Editor’s Note:

This powerful account by Jumiyem, an Indonesian domestic worker and a leading advocate for domestic worker rights in Indonesia, is a firsthand experience of struggle and resilience. Her story is not only a personal journey from a humble rural background to becoming a national voice; it is also a testament to a methodology rooted in dignity and agency that empower workers to reclaim the narrative of their own histories.

An Inner Struggle

Just call me Lek Jum, a shortened version of the name my parents gave me, “Jumiyem”. I am 49 years old and the seventh of nine children born to Ahmat Mustam, also known as Jumari, and Juminten, both of whom have passed away. I grew up in a remote village on the outskirts of a forest in Bantul, Yogyakarta, Indonesia, where the land was dry and barren.

At that time, the social conditions in our village did not encourage higher education, especially for women. Most women in our community only attended elementary school, and among the hundreds, only a handful had the opportunity to continue their education to junior high, senior high, or university.

In the area where I lived, most of the community were farmers who relied on rain-fed agriculture, meaning they could only plant during the rainy season. During the dry season, the rice fields lay barren, and water sources—found in the rivers—dried up. When water remained, it was barely enough for bathing and drinking. Even then, we had to queue for long hours in the morning or evening to fetch it. The rivers, once vital lifelines, revealed only white, sun-bleached stones.

My parents were farmers, but in between tending the land, they also worked as furniture craftsmen, creating household items such as tables, chairs, cupboards, doors, windows, beds, and dish racks. They made each piece using wood from their own land—either from the garden near our home or from fields farther away. Every step of the process was done manually. 

Trees were felled and carried on their shoulders to the yard, where the wood was elevated above head height and cut using a large, long saw. To slice the heavy logs, one person stood atop, steadying the wood and guiding the saw, while another worked below, pulling the blade downward along the marked line. Once the wood was shaped, the furniture-making process would take a month. 

When the pieces were finally ready, buyers would come to our home to take them for sale in the city. Payment was never immediate—we had to wait until the furniture was sold, sometimes for several days.

This situation made me wonder how I could help ease my family’s financial burden. But as a junior high school student, I had no clear answer yet. One day, while washing dishes at home, a thought crossed my mind: Should I become a dishwasher to earn a wage? But where? The question came and went, lingering only for a moment before fading into the background.

After graduating from junior high, I felt restless and uncertain about my future. Continuing my education was out of reach due to our family’s financial limitations, especially with two younger siblings still in school who required more attention and resources. I wondered whether I should get married, even though I was still so young. Many of my friends had already married—some right after elementary school—but I had yet to find an answer for myself.

With no income, I spent my days at home, helping with household chores when needed. My assistance was especially valuable when Ramak (my father) and Simbok (my mother) were occupied with farming or furniture-making. Simbok played an active role in the craft, helping to sew and prepare materials. I take great pride in my parents, who never complained and always maintained a harmonious, faithful household, even though they had an arranged marriage.

Becoming a Domestic Worker

Amid my uncertainty, a woman—the mother of a childhood friend—came to my house one morning. She mentioned a job opening at a building supply store in Yogyakarta, where she worked, and invited me to join her. Eager to earn money and start working, I asked my parents for permission to go. At first, they urged me to stay home and continue helping them, but I remained persistent. Eventually, they relented and allowed me to leave.

I remember the night before I left—my heart pounding with anxiety at the thought of leaving home and my parents. I carefully packed my clothes, toiletries, prayer essentials, and the little money I had. At dawn, I set off for Yogyakarta with the woman. My parents, their eyes filled with tears, bid me farewell, whispering prayers for my safety. We walked four kilometres to reach the bus, each step carrying the weight of both fear and hope.

My first experience working in the city was far from pleasant. I had been told I would be employed at a building supply store, but instead, I was tasked with all of my employer’s household chores—washing, ironing, cooking, and mopping. My workday began before dawn, and after finishing my chores, I would join the other workers at the store. If I arrived late, my employer would yell at me.

As a newcomer, I struggled to memorise the locations and prices of the items in the store. Whenever I asked my employer for help with a customer, instead of guiding me, she would scold me and call me stupid. Even my prayer times were disrupted. She would agree to let me pray, but as soon as I reached the prayer spot, she would shout for me to return to the store immediately.

Each day, I endured relentless shouting and insults, never once feeling at ease. My chest tightened with anger and sadness, and my thoughts often drifted to my family—their kindness a stark contrast to the cruelty I faced. I wasn’t alone in this suffering; my five coworkers endured the same mistreatment. After two unbearable weeks, I made the decision to leave.

When I informed my employer that I was leaving, she did not object. However, just as I was about to go, she publicly humiliated me in front of my coworkers and customers by demanding to search my bag. She accused me of theft, but all she found were my personal belongings. The experience was deeply unsettling, a stark reminder of how easily domestic workers can be unfairly suspected and treated as criminals. To make matters worse, I was never paid for the two weeks I had worked.

From Employer to Employer

I pushed aside the frustration of my unpaid wages, focusing solely on leaving that place behind. Instead of returning to my village, I sought refuge at a friend’s home—a friend who had previously quit the same job. I needed to find new work; going home empty-handed was not an option, and I couldn’t bear to let my parents know how much I had struggled.

Within three days, my friend’s sister informed me of an employer seeking a domestic worker to care for their children. Without hesitation, I accepted. The couple explained that my responsibilities would extend beyond childcare to include all household chores. Their older child was in kindergarten, while the younger was still a toddler.

My days revolved around caring for the children. Each morning, I took the older child to and from kindergarten by becak (a traditional three-wheeled rickshaw), then spent the rest of the day tending to the younger one—playing, feeding, bathing, and managing every aspect of childcare. Getting them to take their afternoon naps was often a challenge. Once they finally slept, I shifted to other tasks like ironing. My workday stretched late into the night, ending around 11 p.m. after I had cleaned up the kitchen from dinner. From dawn until midnight, I worked tirelessly, with no days off.

I slept on a small divan near the dining table and bathroom, separated only by a used banner. With no privacy, my sleep was constantly interrupted by people passing through to the kitchen or bathroom at night.

I lasted only three months in that job. Maybe it was because I was still just 15, or perhaps the workload was simply too overwhelming. I longed to go home. Summoning the courage to leave, I informed my employers of my decision. The husband tried to persuade me to stay, even offering to pay for my schooling, but my mind was set. They eventually agreed to let me go, and I felt an immense sense of relief. My brother came to pick me up, and when I finally returned home, my parents greeted me with joy.

Yet after a few months, restlessness crept in again. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a burden. When an old school friend invited me to work as a domestic worker in the city once more, I accepted. But just like before, I didn’t last even a month.

Washing, Ironing, and Minding the Store

My journey as a domestic worker began in 1989 in the Yogyakarta area. I changed employers frequently—not out of reluctance to work but because the conditions were gruelling. The long hours, heavy workloads, and constant discomfort made every job difficult. Psychological abuse was common; I was often shouted at or given the silent treatment. Worse still, I suffered sexual violence from a male employer.

The responsibilities were overwhelming. My day started at 4:30 a.m. in the kitchen and didn’t end until 10 or 11 p.m. When my employers were away, the workload was even greater, as I was responsible for the entire household.

In one job, I worked both as a domestic worker and a convenience store attendant. I woke up at 4:00 a.m., rushed through housework, and opened the store by 9:00 a.m. Often, I had to cook while simultaneously minding the store. The shop closed at 9:00 p.m., but my tasks didn’t end there—I had to clean the store, then the kitchen, finally finishing around midnight. With only four hours of rest, exhaustion was relentless. Some nights, after my long hours of labour, my employer would even ask for a massage or kerokan (traditional coin scraping), further pushing my limits.

My wages were always very low, and I almost never had a day off. I was granted only three days of leave for the Eid holiday and was never given the annual bonus (tunjangan hari raya or THR) that I was rightfully entitled to. These conditions forced me to change jobs about ten times. Without legal protection, domestic workers often rely solely on the ‘kindness’ of their employers.

The challenges weren’t just financial—social stigma added to my discomfort. Friends would mock my work, saying, ‘Why work in someone else’s house? It’s better to be in a factory or a company.’ Because of this, I often lied and said I worked in a store or at a food stall.

Yet, amidst the hardships, I found moments of joy. Helping my parents financially gave me a sense of purpose, and the camaraderie among fellow domestic workers was a source of comfort. With them, I could share stories, organise outings, and even learn to read the Qur’an—small but meaningful acts of solidarity that helped me endure.

It was with a relatively kind employer that I finally found the opportunity to continue my education. Though the pay and hours were no different from my previous jobs, they allowed me the freedom to develop myself. The desire to return to school had been one of the main reasons I moved to the city, so I gathered the courage to ask if I could pursue my Senior High School diploma. To my relief, they were supportive—the male employer even shared that he had worked while finishing his high school education.

I enrolled in a school in Yogyakarta and excitedly shared the news with my parents. Using my monthly salary, I managed to pay for three years of schooling. After graduating, I stayed with that employer for another year before deciding it was time to move on, choosing the Eid holiday as the moment to resign.

Even after earning my diploma, I continued working as a domestic worker. At one point, my sister and I attempted to open a soto (traditional soup) stall, but after a few months, the business failed.

The Domestic Worker School

In 2003, I visited a fellow domestic worker named Tari, who introduced me to the Domestic Workers’ School and the Tunas Mulia Domestic Workers Union—both founded by Rumpun Tjoet Nyak Dien, an organisation dedicated to supporting domestic workers. She explained that the school was free and offered education to current, former, and prospective domestic workers. Though hesitant at first, I agreed to attend a union meeting with her.

Stepping into the school for the first time, I felt out of place and nervous, even though everyone there was also a domestic worker. When the head of the school asked me to introduce myself, I spoke before a group for the first time, my voice trembling with uncertainty.

I continued attending school while working. Over the next six months, I learned not only practical skills such as cooking, cleaning, and childcare but also essential knowledge on human rights, advocacy, gender-based violence, and human trafficking. The education combined theory with hands-on experience; we were directly involved in advocating for domestic worker cases, sometimes all the way to the state court.

On weekends, the school offered skill-building classes, including computer literacy, writing, and driving lessons for both cars and motorcycles. For those between jobs or coming from out of town, the school even provided dormitory accommodations, ensuring that everyone had a safe place to stay while learning.

Through the union, I came to understand that many of the challenges I had faced—like working without days off or receiving only a can of cookies as an annual bonus—were not isolated incidents but systemic issues. Domestic workers deserve to be recognised and treated as workers, with rights and protections. I was proud to be part of the school’s first graduating class.

While continuing my job and union activities, a deep desire to pursue higher education began to take root. I started saving money, little by little, from my salary and discovered a private university in Yogyakarta that offered classes in the afternoon and evening.

By the end of 2006, I had officially enrolled in the Faculty of Law. I braced myself not only for the financial burden but also for the judgment of others. A maid going to college? The scepticism wasn’t just imagined—a friend’s employer bluntly remarked, ‘Just a maid, yet she goes to college. A maid is a maid.’ The comment was painful, but instead of discouraging me, it fueled my determination. I was committed to proving that a domestic worker could succeed in higher education. With a monthly salary of Rp 250,000 (approximately $27), I somehow managed to pay my tuition of Rp 1 million (approximately $105) per semester, and in 2010, I graduated.

My pursuit of education wasn’t just about personal advancement—it was about making a difference. I became a tutor for equivalency education programs. I joined task forces focused on preventing violence against women and children, using my experience and knowledge to support others in their struggles.

Domestic Worker, Not Servant 

Through the Domestic Workers Union, we fight for our rights and support one another. Domestic work remains largely unprotected under labour laws, which focus solely on the formal sector. The term commonly used to describe us—pembantu (servant)—reinforces inequality. While the media may soften it to “assistant,” it does nothing to change our reality. Since 2003, we have fought to replace this term with pekerja (worker), yet neither the state nor employers recognise us as such.

Domestic workers often endure excessive hours with no scheduled breaks, no days off, no minimum wage, and the constant risk of being fired without reason or severance pay. Beyond unfair working conditions, we are highly vulnerable to physical, psychological, and sexual violence, as well as human trafficking and modern slavery.

In 2004, our union, alongside the Domestic Worker Protection Network, began advocating for a Regional Regulation to protect domestic workers in Yogyakarta province. The proposed regulation outlined essential rights, including a weekly day off, defined working and rest hours, fair wages, and written contracts. After years of persistent advocacy, including mass actions and hearings, we secured a Governor’s Regulation in 2010, followed by a Mayor’s Regulation in 2011.

The struggle for domestic worker rights at the national level has been even longer. In 2004, the National Network for Domestic Worker Advocacy (JALA PRT) submitted a draft for the Domestic Worker Protection Bill (RUU PPRT) to the House of Representatives. Though repeatedly included in the National Legislation Program, the bill has seen little progress—often because many lawmakers themselves employ domestic workers.

In November 2014, after yet another delay, four fellow advocates (Sargini, Lita Anggraini, Ririn Sulastri, Haryati) and I from JALA PRT staged a hunger strike in front of the parliament building in Senayan, Jakarta. Our protest demanded that the bill be prioritised and enacted in 2015. Support poured in from industrial labour unions, some of whom even collected donations to help fund our journey home to Yogyakarta. Ultimately, we secured a meeting with the National Parliament.

After years of pressure, on March 21, 2023, the bill was finally proposed in the parliament. Yet, by October 2023, there had still been no further discussion, and it had not been enacted. 

In response, JALA PRT and other civil society organisations intensified their actions—holding continuous protests in several regions simultaneously (Jakarta, North Sumatra, South Sulawesi, Semarang, Yogyakarta), including the “Wednesday Action” and a daily hunger strike that lasted for months. In collaboration with Konde.co, we also launched a film campaign, Mengejar Mbak Puan (“Chasing Sister Puan”), to raise awareness. As Speaker of the Indonesian House of Representatives, Puan Maharani was among those significantly responsible for delays in the legislative process.

As part of this ongoing struggle, JALA PRT joined the newly formed Labour Party, and I was given the mandate to run as a legislative candidate in the 2024 general election. Politics was never part of my plan, but it became a necessary path when the fight for protection continued to be obstructed by lawmakers. I do not know what the outcome will be, but what matters most is doing whatever it takes to ensure domestic workers finally receive the legal protections they deserve.

The small battles continue, and the larger fight endures. As long as domestic workers remain unprotected and oppression persists, the struggle must go on.

* This article is translated and republished with permission, and edited for clarity. The original article in Bahasa Indonesia was published as “PRT Berjuang Mendapat Perlindungan dan Pengakuan sebagai Pekerja” (“Domestic Workers Fight for Protection and Recognition as Workers”) by Lembaga Informasi Perburuhan Sedane (LIPS) in 2024. It is part of the “Workers Write their Resistance” series, “Berpencar, Bergerak! Pergolakan Perlawanan Harian Buruh di Delapan Sektor Industri” (“Scatter, Move! The Turmoil of Daily Labour Resistance in Eight Industrial Sectors”).