Domestic work and racism in Lebanon

In 2017, I was given the opportunity to pursue my undergraduate studies at the American University of Beirut (AUB) in Lebanon. My journey began on an Ethiopian Airlines flight, which was largely occupied by young Ethiopian women. Three of them sat behind me, speaking in Amharic—a language I could not understand. I wondered whether they, too, were travelling to pursue an education. Unbeknownst to me, I was about to confront a painful reality about race, labour, and human rights. The experiences that followed profoundly shaped my understanding of racial discrimination and the conditions faced by African migrant domestic workers in Lebanon. 

Upon arrival at Beirut–Rafic Hariri International Airport, my first impression of the country was marked by confusion and discomfort. A security officer instructed us to form our own “African line.” I was taken aback by this racial segregation. When I approached the immigration desk and explained that I had come to study at AUB, the officers appeared surprised. After reviewing my documents, they treated me respectfully. However, the other Ethiopian women were told to wait until their sponsors arrived—an early glimpse into the unjust treatment many Black women face upon entry into Lebanon. 

Lebanon, like many Gulf and Middle Eastern nations, operates under the kafala system—a sponsorship framework that grants employers near-total control over migrant workers. Most of these workers are women from African nations such as Ethiopia, Kenya, and Nigeria, who travel to the region in search of better job opportunities. Upon arrival, many face severe challenges, including language barriers, passport confiscation, isolation, and abuse. Human rights advocates argue that the kafala system constitutes a modern form of slavery due to its restrictions on workers’ freedoms and the lack of legal protections. 

Migrant domestic workers frequently endure sexual violence, forced labour, exploitation, and trafficking. Reports of suicides among this group are not uncommon. 

Tragically, the consequences of this system are far-reaching. Migrant domestic workers frequently endure sexual violence, forced labour, exploitation, and trafficking. Reports of suicides among this group are not uncommon. Yet, there is a glaring absence of legal recourse. Governments in host countries often lack mechanisms to investigate abuses or hold employers accountable, leaving victims without justice. 

My experience as an African woman in Lebanon was deeply shaped by pervasive racial stereotypes. In Lebanese society, being African is often equated with being a domestic worker—uneducated, poor, and lacking agency. I encountered this prejudice repeatedly. On one occasion, while shopping at a mall, a store employee followed me around and suggested I visit a cheaper shop, implying I could not afford the merchandise. At other times, restaurant staff asked me where my “sponsor” was, assuming I was under the kafala system. I often found myself having to explain that I was a university student and that I sponsored myself. 

Rather than internalising these discriminatory experiences, I was inspired to speak out. I began raising awareness on the AUB campus through discussions with classmates and professors. I organised campus campaigns to shed light on the racism and human rights violations faced by migrant domestic workers. In a symbolic act of solidarity, I once wore a domestic worker’s uniform to class to challenge assumptions and encourage reflection. Through these actions, I sought to humanise and dignify the women who are too often ignored or mistreated. 

In addition to campus advocacy, I utilised social media—particularly Twitter—to amplify the voices of marginalised workers. I also partnered with the Migrant Community Center (MCC), a non-profit organisation supporting migrant workers in Lebanon. My work with MCC focused on training domestic workers to recognise and respond to sexual violence—an all-too-common threat in their workplaces. 

For instance, during Israeli airstrikes in southern Lebanon, eight family members and a live-in domestic worker from Gambia were killed. 

I graduated from AUB in 2021, but the plight of African migrant domestic workers remains close to my heart. Lebanon continues to grapple with economic collapse, political dysfunction, and the aftermath of disasters such as the 2019 hyperinflation crisis, the 2020 Beirut port explosion, and the Covid-19 pandemic. These crises have worsened conditions for migrant workers, many of whom remain trapped in the country. 

Some have even lost their lives in recent conflicts. For instance, during Israeli airstrikes in southern Lebanon, eight family members and a live-in domestic worker from Gambia were killed. According to Reuters, these victims received little to no attention in media coverage—another reminder of how migrant workers are rendered invisible, even in death. 

It is time for African states to assume responsibility for the well-being of their citizens abroad. Governments must implement policies that protect migrant workers and advocate for their rights on the international stage. Every year, thousands of Africans perish in the Mediterranean Sea while seeking opportunities in Europe. Meanwhile, countless others remain overlooked in the Middle East, enduring exploitation in silence. 

The international community must recognise that these lives are not expendable. The women who clean homes, care for children, and labour behind closed doors deserve dignity, safety, and justice. The silence must end—and the visibility must begin. 

My journey to Lebanon was initially motivated by academic aspirations, but it evolved into a deeply personal encounter with racial injustice and human rights violations. Through advocacy, solidarity, and continued reflection, I hope to contribute to a broader movement that challenges systems of oppression and restores dignity to African migrant domestic workers. Their lives matter, and their stories deserve to be heard.