry. Complaints of these workers’ rights go unrecorded because domestic workers do not have a legal voice.

Madagascar, Ethiopia, the Philippines and Nepal have banned migration to the Middle East, but in countries ravaged by poverty and instability, people find a way out. These women are so desperate to escape the frying pan that they’ll blindly jump into the fire.

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights is enshrined in the preamble of the Lebanese Constitution, solidifying its principles as ‘constitutionally compulsory with supremacy over the national legislation.’

The Ministry of Labor introduced Lebanon’s Unified Standard Contract in 2009. It is explicit in prohibiting an employer from forcing a worker to work outside the home (for instance working all day at home and then all night at the employer’s shop). It restricts working hours to ten per day, with at least eight continuous hours of rest at night.

It also entitles the worker to a 24-hour weekly rest period, paid sick leave and six days of annual leave. The provision of health insurance is mandated and the worker is to be allowed to receive calls. Plus, the employer agrees to cover the cost of one phone call to her family per month.

The Unified Standard Contract is a paper tiger.

Lebanon’s migrant workers have likely signed this document but are not aware of its contents. As with all things Kafala, if you go to the website for the Ministry of Labor, the whole thing is in Arabic, and translation mechanisms are ineffective.

An English site is available with a contact number for complaints and a hotline, but no one mans the complaint line, and the hotline is out of service. None of this squares with the lingual diversity among migrant workers who speak dozens of languages other than English or Arabic. Visitors can click on services for ‘foreigners’, but the page only displays a desultory list of codes and numbers.