In Ghana, if you come into the world a she, acquire the habit of praying. And master it. Because you will need it, desperately, as old age pursues you [...]
If, on top of this, your children, waging a desperate war of their own for economic survival, find themselves having too little time for you, count you among the forsaken and forgotten; [...]
– Amma Darko, The Housemaid
In Drobo, storefronts of petty traders and hairdressers line the packed-mud streets of orangish hue. On one such street, under a tree that provides just a little shade, a group of about three dozen women have assembled. Some with small babies, many with fake designer bags, all with a story. They break out into smaller groups and gather to exchange their war stories. Some of the women look impossibly young, to have put in three to four years of work abroad already.
Off the Kumasi-Sunyani highway not far from the Cote d’Ivoire border, and regional capital Sunyani, Drobo is one of the migration hubs of Ghana. The Bono region is not only where a large chunk of Ghanaian migrants hail from, but it is also a transit point for traffickers from neighbouring countries [see part II]. The group gathered here is a microcosm of the wider migration environment. As they open up, a pattern emerges. Many of the women were told they were being taken to the Gulf or to Kurdistan, and ended up in Iraq.
“We thought Kurdistan was also in the Gulf.”
All of them went through a ‘connection man’, having paid between GH₵3000 and GH₵5000 for the job. And for those who went to the place they were promised, they knew little of where they were situated. Viv, who spent three years in Iraq from 2019, says she had no idea she would end up in Iraq. Conny was expecting to go to Dubai, but in Addis Ababa where she was transiting, she was told she would go to Lebanon. Erika knew she was going to Saudi, but had no clue which part of the Kingdom she was going to.
But no matter where they ended up, the stories are similar. Even the ones who felt they had a good employer or not much trouble were paid less than they were promised, worked over 15 hours a day, and had no off day. A collective gallows laugh echoes when the topic of breaks or off days emerges, and even those who were quiet until then look sharp and jump in, insulted that this would even be a question.
“We work every day,” snaps Conny.
“24x7,” says Agnes.
“Sleep, shway-shway, all work,” Viv gestures, bunching her fingers.
“And the agents never answer when you want help,” says Erika.
“The agent will tell you Friday is off. But madam at home will say no, we paid money, we bought you, you have to work every day for that money. In fact, on Friday there’s extra work, as their friends and families will come, or you have to go to their homes,” says Lynne.
“The agent says that’s how it is, that we should just endure,” Agnes shakes her head in disbelief. “Sometimes the agent here says go to the office (in Saudi), but you go there you get slapped and beaten. No help from anyone.”
“We are not allowed to even talk to our friends. No kindness at all. If you are sick, you still work,” Viv’s decibel increases. She turns to her companions, and they have an aside in the local dialect.
Brushing off the interpreter, Viv says in surprisingly clear English, “the baba wanted to have sex with me and he grabbed my boobs. That man would force me to massage him, his private parts. They’d starve me if I didn’t comply. He was 60.” More than double Viv’s age. “You can’t complain. Mama knows, of course, but she makes this sign — ‘finger across the neck’ — every time I tried speaking up. Finally, I ran away to a friend’s house.
There is a flurry of discussion amongst the women, commiserating with each other, and sharing similar experiences.
“See what Clorox did to me.” Her skin is still tender even months after her return, a rash of ruptured boils all over her fingers.
Debased and degraded
Maata, who had also been taken to Kurdistan without her consent or knowledge, says “When the baba wanted to sleep with me, I told mama, and she accused me of sleeping with him already and beat me. She and her son beat me up. When I complained to the office (agency), they just brought me back to the house, they didn’t do anything about it. The children physically abuse you and the men sexually assault you, and you can do nothing.”
The conversation veers towards the worst tasks the women had to do, the worst treatment they endured. There is an outpouring of grief at the loss of dignity, and the inhumane ways in which they were treated. It is difficult to keep track of or facilitate a discussion.
“You had to wash these large, heavy carpets by hand. It was backbreaking work. And the children would mess it up so much,” says Juliana who worked in Dammam, Saudi for 4 years.
“You had to soak and rinse the large carpets by hand. After a point, I just refused to work,” says Agnes.
“Even when I had a fall, from the ladder, they took me to hospital, but just gave me a panadol and put me to work again. There was constant insults, abuse,” says Conny.
“The work was gruelling, and the employer would say if you die we will bury you here, not send you to Ghana,” says Rosina.
There is a burst of laughter. One of them says she had to wash the employer’s dentures by hand. “I won’t be able to eat after that.”
That sparks another round of shares.
“We had to clean the spittle tray. By hand.”
“And remove their used tissues, which they would leave around. No gloves.”
Erika, who worked for a family of nine in Riyadh for close to 3 years, says they’d make her wash the underwear, with menstrual blood on it, by hand. “Not even use the washing machine. We were treated with such disdain. And the girl will just drop her pads in the WC and I had to fish it out. No gloves. Nothing.”
“There was this old woman at home. I used my bare hands to clean everything, her pampers, the bathroom.”
“Then there’s Clorox,” one of them sighs.
“You know Clorox?” another asks.
“It’s not good. We have to use it too much at home. They don’t give gloves or masks, the fumes are too much.”
Conny shows her palms. “See what Clorox did to me.” Her skin is still tender even months after her return, a rash of ruptured boils all over her fingers. “Then I had to use hot water, that made it worse. They had a washing machine but wanted me to wash by hand.”
It’s not just the brutality of the work, but of words and treatment too, that the women still find difficult to come to terms with. That daily their humanity was chipped away at, to be made to feel less.
“As you are cleaning they will walk behind and touch the floor,” Maata says, “And they say our smell is not good. That we Ghanaian people, we don’t smell good.”
“Is it true? Do we smell?” Lynne demands to know.
“They cut my hair because they don’t like it. They have a problem with our hair.”
“We sleep on the balcony. Hot or cold. And we change in the bathhouse.”
“They say we are lazy, we don’t have money, we come from a poor country, we are like animals. I say nothing. It is not their fault, it’s my fault. I went there. If I hadn’t gone there they won’t be telling me all this,” Mariamma who spent several years in Dammam, Saudi, chides herself.
“We can’t sit on their chairs. We sit on the floor.”
“They think it’s ok to give leftover food.”
“And we can’t use their utensils. We have to use different cups. It really makes me feel so bad.”
There’s a chorus of ‘very bad, very bad’, as Maata blinks back her tears. The women who were soft-spoken become agitated, louder with anger and sadness, their focus on the voice recorder in front of them.
One of them looks apologetic.
“But, you seem nice.”
Her friends scoff at her.
“In the office when they come to take you they smile, and they say ‘habibti, habibti’. They will smile the way you smile now at us. All in the beginning. Then, when they take you to their house, they start screaming, they change.”
