"They took my passport, then they came for my body": a migrant worker's story

  

In search of a better future, I left one archipelago for another: leaving behind my home country of the Philippines, I moved to Laamu atoll in the Maldives for what I hoped was fair work and the chance to support my family. The Maldives was a dream come true – little did I know that it would soon become my nightmare.

My son was 10 when I left in November 2023, a decision made out of necessity: both my parents had passed away, and my older sister had six children of her own to look after. I had to step up to be the breadwinner of the family.

For the next two years, I found myself trapped in a system of exploitation and abuse, which challenged my dignity as a human being, and my right to work.

I left the Maldives with nothing, poorer than I had started out.  

I was drawn to the promise of a salary paid in US dollars, proper vacation days, and the chance to see my son back in the Philippines at least once a year. I was recruited to a café where Filipinos made up most of the wait staff. With my background in culinary arts, I came to work as a barista.

I was employed by Masood Hilmy, 39, who co-owned the establishment with his wife, as a “sales person” who can do any role for their café. 

I was asked by Masood's wife to surrender my passport and sign an agreement that was not my work contract. When I hesitated, she threatened to fire me and told me I would no longer have accommodation, and that they would not pay my salary. Under duress, I signed the agreement. 

I expected that my passport would be returned to me once my visa was approved. The visa process requires the passport to be sent to the capital Malé’s immigration office for verification – an opportunity that employers can exploit by refusing to hand over the passport afterwards. I waited for over a month, even if the process is usually completed in two weeks. 

As I was unable to open a bank account without a visa, my employers offered to send my money to my family – a kind offer, I thought, since I had no other options at the time. I was warned against interacting with other locals in Fonadhoo. But then I learned that they would pay me my salary in Rufiyaa, and expected me to buy dollars from them at the black market rate.

One night, as I was closing the cafe, Masood sat down at the table and called me over to sit with him. I went cautiously, hoping that the other Filipino co-worker would come pick me up. I had a bad feeling about it, but he told me to treat him like a friend. By then, he had started using disappearing messages on phone apps.

The next time, I was in the small room where we close the water meter for the café when he came. It was a cramped space, and he sexually harassed me – physically and verbally. I felt trapped. Panicking, I hit him over the head and threatened to shout, alerting people that may be walking outside. He left me there.

The next day, the disappearing messages were turned off – and the verbal harassment and bullying at work began. His wife, who must have known something had happened, doubled down. 

They started to belittle me in front of others, scolding me and telling me off. Then they would mock me, asking me if I wanted to resign.

However, the resignation offer was conditional: I had to pay them US$ 1,600 in exchange for my freedom. In addition to the emotional distress I was facing, they continued to threaten me. They went through my accommodation while I was sleep.

I started to disobey their rules about not talking to the locals – and learned that people were aware of his history of exploiting workers. My new friends helped me seek legal action with the Public Interest Law Centre (PILC), a pro-bono group of lawyers. They started to help me with my resignation. 

Six months after I first tried to resign, PILC sent Masood a letter asking for a meeting to discuss my departure. Masood’s wife called me. I should stop seeking legal advice, she warned.

Masood himself later came to the café. He was angry and asked the other employees to leave me alone with them. Without giving me a chance to talk, he told me that he can report me to the police right away, and that I will be detained because I was an illegal immigrant since they had never processed my work visa. 

This was how I found out I was undocumented. 

And then he said, “What if you got hit by a car? What if you got shot outside? What if you cut your leg, or your hands, who will help you? No one, because this is my country – and you are just a migrant worker.” 

He told me he had people inside the Philippine consulate, the immigration office, and that with the help of his sponsor - one of the richest resort owners in the country - he could do anything. 

He didn’t know it at the time, but I recorded the entire conversation. 

With help from PILC, I sent them a final letter saying that I no longer felt safe in Laamu. Masood and his wife, who had left Fonadhoo by then, continued to threaten me over calls, while I tried to find a way back with no money. She told me to get out of the house before she sent people to check. 

The neighbours took me in for a few days until we could figure out how to get me out. We tried boats, but were refused. Boat owners and captains who were close with Masood didn’t want to get involved. 

Luckily, my neighbours were able to get me on a cargo boat captained by their friend. It is unusual in the Maldives for a single woman to travel on a boat alone with strange men, but I had no choice. For one and a half days, as the boat travelled from Fonadhoo to Malé, I was consumed with the terror of what I had been through - and relieved to have escaped with my life.

The boat was traveling with Bangladeshi migrant workers, who also did not have papers, and were seeking better working conditions. 

I arrived in Malé on June 24, 2024. 

I could not leave the Maldives, since I didn’t have a visa to stay in the country in the first place. The government had started cracking down on undocumented workers, and I was afraid I was going to get detained and deported.

Less than a month later, Masood reported me as an illegal immigrant who had “absconded,” fleeing from my duties and hiding from the law. I got calls from people pretending to be immigration officers, telling me to come to an address, which turned out to be the detention centre.  

Rather than staying silent, I decided to pursue legal action. 

Filing a case in a foreign country was not easy, especially as a migrant worker with limited resources. I am grateful for the kind-hearted people at PILC and the International Organisation for Migration (IOM) who assisted me. We filed a case at the Employment Tribunal for sexual harassment, unfair dismissal, non-payment of wages and other labour rights violations.

The legal process stretched on for half a year, filled with uncertainty and emotional toll. But on December 19, the tribunal ruled in my favour. I was able to prove that I was sexually harassed and that I was forced into a constructive dismissal. 

I couldn’t believe it. I had won in a country where proving sexual harassment was difficult at best – proving that justice is possible, even in the most dire circumstances. 

And most importantly, my employers was ordered to pay my due salaries, which will go a long way towards supporting my family. 

The next day, Masood sent another man to return my passport. 

I waited for Masood to pay and to clear up my immigration status so I could leave the country. However, he still has yet to pay me the money I was owed. 

I sought help from the Maldives Immigration and the Philippines consulate. However, my case was one of many. For months, it was forgotten despite constant reminders, in a system that should have protected me. 

I called my son, promising him I was returning soon. But month after month, I had to keep telling him he had to wait for me, because I had no way out. Despite my win, I was still an illegal migrant. 

I took the risk of reaching out to friends and relatives for financial help just to survive. I also persisted, regularly following up with Immigration, the Philippine Consulate and with the Philippines Department of Migrant Workers. After a painful and drawn-out process with countless visits and calls, I finally received assistance from the Philippine Embassy in Dhaka. 

They would give me US$ 200 and a ticket home. 

In May 2025, 11 months after I left Laamu, I came back to the Philippines, to my son, to my family, who I had promised to take care of. But they had to take care of me. I came back without any money, tired, exhausted, traumatised. 

I am not the only one Masood sexually harassed. The Fonadhoo police had cases reported earlier, from former staff, with physical evidence, pictures that they laughed at. Because they were friends with Masood, they overlooked the case. But the Maldivian court did come through for me in the end.

Masood has since appealed to the High Court. It remains to be seen whether the court will uphold the tribunal judgment. 

I am still enduring the painful reality that many migrant workers in the Maldives endure, a plight that calls attention to the need for more accountability, stronger support systems, and better protection for those who leave their homes in search of a better life. 

Through it all, I am deeply grateful to the people who stood by my side: my sweet fellow Filipina housemates, and my dear local friends who never left me through the hardships. Their kindness, support and solidarity helped me through the darkest moments of my journey. This story is also theirs.

I am writing this now, because I want to draw attention to what we go through, something no one should have to go through – being threatened with their life, getting physically assaulted, being an illegal worker after coming to "paradise" as advertised.

I am a survivor – and my voice deserves to be heard.