Liu Faye

Faye’s life had been thrown into a despairing darkness “That thing” occurred on her. We caught a sight of hesitation and waver on her face when she was trying to tell the story-her lip was clutching and her hands kept stroking her cheek unconsciously, reminding you of a child who was exposed to a monster that was going to swallow it.

Are you sure you will be fine to tell us about it, Faye? I asked her with unease. It was never my intention to tear down the bandage of a cut and watch the blood gurgle out at the mercy of pain and sorrow.

But Faye told me she wanted to tell us the story. I don’t know if I will cry again, she said, but I know I will make the story exposed to others someday-I know this because the story does not only belong to me. It belongs to hundreds of other female domestic workers like me.

Years ago when Faye was working for an employer who was an old man, she was sexually harassed. He put his hand on my lap, that nasty old man. Men like that, they have no spouse, only a greasy old face. I remember how his fingers fondling on my thigh-that chubby and disgusting hand. And every time I think of it, I feel like I was in a nightmare. But I couldn’t do anything, can I? I shouted and said ‘Oh, stop that’ but the old man, he wouldn’t listen to you-those employers never did. And I could just bear everything, his assault and awful smell. What can I do? He is so old and I am just an employee working for him.

She burst out her words and fell back into silence again. We sat speechlessly for a while and she murmured quietly, like questioning herself, what can I do?

Faye was already accustomed to things that happened like this. Employers treated her as if she was a servant. But I wasn’t, she said, we are supposed to be employer and employee, not master and servant. We are equal and I deserve respect.

Unfortunately, the only simple request for respect was turned down by the employers and others. The employer asked Faye to shuffle from one task to another task relentlessly. No break, she told us, not even a second for water. The pressure, everything, was so... suffocating.

Even my husband, Faye squeezed a bitter smile on her face, he said it was shameful, my friends, they turned up their noses. But what option did I have? I had mouths to feed, and children to send to school. So, I swallowed that pain and pride and kept going because they needed me to.

I just don’t see why, she said, the society looks down on us (domestic workers) so much. We work and get paid-like everyone else. All of the pressure pushed over Faye was making her out of her breath. The only voice she was given was cooking. Whenever she found her life was overcrowded with criticism and insult from the outside, she soaked herself into the kitchen. Turning those fresh ingredients into tasty dishes seemed to be her way of escaping from the negative voices and hiding herself in her own shelter, putting together her shattered soul-she was not a drudged worker or a meek wife anymore, but only herself when in the kitchen. Through my cooking, I was able to express myself, she told me, When my food was praised, it gave me a sense of worth, that I am more than just a “servant.” I could be a master in my own right, in my own little kitchen kingdom. And I truly hope someday in the future, I can be as brave as when I am cooking-I can find my sense of worth outside the kitchen, she said, her face blushing but eyes filled with grieve and wish.