A Sunday at the church
The Kafala system, an adaptation of modern slavery, emerged in the 1950s during the Middle East's economic boom. It is an oppressive system that controls migrant workers, primarily from South and Southeast Asia and Africa. Brought through agencies, these workers must be sponsored by a citizen, known as a Kafeel, who controls their legal status and visa. This imbalance of power often leads to human rights violations, including racism and gender-based violence.
Migrant workers lack legal protections against labor abuses and often fear speaking out. Many are locked indoors or forced to remain in their employer’s shadow, with no autonomy over their lives. Those who escape their oppressors end up working illegally, still tied to their sponsor, meaning they cannot leave the country without permission. After Lebanon’s 2019 economic crisis, many migrant women were abandoned by their employers, left on the streets without pay or a ticket home, despite contractual obligations. Basic rights—such as a day off or contact with family—are frequently ignored.
"There are many girls who are being abused or even killed. They take their passport, they don’t give them food or their salary, no day off, they can barely sleep, and are not allowed to go out because they are afraid they would speak up. I know a woman who was locked up for 30 years, day and night.”
Some migrant women report fair treatment and decent pay, but they are still seen as workers before they are seen as women. One woman explained, “We come to a new country, this is not our country. We need to behave so we don’t face challenges or abuse.” Another avoids going out to escape discrimination, despite her employer she called “Madame” allowing her freedom of movement. The term “Madame”, commonly used to address employers, reflects a patronizing, hierarchical relationship.
Though Lebanon's Ministry of Labor has proposed reforms, they remain stalled, deemed a low priority. Yet, migrant workers, activists, and Lebanese allies continue to fight for the abolition of Kafala, raising awareness both locally and in the workers' home countries.
Despite fear and exhaustion, many migrant women have bravely shared their experiences. From Ethiopia to Sri Lanka, their stories, though varied, reveal the systemic challenges and abuses they endure.
Flora
On a Sunday morning, Flora met her older sister Maria and their friends Rita, Patricia, and Agnes, along with other women from Kenya, Sierra Leone, Ethiopia, and Nigeria, at a church in Burj Hammoud. They spent time singing, laughing, praying, and discussing topics ranging from racism to work, religion, and their lives as migrant women in Lebanon.
Over 15 years ago, Flora arrived in Lebanon with her late husband, who came through an agency on a work visa. “It was hard, but we learned to adapt. We believe that with time, no matter what happens in life, everything will be okay.” They had two daughters, but due to the impossibility of enrolling them in public schools and the high cost of private education, she had to send them back to Africa for their studies. Since her husband’s passing, she has taken on multiple jobs to sustain her family. “People don’t pay like before, and I’m all on my own. I have to feed my daughters, ensure they go to school, and cover monthly fees.”
Maria recalls her early years in Lebanon: “We used to get paid in fresh dollars, but now with the crisis, we have to remain strong.” Migrant workers face racial discrimination and are excluded from Lebanese labor laws. Another woman, who preferred to remain anonymous, explains the struggle of independent workers: “People don’t even want to pay $5 per hour, but we still have to cover rent, transportation, and food. I don’t have the same rights as Lebanese people, so nothing is easy. I have to work very hard to sustain my family and myself.”
Flora acknowledges the economic crisis and racism but chooses to move forward: “We turn our deaf ears to it.” Maria adds, “You can’t change the old generation’s mentality—it’s everywhere, not just in Lebanon. But not all people are racist. We believe in God, and we believe he will grant us the strength to face all obstacles.”
Many migrants come to Lebanon hoping for better opportunities, seeing it as one of the most accessible Arab countries for work. “In Lebanon, we are allowed to come easily, and it is still better than other Arab countries. We feel more accepted.” However, reality often falls short of expectations. Brought through agencies, they must pay around $200 to enter, only to be picked up from the airport and sent to an agency or household.
Many face abuse and racism, often locked in rooms with their passports confiscated. “They kept our passports and put everyone in the same room. They weren’t feeding us. We had to manage everything ourselves and stayed like this until we found a job. They locked the doors in case we ran away since they had to sell us” one woman shared.Another migrant woman, who preferred to remain anonymous, explains that today independent workers have to constantly negotiate their prices and sometimes people don’t even want to pay 5$ per hour, while they need to pay rent, transportation, and food to sustain themselves, “I don’t have the same rights as Lebanese people, so nothing is easy. This is one of the many problems we, migrants, are going through. I am an independent woman and I have to work very hard to sustain my family and myself.”
Sari
Born in Ethiopia in 1995, Sari (Sarktelu) arrived in Lebanon in 2011 to visit her sister, who was already employed as a domestic worker. Upon entry, she was forced to sign a contract written in Arabic—a language she did not understand. She had no idea she was coming to work. Within just 15 days, against her will, she was placed as a domestic worker in the house of her sister’s employer's daughter, trapped in the Kafala system.
It was her first job. She was forced to surrender her passport, wear a uniform, and work under constant surveillance in a locked house. “The only reason I had my own bathroom was because they were disgusted by the idea of me using theirs,” she recalls. Reprimanded daily by her employers, she endured months of mistreatment before gathering the courage to escape. She took her passport, 50,000 LL (then $33—her entire salary), a picture of her father, and, under the guise of throwing out the garbage, ran. She had no idea where she was or where she was heading when she jumped into a van.
Sari spent years working in different houses, facing harassment and abuse—not only from employers but even from other migrant women. Unfamiliar with Lebanon’s system, she struggled to navigate her new reality. But eventually, she took control of her life, found her own apartment, and began working independently.
Despite everything, she stays in Lebanon for her six-year-old son, Paul, fighting every day for his legal recognition. “As an Ethiopian mother, I can pass on my nationality—but only if his father agrees to let go of him. It’s frustrating because in my country, when you give birth, your child automatically takes your nationality. Here in Lebanon, as a woman, you have no power. Even less as a migrant worker. Papers or no papers, it doesn’t matter—you’re just an object to them. They buy you. It’s modern slavery. I have one at home. But we are human beings.”
From strangers asking, “Where is your Madam?” when she plays with her son in public, to being told, “We don’t want people from the Black community who work as prostitutes” while looking for an apartment in Geitawi, Sari faces racism every day. No matter what she does or says, she is constantly reminded that she doesn’t belong. Her only moments of safety are with friends—people who see her for who she is.
Today, Sari is a worker, activist, and mother. She juggles jobs at an NGO and a café in Beirut while using social media to raise awareness among Ethiopian women. “In Ethiopia, they don’t know the truth. They believe Beirut is amazing because migrants here don’t show their struggles. They drop out of university to come work, thinking they’ll support their families, but they end up enslaved.”
She exposes the agency system that profits from migrant labor: “They don’t even provide contracts in English. Girls are told to sign without asking questions and fall straight into the trap. They don’t know they’ll have no days off, that their passports will be taken, that they’ll be locked inside. Some of them are dying. Some are getting killed.” She hopes her message reaches them before it’s too late: “I just want them to stop coming. It’s frustrating and painful to see my sisters suffering.” But despite everything, Sari holds her ground. “I am proud of myself. I am raising my son in this difficult country. I always find a way. I have no regrets. I am who I am today, and I feel powerful because of him.”
These pictures are part of the "INDIVISIBLE" campaign launched by @_1morecup in partnership with MOSAIC-MENA and with the support of the German Embassy in Lebanon for the 16 Days of Activism to End Gender-Based Violence 2022. This project documented stories of diverse survivors of GBV, from some of the most marginalized community groups.