Encountering modern slavery in Lebanon

Within a few hours of arriving in Beirut I notice the migrant domestic workers, all of Asian and African descent, walking along the street, as upper class Lebanese drive by in expensive sports cars. As I walk around the upscale neighbourhood of Achrafieh, I encounter a woman of Asian heritage with a black eye walking a French bulldog. Later, I spot a Lebanese man aggressively dragging a brown-skinned woman by the wrist. He catches my eye and sneers. Suddenly, I become hyper-aware of both my ethnicity and the racial violence in this deeply divided city.

The Lebanese slang word for housemaid is “Sri Lankiye”, which signifies the entrenched racism that exists as a result of Kafala. I was constantly stared at in cafes and restaurants, as though people were confused by how a “Sri Lankiye” could afford to occupy space delineated for middle class Lebanese. A man on a bus insisted I was an African migrant even when I said I was an Australian tourist. Another man aggressively yelled “Where are you from?” in Arabic as I walked down the street.  Most chillingly, a policeman followed me home one day because he assumed I was a domestic worker who had run away without her papers.

According to the Amnesty report, all migrant, domestic workers have their residency status in Lebanon tied to the consent of their specific employer under the Kafala contract. They are unable to resign, change jobs or return home without their employers’ permission. They will often have their passports held by their employers to ensure their inability to leave.  They are also excluded from the protections under the Lebanese labour law, such as standardised working hours and minimum wage.

English | September 9, 2019

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