A joint report by Lili Rajeh and Valentine Nesser
When Viany De Marceau Breaks the Kafala System and Redefines Freedom
When Viany De Marceau arrived in Lebanon, she did not know that her residency, her movement, and even her ability to say “no” would be tied to a single person. As a migrant domestic worker, she found herself trapped in a system that is rarely named directly, yet governs every detail of life: who holds the passport, who decides when she works, when she leaves the house, and when -or whether- she can leave.
From within this experience emerges what is known in Lebanon as the kafala system: a framework of administrative decisions and practices that tie the legal residency of migrant domestic workers exclusively to the employer, preventing them from changing jobs or moving freely without consent. Passports are often confiscated, and employment relationships are managed through recruitment agencies that wield real power without effective oversight-turning domestic work from a contractual relationship into one of dependency, where basic rights, from freedom to safety, are conditional on the will of a single party.
The kafala system: a set of administrative decisions and practices that bind the legal residency of migrant domestic workers solely to the employer.
From a domestic worker denied even the most basic forms of independence to a fashion designer now trying to redefine herself beyond this constraint, Viany recounts how oppression functions not only as law, but as a daily mindset. A small sewing machine was enough to create a crack in the system-transforming a personal dream into an act of resistance.
In Lebanon, migrant domestic workers are mentioned only in two moments: tragedy, or a fleeting international day. Between these two extremes, daily life disappears-along with invisible labor and postponed dignity-while the same system continues reproducing control in the name of “regulation.”
The Kafala System: When a Passport Becomes a Tool of Oppression
The kafala system in Lebanon involves several actors: the sponsor, the migrant worker, and recruitment agencies. Yet, as Viany describes it, this relationship is built on a fundamental imbalance of power. She says: “We migrant domestic workers are only noticed when something tragic happens. After that, we are completely forgotten.”
Viany describes the kafala system as “terrifying,” explaining that passport confiscation prevents workers from controlling their wages and forces many to renew contracts for years-sometimes up to ten years-without seeing their families. She also highlights gender-based discrimination within the system, pointing to the contrast between male migrant workers and women. In areas such as Hamra in Beirut or South Lebanon, many Sudanese male workers live independently, keep their passports, and travel regularly, while domestic workers remain confined inside homes.
Recruitment agencies, meanwhile, have ceased to be mere technical intermediaries. They have become central actors in producing power and control. Between the worker and the state, and between the worker and the employer, agencies operate as an invisible link that holds the strings: contracts, mobility, “debts,” and even defining what is permitted and forbidden.
Recruitment agencies are no longer just technical intermediaries—they are key actors in producing power and control.
In the case of Marian N., a domestic worker from Ethiopia, this authority becomes starkly visible. Marian arrived in Lebanon in 2016 through a recruitment agency in Beirut. She never worked for the family she was promised, but was transferred between three households in less than a year. Each time she complained of mistreatment or requested a change of employer, the response was the same: “The contract is with us, not with you. If you leave the house without permission, you become illegal.”
The agency did not only withhold her passport-it withheld her understanding. She was never given a copy of her contract, its terms were never explained, and she was explicitly told that any attempt to contact her embassy would “send her back to prison or deportation.” Thus, recruitment agencies in Lebanon transform from employment facilitators into disciplinary authorities, deciding who works, where, under what conditions-without real accountability.
Marian says: “I never knew who was making decisions about my life. The employer says it’s the agency, the agency says it’s the law—and I never see the law.”
In this context, researcher and labor and migration expert Hala Morshed explains that recruitment agencies derive their power from a deliberately created legal vacuum: “The Lebanese state has effectively outsourced the management of migrant domestic workers to the private sector, without effective oversight. Agencies control residency, contracts, and the ‘debt narrative’ used to subjugate workers psychologically and economically.” She adds that these agencies operate within a network of interests involving some employers, administrative decisions, and a social culture that views domestic workers as “imported services” rather than rights-bearing workers.
Morshed warns against reducing the issue to “bad agencies” versus “good agencies,” emphasizing that the problem is structural: “Even an agency that does not practice direct violence remains part of a system that allows it to control an entire human life. Power here lies not only in behavior, but in the framework that grants that behavior legitimacy.”
From this perspective, the question “Why do recruitment agencies hold this power?” leads to a deeper answer: because they operate within a grey zone created by the state, where rights are suspended and migration is managed as a security–commercial file rather than a labor and human dignity issue. Within this space, the worker is always the weakest link, regardless of nationality or personal story.
“Therefore, dismantling the kafala system cannot be complete without dismantling the unregulated role of recruitment agencies and placing them under real legal accountability-restoring the relationship to its original basis: a labor relationship, not guardianship. As long as these agencies remain unchecked, freedom will remain postponed, even if the system’s name changes,” Morshed says.
Dismantling the kafala system cannot be complete without dismantling the unregulated role of recruitment agencies and subjecting them to real legal accountability.
Viany, for her part, believes that changing the kafala system cannot be achieved without changing the prevailing mindset, emphasizing that fear is what produces obedience: “A worker who fears General Security may say she has her passport even if she doesn’t, while another who feels relatively safe will tell the truth.”
Referring to ILO Convention No. 189 on decent work for domestic workers, the convention affirms the need to regulate domestic work in ways that respect human dignity, ensure fair wages, rest hours, and the right to retain personal documents. Accordingly, passport confiscation, tying legal residency to the employer, preventing workers from changing jobs, or restricting their freedom to leave the country are not merely administrative violations, but direct infringements of fundamental human rights-rights that are not nullified by nationality, skin color, or type of work.
This framework is further reinforced by ILO Convention No. 190, the first international treaty recognizing the right of every person to a world of work free from violence and harassment, including gender-based, psychological, and economic violence. Under these standards, coercion, threats, and isolation constitute part of a system of systematic violence that violates international law and requires accountability.
In Lebanon, there is no explicit legal text known as a “Kafala Law.” However, the system is applied in practice through administrative decisions issued by the General Directorate of General Security, which tie the residency of migrant domestic workers exclusively to the employer. Domestic workers are also excluded from the Lebanese Labor Law of 1946, depriving them of minimum wage protections, regulated working hours, compensation, and legal complaint mechanisms.
Although a new unified standard contract was approved in 2020, its implementation was later suspended by a judicial decision, leaving domestic workers in a state of legal limbo,” says human rights lawyer and researcher Anwar Abbas.
Local and international human rights organizations, including Human Rights Watch and the International Labour Organization, have documented that this system facilitates exploitation, limits workers’ ability to access justice, and produces an unequal employment relationship governed by fear rather than law.
From Cameroon to Lebanon: The Cost of Migration and the Myth of “Purchase”
In this context, Viany reveals that the cost of traveling from Cameroon to Lebanon is approximately $800, including the visa and a week-long hotel stay. Despite this, workers are often told: “We bought you for $2,000, and if you want to return to your country, you must repay the money.” Here, the worker is treated not as a human being with rights, but as propert-outside any legal protection, as domestic workers are excluded from Lebanese labor laws, Fiani adds.
Viany worked in households where she cared for seven, nine, and sometimes fourteen people. In one home, she cared for a man with a physical disability without being allowed to sit on a chair. “I was treated through force and threats. I watched my life slip away before my eyes.” Change did not come suddenly-it came gradually, from one house to another, until the moment she was able to say “no,” bought her first sewing machine, and began her journey from domestic worker to fashion designer.
Sewing: Personal Protection, Not Legal Protection
Transitioning into fashion design did not provide Viany with legal protection. Like other migrant workers, she remains threatened by General Security and dependent on someone else’s decision to return her passport. But sewing gave her a different kind of protection: protection of health, life, and voice. “Today, I dream of traveling, selling my designs, and leaving Lebanon,” she says, quoting Beyoncé: “I leave with no regrets,” emphasizing that her work as a fashion designer is, above all, a means of self-protection.
Viany stresses that her work as a domestic worker was never just cleaning. She taught children how to read and write, taught one child French until fluency, and raised children as if they were her own. In return, she endured shouting, sleep deprivation, and sleeping on the balcony. In December 2018, she made the decision to leave.
She returned to sewing-her profession in her home country-which became therapy before it became work. She rejects reducing her story to a simple “narrative shift,” stressing that the problem runs deeper: discrimination based not only on the nature of the work, but on skin color. She reminds us that domestic workers age, become grandmothers, and that this is normal-yet the system refuses to recognize their right to change roles or refuse domestic labor.
Transitioning into fashion design did not provide Viany with legal protection.
In this context, clinical psychologist Raafat Mohsen, who works with migrant women in Lebanon, notes that the kafala system leaves not only physical and economic harm, but deep psychological scars. “Many workers live in a constant state of fear, resulting from the loss of control over their bodies, time, and decisions, leading to chronic anxiety, depression, sleep disorders, and a persistent sense of insecurity.”
She explains that passport confiscation, isolation inside homes, and restrictions on movement or communication create what psychologists refer to as “undeclared forced confinement,” where workers remain in a state of constant alertness, even in the absence of direct violence. Regaining any degree of autonomy-such as possessing identification documents, being able to say “no,” or engaging in voluntary work-is essential for restoring mental health, as freedom here is not merely a legal concept but a prerequisite for psychological recovery and stability.
Abolishing Kafala: Freedom on Paper and in Real Life
Viany believes that reforming the kafala system would make life in Lebanon “extraordinary.” Possessing one’s passport and residency allows a worker to enter General Security offices without fear and to claim her rights. Freedom, she insists, is not just a decision-it is the real ability to move, even when it rains.
Today, Viany is struggling to sell her designs beyond Beirut to Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Saudi Arabia, and France, but her restricted freedom stands in the way. She asks bitterly: “If Lebanese people truly want to abolish the kafala system, why don’t they do it?”
