30/4/97

The old and the dutiful

ג€œYes, maג€™am.ג€
ג€œRight away, sir.ג€
ג€œThank you.ג€

Filipino civility may never catch on with the rest of us in this brusque society; their good-humored servility even less likely. Humility with dignity, forget it.
They come here to wait on us because earnings can be as high as 25 times what they make in the Philippines. After three years of earning what by our standards are paltry wages, a domestic worker can go back and build a home sturdy enough to withstand earthquakes and typhoons.
    Six days a week they work for us, cleaning, cooking, shopping, nursing. Then finally -- Saturday night.
    Yeeeee-haaa!
    Every Saturday night, the country's many thousands of Filipinos break loose, let their hair down and shed their demure subservience. But they are Filipino to the last drop: you won't see unruly gangs of them roaming around drunk. Going wild means taking refuge in one of the secret sanctuaries they have set up for themselves, where they can go on their day off and -- egads! -- put their feet up if they want to.
    They become a tethered people temporarily set free -- but you'd hardly know it. Sure, they lose themselves: napping on a couch, dressing casually, chatting in Tagalog, debating politics. Even here they cook and clean and nurse -- but for each other.
    ג€œI'll tell you the truth,ג€ said one Filipino with a laugh that seems to be a national trait. ג€œYou think we all come here to sleep on our day off. You understand, we are tired. We work very hardג€ -- a young woman mimics washing a floor, to gales of mirth -- ג€œbut we are too excited to sleep. Instead, we talk, yack-yack, all night long.
ג€œSometimes we go back to our employers just to get some sleep.ג€ More giggles.
    At this particular haven on Mazeh Street in Tel Aviv, 18 Filipinos (who are all here legally), share the cost of a rundown apartment, at $750 a month, even though they use it but once a week. The place is furnished like a college dorm, and the 18 renters -- plus perhaps as many Filipino friends and guests -- flow in and out all evening. Sometimes they bop off to a disco, but mostly, they plop down on a couch and shmooze.
    They reveal ג€œdiscretionsג€ of their employment: where they get diapers cheap, a recipe, how the old man's rash is doing.
    ג€œWe care about each other, and about each other's employers. Sometimes we have helpful advice.ג€ Spouses who both found work in Israel meet here once a week, as do some parents and their adult children. But for most, who leave their families behind for years at a time, these communal confabs are an outlet for moral support.   
One woman, who had to abandon her children aged 16, 14 and 10 to make money, was about to go home for the first time in two years. ג€œWe ache for our children,ג€ she said, ג€œbut what can we do? This is our only chance to send them to a good school, to give them a home.ג€
    Filipino domestics earn $500 a month here. A well-paid teacher in the Philippines can pull in $250 a month; shop clerks $130. That's in the cities: in outlying areas, far less: one woman earned $20 a month as a cashier. And sometimes, they might have to spend four hours a day in transit to and from work.
    ג€œWe have it good here. We are very happy in Israel,ג€ said one middle-aged man. (No one wanted their identities revealed, out of consideration for their employers.)
    ג€œI've worked in Saudi Arabia, in Singapore, as a merchant marine, and after three years here I can say it is one of the best countries in the world for Filipino workers.ג€ Elsewhere they may be treated harshly, raped or cheated of their wages; pay is often poorer, and conditions slave-like. ג€œIn some places, you might only get a five-hour break once a month.ג€
    Someone comes by with a mischievous look on her face. ג€œLook at this poor woman's hands. Feel them. They used to be soft. You know why they feel so rough now?ג€
   ג€œWork?ג€
    ג€œNo. It's from counting all the money she makes.ג€ Everyone cracks up.
    The apartment's busiest room is the kitchen. They don't order out for pizza: Everybody's walking in and out with bowls of Filipino-style soup and chicken and rice.
    ג€œWe eat, we sleep, we talk. We talk about life. Children. The Philippines. Our work. Our dreams. Sometimes we cry. Sometimes we cry a lot. But we're happy here.ג€ There is no jealousy, no tension, no grappling for hierarchical domination, no undercurrents of disharmony. There is complete solidarity, in these rooms and among Filipinos throughout the country.
    ג€œWe watch out for each other,ג€ said one man earnestly, and everyone else nodded. ג€œAnd if someone is not good, with the rest of us or with the employer, we put pressure. We are proud of our reputation here. There are not many bad ones, but we tell them they should go back to the Philippines.ג€ The luckier ones land jobs with diplomats and foreign journalists; the unluckier, with invalids, the terminally ill and young families in stress.
    I ask if anyone would like to work for Sara Netanyahu. The response is unanimous and emphatic: ג€œNo!ג€ And of course, everyone giggles.
    I have a special appreciation for the Filipinos and their wonderful work ethic: for one frenetic year, when my triplet daughters were between the ages of 2 and 3, a miracle worker named Beth came to live with us. This shy, young Filipino saved our sanity.
    Next, another cleaning lady ג€“ a woman of inspiring valor who overcame daunting hardships, who achieved the most with the least. ג€œJustג€ a cleaning lady? ...