By Ida Ahdiah
Just as she had last night and all the previous nights, Saleha left her apartment at 10 pm. It was snowing heavily and a strong wind was blowing. According to the weather forecast there was going to be a snowstorm with forty centimeters of snow falling overnight. Tomorrow the city would be lifeless, with everyone who could staying home. The city workers wouldn’t be able to clear away the snow covering the streets.
Saleha set out for work.
She was bundled in a thick coat, her hands protected by gloves. She wore a scarf to cover part of her face and keep out the freezing cold. Only her eyes remained uncovered. Each step along the footpath she sank into the snow almost up to her knees. She trudged the distance to the bus stop, almost blinded by the snow.
Just like the previous night she was alone at the bus stop, waiting for the 175 which, according to the timetable, was due in three minutes. The strong wind angled the snowflakes, hurling them against the wall of the bus shelter and making a din. She huddled in a corner of the shelter.
Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed and the bus still hadn’t come. Most likely the weather had prevented it from keeping to the timetable. Saleha walked restlessly back and forth in the bus shelter, rubbing her hands together and jumping up and down to stay warm.
“I’m late. I’ll lose my job, lose money. Oh, come on, bus!” she said over and over to herself through chattering teeth.
Time was money because she was paid by the hour. Her wages would be docked by the number of minutes she was late. Being on time was expected. She’d often seen her fellow workers sacked for coming late.
She’d been doing this night job for only five months at a CD and DVD factory. Her job was to pack the CDs into cardboard boxes, 24 in each, and seal the boxes with packing tape. She was grateful there was a company willing to take her on despite the fact that her work visa for this country had expired.
Saleha persisted, without returning home, until she had enough money to pay off her debts to the moneylender. Her husband, whom she’d trusted to manage her money, had used it to marry another woman. And he said it was Saleha’s fault because she wasn’t providing him with his conjugal rights. She had two children who were now with their grandmother, whom she also had to support.
God willing, she prayed, “I’ll earn money here until I’ve paid off my debts and got some capital together. Then I’ll go home and use it to start up some sort of small business.”
“There are lots of illegal workers in factories—hundreds of them—maybe even thousands,” said Tiru, her friend from Sri Lanka who’d given her the address of an employment agency which was willing to take on illegal workers. “Some companies are okay about employing workers like us on the sly. The wages are cheap because they don’t have to pay any tax.”
“Don’t the police catch the illegals and deport them?”
“Lots get caught but most get away with it. Are you scared?”
Saleha shook her head. “Whatever happens, I’ve got no choice.”
“It’s better this way. At least we’re working and not resorting to crime.”
Saleha could only agree.
Five months ago the employment agent had taken her to the CD factory. “You’re on the night shift from 11 pm to 7 am. Is that a problem?”
Saleha shook her head. “Not at all.”
To herself she added, I’d be willing to work twenty-four hours a day. Why else have I crossed the ocean to this foreign country if not to work and get money?
“Your wage is eight dollars an hour, paid in cash, every Friday night.”
“Thank you,” she said. She knew she’d be paid ten dollars an hour but the agent would take a two dollar cut from her hourly earnings. She immediately calculated her earnings in rupiah and was happy with the amount.
At work she never talked. The others worked in silence too. They came from Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, India, Pakistan and several African countries. Every night she performed the same tasks—standing at a table, packing and arranging the CDs into cardboard boxes. There were two coffee breaks of fifteen minutes each.
She felt it was an easy job and the wages were okay. Different from when she’d worked in a T-shirt factory back home. The wages there were very low, not even enough to cover living costs. But nothing in her life had changed—she was still working hard but never able to pay off her debts.
Saleha had been attracted to the idea of working overseas. She’d heard bad stories about workers who’d been abused by their bosses, raped and not paid their wages according to the contract. But she’d also heard success stories. There was no knowing what might happen to her, but she wanted to try her luck anyway. She borrowed some money from a moneylender for the expenses of getting herself overseas through an agent.
The agent placed her with a family with two children where she was respected as a human being. She was given a clean room, ate what the boss ate. Her wages were paid weekly. Her working hours were from 7 am to 4 pm. Her job was to look after the children and cook. By four o’clock she was off work and could rest in her room. Saturdays and Sundays were holidays. She could go out as long as she was back by Monday morning.
Her contract was up after three years and she hadn’t wanted to extend it. She wanted to go back home because, according to her calculations, the debt had been paid off and she had enough savings to start up a small business. And she missed her children and husband. However she got the news like a bolt out of the blue that her husband had used her money to marry again.
Saleha felt abused, both physically and emotionally.
She asked her boss to go on employing her. However, being the upright citizen that he was, he refused to employ her without a valid work permit. Saleha left the house, determined to go on trying her luck.
Now she was renting a room with two friends in a rundown working-class neighborhood. One of her flat mates was a Bangladeshi, the other Mexican; both, like her, had no idea what fate held in store for them from one hour to the next, let alone one day to the next.
Back to that snowy night—Saleha had the feeling she’d lose her job because she was late. She decided not to bother going in at all, seeing as it wouldn’t make any difference. However she changed her mind when the bus arrived. Wasn’t it her plan to keep on trying her luck?
She jumped on, intending to find a seat at the back, but abandoned that idea when she saw the back of the bus was full of men. Night workers like herself. They sat in groups according to the color of their skin and the language they spoke. The back section was always dominated by Bosnian immigrants who got on at the terminal. Then there were the ones from Pakistan, El Salvador, Peru and other South American countries. Most were men—only a few women.
“You can sit there.” The driver pointed to a seat near the door which, according to the picture on the wall of the bus, was reserved for pregnant women, the elderly, and the disabled.
At first Saleha hesitated, but eventually sat down.
“None of them are out on a night like this,” the driver said.
The bus crawled through the snowstorm. Saleha glanced impatiently at her watch. It was after 12.30 am. She hoped the foreman would understand that it was the bad weather that had made her late.
Saleha breathed a sigh of relief when finally the bus arrived at her destination. She asked the driver to stop outside the factory, not at the designated bus stop. In winter the driver was allowed to let female passengers off at a spot near where they were going, not at the bus stop itself. This consideration had been granted after an attempted rape. For protection, women who went out alone at night were advised to carry a whistle that they could blow when they were in danger. Saleha carried hers in her coat pocket.
She crossed the parking lot, pulling her coat tighter around her. The snow was falling even more heavily and a strong wind was blowing. That night there were no police cars in sight. Normally there would have been police cars around the industrial zone. Once one had stopped right beside her, making her gasp for breath! The officer was only giving way so she could cross the street.
“Be sure to avoid any dealings with the police,” a friend had advised her. “You can’t bribe the police here.”
Saleha took this advice to heart. She never crossed the street if the lights were red, even if there weren’t any cars and it was the middle of the night. The police could catch you red-handed with the cameras posted everywhere. She was reluctant to phone the police when the upstairs neighbors were noisy on a Saturday night. As far as possible she kept well away from the police.
She drew a deep breath and exhaled immediately, thinking of the foreman asking her not to come in tomorrow. He’d sack her politely. She’d be unemployed by tomorrow and god knows for how long after that. Then her head filled with questions about how she would pay the rent, pay off her debts to the moneylender, cover her living costs, pay her fare home, support her children.
Hatred mounted for her husband who’d dared throw around the money she’d earned through her own hard work. She let out a string of swear words, and was about to scream at the top of her lungs to release the burden in her breast when she found herself already at the entrance to the factory.
Saleha keyed in the code numbers for opening the door. She went into the cloakroom to hang up her coat. She couldn’t understand why no one else had hung up theirs. She went into the main area where she usually worked. Not a soul was there. Not a sound. Hundreds of CDs lay scattered on the table. Cardboard boxes too, some of which were half-filled.
She rushed to the foreman’s office. He wasn’t there. She thought maybe the factory had been shut down that night because of the bad weather and the foreman had forgotten to let her know. What a relief. There was no one to give her the sack tonight.
Then she went into the staff canteen. On the table there were cups of coffee, still warm. Sandwiches still in their wrappers and cakes, unwrapped but still untouched. Saleha’s heart pounded and the hairs on her neck stood on end. She ran, wanting to get out of there as fast as she could.
Then something touched her shoulder from behind. She jumped out of her skin and let out a scream. She kept her eyes tightly closed, resigned to her fate, not wanting to look behind her.
“It’s me.”
Saleha opened her eyes to see someone speaking in front of her. It was a fellow worker, a Pakistani. She didn’t know his name.
“What’s happened?” she said. “Where did everyone go?”
“The police have just raided the place. They’ve arrested all the illegals. Thank God my bus was late. I watched the whole thing from the bus stop.”
He stopped talking and pricked up his ears, his eyes darting back and forth. A siren could be heard, getting closer and closer. Closer to where they were.
He ran as fast as he could.
Saleha ran, too and locked herself in the bathroom. Any minute now and her fate would be sealed. Would the police discover her hiding place? Outside the snowstorm was still raging.
Translated by Toni Pollard