Many immigrant children living in Kuwait learn the meaning of injustice firsthand, often before learning their ABCs.
The kafala system, prevalent in the Middle East, allows employers to legally tie workers to them and limits the freedom and rights of foreign workers and their families in many ways. Many people are unaware of the system, but it serves as a harsh reality for many children of immigrant families in Kuwait. My family and I were personally impacted by this system, which stripped away our humanity.
Under the kafala system, my mother was paid less than her Kuwaiti co-workers. She was a cardiac nurse in Kuwait, and despite her being just as qualified as her Kuwaiti co-workers, she was not given the same wage. My mother was fully qualified, being the first in her family to attend school and having attended a nursing school in India entirely on scholarships, thousands of miles from her home. She made many sacrifices during her educational journey. She often had to take long train rides from Punjab to Kerala to go back home, and she communicated with her mother by writing letters. Despite all her hardships during the journey to become a nurse, she was seen as less skilled than Kuwaiti nurses and did not receive equal pay.
There was no other reason for the disparity in how my mother was treated other than her Indian heritage, or more importantly, the absence of a Kuwaiti heritage. However, despite the unequal treatment, my mother continued to work as a nurse because she needed to send money back home and support her children. Unfortunately, many foreign workers face a similar reality in their own lives. Yet, they continue working because they need the money to support their loved ones, regardless of workplace conditions and the unfair institutional systems.
As a part of the kafala system, my parents were not legally allowed to own property. As a family, we were forced to live in a flat or an apartment-style building that we did not own and knew we would never truly be able to call the place home. Our landlord was a Kuwaiti citizen who owned the flat we lived in and collected rent from us. I remember playing with my cousins on the ground floor, and whenever the landlord would come, we would get scared and hide. As kids, we may not have fully comprehended what was happening, but I knew that I was seen as inferior to Kuwaitis, and that was intimidating.
As young parents, my mother and father wished we had a home that was truly ours, but the kafala system shattered that dream. The floor on which my younger brother took his first steps will never be ours; the place we called home will never truly be ours.
However, if not for the sense of community that shared adversity created, I might not have been as close with my neighbors, who were also Indian immigrants. The sense of community that my family and I built with the other immigrant families in our building made our home feel like home.
The kafala system did not just impact my parents, but also me as a child during my time in Kuwait. I lived in Kuwait until the fifth grade, and during that time, I never shared a classroom with a Kuwaiti child, nor did I ever have the opportunity to become friends with one.
I remember that at my school, the Kuwaiti students were on the right side, and the international students were on the left. There was a large door separating the two sides, and I remember having a class next to it once. I would always try to peek through the gaps in the door, trying to catch a glimpse of a world I was never deemed worthy to belong to, or could dream of entering.
Once, when my brother and I were waiting inside our school bus for the bus driver to take us home, some Kuwaiti students came inside our bus and kicked my brother. Our bus driver never said anything, nor did he move to protect the children he was supposed to take care of. Regardless of institutionalized unfair practices, it is not right that children should grow up feeling unequal to their peers; they deserve to grow up in an environment that respects them. My younger brother and I deserved that chance to feel equal to those around us, but that was not our reality.
I spent nine formative years in Kuwait, yet left at twelve without friendships or cultural ties to carry with me. That emptiness only deepened my feelings of inferiority. By not having Kuwaiti friends, I felt that those who had made me feel unworthy and not good enough to be seen as deserving of laws that respect me were right. Perhaps I was not as good as those around me because of my ethnicity.
But that was wrong.
Even as my environment suggested otherwise, I held onto a simple belief: the law is meant to serve the people, not suppress them. Kuwait taught me that the law did not protect people like me, yet I refused to accept that as its true purpose. Kuwait fostered hatred and divided the people. Taking advantage of hope and using it to disadvantage people is wrong.
My mother worked hard, having to climb the ladder to become a nurse. She came from a rural part of India, and her brother gave up his schooling to send her to nursing school. My mom was able to become a nurse in Kuwait and give back to her family after all these years. Despite her hard work, she was still seen as inferior. Using the law to devalue someone’s hard work is unjust.My mother’s hard work should be supported by the law and not the opposite.
When I went to school in America, I realized how strange and wrong the segregated school system in Kuwait was. My peers were all different from me, and I loved it. We all shared a classroom, the same lunch table, and the same school bus. We were all equal, and I yearned for this sense of equality. Going to school in America made me realize that this is how it is supposed to be. The law is supposed to be for the people and not against them.
Almost 10 years later, I can reflect on how living under the Kafala system impacted my family, and see how its personal impact on me as a child altered my life. A nation’s laws are a powerful system, and perhaps when you are a young child, it is not that important until it needs to be, but it’s easy to dream of a better world when you are living in the harsh reality of generational cruelty.
Laws can change your life for better or worse, and it is important that those in power value the people they represent, as everyone, regardless of heritage, deserves respect. We can change the fact that unfair laws and systems like the Kafala system exist, but the first step to changing the system and claiming power over it is to increase awareness worldwide.
A lot of my peers at the University of Florida are not aware of this system, and I wanted to spread more awareness about an inhumane system that still exists in various countries of the Middle East, impacting millions of people every day. My story helps to begin that part of increasing awareness, even if it is just here at the university, about the Kafala system and its impact on not only my family but the millions of international workers and their families in Kuwait.
The Kafala system is not a part of the past; it is continuing to impact families and children in Kuwait and dehumanize foreigners in Middle Eastern countries. Action is needed to end this cruelty and promote equality.
