Chapter Three
The Family
Much as the entire social order would prefer to keep domestic workers invisible, their presence in the country and the home is not only due to particular social, racial, gender, and family dynamics, but also affects all of these in ways big and small. Having a domestic worker in the home means that the woman of the house is freer to pursue other things since the burden of care for the home, the children, even for elderly parents can be passed on to someone else. Someone else is expected to perform the most intimate tasks of care while always being kept strictly outside the emotional and social bonds of the family. In a society with fairly rigid gender dynamics, where women are both constricted and defined by their roles as homemakers, wives, mothers, and dutiful daughters, what does it mean to have another woman taking on a significant part of this care? Especially when she is perceived as “lesser than” due not only to class factors but racial ones as well?
These fictionalized accounts of women’s lives—based on interviews with real people—go behind the closed doors of the family home to tell, on the one hand, the story of all the various reasons why a woman might be motivated to invite a “stranger” into the heart of the family in order to help care for it. They outline the way this presence affects the woman’s own relationships: to her children, her home, and even to her husband and their intimate life as a couple. At the same time, between the lines, these accounts cannot help but betray and expose all of the uglier dynamics at play: the sense of racial superiority the family feels over their domestic worker, the ways in which they control every aspect of her life, how the law favors and enforces that control, and how the price for one woman’s “emancipation” is often another woman’s enslavement.
I went through the main interviews that I conducted while preparing the film "Makhdoumeen" (A Maid for Each), and chose six of them to publish on this site: five interviews with women, and one with a man.
I then passed the interviews on to six people, writers by trade, who turned each interview into a story. I also asked six visual artists to create two or three paintings for each story. Besides the texts and drawings, I worked with several actresses and one actor. Based on short excerpts I selected from the interviews, the actresses and the actor took on the roles of the persons interviewed, and performed them for the camera. It was an interesting experience. The actresses (and the actor) interacted with and appropriated the text, integrating their personal experiences into it.
Part One
A Morning with Hala
Written by
Lina Mounzer
Artwork by
May Gheibeh
The following is a monologue by Hala, delivered to a close female friend as they have an intimate coffee together. While Hala is a fictional character, her stories are based on actual interviews with women who have long histories of employing migrant domestic workers. These are educated, liberal, middle to upper-middle-class women who are fully aware that in order to fulfill their own dreams, they must hire someone else to assume the role of “the woman of the house.” However, they are usually unaware of what dreams this “replacement woman” might have for herself.
After Wael and I married, we moved to the Gulf for his work. We had a cozy little apartment and I loved taking care of it—I loved taking care of him! Those first months of marriage were just pure magic; we were passionately in love. I’d spend all day cooking a meal, or scrubbing the bathroom, or ironing his shirts. It was almost like playing “house,” it didn’t really feel like work. But eventually, I found a job there as well, and then I got pregnant, and we had Saleem. There was no one to help me with the baby like we would have had back home. The only solutions would have been to fly either his mother or my mother to come live with us to help out, which was out of the question because imagine what that would have done to our marriage, or to hire a nanny for Saleem. She was a Sri Lankan woman, no, sorry, Indian? I forget her name. Chandra? No, Chandra came later. Anyway, she only came during the day and left after we’d finished eating dinner. It was nerve-wracking leaving Saleem with her all day. She barely spoke any language, so I couldn’t call and ask: did the baby eat properly? Did he nap? Did you wash your hands before picking him up? It made me sick with anxiety; I started to get these rashes everywhere. She also had this thing where she would never just let Saleem cry. She had children back home, and she thought that if Saleem cried, it meant her own children were crying and no one was comforting them. And so as soon as Saleem so much as made a peep, she would pick him up and rock him and sing to him. At some point, Saleem couldn’t be comforted by anyone else; at night, he would just cry and cry, and there was nothing I could do to soothe him. I went into a deep depression, and the rashes got worse. I started losing my hair from stress and lack of sleep. I was a mess. Eventually, the only thing to do was quit my job so I could take care of my son and myself, and that’s what I did.
Then we moved back to Beirut, and we got a much bigger house and had a second child, and then I really couldn’t manage on my own. There was no one I knew who didn’t have a maid and my friend recommended I go to the broker she had used. Of course, there’s an element of luck to it. You can have an excellent broker who hand-picks the girls, and you can spend hours going through the catalog to choose the exact right one, but the girls also lie sometimes. Not all of them, but some. Like they say they can speak a language when they hardly know a word of English or Arabic, or they say they have experienced when they barely know which side of a sponge to use. Sometimes they also have mental problems. The first girl we got seemed so sweet in her photo and so soft-spoken and polite when she first moved in. But she stared blankly like an imbecile every time I said anything to her, and she spent all night crying, no, I mean wailing, screaming in her room. And it was a really nice room, you know, we’d built it ourselves off the kitchen so she could have some privacy, and we made sure it had a good window. We gave her her own little TV and DVD player, things I’m sure she would have never dreamed of having back home. But some of them just aren’t right in the head. I felt it would be cruel to her and to us to keep her; I could never trust someone like that with my children anyway. I exchanged her, and we got Monica instead, and she was really the best maid anyone could ask for.
She was from Sri Lanka, and she was smart. Not very educated, I don’t think she had more than brevet level, but smart in her way of dealing with people. I’m good at noticing these things, you know. I’m a manager of a big division at work, one of only two women in such a high position in my company. You have to figure out how to read people quickly, know how to flatter their egos. You have to be creative about how to exercise your power; you can’t just walk in there and start barking out orders, do this, do that, the way a man does. At the same time, you have to be very firm or else they walk all over you. So you give the employees some leeway as you tell them what needs to be done by such and such deadline and then they can decide the order of the tasks. I took the same approach with her, treating her like any other one of my employees. I’d say I need the windows done once a week and the floors and bathrooms done every day, etcetera. I insisted she stop work every day at 8 pm sharp and that she should take every Sunday off. Even when she would offer to stay home, saying she wanted to stay, I’d shoo her out the door. “Go! Socialize! Have fun, see people from your culture! We can manage without you for one day, I promise.”
Sometimes she’d try to manipulate me, to claim that I didn't tell her something when I knew very well that I had, or she’d try to rearrange the schedule, hoping I wouldn’t notice. I’d tell her, Monica, you can’t play dumb with me. I invented those tactics! And then we’d both start laughing. She had such a lovely, genuine laugh, and you felt it came from the heart. She could also be strict, though, which was very good for the kids. She kept them in line so well, like little soldiers; it was amazing. Some people don’t like the maids to discipline their children. Of course, I’d never let her hit them or really yell at them—she’d be out so fast she wouldn’t know what happened; I’d drag her out of the house by the hair! But imagine also leaving your kids with someone who has no authority over them. You’d come back to a mental hospital; you’d be raising monsters, and then guess who’s stuck dealing with them when the maid goes back to her own country?
They missed her a lot when she left.
We all did. Her contract was up after four years, and she chose not to renew it, and went back home. Well, Wael didn’t miss her. He hated having a stranger living in the house with us, still does. He always made her feel it too. When he wasn’t around, she would sit down and eat with us at the same table, me and the kids, but when he came home, she was nowhere to be seen—always hidden away in her room. I suppose I’m lucky; some women have to worry about their husbands cheating with the maid or even just lusting after her, fantasizing about her. With Wael, this was never an issue. If anything, I had to remind him to be a little gentler. He’s a bit rough, he likes to yell, and if he’s extra dramatic, he’ll break things sometimes. It’s mostly just posturing; he likes to act the big man. Deep down, he’s a big softie. You have to know his style, how to handle him, but I think the maids were always afraid of him. At the same time, I think the way he is also helped me a lot because he placed these limits on how close the maids could come to our family. He made it very clear to them: this is the family circle, and you will always be outside it. So I never had to be the bad guy in that way. Because you know, it’s such a difficult position to be in, and it’s really anxiety-inducing to understand how to navigate. On the one hand, here’s this woman living in your house, being given jurisdiction over what’s supposed to be your kingdom. She is, for all practical purposes, the woman of the house.
She knows all the intimacies of your life; she hears when you and your husband fight; she even knows when you and your husband have made love. She changes the sheets; she folds your underwear. She knows things about the kids that sometimes you don’t know. At the same time, she has to remain outside the family because otherwise, she would completely take over, and there would no longer be any room for you. There’s always a sense of competition. I’m not talking about competition over men; I’m talking about the actual competition between women, about who gets to run the house. Whose cooking is praised? Who do the kids listen to and run to for comfort? In very simple terms, she has to assume the role of the woman of the house so that you can actually get all the credit for it. And, of course, this is upsetting to her on some level. It’s upsetting to me that I have to rely on her for all that as well. Don’t think I don’t see the irony! I told you, I’m very smart about these things. About how relationships work between people. I wouldn’t be where I am in life if I wasn’t.
After Monica, Wael wanted us to try and live without a maid for a while. “You did it when we first married,” he said. I laughed him out of the room. “I did it when we lived in a tiny flat and had no kids. How about you clean all four bathrooms every day then? How about you iron your shirts and make your own coffee and mop the floors and cook for the kids?” He really has no idea what it takes to keep the house running, no idea. He can’t even boil an egg.
After Monica is when we got Chandra, I think. Yes. She was also Sri Lankan. I didn’t have the same rapport with her as I had with Monica. She was a bit... primitive. Imagine, she ate with her hands when she first came! But then we taught her how to use a fork, and I also taught her some words in English and Arabic. I’d teach her ten new words a week, and I’d give her chocolate when she had memorized the lesson well and used the words on her own. But in the beginning, I won’t lie; it was incredibly frustrating. I had to show her everything myself and explain using sign language. Some women have no patience; they yell and scream immediately. That’s not my style. I’m always fair, always respectful. I remind myself: this woman has left her own family to come serve yours. Of course, I lose my temper sometimes, but really, it’s incredibly rare. I don't think I’d even call the police on one of them if they stole something from me. Then again, I don’t know if they’d ever steal from me because I’ve never mistreated them. I’ve always said: you need something, you tell me! I don’t even keep their passports from them. I mean, I have it just to keep it safe, but they know where it’s hidden, and they can get it any time.
We’ve had a lot of maids come through our house. There was Lola, and she was Filipina, so well educated. She had a nursing degree! We had another Filipina after her, and then a Nepalese, I think—there was a while when there was a lot of Nepalese coming to work in this country. And then, at some point, there was Sara; she was Ethiopian. She had another name, but it was hard to pronounce, so we used to call her Sara. She was so dark. My god, she was almost blue; she was so black. Really a sight to behold. It surprised me because all the Ethiopians I’d ever seen were light brown and quite delicate featured—you know, they don’t even have those broad African noses. But she was so striking, and she could have been a model. Now they choose models based on how striking and odd they look. Have you noticed?
Part Two
Blue Apron
Written by
Ahmad Mohsen
Artwork by
Hatem Imam
She is standing in front of me, next to the door. I can see her clearly. She is smiling and waiting. It's as if I have committed a terrible mistake and she is contemplating my punishment. She and I, in direct confrontation. I represent the family, and she represents herself: the maid. I am all of them, she is only herself. Let's call it a level playing field. I think I will come out victorious.
She said she was leaving.
At 2:15 PM, when I was feeling very self-important, watching a documentary about the Andes, she simply said: "Working hours are over, I'm leaving." First of all, this means that she will not get me the ashtray from the kitchen. She could have at least brought it, before springing her sudden decision on me. Frankly, at first, I was not inclined to be abusive. It was comfortable enough. At that moment, I was in harmony with my thoughts and convictions, and with everything I had told friends and girlfriends in cafes and during nights out, about high morals and the rights of workers. At last, I would prove to them that I was on the side of justice; I would get the ashtray myself.
It was as if she understood that I was not like the others. We appeared to be in agreement. We had taken the first step to liberate her from society and myself. Society is the dog barking at her in my name. I have nothing to do with all of that; I defend her. When she said "No,” I smiled at her. I didn't take it personally. I could get the ashtray myself after all. It was not her job to get it for me. But I did not understand the second part of her statement, that is, when she said, “I am leaving.”
I don’t have much time to think about it–still barely absorbing her answer. I see her standing by the door. She seems serious, intent on going. I can already hear the sound of the elevator and her footsteps echoing in my head. I am not seeing straight. She is not our first hired help, but the fourth. When she said "No," I was dumbfounded. I feign indifference, but I am shocked. She is the first one to say "No." I always wish her good morning like her predecessors, and she always replies with a nod and a smile. For a long time, that meant that she, like the three before her, was content with everything. To avoid such situations—because I am sensitive and easily embarrassed—I never ask anything of her at home. All I ask is that she be present, with the understanding that we would not talk or discuss anything. She would do everything herself. As long as I don’t give her any tasks directly, I remain uninvolved. .She would wash the dishes, clean the bathrooms, sweep the floors, and wipe the windows of her own accord, or at my wife's request. I have nothing to do with all of that.
So I made a mistake when I asked her for the ashtray, but I am ready to atone for my vile error. Usually, it is my wife, not I, who asks things of her—or orders her, I don't know. I do not take part in this discussion. It doesn't concern me. What does she mean by “I am leaving”? I do not understand this development. Usually, I make my own coffee, I prepare my own sandwiches, even in the middle of the night. Well, that's not exactly true. All I do is pour water in the kettle and place it on the stove. Sometimes, I even take the coffee can off the shelf. But I have never completely prepared a cup of coffee. These are signs that we have agreed on, she and I, that would avoid me the embarrassment of having to ask her for help. All I have to do is come into the kitchen and head towards certain items, then she immediately understands what I need. In this sense, we've had to convince her, by any means possible, that she could not stop working, whether at 2 PM or 4 PM, or 6 PM.
I understand that work should be regulated. There is such a thing as working hours, but not in her case. She lives with us. She may sleep at the other end of the hallway and eat alone in the kitchen, but at the end of the day she still lives with us. Should I be at work any time after 4 PM–past office hours–my director could still come in and ask me for additional work. Most often he asks nicely, with a snide smile.
I am still thinking about her refusal. Is she really leaving? I don't know if I am dreaming or if it really happened. I just stand there. I grab the blue apron, and after three failed attempts, tie it around my waist. It's not as tight as I expected. I find myself standing behind the sink like a soldier ahead of a decisive battle, staring at a bowl full of dishwashing liquid. I start rubbing the dishes vigorously, as if it is an act of revenge. This is all useless. I must wash the dishes myself. No need for sociology, over-analyzing, or laments.
I hear voices coming from the living room: the crackling of cups and loud laughter. The family is staying up late, as usual. I realize that I will not be able to sleep amid all this noise. I also notice that I am not sleeping in my bed . In this blue apron, I'm outside of the family, living at its margin. This bed is too small to be a bed–so small that I try to find the rest of it. The room has no windows. I usually complain about windowless rooms, so how can I sleep in this hallway, where we erected a wall on one side and gave that act of vandalism the terrible name of "the maid's room”?
As I wash the dishes, I wonder: She wants to leave? Where to? She has a room here. Why start a conversation with me to begin with?
Once, a domestic worker whose name I don't remember got into an argument with me. She simply tried to talk to me in the morning. That would have put us on an equal footing, which in turn would have reminded me that we are not equal: something she was aware of. She started the conversation precisely to point out to me that she knew, and that she knew that I knew. I don't remember the exact topic, but she deliberately started talking to me. I recall that she asked me about Saudi Arabia and life there. She besieged me with questions, as if I had answers for her. But in the end, I pulled myself together and managed to get away. That day, the equation tipped in my favor. I was not directly responsible for her existence here—or let's be honest— I was not responsible for what resulted from her existence, whatever angle you view it from. It didn't matter whether I was on top, or on equal footing—and of course I would never be below her. I had a housemaid. She had her tasks and I had the easier task in comparison: disassociating myself from her existence. Acknowledging her existence would have meant getting involved. Hers was an ambitious ambush but I pretended to be embarrassed and ignored her in the best way I could: I ended the conversation before it even began, with that snide smile. But this time I can't escape. I have to face the matter.
The problem is that I am solitary by nature. I do not enjoy communicating with others. It may be that I am someone who is actually solitary, or someone who likes to appear solitary to others—as it makes me more attractive to them. Perhaps it's my way of evading my unwillingness to get attracted to anyone. But I see no real difference between being solitary or isolated, or wanting to appear so. As for the maid—and here we must agree that in her present state she is a maid, whether we call her a worker, a young girl, or "my dear"—to her, all our conceptions of ourselves make no difference. She declared us equal when she said "No."
Whatever happens next, whether I am successful or not, will happen despite her. She won't approve of it happening. What a terrifying idea! The washing machine makes a rumbling sound like the oratory speeches aired on TV in celebration of national events. I have to do something. At the very least, I have to stop the rumbling of the washing machine if I can't stop the speeches. Behind the washing machine, everything is connected in a system: the speech, the spin, the alarm, the ultimatum. I can't find the right button to turn it off, so I unplug it altogether. I stand there dazed, staring blankly ahead. What would happen if a fire broke out and I was alone in the house? No one will come to my aid if something happens. I'm alone like this all day.
As I step out onto the balcony, the neighbors opposite me start pointing at me and laughing. I quickly realize that my apron is the subject of their mockery. They are not used to seeing a white man in an apron with a broom on the balcony. They might glimpse such a man in a public place, perhaps at a gas station or a restaurant, but not on the balcony. There is an unspoken social arrangement of presence and absence in every space. The bastards are laughing so hard that I hurry back inside in shame..
In the living room, everything has suddenly stopped.
I remember the silence when we brought her home from the airport. In the car, she shivered when I spoke. My yelling must have scared her. It was just that my little daughter did something she shouldn't have done. She put her hand out the window. Of course, because I was scared for her, and because I am responsible for her as her father—compounded with the great pressure I was under at work and everywhere else—I shouted until everyone in the car fell silent. I call this sharing fear, since at that moment, we could not share responsibility. For the maid, this feeling of fear will extend indefinitely, one moment after the other. One fear after another. We cannot share responsibility, but from our position of power, we can impose all our fears on others. She is afraid of me, and I convince myself that I do not want to unearth the source or the cause of her fear. I am unable to dispel these thoughts, even though I try, sometimes with petty jokes, but more often by ignoring her presence. I know she has to exist in order for me to ignore her existence. But she has turned the tables, and I am unambiguously embarrassed. Will she leave? Will she no longer be here? I realize that I am now ignoring my own existence, because I can no longer dismiss her own.
Now, I am the maid.
I sit back down on the same couch, the only comfortable one. I lie back and scratch my chin with all five fingers. For some reason, I feel this will allow me to think more clearly. What I'm trying to say is that I'm open-minded, not like the others. I have different ideas that I try to work by. This is not kindness on my part, but I feel I have made progress, when compared to those who have achieved nothing. I don't know what progress is exactly, but I've certainly made progress by agreeing to bring the ashtray myself. In my mind, I have even washed the dishes. And if that's not enough, I'll make an extra effort. But I can't be a maid forever. I felt so alone, far away from everything and everyone. It was more time than I could handle. Like everyone else, I wondered about the meaning of life and what happens after we die. Like everyone else, in a moment of fatigue, I understood that I had to wear her apron until the end. I was sure I wasn't brave enough to do it. I go out to the balcony. I face those who laughed at me. I can't think of a way to silence them other than jumping. The thought frightens me and I run back in.
"I'm leaving." As I try to shake off the sentence's unceasing echo that assaults me like shockwaves, I realize that she can't simply go, not like that. I have her passport. The state is on my side, so is General Security and the law. Everyone is on my side, even those who dislike me, those who are jealous of the big house I live in, and who see me as an intruder on the old bourgeoisie. They are all against her. Even if I agreed to it, they wouldn't let her change the rules of the game. It's not my fault. She can't just leave.
I take the apron off and throw it on the floor. My mind starts to clear up, I raise my head. Everything is still where it was and so am I. The documentary is still running; they have now reached Bolivia. I turn and look at her. It is 2:30 PM and she is waiting–and I am waiting for her to get the ashtray from the kitchen.
It improved our marriage
He likes to walk around in his boxers
I can't change the world alone
There's a tenderness with the kids
I say my girl
We live above our means
Black and from a different culture,
best to be less present
Part Three
Monologue of Destinies:
How to Create an Opening in the Wall of Inherited Attitudes and Behaviors?
Written by
Joy Slim
Artwork by
Hassan Zahereddine
Introduction
The relationship that binds a domestic worker to her employers–notably the man whom she ‘serves’—is constituted on three levels. Gender, race, and class define every worker’s existence, and simultaneously her (in)visibility, in the home/workplace. In this context, we are inevitably led to ask some important questions: How does a man deal with his privileges, even if he rejects them on principle? Does the social model always prevail over the individual? Is there a way to create an opening in the structures that preceded our existence and our thoughts?
Morning Monologue
I get up and rush to prepare my morning coffee. While I wait for the water to boil, I go out to the balcony. In that short span of my absence, the domestic worker has already taken my place at the stove–she is preparing my coffee.
I prefer not to deal with our domestic worker. I often leave that embarrassing responsibility to my wife, Berna. Perhaps I am somewhat ashamed of this situation. Essentially, I tend to reject most of the pillars of the social value system in which we live. Throughout my life, I have sought to oppose traditional views on the relationship between men and women, and I have advocated for equality between them in all fields.
However, I often wonder: Is this limited to theories and abstract situations, or awareness, or can it extend to practice?
Let me illustrate: You are sitting at home and you want something. You automatically ask someone else to do it, or that person spontaneously does it for you, instead of doing it yourself. It's a simple example, tempting too, but to what extent can you coexist with the ideas implicit in this simple practice?
The Mother and the Domestic Worker
I remember a popular sketch from a Lebanese comedy show in the early 2000s: A child named Pippo (Fadi Raidy) complains that his mother is neglecting him. When he was younger, he says, he thought that the family's Sri Lankan domestic worker was his mother. Once, he even handed her a gift on Mother's Day instead of giving it to his mother.
The sketch was so realistic that it gained widespread approval at the time. Its popularity coincided with the prevalence of hired foreign help working in the homes of the Lebanese middle class in the late 1990s.
Home Monologue
Sometimes I get the impression that the lady of the house and her domestic worker are in competition. Due to a set of circumstances, these two women find themselves in an undeclared match, vying for the same role.
Simply put, one can replace the other. As for the man, the husband, or the father, his position of authority remains unchallenged. Nothing affects his historically defined role.
External Voice
In 2000, the United Nations Population Division estimated that 49 percent of migrants globally were women or girls. This percentage goes up to 51 percent in more developed regions1Women and international migration, Division for the Advancement of Women Department of Economic and Social Affairs United Nations, 2004.. According to the Division's 2004 report, women migrate in response to gender-specific labor demands and pursue work that reflects inherited gender-based values, norms, stereotypes, and hierarchies. Although laws regarding the admission of migrant workers generally do not discriminate between genders, the demand for domestic workers and nurses focuses almost exclusively on the recruitment of women. Additionally, in the female workers' countries of origin, female labor also follows gender norms and stereotypes that gear women to traditionally female occupations.
Monologue: A Historical Thought
The issue is not only related to bringing the domestic worker into the house., but it also has its roots in the distant history of human beings and societies, and each person's individual history. Perhaps it also has to do with traditional patriarchal upbringing. For example, a man can secure a job more easily than a woman. He can find ways to make much more money than a woman.
The problem lies in the fact that social relations are still based on the understanding that a man is more qualified and more competent than a woman. He remains the main household provider.
External Voice
Labor markets still discriminate according to gender. Women's wages remain much lower than men's. Studies show that “the labor markets [...] in the countries of destination are still limited and remain sex-segregated. Women provide low-cost and flexible labor.”2Nayla Moukarbel, Sri Lankan Housemaids in Lebanon: A Case of ‘Symbolic Violence’ and ‘Everyday Forms of Resistance, (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2009), 12.
“Women overall lose out on more than $400,000 over the course of their careers, but most women of color are shorted more than double that. [...] If a woman works for 40 years, then, that adds up to a lifetime shortfall of $430,480 as compared to a man.3In 2016, a US Census Bureau survey revealed that women earned less than men in all US states and the District of Columbia. The national female-to-male income ratio was 81.9%, with Utah ranking lowest at 69.9% and Vermont ranking highest at 90.2%. [...] When compared to the earnings of white men, that wage loss figure rises to $883,040 for Native American women, $877,480 for black women and $1,007,080 for Latinas.”4 Lydia O’Connor, “The Wage Gap: Terrible For All Women, Even Worse For Women Of Color”, The Huffington Post, April 12, 2016.
Inference: The Source of Inequality
The idea of a difference in qualifications between the sexes alone is capable of creating and perpetuating this income disparity between them.
I am a full believer in equality between men and women. However, I earn more than my wife, just because I am a man and she is a woman. This disparity is naturally reflected in privileges at home. Even if a woman earns a higher salary than her husband, this will not release her from her household chores, save in exceptional cases perhaps.
This is due to society's outlook, which unconsciously orients us and singles out women for housekeeping tasks.
Childhood Memory
I remember a summer when my parents took my sister Souad to pick apples in the orchard. They teased her saying she was working “like boys.”
It was as if they could not believe or did not want to admit that women could do a man's work. It seemed that whatever a woman did, they could find no use or meaning for her work outside the house–unless they raised it to the level of a man's work.
External Voice
The United Nations defines the domestic worker as follows: “Domestic workers, largely women, provide invaluable services to families, and make up a significant part of the global workforce in informal employment. Yet, they are among the most vulnerable groups in the workforce and face a number of human and labor rights abuses.” The UN notes that one out of every 25 female wage earners is employed in domestic work around the world. According to the same source, women constitute 81.5 percent of domestic workers, and 73.4 percent of migrant domestic workers.5Infographic: Migrant domestic workers - Facts everyone should know, UN Women, 2016.
A Thought: Low-Income Countries and Women
Low-income countries, then, recruit women from similarly low-income countries. They recruit them on particularly unfair and unjust terms. In their domestic work, these workers fulfill housekeeping roles that women are expected to hold. Of course, they do this without receiving in return any of the privileges of the housewife, the madam.
Monologue: Gender, Race and Class
I just realized that I asked Berna to empty the ashtray. Why didn't I empty it myself? I am the smoker here, I am the one who needs it. It's a deeply rooted tendency that attaches itself to us and our behavior, to which we submit against our will.
This tendency may be traced back to an upbringing that is greatly devoted to masculinity. The male is used to it, and it becomes enshrined as his privilege, regardless of his convictions or his will. It is a deep-rooted tendency, which programs us to automatically accept that women perform the household chores that men benefit from.
When the husband does some housework, it is exceptional “help” that he is providing. Despite how secondary or marginal it may be, the man's work takes on added value. His labor is not borne out of duty, unlike a woman's work.
Therefore, the issue has a much older and broader history than the more limited issue of the domestic servant. By this I mean the historical idea of privilege, our privilege as men, with its practices and consequences.
It is the woman who does the housework before a maid is entrusted to do it.
I remember my grandmother going crazy once when she saw me leave the living room to get myself a cup of coffee. My grandmother was mad because I, and not my sister Souad, went to get it. The three of us were sitting together in the living room. My grandmother's inherited certainty could not be disputed that the person who ought to get up and fetch me—the male, the young man—a cup of coffee was my sister Souad, not me. Even as I got up to get it and heard my grandmother's disapproval, I felt that I was doing my sister a favor.
Here, let us pose an elementary question: Why is domestic work restricted to women? Why do we never find a migrant man who stays in a family home to serve as a domestic worker and take care of the children?
Let us also note how unfamiliar it is to think in terms of a male domestic servant—even linguistically, the most common word for a domestic worker is the feminine word ‘maid’. Why?
Because this kind of work has historically been the purview of women. Were it not for this original historical axiom, and the lack of equal sharing of house chores between husband and wife, a woman would not have had to burden another woman with housework.
The root of the problem, then, lies in the gendered division of labor, the so-called “natural roles.” One could argue that the presence of the maid negates any attempt to establish equality in the home.
Distant Feminist Voice
“Each suburban wife struggles with it alone. As she made the beds, shopped for groceries, matched slipcover material, ate peanut butter sandwiches with her children, [...] lay beside her husband at night–she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question— ‘Is this all?’”6
Betty Friedan, The Feminine Mystique (New York: W.W. Norton, 1963), 44.
American feminist Betty Friedan published her book The Feminine Mystique in 1963. This book is credited for contributing to the start of second-wave feminism, by exploring the problem of “housewives” in the United States. Through The Feminine Mystique, Friedan attempted to deconstruct the notion that women are only fulfilled through marriage, children, and housework.“We can no longer ignore that voice within women that says: ‘I want something more than my husband and my children and my home.’”7 Ibid. p.60
Monologue: The Price of Women's Liberation
Perhaps this is the first level of the problem. I sometimes think that racism —along with sexual discrimination against women— plays a main role in the creation of the problem of domestic work, if one can call it that.
The domestic worker, in Lebanon at least, is always a woman of color. In previous times, I know that many domestic workers were Lebanese, Syrian and Palestinian. But this phenomenon receded over time until it completely disappeared at the end of the Civil War (1990).
Today, one rarely finds an Arab domestic worker residing in the home of a Lebanese family. Perhaps this is due —in addition to the shape of the labor market and the percentage of men and women emigrating for work—to the fact that hiring a colored female worker is a comfort to her employers. It ensures that they are more invisible to her, inasmuch as her presence is also invisible to them. The more alien the worker's nationality/identity and the “lower” her country's rank on the ladder of nationalities/identities, the “lighter” her presence at home is to bear, and the fewer privileges she enjoys. This has become an undeclared racist norm that is characteristic of the kafala sponsorship system existing in Lebanon.
Herein lies a paradox: The struggle for women's liberation is tied to the expansion of racism and discrimination against other women. The quest of women around the world to be rid of the burden of their “natural roles,” which undermine their ambition and limit their freedom, has led other, less privileged women to suffer the brunt of the quest and pay a steep price for it.
External Voice: Liberation from Housework
“...the freedom of privileged class women of all races required the sustained subordination of working-class women. When privileged women left the home to work, someone had to stay in the home and do the dirty work.”8bell hooks, Where We Stand: Class Matters (New York: Routledge, 2000), 106“A small group of elite privileged class white women were the group Betty Friedan wrote about when she identified ‘the problem that has no name,’ a phrase used to euphemistically describe the dis-satisfaction individuals felt about being confined and subordinated in the home as housewives. Their issue was informed by both the politics of gender and class because while they were complaining about the dangers of confinement in the home, a huge majority of women in the nation were in the workforce. And many of these working women, who put in long hours for low wages while still doing all the work in the domestic household, would have seen the right to stay home as ‘freedom.’”9bell hooks, Where We Stand: Class Matters (New York: Routledge, 2000), 102
Let's agree then that the gender-based division of labor lies at the core of a multi-dimensional problem, which targets the least privileged in terms of race and class. Perhaps if the man's role at home were the same as that of the woman—from housework to childcare—women would not need to turn to other women of “inferior” classes for help.
Monologue: A Man Despite Himself
It is true that the issue of gender discrimination may differ from one man to another. But regardless of the difference in the degrees of discrimination among men, there remains a basic difference between the theory and practice of discrimination within men themselves. In other words, a man may theoretically acknowledge the equality of the sexes without actually putting it into practice in his own behavior.
The issue of gender discrimination is deeply rooted within us and can overwhelm our will. One man may discriminate less severely, or more tactfully than another. Ultimately though, everybody is participating in gender discrimination.
How does discrimination or privilege occur?
It happens precisely when I practice it against my will, or without mentally agreeing to it. I take advantage of my historically bestowed role because it benefits me and serves my interests. Even if a person has theoretically overcome (his own) masculinity, certain moments and situations bring him back to it, and he takes advantage of being a male.
I consider myself a liberal in this matter. I was born in a traditional environment that discriminates between men and women, but I broke away from it. I believe I have undergone a personal revolution: I have adopted new ideas around liberation and openness. Still, you can't expect a person to act against his own good.
If your position bestows upon you some sort of authority, how can you act in a way that strips you of this power?
No matter how many theories and ideas about equality I adopt, I find it difficult to simply relinquish a privilege that I possess. If it suits me and comforts me, I will do it even if it comes at the expense of women.
A thought: The Family Unit is Our Destiny!
If we look at societies that have achieved some change in the relationship dynamics between men and women, we find that the change was instituted through laws. Their relationship did not change because of the will or desires of individuals, and it was certainly not men who brought justice to this matter!
In addition to the legal dimension, the inevitability of the family unit is another point that is rarely touched upon when discussing gender roles and their division between men and women.
External Voice
“No more domestic bondage for women. No more inequality within the family. No need for women to fear being left without support and with children to bring up. The woman in communist society no longer depends upon her husband but on her work. It is not in her husband but in her capacity for work that she will find support. [...] Marriage will lose all the elements of material calculation which cripple family life.”10Alexandra Kollontai, “Communism and the Family,” trans. Alix Holt, Selected Writings of Alexandra Kollontai, (Alison & Busby, 1975).
A Thought — Summary: Prudent Individualism
It is unlikely that we will get rid of the capitalist system in which we live in the foreseeable future. Changing the gender-based division of labor is progressing slowly, and it does not yet herald a revolution within the family that would consecrate fairness and equality between men and women.
At present, the solution may be individual. Anyone who breaks free from the prevailing value system should avoid engaging with its social stereotypes, thus sparing oneself and others the inevitable injustice and exploitation inherent in the prevalent traditional structures. In this way, one can contribute to a change, no matter how small, in the existing labor market system.
Part Four
Bernard
Written by
Maya Abdulmalek
Artwork by
Lina Merhej
March 3, 1988
No sooner had we finished eating that Bernard chided me for not clearing the table. I felt ashamed. I wanted to explain how new this was to me, how I had never lived without my garden, or a cook, or a driver, or a maid, without my mother or my sisters. I was alone in this cold country, more than 9000km away from home. I really wished that Lubna, the Moroccan housemaid, would not leave us every night to go back home. But I loved Bernard, my dear husband, so I said nothing. I started moving the dirty dishes, cups, forks and knives to the sink. At 20 years old, that was my first time. .
June 6, 1989
Bernard is now officially a surgeon at an important clinic in Ottawa, and I'm so proud of him. We make a beautiful family. I do my best to run the house and be a good mother and wife. When evening sets and Lubna is gone, I quickly put Yasmine to bed. I try to organize my time. As soon as she falls asleep, I get ready to welcome Bernard back home. Good thing I quit studying psychology, or else I would have never been able to fully devote myself to my family. As my mother used to say when we lived in Africa: Good housekeeping is a tough job. She was right: a woman must at once be generous, discreet, and demanding. I miss my mother. I miss my sisters.
December 12, 1992
When I think that Bernard complained to his mother on the phone that I do not keep him company while he has dinner! I was so upset that I even scolded Lubna. She is so slow when it comes to cleaning windows! He doesn't know how exhausted I am every night. He comes back at ten all relaxed and expects me to be elegantly dressed and ready for him! After Lubna leaves at six in the evening, I barely have a minute to myself. Yasmine and Zeina get on my nerves and won't give me a moment’s break. Mom, I want this, Mom, I want that. I can't bear it anymore. And Zeina wakes up every night! Of course I can't count on Lubna, because "missus" is peacefully asleep at home. I love Bernard, but he sometimes goes too far. Since he was promoted to department head, he's been less patient with me, as if I were his mother's cook, staying awake until two in the morning. No! I will go to bed at ten. Period.
October 8, 1996
My two daughters are driving me crazy. They constantly quarrel and order me around, and they only seem to care about their father although they hardly ever see him. Perhaps it’s because they never see him. I take care of them day and night, yet they are rude to me and disobey me. I have a glass of white wine every day at four in the afternoon to be able to deal with it. Otherwise, I would have killed everybody. I should be proud of what I have accomplished: of this house that I manage so tastefully, of my husband who is excelling at work, of my two daughters whom I am bringing up so well, of the friends that I entertain so lavishly. But a strange feeling takes over me sometimes: I am bored. Fortunately, I have my garden. It's the only place where I am truly happy. I get up at five in the morning and start plowing. It is the one hour I devote to myself. I spend it tending my plants, watering my flowers, and clearing the weeds. At six, Bernard and Zeina wake up. That's when I have to let everything go and devote myself to them without a breath to spare.
August 3, 1998
The heat is unbearable and the air conditioning is useless. Maybe it's the pregnancy giving me hot flashes. We returned to Beirut two months ago, and I still haven’t adapted. I got used to my life in Canada, but Bernard decided that he wanted to be buried in Lebanon. I still haven't figured out the real reason behind his decision. Maybe he's more interested in plastic surgery than in organ transplants. Either way, as soon as he arrived in Beirut, he set up a clinic with Robert. I've been feeling nauseous since this morning. Fortunately my mother has ordered for me a Filipina maid from Dubai. They are very obedient, efficient, and discreet, but most importantly, they are available around the clock. I would have never been able to manage things if it weren't for her and the cook. The house is huge and there is always a lot to do. Women here have very beautiful hands. I have to learn to look like them and not wear the same clothes two days in a row. Vera made a comment about this a few days ago.
December 20, 2001
I feel sleepy. Bernard and I are going out all the time: charity balls that I have to accompany him to, not to mention the formal dinners. It's one in the afternoon, and Yasmine and Zeina are still asleep. I want to pull them by the hair; their laziness is killing me. Starting tomorrow, I will force them to get up at noon, at the latest. I don't care if they complain to their father, he will always take their side anyway. My mind has been in full gear since this morning! A lot left to do for Christmas Eve. It has to be perfect this year. I don't want to hear a single comment from my mother-in-law. I have to take care of my little Rana's birthday today. I have to send out the invitations, order the cake, choose the right party planners… I want her third birthday to be unforgettable. When I think that Lea is going to the Philippines for three weeks in January, I'm worried that I'll never manage on my own. I need to request a replacement soon. The UNICEF dinner starts at eight this evening. I have to tell the hairdresser to come early, the driver must bring Bernard's suit. Suddenly, I am swept by an irrational urge to check on my (name of flower). .
March 12, 2002
Bernard is happy that I'm pregnant with a boy. Personally, I feel nothing. I don't have time to feel anything. My personal trainer just got here, and I really feel like cancelling the session. But no, no, I have to get a hold of myself. Come on… I'm not going to become sedentary at 34. I have to stay tall, strong and graceful. I should be happy to be pregnant with a little boy, instead of surrendering to these dark thoughts…but I can't help it. I feel hollow and empty.. It’s a miracle that I still have it together.
May 8, 2005
Lea ran away. I am shocked. It's like I've lost an extension of myself. I don't understand. I always treated her with respect and she never complained. Is it because I scolded her a few days ago when she broke the Japanese vase? Is it because Ramzi was keeping her awake late at night? How could she go and leave me alone with my four children and all the household chores? I'm sure Bernard will blame me for this. Every time he reproaches me, I feel like biting him. I'm done with Filipinas. They are all phonies. I want someone from another race. I want to hire a more honest, affectionate housemaid, with whom I can establish a more direct relationship. I will order an Ethiopian.
January 5, 2008
Bernard blames me for my bad temper. I don't have a temper, I just have character! It's true though: I have been having more bouts of anger. I yell at Lati, at the kids and at him. I can no longer bear to be at the service of my children, my husband, my family and my friends unconditionally. I can't pretend anymore: constantly smiling, acting happy, staying timid. I see myself clutching Bernard's arm during dinners and I don't recognize myself. Who am I? I am nothing but a facade, a shadow of my former self. I can’t breathe in this costume, when will I take it off? I want to scream, cry, run away… I’m glad I didn't get that lip enhancement surgery, despite Bernard's insistence. My little act of resistance.
June 1, 2011
Yoga is so beneficial. I’ve regained my breath… Breathe. I’m learning to be myself. I’ve become more attentive to others, ever since the divorce was finalized. I am no longer ashamed of being a divorcee when I meet the mothers of Ramzi's friends. I have been released from my prison. I think of Yasmine in Rome and Zeina in Canada. I would like to tell them: Be yourselves, my daughters. Take as much time as you need to tend your garden. I should pay more attention to Lati and tell her to watch TV in the living room while I'm away. This morning I told her: "You're here to help me, but you have an existence outside of the work you do for me. You exist, Lati!" She didn't reply. Maybe she didn't get it. Together, we trained the young Ethiopian woman that Bernard has hired to run his house and iron his suits to his liking. I advised her to be discreet, because I know that Bernard doesn't like sensing the presence of the help at home. In a way, it reassures me that she is working for him. It relieves me of a burden.
September 10, 2018
I just turned fifty. Soon, Ramzi will be traveling abroad to complete his studies and I will find myself alone in this big house. I miss my three daughters. They've left a huge void. I hope they can spend their holidays in Lebanon this year. Lati flew to Ethiopia for her vacation and never came back. I would have liked her to explain to me, to speak to me, to show the slightest degree of respect and gratitude towards me, but I don't hold a grudge against her. Everyone is free. Young Baboush is doing well. She is twenty years old, the same age as my daughter Rana. I am nice to her, I talk to her and tell her about my day. I installed Skype on her computer so she can chat with her family. But she keeps her distance, she doesn't seem interested in my affection. Maybe she needs time to adapt. I also needed to adapt when I lived in Canada away from my family. This is what I have learned from life-coaching: she is my employee, of course, but she's human just like me and that's very important. Nada's not coming today, she must have left me a dish in the fridge last night. She's probably at Bernard's, cooking him fish with almonds. When I think about it, our breakup barely affected his life: he still has a woman to run his house, a woman to cook for him and a new woman to go out with… But I have to stop thinking about this, it's no longer a problem. I have to find a cause that will give new meaning to my life, my coach says. I will enroll in a Caritas training course on violence against women. It is very difficult for a woman to be herself, and break free of the molds that are imposed on her. It's disgraceful. Yes, this course will help me. Besides, it's Baboush's day to clean the windows. She will be able to work peacefully without me asking her for help every five minutes. I may meet new people that will enrich my daily life and increase my joy and freedom. Sometimes, life can really surprise us.
Part Five
Establishing the Family
Written by
Yara Nahle
Artwork by
Omar Khoury
When Mazen and Farah decided to start a family, approximately eight years ago, they were aware of the challenges ahead. Reconciling their professional ambitions with the demands of family life would be a complex task. They would need to devise the right formula to distribute household chores between them. The matter was even more difficult because they had nothing to base themselves on. The practices of their parents and previous generations no longer suited the current social context, particularly in light of the changing role of women, which only increased their responsibilities. More importantly, it was necessary to maintain a standard of living suitable to raising children, in a country that provides its citizens with no guarantees or social protection.
A few years into their marriage (during which they had two children, Sari, seven and Salma, one), Mazen and Farah found themselves facing a dilemma. They had more and more responsibilities to bear, but their ability to handle them declined, which led to a feeling of helplessness and a loss of control over their lives. This, in turn, affected their relationship, so they sought out the help of a counselor.
Below are parts of the sessions that the couple conducted with the counselor, over a period of three years, during which the couple identified ways to address conflicts caused by domestic burdens. They hired a foreign domestic worker, but their economic conditions deteriorated due to the current crisis, and they were forced to search for alternative solutions.
Session 1: March 14, 2017
Farah: I admit I can’t handle this amount of pressure any more. Sometimes I feel completely broken. A few days ago, Mazen asked me "What's wrong with you? Why are you being so hysterical?" The comment really bothered me. The word is so negative and degrading to me and to women in general. As if female biology and I were to blame for not being able to catch a breath in this daily marathon.
There are not enough hours in the day to do all I have to do. I'm not an octopus with eight arms to take care of everything at once: the house, the two children, my work, Mazen, and myself... I spend my nights nursing and caring for the little one. In the morning, before going to work, I try to conceal the dark circles around my tired eyes with makeup, in vain. I can't hide the traces of fatigue on my face or its effects on my deteriorating mental health. I am unable to focus at work. My colleagues have started noticing this. Recently my boss asked me, "What's happening? I know you. This is not you." She doesn't understand how exhausted I am.
How can I focus on work if my mind is actively occupied with a thousand and one worries? Is Salma okay at the nursery, or has she not stopped crying since I told her goodbye this morning? Did Sari get to school on time, or was he scolded by the teacher for being late as usual? Can Mazen pick him up in the afternoon or do I have to leave the office early? I also need to go to the supermarket to buy things for the holiday. I get depressed every time Mazen tells me he has invited someone over for dinner. I love meeting family and friends around the dinner table, but I don't like having to prepare food for hours, and then do all the washing and cleaning afterwards. All this while I hold Salma in my arms.
There was a time she wouldn’t let me out of her sight. As soon as I left her, she would start crying. Sometimes, I can't even go into the kitchen to chop an onion. A one-hour recipe takes me four hours to finish. Sometimes I don't leave the kitchen before 11 PM. I am not seeing my parents. I feel guilty and angry about not spending time with them. Trivial things make me angry and I can't handle comments or criticism from anyone. I even yell at my children when they have too many requests, and I feel that I can’t fulfill any of them. What I mean to say is that I am not hysterical, as Mazen claims. Our lifestyle is hysterical.
Counselor: Have you thought of ways to ease these burdens?
Farah: It's one of two solutions: either I hire someone to help me at home, or one of us quits their job to take care of the children full-time. The second option is out of the question for either of us. I will definitely not leave my job to go clean the house, especially when my job offers me a good salary and decent working hours. No, I definitely won't quit my job. Neither will Mazen.
Counselor: Before thinking of quitting your job completely, can't you consider reducing your working hours? Or looking for a job that requires less time and effort?
Mazen: We thought of this, but came to the conclusion that it was not possible. We need both our salaries. We have many commitments: Sari's school fees, which are expensive. We have loans to repay on the house, on my car and Farah's… We were planning to buy a house in the mountains, to spend holidays and weekends outside of Beirut. And there are our family vacations, which we set a significant budget aside for. We're used to traveling twice a year. Last year, we had to cancel our Christmas vacation because of economic pressures we were facing.
Counselor: Farah, what’s your opinion on this?
Farah: True, it’s difficult to reduce our expenses. We’re only spending on necessities that we can't really live without... Except for traveling, perhaps. Of course, we won't save on tuition fees or send our son to a less important school. And we really can't get rid of health insurance or car expenses for example. You know the state of public transportation in Lebanon–we need our cars.
Counselor: And why won't you hire a domestic worker?
Farah: Mazen is opposed to the idea. I was too, at the beginning, but now my physical and mental health are at stake. I don't like the idea of a stranger living with us and sleeping in our house. But I'm willing to give up some of my privacy in exchange for some relief.
Mazen: It's not just about the help sleeping in our home. I can't accept the idea that a person has to work more than eight hours a day. A domestic worker continues to work as long as she is awake. The employer can ask her for anything, at any time of day. It's like slavery. The work contract of domestic workers is very unfair to them. What a hypocrite I would be if I hired a domestic worker, after I’d participated in so many protests demanding these workers' rights.
It’s a concept that's alien to my culture. We call them domestic workers to avoid being labeled racist or classist. But in the vernacular, we really call them maids! I have always derided this bourgeois way of life, where a person needs a court around him to serve him. I'm not totally opposed to housework, it's a productive occupation like many other professions. But in this way? No! I can't accept it. Call it stubbornness, but I will not change my mind.
Session 2: July 10, 2018
Counselor: How did your first month with the domestic worker go?
Farah: It was a bit strange at first, but we're starting to adapt. Mazen doesn't deal with her a lot. She still can't communicate in Arabic, and her exchanges are mostly limited to me. But she's taken a big load off my shoulders. She tends to the house, which allows me to focus on my children when I get home from work. And her personality has made it easier to accept her at home. Zoya knows her limits and is not crass, as Mazen says. He strongly opposed the idea but I was at the end of my tether, and I decided to hire help regardless of what Mazen said. I don't think it was a bad decision. She saved us.
Counselor: How do you feel, and what do you think, Mazen? Are you struggling internally?
Mazen: Yes, I am a bit conflicted. You could call it a conflict between principle and need. I could see that things were getting worse and one of us would’ve had to quit their job. We were at a dead end. No solutions. Actually, I’m not sure that we had no other choice, but this was the easiest and most practical solution. Since Farah is more directly responsible for the house, it makes sense for her to decide how to run it. These things are outside my jurisdiction in a way. So be it! That said, in my daily life at home, I try not to rely on her. I remind myself that we’ve hired her to take care of the house, so I don't ask her to do anything for me personally. I don't ask anything of her at all. Sometimes, if I need her help, I ask Farah to relay the message.
Counselor: Does this alleviate your feelings of guilt and responsibility?
Mazen: It's just that I don't want to feel that this person is here to satisfy my personal needs.
Counselor: Of course, since the responsibilities and duties of the house are the realm of women. This allows you to ignore the presence of the domestic worker herself, so that you avoid the feelings associated with slavery and exploitation.
Mazen: Okay, I understand what you're saying. There may be some truth to that… It keeps my conscience clear... I will not deny it.
Counselor: What about you Farah? Do you share his guilt?
Farah: Oh the guilt, of course! It's not just about the kafala system. But let me tell you something: I feel guilty about anyone who has to do domestic chores, whether it's the help, Mazen, myself, or anyone else.
Before my parents brought in a domestic worker, I saw my mother spend most of her time in the kitchen. This made me hate the kitchen and housework. I felt that it robbed a woman of her life and comfort. My mom did it out of love for my brother and me. But I could never justify it. She would put so much time and effort into such fleeting things like keeping the house clean or preparing a meal that is quickly devoured, without a word of thanks or praise in return. In the end, she had to hire a domestic worker, because her slipped disk restricted her movement. Ever since, I decided not to spend half of my life in the kitchen. That doesn't mean that I don't feel guilty about Zoya. But the difference between you and me, Mazen, is that I do not have the luxury of neglecting this responsibility. It's easy for you to say that she is "here for the house and the children, not for me." But are you really not responsible for the house? Does the responsibility rest solely on me?
Mazen: That's not what I meant. You know I help a lot around the house.
Farah: That's true. Before Zoya came, you were doing most of the ironing for example. But you said it yourself: you only "help." For you, it’s helping. For me, it's a duty that I can't neglect, not even for an instant.
Mazen: We always say that children's relationship with their mother and father should be the same, but I don't think that's realistic. The mother has a much greater ability to tolerate children. Maybe it’s how we were raised– I don't know. But I really feel that Farah tolerates and handles the kids better than I do.
Farah: That's because I have to do it. It's my role. But I keep telling you, it's not like I've already raised 20 children. This is my first time as well, and I am still trying to figure out how to handle things.
Mazen: Wait a second, Farah. You wanted children much more than I did. That's where the difference lies. When you told me of your desire to bear children, I fell into a cycle of depression and anxiety. What a huge responsibility! In the end, I accepted to take it on. But what I'm trying to say is that desire has its effects as well. I mean, you're much more capable of handling the kids than I am. Don't get me wrong, I really like spending time with them and I do have fun. I just can't take care of them for hours on end, like you do.
Counselor: Is that another way to evade responsibility?
[…]
Session 3: November 23, 2019
[…]
Farah: Do I feel jealous? I try not to think about it too much... Whenever I have these kinds of thoughts, I quickly banish them from my mind. Yesterday, for example, I came home late from work and wanted to spend some time with Salma before she went to sleep. But when I arrived, I found her with Zoya. They were sitting among toys and coloring pencils, drawing and giggling. Their happiness was written on their faces. There was something other than happiness too... How shall I put it? Familiarity perhaps. Yes, there was a deep sense of familiarity. No matter how much she loves both of us, I felt that Salma has gotten to know Zoya more than she knows me. The harmony that exists between them feels more organic than the relationship I have with my own daughter, the one I held in my womb. What warmth they shared! Watching them, my rage almost killed me. I thought: Oh God... She’s spent the whole day with her, isn't it my turn now? All I want is two hours with my daughter... Just the two of us and no one else.
Honestly, sometimes I worry that my children will take her side or someone else's. I am their mother, and they should be loyal to me. Always. But, as I said, I don't give in to these ideas for long. I know that if I let my obsessions run, I'll end up destroying my relationship with Zoya and her relationship with the kids. She loves them very much, as if they were her own! She showers them with her motherly affection.
At first this terrified me, and I tried to keep her away from my children, emotionally speaking. I treated her like an employee, with clear delineated tasks and rights. I attempted to define her role so that she would not infringe on mine. But soon enough I realized this was inhumane as far as she and the children were concerned. She is not a robot devoid of feeling, neither are they. No matter how much I treated her like an employee, it did not change the fact that our home was her world. It’s where she works, but it is also where she lives, where she goes to bed, with all her struggles, hopes, dreams and desires. It can't only be her job, otherwise her whole life is the job. I can’t accept that. So I let her get close to the kids. It was pointless to resist. Anyway, it happened spontaneously and the kids quickly fell in love with her. Especially Salma. I worry about what will happen to Salma when Zoya leaves, I am afraid of the emotional damage it might cause. She is very attached to her.
But when I watch her with my kids, I feel pity for her children. Two weeks ago, we were saying goodbye to Sari at the airport and Zoya was with us. I could not contain my tears even though he was only going away for one month. Then, I felt ridiculous because standing beside me was this woman who had not seen her children for almost a year and a half. And I don't see her crying. How is she not depressed all the time? There must be something I don't understand. Maybe it has to do with their culture, their way of living.
Mazen: And their economic circumstances as well.
Farah: Yes, I know. But it still doesn't make sense to me. I am talking as a mother. Motherhood is the same everywhere, regardless of culture and social status, don't you think?
Counselor: What does motherhood mean to you?
Farah: It's a difficult question. I thought about it a lot, particularly after Zoya came into our home and my role changed. I started asking myself: What is my role exactly? Is motherhood measured by the amount of time I spend with my children? Is the mother the face that children see most often? Especially for the nursing baby who is yet to understand the different roles and positions in the family… I sometimes wonder how Salma picks up our smells. Does she link her smell or mine to motherhood? It's a question that occupies me. But to answer your question, what is motherhood? I think it's a lot of things, one of which is watching your children grow. Nothing, in my opinion, compares to the time I spend with Sari and Salma.
Counselor: You mean like the drawing session you mentioned earlier?
Farah: Exactly! She is living her motherhood with my children, while her own children grow up far from their mom. It's not fair to her children. After we said goodbye to Sari, I told her, "It's best if you go back home to your children when your contract with us expires. Your place is with them." If I were in her shoes...
Counselor: But you are not in her shoes…
Session 4: February 2, 2021
Farah: Zoya is leaving in a month. We can no longer afford to pay her in dollars. I’m depressed already. I started looking for part-time help, although taking care of the house will be exhausting. I will leave work only to come back home and find more work awaiting me there. And the kids, their lessons, and their activities...
Mazen: I, for example, think there is too much fuss about activities. I have noticed the same problem among a number of our friends. Women want to fill their children's time with activities. This lifestyle is more of a social fad. The child has to learn piano, taekwondo, squash and scuba diving... His mother has to drive him to this or that activity. And all this is done without consulting the child and checking if he wants to do it. It's an irrational desire in women, and mothers in particular, that their son be special, a "Superman" of sorts. It even develops into a kind of obsession and competition between mothers. A form of fulfillment of their own desires.
Farah: No, it's not like that, Mazen. Since I brought this child into this world, I feel I ought to give him the best things there are. I don't force Sari to go to music class unless he wants to. Of course I urge him to go. I don't deny that I wish my son would master an art or a sport. Don't you wish that too?
Mazen: I do, but not at the expense of your health or mine. I suffer from backaches, and you have joint pains. In order to continue caring for our children, we need to get our share of rest. I sometimes beg her to stop cleaning the house and lie down on the couch, as I do, in the evening. But she insists on sweeping and dusting the house. I tell her that there's no need to do these chores every day. You have the right to rest. Get used to a bit of disorder.
Farah: I don't give myself the right to rest. But you're also the kind of person who gets upset when something is not in its right place and you demand that it's returned to where it should be.
Mazen: That’s meant to avoid spending time cleaning and putting things in order.
Farah: But there are the kids…
Mazen: The kids in particular ought to learn to take care of themselves and the things around them. They should be aware of their movements at home. If you want to eat, you have to wash the dishes. If you spill soup on the carpet, you have to clean it yourself. If you want a glass of water, you go to the kitchen. It's a way of taking responsibility.
I don't want my children to grow up thinking this is how the world works: if they need a glass of water, someone will bring it to them, and that they can leave a mess behind because someone is there who will put things back in order. This mentality takes over everything in the end. I want to teach them early on that they have to take care of themselves. They are responsible for their own existence and for the order of the surroundings in which they live. Zoya's presence creates a kind of dependency in the family. And I'm talking about how all of us behave. We used to fold our dirty clothes when we showered, now we just leave them on the bathroom floor. I used to hate this sort of behavior, and now I unconsciously practice it… or slightly consciously but with willful ignorance. Even the children leave their things lying around on the floor. They strew their toys everywhere, and wait for someone to pick them up.
Farah: But the kids never picked up their toys, even before Zoya joined us. I used to do that. That struggle simply moved from me to her. And after she leaves, we'll have to face that struggle again.
Mazen: Believe me, I am well aware of what lies ahead. I know that it won't be easy, because we got used to her presence. But some things will have to change. The lifestyle we had is no longer possible. It's kind of funny, because we will have to reduce the amount of things we consume, and therefore the amount of garbage we produce. I sometimes think that although this economic crisis is catastrophic and is negatively affecting us, it offers our children an opportunity to learn to take responsibility and tend to their own needs. It will teach them that they can't always get what they want.
It is also an opportunity for us to adopt a simpler lifestyle. I have always felt that we burden ourselves with unnecessary responsibilities and efforts. The economic system has imposed a way of life from which it is difficult to break free. Let me give you an example of a different lifestyle. My neighbor in the mountain employs a Syrian laborer to take care of the house and garden in his absence. The worker came with his family from Syria. He lives with his wife and six children in a two-room house. Maybe they eat eggs and olives every day. The older sister helps raise the baby girl. Although his work in the garden is physically strenuous, I feel he is more relaxed than I am, his life is much less demanding than mine. I feel like we have dragged ourselves into a whirlpool of demands and responsibilities that will only get worse as the kids get older. Sometimes I wonder, what have we done to ourselves?
Farah: I would like to see you living the day-to-day life of this Syrian worker you mention. I don't think you would last a week without the comforts and luxuries that you're used to, whether it's the house, the air-conditioned car, the nights out, the delivery services, the foam mattress, the fancy sound system you set up at home and the automatic washing machine. Are you ready to wash clothes by hand when there is no electricity? Or am I supposed to do it alone? The room in which this worker lives with his six children costs less than the lighting in our house, which you imported from abroad. You say that cheap white light depresses you. What about the other privileges that you take for granted? They require a great deal of effort from Zoya and me. I think you will miss her very much. You will miss the unnoticed luxury that she offered, despite your contempt for it.
