A dusty old Dubai airport and a stranded little red leather luggage, was my last memories of her. As I walked away in the afternoon heat heading home, I was left feeling like a part of me left my side.
I must note that my memories of her, "baby", my Philapenno Nanny, was of the vivid moments that moved beyond myriad photographs of a Migrant worker travelling to the Gulf for a better opportunity. It was 1985, "baby" as I had called her, was my companion, my caretaker, and my sleep-watcher, entered our families life, in Sharjah, UAE and was set to help out the family. While, her presence was not to fully there to satisfy my very existence, she was hired on to take care of the family, as the youngest, I ended up being in her company for most of the time.
My mother, at the time, accompanied my father in our family-business in the downtown streets of Sharjah, as she assisted him in our shop, Dama. Today, the store remains, but sold off to another owner that alternatively changed the name to "Daman", an "N" that would change the store in its entirety.
Essentially, my mother's full-time work with my father, kept her from spending as much time with us. Mind you, she was active and was at the forefront in our lives. My writings are not to address the loss of having my mother around, but to point out the significance of "baby", a women, who now is married with children in the Philapenes, will always be a significant part of my childhood memory. I never knew her name, and have always, as my family had done, called her as "baby".
In the coming years that came to pass, the representation of "baby", was reflected in the many migrant workers I would come across, most often, in the gulf, Middle Eastern regions. After moving to Canada in late 1993 with my family, we no longer had nanny's, and learned to live without them. Something, that many family members living the gulf can not fathom. The essentialism of having a nanny, servant, or house maid was reflective on the normative nature of the society. It was not of an elitest nature to have a maid (or two), live in the house / apartment with the family. Some of my family members have had the same nanny for over 18 years, who has now become a part of their family's lives, in that she doesn't miss a graduation, ceremony, or birthday. While of course, her presence remains as the person that takes care of the families needs, cooks for them, cleans and takes care of the house, her significance moved beyond a mere "Migrant Worker". And, even after years of service, and in requesting to go back to her home country, she still remains in contact with the family.
Tainted were my memories of "baby" that made me feel abandoned and left out at the airport, only to realize that she had a husband and was pregnant with her first daughter. She was ready to begin her life, and couldn't be working thousands of miles away in the hot gulf country, distant from her indigenous roots and belonging. As a six year old, little did I know that individuals, especially of the global south, left their families, friends and belongings to travel dangerous distances towards unpredictable, unstable environments for greater opportunities not found in their impoverished cities and villages. Little did I know of the exploitation and the inslavery that is produced through the subordination of Migrant workers in foreign lands. Little could I fathom, that the same woman that would sing me a lullaby every night, was sacraficing so much to please my family to be away from her own.
After a three month vacation, in which "baby" had travelled to the Philapenes to visit her family, she had gotten married. She came back pregnant and ready to give her notice to return back to her country. She made the choice of starting a family, with her family. And, as I stood confused, and sad on the day she left, I would not have been able to comprehend her choice back then. As I witnessed "baby" pack her belongings away in a suitcase, I quickly rushed and got my little dark red leather suitcase, filled it with my favorite dresses and stuffed animals. My father had refrained from telling me that I wasn't getting on the plane with her until we had gotten to the airport. She waved goodbye and headed towards the terminal in the crowded Dubai airport, as I was taken to the "children's" entrance that lead to the parking lot to our car. Only then to realize, that she had gone. I stood there, for what seemed like forever, weeping for her to return.
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