"Baby", my nanny... and my lingering memories of her ...

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.

Rochelle, just another Migrant Worker ..

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?