So, I got my nails done. After much contemplation of the bourgeois-like atmosphere filled in the Amman-salons, I decided, why not pretty myself up. Ironically, after conversing with some friends about the idea of being fashionably instinctive, I realized that I often fail in putting the effort, not because I don't mind dressing up, but because I don't want to be categorized as one who's more consumed in herself than what's happening around her. And while, my manicure might make me feel a little feminine for a couple of hours, essentially, sitting in the beauty shop being pampered by a migrant worker while people are losing their lives in revolutions and historic political changes, makes me feel, a little full of myself.
But that's not the purpose of my post today. Today, I want to share a story of Rochelle, the Manicurist. A young, thirty-three year old Philippina, living in Amman, Jordan. Rochelle has been living in Jordan for over 5 years now.
At the age of 27 years old, a young mother of three, and having just given birth to her youngest daughter, who is now 5 years old, Rochelle had finally arranged the final paperwork to allow her to travel abroad for work. Living in a modest home, her husband, an employee at a bank, making barely enough to the sustain the growth of his vibrant family, Rochelle made an independent decision to travel. And not your conveniently adventurous type of travel to explore the world, but rather an unrelenting desire to provide for her family, in whatever means possible; even if it meant being separated from them. Rochelle explained that if she ever stayed in the Philippines she would never be able to make enough to save any money or make a significant amount for her labour.
In 2005, after arranging with a recruiting agency, Rochelle saved enough money to pay for her ticket to Jordan, where she was to spend the next two years with a Jordanian nuclear family with two children living in the city of Dabouk, notorious for being the "Kings" neighborhood. Rochelle reminisced of her time in her employers home. "I was not allowed to leave the house, and had to work 7 days a week, with no break... I didn't know how to be a maid in the beginning, and my Madame used to always shout at me... " Rochelle despairingly confessed that for many nights she would cry remembering her children, regretting that she did not bring with her pictures or memories to help her long-nights without them. So much so, that in fear of jeopardizing her work-environment, she was instructed not to bring any valuables with her, not even her wedding-band. A disconnected attachment to loved ones so far away, only acknowledged by the mere monetary savings, no more than $225 sent back home once a month; while, she kept about $150 for her daily needs for the month.
At the time, for two years, Rochelle was paid $200 US dollars, where she worked for over twelve hours a day, 7 days a week, accounting to about $6 dollars a day, not even the minimum wage paid to a young worker in North America. [e.g.The minimum wage in Toronto today is about $10.25/hr] As soon as her contract was over, her employer failed to purchase the promised return ticket home, for Rochelle to visit her family. Rochelle, rejected to renew her contract with the family, and moved out, into a small apartment in third-circle Amman, to work two jobs to help sustain herself and attempt to regain her freedom.
Today, Rochelle works at a middle-class like beauty salon, specializing in Manicures and Pedicures, while also accepting part-time work both cleaning homes and providing private beauty services in customer's homes. Making approximately 450 JODs a month, and paying about 90 JODs for rent, Rochelle estimates that in a year she would be able to save enough money to travel back home to visit her children and husband. Rochelle confessed that while her life felt heavy and discomforting at times, the only thing to sedate her to numbness were her anti-depressant pills. Sleeping a little better, crying a little less, Rochelle numbed her responsibilities to a sole purpose that she believed was destined to help her family live a better life.
While, Rochelle is just another Migrant Worker among the hundreds of thousands that live in Jordan, and in the Arab region, her story, like many others, help us regard Migrant Workers as more than mere subordinates here to serve us for some cheap often refused labour by a local. Rochelle tells of friends often so desperate as to surrender their bodily-integrity to keep living. She tells me, that she is thankful to have never been in that situation, and that whenever she feels down she feels like she could be in worst hands. Today, Rochelle tells me that she feels a little more free, allowed to come and go as she pleases, allowed to go to the grocery store, and walk around the block, she feels a little more free in her ability to come and go, but limited to the expensive lifestyle in Jordan.
Too many times, I've come across discriminate attitudes for an Indonesian, Philippino, Indian, Sri-Lakan, or another Asian, that travel thousands of miles, far from friends and family in the attempts to live a better life, or explore greater opportunities.
Think not low of the next cheap labored Migrant Worker you encounter... but rather of their continued sacrifices to survive. What makes us any better, than the destined conditions that were set for us?
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