One month. Exactly one month today when I arrived in Kuwait. Have adjusted, I should say. But still struggling to contain the boredom that I feel in the office. I'm still waiting for work to bury me. A month in Kuwait and I'm still not doing anything.

I kidded an officemate: If by end of August I receive my salary for bumming around...(pregnant pause)...I will wait for September salary to come, and October, and November...

I feel I'm being dishonest for not doing anything. I feel like I'm thieving whenever I go home at five without a work accomplishment. It's not my fault, is it? I've approached people in the office to give me work. I've asked around where I can help. But it seems work is in a dwindle that's why I find myself not doing anything most of the time. I wonder though why am I the only one professing that I've no work...

I'm intent. One of these days, I will post this in my cubicle: Will pay for work. (Meaning: if they give me work; I will them money!).

Poor me.

And so because I'm not doing anything, I'm absorbed to reading work-related materials (yeah, right) and occasionally of online news.

This morning, I chanced upon this New York Times' Immigrant Maids Flee Lives of Abuse in Kuwait with a b&w photo of jampacked kababayans sprawled in what seemed to be a poorly ventilated living room -- most of them unmindful of the camera. I'm damn sure why I feel remorse for them: because I know their sad and sob stories are true, and I know that, currently, they are numbering 200! (The Filipino priest here in Ahmadi, Kuwait keeps imploring for assistance for those kababayans and keeps saying there are 200+! kabayans in the shelter). See these heart-wrenching slides from New York Times.



Out of those 200, I know more than half will flee from the shelter. Them strong-willed will find ways to survive in Kuwait in whatever way possible.

I know so because I've befriended one Filipina who had the same sob story 15 years ago. She is now married to an American and they are due to retire to the Philippines by end of this year.

She narrated to me the following (for some reasons, I can't help but associate her to Janice Jurado -- not because she is well-endowed, but because looking at her, I am certain -- and she unembarassingly admits it -- that she's a beauty during her hey-Jo-day):

"Tatlong araw lang ako sa amo ko sa Kuwait. Kadadating ko pa lang sa airport, dinala kaagad ako sa laundry room. Hindi pa man lang ako nakakain. Diyos ko, nakita ko ung papalantsahin, mas matangkad pa sa akin!"

Okay, so let's call her Janice.

"Tapos pagkatapos kong maplantsa ung mga damit, gusto naman maglaba ako. Ano un?! E di napasma ako! Hay naku, pagkalipas ng isang buwan, tumakas ako. Nagpunta ako sa embassy. Isang buwan din ako doon. E naku naman, napurga ako sa alamang. Laging yun ang ulam. Tsaka me multo dun 'no! Gabi-gabi me nagpaparamdam."

"Naranasan kong matulog sa rooftop ng mga building. Kapag may pulis, nagtatago ako. Sumama ako sa mga Pilipino at naging katulong nila. E maganda pa ako noon tsaka bata. Pinalad naman akong makatagpo ng isang mabait in Kuwaiti na nagbigay sa akin ng papel kaya ako naging legal."

Woody Allen once said: comedy is tragedy plus time. I think Janice is able to animate her story because she's been through it already. But 15 years ago, I'm sure she would be sobbing in between those lines.

"Nung may papel na ako, saka ako namasukan. Cashier. Parlor. Grocery. Tapos five years ago, nakita ko si Kano. E kahit naman matanda na lola mo, me asim pa rin."

She said she's 40. My playful thoughts conjured: Lola ko talaga, nagpabata pa e!

"Niligawan nya ako kaya sinagot ko sya. Hellow! Swerte ko na un no!"

She corrected me: "Hoy, hindi sya nagpaaral sa mga anak ko. Ako! Sariling kayod ang pinapadala kong pera sa mga anak ko. Nung ma-meet ko si Kano at nakabili kami ng bahay somewhere sa Pinas, naiyak ako. Akala ko talaga, mamamatay ako'ng sa kahon lang ibuburol. Ngayon, me bahay na kami ni Kano."

"Hindi ako mayaman," she snarled at me. She said not because she's married to an American means she's rich. "Hindi a. Namamasukan din kaya sila. Yung sahod ni Kano, maraming pinupuntahan. Me pamilya kaya yan sa States. Pinapadalhan nya kahit divorced na sila ng asawa n'ya. Tapos naghuhulog pa kami ng bahay namin. Kaya nga ako uuwi para magnegosyo. Karinderya siguro dahil masarap naman akong magluto."

What endeared her to the American is that she never asked for anything. "Hindi ako bilmoko." Bilmoko is what you call those people who love asking that you buy them material things: ibili mo ako n'un, ibili mo ako nito!. In Saudi, we kiddingly called them teacher. Mahilig kasi magturo (ng bibilhin).

"Tsaka matipid ako," Janice continued.

Some of the 'takas', she said, go out of the shelter and become 'kabit'. "E bakit? Kesa mamatay kang nakadilat ang mata, dapat gumawa ka ng paraan para mabuhay!"

That the subject of runaway maids is a touchy subject is true, as what the NYT article said. What becomes of them outside the shelter is an even more sensitive topic to discuss. What Janice told me is not verifiable. But deep inside, I know there's tinge of truth to what she said.

"They will survive," Janice said. "They will", I repeated to myself while wondering how long will I feel burdened for what I learned.