Modern day slave trade is thriving in Kuwait. Men and women from the poorest nations in Asia are recruited to work in one of the wealthiest countries in the world, hoping to earn enough money to support their families. But once at their destination all bets are off.
Kuwait has an expatriate population of 2.3 million making up as much as 69% of the total population. Whilst most of our mental image of this wealthy oil producing country is shaped by Westerners – the local term for highly qualified professionals from Europe, North America, Australia or New Zealand – they only make up a small fraction of the expat population.
In comparison to their counterparts from other Middle Eastern nations like Lebanon, Syria, Egypt and countries like Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, the Philippines, India and Pakistan, Westerners have their pockets lined with a disposable income higher than what they could hope to earn in their countries of origin. For them Kuwait is an attractive money-well if nothing else.
The harsh reality for the poorest migrant workers in Kuwait stands in stark contrast. Recruited by Kuwaiti agencies in their home countries, they are shipped into Kuwait in their droves where many of the women work in households as live-in nannies who also clean and cook -always on call at any time of the night or day. Men work as chauffeurs and gardeners, others work on construction sites as unskilled labourers in nigh Victorian conditions and temperatures as high as 50 degrees Celsius. Many are employed as cleaning staff in public areas and buildings, as bag packers at the check-out points in supermarkets or as harris, the Arabic word for janitor. These are only a few examples of the jobs that they are destined for.
Typically their passports are confiscated by their employers upon arrival and even where this is not the case, there is little chance they have the funds to pay for a flight home.
Sexual and physical assaults on household servants are common place. A frequent flick through the national papers will return stories of murdered household servants. If the murderer is Kuwaiti the punishment is often comparatively mild.
In short, people from poor developing countries working in low-skilled jobs are fair game with little power to determine what conditions they will be working under or who for. With no labour laws in place or enforced, this leaves a lot of scope for grave exploitation. Whilst some individuals are paid 20 Kuwait Dinar a month (€51), others might find they are not paid at all for several months or hit with heavy fines of a few months wages for the slightest ‘misdemeanours’. In effect they are paid at the good will of their employer.
Bearing in mind that the people coming to Kuwait in the first place are doing so to provide for their parents, spouses and children in their native countries, they attempt to save some of their earnings from the little they do earn to send home. What seems to make this even more incredulous is the fact that living expenses in Kuwait are similar to those here. Many of the employers hide behind the fact that accommodation is paid for - and in the case of live-in household servants so is the food - to explain the low income. However, many of the living conditions can at best be described as dwellings short of being slums, with several men or women to a room. Those working as live-in servants can often be found in mansions, surrounded by the wealth and luxury of their employers’. The houses often consist of a swimming pool in the garden, a Mercedes Benz or two in the garage, Surround Sound Home Cinema in the living room and the built in box room designated to them.
The attitude toward the blatant abuse of human rights, by many people including government officials, is a complete ignorance of any wrong doing. Proof of this are a number of incidences, where live-in nannies escaped whilst accompanying their employers on holidays in Europe and America. When they sought help from the police and disclosed details of the conditions they had been living in, the Kuwaiti government issued an announcement to its people suggesting they should no longer take servants with them to America or Europe to avoid further incidences.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Kuwait's Slave Trade
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Smacked in Dublin: - A five year olds odyssey
“Get down. Get down from there.” The words were drawn out longer than is usual, even for a Dubliner accent. The woman who was slowly and passively pushing the words out, was speaking to a little boy. Maybe five years, six at best.
The kid in his dark blue tracksuit bottoms and red t-shirt was climbing on the back rests of the Luas between Blackhorse and Jervis. He first caught my eye as I had got on the Luas, standing beside his mum in a ‘don’t fuck with me because I’m tougher than you’ fashion. It was obvious, he was already a man. I suppressed a smile.
As I sat watching the unlikely couple, I noticed the time warped movements of the woman as she stared into a space beyond any of the faces in the carriage - only occasionally drawn back into the here and now to call her son to caution about climbing over the seats. She was dressed in tight light yellow clothes and brown boots. Her body was compact and strong, her face calm and her eyes turned inwards. Her sleeveless top revealed no track marks on her arms but then my gaze fell onto her hands and the blue purple tinted spots aligned along the protruding veins lifted the fog from before my eyes. She was smacked out and barely able to keep herself upright.
As she had resigned herself to the flow of what was flowing through her veins, the little boy had assumed an expression of fear that seemed fixed to his face. Too young to understand what was really happening but old enough to know that somebody had to be in charge he climbed onto the back rests to give him the extra meter in height that he was still lacking. Just behind Heuston Station a man in a grey tracksuit stepped up and revealed himself as a ‘friend’. The little boy however, did not seem to think so as he shouted “Leave my mammy alone!”
A fifth of the size of the man, the boy bravely soldiered on kicking and pounding him. It all seemed to be a cute and funny joke as they stood laughing, attempting to turn this desperate situation into a play-fight. The boy was not laughing. The man left and the kicking stopped.
The boy - with the gestures of a man already and yet still nothing but a boy - got off at Jervis glancing around the carriage one last time before he was lifted off the tram by the flow of the people, along with his mother.
