Broken dream

Yenni Djahidin

She sat there on a wooden bench under a maple tree, her eyes following the small boy running in the playground.

Her face was long and narrow with dark eyes, a small nose and a small mouth. I saw her as I entered the park. I knew she must have been Indonesian because of the jilbab (head scarf) that she wore loosely around her head. There were plenty of babysitters in my neighborhood: some were called au pairs, nannies or mother's helpers.

Unlike this Indonesian woman, many sitters dressed just like American women. But this woman sat there and didn't interact with others near her.

I walked toward her and greeted her in Indonesian.

She was surprised and looked at me, asking "Orang Indonesia, Mbak?" (are you Indonesian, miss?).

I said yes. She said she had seen me but thought I was from the Philippines. She apparently didn't speak much English.

"Do you work here?," she asked me.

I wasn't sure what she meant, but I said yes. Then she started telling me her story.

"I work for a family from the Middle East here. They have five children and now the wife is pregnant. I work so hard, but they don't give me my salary. It's only US$200 a month. They said they would give it to me when I am ready to go home. I want to quit but I can't because they hold my passport and visa."

She spoke without giving me a chance to say anything.

"Where do you live?," I asked, while my eyes watched the toddler, who picked up a handful of mulch and threw it onto the picnic table.

"Somewhere there. I don't know exactly," she said.

"Oh, how do you get to the playground?" I asked inquisitively. I was amazed there was someone who didn't know where she lived.

"My employer drove us here. She will pick us again in an hour," she said, glancing at her wristwatch.

"Do you drive?" she asked me again, looking in the direction of the parking lot.

"Of course," I said.

"Well, you are lucky. My employer doesn't even allow me to use the telephone," she said. Her skinny fingers patted me slightly on my shoulder.

"I guess I am," I said, sensing that she might have mistakenly thought I was also a babysitter or maid from Indonesia.

Well, my son's skin color was two or three tones lighter than mine. This was not the first time people thought I was a babysitter; I was accustomed to it.

"Can you help me find a new employer?" she asked again.

I said I couldn't because I didn't know what kind of visa she had. I encouraged her to contact the Indonesian Embassy in Washington if she felt she was being abused.

"Oh, a friend of mine ran away from her employer. An Indonesian man told her he could help her find a better job. Now I don't even know where she is. I don't want to end up like her."

I read in a local newspaper that there were thousands of domestic helpers brought to the States by foreign diplomats. Many of them are not paid the standard wages earned by Americans. Critics called it a new kind of slavery, and some of the women are even physically abused.

I remember a TV news program showing an African girl who was badly abused by her employers. She had been promised a good salary and schooling. There were also reports of maids being rescued by neighbors. In fact, there was an organization that helped foreign maids escape from their abusive employers.

But there were also plenty of stories with a happy ending. I knew an Indonesian maid who married an American man and now they live happily with two children.

"I wanted a better life, Mbak," she said, abruptly interrupting my thoughts. "I thought I could work and send some money back to my family. I didn't know that the agent wanted a percentage of my salary. I don't know how much would be left when I finish my job here.

"I want to learn to speak English. The Thai girl who works next door to me gets $200 a week. She speaks English a little bit. Why do they pay us less?" she asked again.

I felt a little uncomfortable, because she still thought I was also a maid or babysitter.

"Well, maybe we need to show that we can work as well or better than the Thai girl," I said trying to suppress my guilty feeling.

I felt wrong to make this woman tell me all these things, but I was curious to know more.

"I do, Mbak. I start very early in the morning, helping with breakfast and readying the kids for school. I clean, cook, babysit and do almost about everything else my employers asks me to do. I stop working when all the kids are nicely tucked up in bed. I am exhausted.

"If I go home now, my agent will fine me for breaching the contract. I would not have anything left for my family."

My toddler came to me, searching for a snack. The woman sitting next to me heard my son call me, "Mommy."

She looked at me with great surprise.

"Is that your son?"

I didn't want to lie. I told her I live with my family here.

"Do you need a babysitter? Maybe you can employ me?" She said rapidly, her eyes lighting up with hope. I told her it wouldn't be as simple as that.

She looked away, her expression grim again. We didn't talk much after that. I told her I would bring some contact numbers for her tomorrow.

The next day I was hoping to see her sitting on the bench under the maple three. But she wasn't there. Sitting there instead was a young blond girl, probably from Eastern Europe, who was feeding a small girl. An au pair, I thought.

I let my son play longer than usual, hoping the Indonesian woman would come. But she didn't, and it was time for me to pick up my older son from school.

I returned to the playground almost every day at the same time. After a week, I gave up and almost forgot my encounter with the Indonesian maid. I didn't even know her name. I called a friend to recount my story, but she said there are many stories like that.

Finally, a small "crime watch" story in the community newspaper caught my eyes. It said a young woman stole a couple of hundred dollars from a family she worked for. Rahayu Sukmawati was found with her passport near a subway station.

I remembered her story. I thought she must have broken into her employer's room to get her visa. Then, she must have snatched some cash. I called the Indonesian embassy and the people there said they tried to help her as much as they could.

Now, she waits to be deported. I felt so sad. She just wanted a chance to change her life. Now her dream has to be put on hold.