A Domestic Tale

Millie came from somewhere in Mindanao and spoke Cebuano mixed with Ilonggo.  When I met her, she could count her stay in Dubai at three years, with the same employer, the same household, and the same pay.

I happened to meet Millie at the Philippine consulate where I found myself one day for one reason or other.  I heard about an “escapee” or takas, the euphemism here that has become an ordinary term for Filipino employees who escape from their employers, usually with only the clothes on their back, and find their way to the consulate.

The consulate averages one takas a day, majority of them females.  They either come running, are brought over by other Filipinos whom they approach for help, or have walked aimlessly until by chance they see the Philippine flag and decide that the building where our flag is must be a safe place.  For the consulate people, a takas is all part of a day’s work.

Millie as a takas was different.  She stood out because of how she looked when she arrived.  Her ears were curled and swollen, her nose was broken, and her arms reminded me of Popeye with his caricatured muscles and thin limbs which, in Millie’s case, was all because of the swelling.

To say that Millie’s appearance was unbelievable is an understatement.  When I first saw her a day after her escape, I had to run to the rest room to hide how I felt.

Millie had been to the doctor.  Luckily, no internal damage was found.  And she was healing fast.  I learned that she was bruised black and blue earlier.  She had only traces of skin discoloration the day I met her at the consulate kitchen.

Have you had your lunch?  She’s had enough of interviews for sure, so I refrained from asking questions about her circumstances.  She needed to talk some more, after all, like one who still had to let things out.  I listened anyway even if I was discomfited with her eyes.  Was the look that of an emotional meltdown, or belligerence?  I couldn’t tell.

She was the household help of an expatriate family.  The man is Lebanese, the wife is a Greek Cypriot.  I presumed the husband is Christian, most probably a Maronite as most Lebanese Christians are, because his wife was a Roman Catholic who converted to Greek Orthodox.  He could only be a Christian because no Muslim will marry someone who doesn’t convert to Islam.

It was the wife who beat Millie with a wooden rolling pin without let-up.  It’s like being hit with a small baseball bat.  The beating stopped only because Millie managed to run out of the house and escape.

Dubai happens to have a good number of Filipino journalists working in national broadsheets.  Someone at the consulate tipped off these reporters and had Millie interviewed.  The next day she was prominently in the papers, complete with a picture of her swollen face, the names of her employer, and the threat of a judicial case.

The employer had no choice but to go into damage control.  He came to the consulate, agreed to all the terms presented to him, and offered more besides.  His wife, expectedly, didn’t show up.

Millie categorically stated that she didn’t want to file a case as it would mean staying on indefinitely.  All she wanted was to get her unpaid wages of six months, have her plane ticket, and go home.  She was given eight month’s worth of wages, an extra allowance, and plane fare for connecting flights all the way to her home province.

I wish I could turn back the time and avoid this tragedy, the Lebanese man, who turned out to be very educated and decent, said.  They exchanged goodbyes.

Millie’s flight was five days later.  She stayed at the labor department’s overseas office that also serve as a halfway house.  I felt a strange relief and tried to put things in perspective.  We, too, have those anonymous domestics back home who are just as maltreated but have nowhere to run.
I’m glad you’re not going home so soon so you’ll have more time to heal before you see your mother again, I said as Millie and I played table tennis that afternoon.  Judging from the way she held the racket and the number of times I picked up the ball from the ground, it was an expert I was playing with.

You’re good, I said.  I used to dance ballroom dances, too, she answered.  Then she took out a picture of herself and showed it to me.  I was stunned.  It was her bust picture in full graduation regalia of toga and mortarboard.  Millie is a college graduate.

(29 Oct 2006)