Broken dream

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.