God’s trouble shooter
A true pastor to thousands of overseas domestic workers in Lebanon, 82-year-old Catholic priest Theo Vlugt is speaking up for migrants’ rights
FAMILY. A Filipino photographer who works with the United Nations forces in the south of Lebanon, Jun Iriola, shot this picture of Father Theo and his family of migrant workers and supporters.
BEIRUT—Among the poorest of the poor is where Father Theo Vlugt feels at home. “My Big Boss says in the Bible: What you have done to the poorest of my people, you have done to me,” he says, in his native Amsterdam accent.
Already in his 80’s, the Jesuit priest or abouna (Arabic for “Father”) recently celebrated his 50th jubilee with hundreds of his parishioners singing and dancing at the premises of his Asian-African Welfare Center in Lebanon. Many of them are overseas Filipino domestic workers.
“Every day I am happy that I can do this job,” he tells me, eyes sparkling.
“These young ladies are like family to me. But the problems are overwhelming. These housemaids all left the Philippines. Some of them have also been brought in from Sri Lanka, Nepal, Bangladesh, Ethiopia and Nigeria to
work in the houses of well-to-do Lebanese families. But they are widely looked down upon. They are despised and socially neglected. They are the rejected cohabitants of the Arab world—horribly discriminated against and taken advantage of, often mistreated and beaten, sometimes even worse. Every week one of them jumps from a Beirut apartment tower. One every week,” he says.
Doesn’t she count?
Father Theo relates that every now and then he is invited for a religious ceremony in a Christian Lebanese family, for instance to lead prayers when there is something to be celebrated or commemorated.
“Then I always ask: is everybody present? ‘Yes, everybody is here,’ they would say. And then I repeat: Really, is everyone here? ‘Yes, yes, abouna, everybody is present,’ they will reply. But then, after a while, a maid enters the room with the coffee. That is when I do my little theatrical act. I don´t say a word, but I react most surprised by pulling a face like: I thought you just assured me that everybody in the house was present? Where did she come from all of a sudden? She´s a Christian girl. Doesn’t she count? Then you should see their faces looking at each other. ‘Is the abouna now telling us that our maid is also part of our family?’”
Father Theo never has a holiday. He works day and night, and every weekend. As a member of “Heaven’s Ground Staff,” as he describes himself, he often works odd hours. The phone never stops ringing. During the day, he can often be found in the welfare center for immigrant workers near Saint Joseph´s University, where free courses are provided for maids who want to upgrade their skills to become nurses, or to work in a kindergarten.
JUBILATION. Overseas Filipino workers joined Father Theo in his jubilee celebration, thanking God for giving them a strong and fearless voice.
How employers cheat
In between, Father Theo often visits the prison, where many maids are held after they have been accused of theft. The sad reality, he says, is that all too often maids are being handed over to the police by families that try to escape payment of the maids’ due salaries or repatriation costs which, according to the contract, should to be provided by the employer.
“In nearly all these cases nothing has been stolen. Very often the madame of the house has put a piece of jewelry in the luggage of the maid. The police know (the maids) are being cheated,” claims Father Theo.
“But it is very difficult to prove there never was any theft. The maid is put in prison during the investigation, that is the law. This then leads to deportation. In prison there are also many runaway maids. The Beirut police hunt them down in the streets. In prison, at least, they are not dragged into prostitution. In Beirut, the sharks are also everywhere on the lookout.”
A prison ministry
“In prison these women are brought to me in small groups, handcuffed. I form a little circle… Many of them know me from the Church or from my Sunday radio program for immigrant workers. We pray together the “Our Father…” That is when the tears often come and other prisoners ask us what we are doing. I explain my mission, telling them God is not only for Catholics. I give a bag of toiletries to all the prisoners, a gift from the Church. Then by the time the girls are set free and can go home, we have to see if there is money for a ticket. If not, our welfare center steps in.”
Only 35% are doing well
“Of course there are families where things are fine, and where these girls are welcomed in a very friendly way. I estimate that to be about 35 percent of all cases. In these cases, the girl gets a free day every week plus the agreed salary,” says Father Theo. “But unfortunately, the majority of cases turn out rather different.”
“These poor Asian and African girls come to the Arab countries to make some money. At home they have children, or little brothers, who still have to go to school. Or their parents are ill and somebody has to pay the medical bills. That is why they are here. In their home country they are recruited by organizations that promise them a good salary and a free day every week. I always say, they do not come, they are being brought. And after that they are being exploited.”
MUSICAL PARISHIONERS. Pinoys are always ready to provide the music and singing in Church services in Beirut or elsewhere.
Many are prisoners
Father Theo notes that many of the girls have to hand over their passports to their employers immediately after arrival. They are often not even allowed to have contact with their compatriots; sometimes they are totally isolated. They are, in fact, prisoners. They have to sleep in a room that is really a cupboard, and they have to wait and see if they will be given something to eat.
“I know of situations where girls get pregnant by their employer, or his son, and then suddenly fall down from the 9th floor balcony while window cleaning. ‘So sad, you know, this careless girl… she accidentally fell to her death.’”
Rescue work
Migrant maids often flee to Father Theo’s welfare center, or he gets a phone call to please come and pick up a runaway. Sometimes the diplomatic mission of the home country is alerted.
The Philippine Embassy in Beirut has a special shelter which is constantly occupied by runaway maids. “Recently we had a prayer service there,” relates Father Theo. “That day, some 30 girls were flown back to Manila. Those are very special moments.”
Father Theo has been a pastor for immigrants for the last 10 years, or since the end of the war that began with the Israeli invation of southern Lebanon in 1982. He is adored by the large Philippine community of maids in Lebanon. “When in need, these girls can always count on me,” he says.
Teacher to the poor
Before he began working with migrant workers, he was headmaster for 40 years of a school in the slums of Beirut. His pupils came from all walks of life and all religions—many Orthodox Christians, Maronites, and Muslims. The 15 years of war seemed to have lasted the longest for him. During its final stretch, tanks took position in his schoolyard; his school became a target. His life’s work was decimated to a smoking pile of rubble. But he started a new school in an even poorer neighborhood in Beirut—a city that has taught him never to give up.
SPECIAL T-SHIRTS. Fr. Theo’s Filipino “family members” even had special t-shirts made for his 50th jubilee.
During those war years, he often had to make home visits after school. Always on the road, he remembers that he was often protected by the militiamen, many of them his former pupils or members of youth clubs, who would shout, “hold your fire, the abouna is passing.”
“Many pupils from my school are now in the police or in the army. Even now, when they see me, they stop the traffic to let me cross.”
Closer to God
Those years of war had an enormous impact on all Lebanese—and Father Theo. “Such unspeakable poverty, so much misery, and it did not help any of us at all. Nothing was gained. So often, I had to carry one of our school children to his or her grave, a devastating experience. During the war I became more of a priest than I ever was,” he shares.
Before he took up his outreach mission for domestic workers, he visited the Philippines to orient himself and to be able to understand his new target group. He visited many families of Filipino domestic workers in the Middle East.
A promotion
Although Manila has an official government ban in place on employment in Lebanon, many Filipino women still come. They come through third countries, father Theo notes. Official estimates put the number of Filipino workers in Lebanon at 40,000. “But in reality there are many more,” Father Theo adds.
Announcing his new assignment, he had called this friends and quipped, “I am getting a promotion.” Was he being promoted to Bishop or at least stepping up the clerical heirarchy? they asked. Father Theo’s reply: “It is a promotion because I have found an even poorer group to serve.”
Queen Beatrix of The Netherlands recently decorated Father Theo for his outstanding service to humanity.
Speaking up for migrants
Doesn’t he ever want to return to his home country?
Replies Father Theo: “My country is here, in Lebanon. Here, nobody speaks up for the immigrants and I am glad I can do this job. I would not know what to do in Holland. The best moment of my visits to Holland is always when the plane that takes me back to Lebanon touches down in Beirut. This is my home, here is my mission.”
Jos van Noord is an editor and columnist of the Dutch daily DE TELEGRAAF. During the war he was the paper’s correspondent in Beirut. This article first appeared in De Telegraaf.
