El Salvador / Inequality

Domestic Workers, Forgotten in the Quarantine


Friday, May 22, 2020
Valeria Guzmán

Daysi Quintanilla has cared for others since she was 15 years old. She is a muchacha, a domestic employee, and she’s been working in other people's homes for 43 years. After a lifetime of caring for children she did not give birth to and cleaning rooms where she does not sleep, Daysi now has no money to feed her family. Never having much for herself, poverty has been a constant. The one time she had the most money, it was during the season that she worked as a company orderly and earned minimum wage. Now, in the midst of the pandemic crisis, she has nothing. After almost half a century of sweeping, mopping, dusting, washing, and cooking in other people's homes, her current income is zero dollars.

Before the coronavirus changed and paralyzed the world, Daysi worked in two houses. Per month, she calculates, she collected an average of $100. Since March 21, when the government decreed national quarantine, her employers stopped calling her to report to work. 

She charged $10 or $15 for nine-hour days. In a good week, she worked two or three days and with that small income she supported her family of five children and a granddaughter. Working in the homes of others, he has never had a contract, social security, or bonuses. If someone asks you to show your experience as a domestic worker on paper, you couldn't. Being a domestic worker is being an informal worker. If she works, she eats. If she doesn't work, she doesn't eat.

El Salvador has already exceeded 1,600 confirmed cases of Covid-19, and the household quarantine is expected to go for another fifteen days, although everything indicates another extension will be sought later. Despite the government asking employers to continue paying their employees even if they don't work during quarantine, women like Daysi are left in limbo, depending on the good faith of their employers. Finding a contract employee is as rare as finding a ice cream man who will give you a receipt. 

Without money, Daysi has had to accept that some days she must go hungry. For the past month, her family has eaten thanks to donations from neighbors. 'Right now they just gave me some beans and a lady gave me frozen tortillas,' she recounted one Monday in mid-April from the shack she calls hom in Cuscatancingo. The house is made of aluminum sheets, pieces of cloth, and bamboo sticks. Daysi does not have running water, a television, a refrigerator, or any electricity at all. The only appliance that works in her home is a one-burner stove. 

Daysi is alone. Her employers let her go. They haven't called her once since March 21. The government is as absent in her life as those who she served. The same day Bukele announced the quarantine, he said that families most affected by the pandemic would receive a $300 dollar subsidy. Daysi entered her ID number into the government's online database and found that neither she nor her children were elegible for benefits. 'Nothing came. They should be offering to people who are in need, ” she said.

Daysi Quintanilla, a domestic worker, lives in the Chandanta community, in Cuscatancingo. After nearly half a century working as a domestic worker, she
Daysi Quintanilla, a domestic worker, lives in the Chandanta community, in Cuscatancingo. After nearly half a century working as a domestic worker, she's been sent home without pay by her bosses. Photo by Victor Peña 

During the last two weeks of April, El Faro spoke to five domestic workers contacted through two domestic workers unions. The organizations, based in San Salvador and Tacuba (Ahuachapán), have 300 and 60 affiliates, respectively. Four of those women have been quarantined in their homes without pay and with no certainty when they will have pay again. Only one of them has continued working, but under her bosses' conditions: without rest and without permission to visit her own family. None have an employment contract and none of the more than sixty decrees issued by the Government in the emergency speak of them. 

47 percent of all working women in El Salvador’s urban areas do not have a formal job, according to official statistics. They have no salary security, benefits, or even a minimum wage guarantee. Domestic workers are the clearest example of this. Even without a pandemic, they are the lowest-paid employees in the entire country, according to the Ministry of the Economy. More than 100,000 women are engaged in paid domestic work, according to the 2018 Multi-Purpose Household Survey.

The covid-19 pandemic exacerbated the problems of this battered sector of the population. 

Daysi lives on land where she was given permission to build her shack. There are several plum and mango trees there and, with the help of her children, she collects the least busted ones and tries to sell them among the residents of a nearby neighborhood. The last Sunday in April was a good day for sales. She managed to sell $3 dollars worth and with that she was able to buy a dollar of eggs, a dollar of tortillas and fifty cents of coffee to feed her five children and her granddaughter. Five adults and two minors. A dollar of eggs is six eggs. 

A month after President Nayib Bukele declared the country in national quarantine, Daysi sits down to chat in a plastic chair outside her home. From there, on Monday, April 20, she begins to talk about the places where she has worked. While she talks, her two-year-old granddaughter doesn't stop interrupting her to ask for food: 'Grandmother, grandmother .. Yum, yum,' she says and brings her empty hand to her mouth. 

Daysi Quintanilla
Daysi Quintanilla's home. Daysi, her five children and her granddaughter live in this small lot. Photo by Victor Peña.

The Value of Ten Cents

In El Salvador, the minimum wage for the commercial and services sector is $300. But a household worker's salary can be as little as the employer wants to pay. The Ministry of Economy calculates that, on average, a person dedicated to these tasks earns $ 159.41 per month. 

As of March 2020, the basic food basket for a family in El Salvador’s urban areas was $ 198.90, according to the General Bureau of Statistics and Census. Rent, cleaning supplies and clothes are not included in that amount. By doing simple math, it can be concluded that, in the urban areas, a domestic worker does not earn even enough money to buy enough food for her family. 

That is “normal.” And in this quarantine, many have lost this income. 

One of them is Gesselle Mariona. She lives in Mejicanos and is 22 years old. Last year, she graduated from distance high school, but was unable to get a formal job. Because of this, before the pandemic, she worked in two houses where she was employed two or three days a week. She washed clothes, ironed and cleaned. Depending on what she did, he was paid between $ 8 and $ 12 per day. 

Gesselle is a single mother and lives with her two children, ages one and five. Some days, she says, the menu is made up of mangoes from a nearby tree. But sometimes there is no fruit to calm hunger. The worst day of this crisis, Gesselle says, was Friday, April 17, when she had nothing for her children to eat. The one-year-old still breastfeeds. For the eldest, that day, there was nothing. Geselle left her house and went to the tortilla shop. She asked for ten cents of corn dough. When she returned home, she mixed the dough with all she had: water. Thus, she explains, she made an atol to calm the hunger of her children. 

An investigation by the Central American University concluded that the conditions in which domestic employees work “are precarious and do not meet the standards of respect for human rights, including labor rights. It is developed below the gaze of the outside world, including labor inspection,” said the UCA. When they suffer, they also do it in the shadows. 

On March 18, Bukele tweeted his economic relief plan for people sent home without pay. The plan spoke of the freezing of charges for basic services and rents for those affected by the pandemic. He was not talking about food. Three days later, he announced the delivery of the $300 food subsidy.

But Gesselle was not benefited. Therefore, ten cents gave her the opportunity for her children to sleep with something in their bellies. With ten cents she can pay half a bus ticket. With ten cents, she could buy two tortillas. 

On a Monday in mid-April, Aracely Coto answers the phone. She is 48 years old, lives in Cuscatancingo and, before quarantine, worked in two houses. She has two children. The oldest, 20 years old, has no job. The youngest is in the fourth grade. Ever since the country was quarantined, she barely has had money to eat. 

After almost a month without a job, salary, or government responses, Aracely asked a friend for help. The friend brought her French bread, beans, rice, and avocado. 'With that I have something to eat until tomorrow,' she says. After ten minutes on the phone, she pauses and cries. Her sobs are unmistakable: “My son asks me for food. And what do I say?” 

The next day, Tuesday, April 14, Aracely's nightmare came true: She and her two children ran out of food. In desperation, Aracely's head started to hurt. 'I don't have anything right now, I'm bad,' she says. The last ten cents she kept she spent on acetaminophen. 'What little I had went there,' she says between sobs. 

 

Marvin González, Aracely Coto
Marvin González, Aracely Coto's 10-year-old grandchild. He studies the fourth grade at the La Paz school, very close to home. During the quarantine, his mother has been able to feed him thanks to small donations from neighbors or friends. Photo by Victor Peña.

'They Know that Their Rights Are Being Violated'

Aída Rosales is the general secretary of the Union of Women Domestic Workers. That organization represents about 300 domestic workers. The three women in the stories above - Daysi, Aracely and Gesselle - are affiliated with the union, which organizes activities on labor rights. 

'This has hit hard. There are colleagues who are sick of thinking about how they are going to eat,” says Rosales. The union that she directs is made up of workers from two modalities: some are “daily” domestic workers; and others are 'inside house.” 

In Tacuba (Ahuachapán) there is another union of domestic workers, but most of the affiliates, because they come from the rural areas, work and sleep in their employers' houses. Its leader, Guadalupe Díaz, maintains that the union is made up of around 60 women. “Some were fired as soon as the quarantine began. Other colleagues have not been released. The crisis is already being felt… In the (better) future, not even thinking, ”says Díaz.

Trade unionists fear that, with the excuse of Covid-19, their labor rights will be affected. 'If before they did not want to approve our minimum wage because they said that it would affect the pocket of the middle class, now it’s worse. Those of us who lose are always the poor people, ”says Rosales.

The current Labor Code dedicates eight articles to domestic work. It is regulated that the contract between employer and worker can be verbal, that no paper trail is necessary. The salary is not regulated. Unions have records of women receiving the minimum amount of $ 2.50 per day. A day can be six, eight, 15 hours. It depends, again, on the bosses. The Code also states that domestic workers are required to work on days off if their employers ask them to. And, despite the fact that under their responsibility is the care of a house, their work remains within the informal sector. 

Article 83 of the Labor Code lists reasons why a female worker can be fired without any liability to the employer. One of them is insubordination 'against the employer, their spouse, ascendants, descendants or other persons who permanently inhabit the home.' 

Many domestic workers do not know the law, but most understand that their work depends on submission to the service. “That is your job, to comply with the boss's orders,” says Daysi. 'I do this work because my children depend on me,' says Gesselle. 

When Aracely is asked about disrespect for her labor rights, she has several stories to tell. For example, three months ago, while cleaning a lawyer's kitchen, she accidentally spilled a pot of leftover stewed meat on the floor. “Those leftovers were going to be my meal, so I didn't eat that day. He discounted me ten dollars, even though it was an accident. That day, I only earned two dollars,” she recalls. 

'They know that their rights are being violated, but they work out of necessity because most of them have, at most, a fifth grade education,' explains Guadalupe Díaz, the general secretary of the Tacuba union. 

Stuck in Bosses' Home

Lucia’s employers forced her to work for 35 days in a row this quarantine. For five consecutive weeks, she devoted herself to caring for her bosses and the couple's two children. With the pandemic as an excuse, they gave her no rest days and did not allow her to go home during that time. 'I couldn't stand it anymore. I get up at six in the morning and go to bed at nine at night. I prepare breakfast for them, I give them dinner, I wash the dishes, I put everything away and I leave everything clean and tidy. In five weeks, I’ve had no rest,” she denounces. 

Lucia asked that her real name is not published, to avoid problems with the family she works with. 

Lucia usually whispers when we talk on the cell phone. She talks quietly so that her employers won't hear her. She's still locked in someone else's house. Her moment of freedom comes when she goes out to the store. From the street, she speaks loudly and loosely. 'There was a day when I even pulled my hair out of pure nerves and stress,' she says. Later, the woman says of her bosses: “On the one hand, they are good people, I have not been mistreated. But they are somewhat fregados because, when I want to go home, to buy things for my mom, they won't let me go. ”

Her mother is 77 years old. A couple of years ago, she had Chikungunya fever and ever since then her spine gave away to pain and she’s grown weak. So much so that now she cannot walk alone. Lucia is responsible for her and, normally, she has permission to leave her work every fortnight. On her free weekend, she takes the opportunity to buy milk and cleaning supplies for her mother. The problem that made her pull hairs was that they took her days off in late March, when the national quarantine began. 'This weekend you’re not going out, until the next one', she remembers her employer saying. The following week, she got the same response. 'Later, he told me that I was going to be able to go to my house until April 30. I felt upset, I felt a lump in my throat and I said 'I can't take it anymore' ” Lucía says. 

On the fourth week of quarantine, Lucia received a call. Her mom was in poor health. That conversation she had on the phone, made her rebel against her boss. 'I said, 'I can’t do this week anymore. My mom is going to die and I'm going to be here, ” she says. After 35 days, Lucia had her first day of rest. She went home and her mother began to cry.  

'Mommy, and why is she crying?' she asked.

“Because I hadn't seen you.”

“But I’m here, I’m not dead.” 

“Well, yeah, but look what it took for you to come home,” answered the old woman.  

Before this meeting, at the end of March, the Constitutional Chamber ordered the Legislative Assembly to regulate the minimum wage for those who do domestic work. When she was finally able to leave, Lucia received a payment of $200 for the 35 days of work. That is, she earned $5.71 per day; $0.38, per hour. 

The Chamber gave the Assembly 12 months to regulate the wages of domestic workers. But the countdown begins until the Covid-19 emergency ends. Meanwhile, after a weekend with her mother, Lucia is already back at her employers' house. She continues cooking, sweeping, folding her clothes, taking care of her children and cleaning their bathrooms. It's worth noting: For every hour she does all that, $0.38.

Daysi Quintanilla and Aracely Coto, two domestic workers that have lost their jobs due to the pandemic, belong to the Guild for Women Domestic Workers. Photo by: Victor Peña.
Daysi Quintanilla and Aracely Coto, two domestic workers that have lost their jobs due to the pandemic, belong to the Guild for Women Domestic Workers. Photo by: Victor Peña.

At Home With No Paycheck

After 17 years of working with the same family, Marta Castañeda's bosses sent her to home without pay. They did not ask her if she had savings or if she would have enough money to eat during the pandemic. She and the other two domestic workers in the house were suspended, she says. She’s worked in the same place since she was 21 years old. The pandemic has complicated her situation. Right now she doesn't know if she is fired or not. Her only certainty is that she has not received a salary for more than a month. It is worth emphasizing: This all happened after 17 years of working for the same people. 

'I am in charge of my mother, my disabled cousin, a 13-year-old niece and my five-year-old daughter,' she says from her home in a canton near Tacuba. After Bukele announced the home quarantine, her boss called: “He told me not to show up for work because of San Salvador’s curfew. I asked 'Am I coming back until further notice?' 'Yes,' he said to me.” Thirty-seven days later, that notice has not come and her savings are running out. 

'I think my rights are being violated because they would have issued us a permission slip,' she explains. Her boss has told her that if she comes back, she won't be able to go out anymore. 'I can call you an Uber, but you will no longer be able to leave my house for yours,' she recalls her boss telling her. The woman had to choose between taking care of her family and her salary: “I decided it was better not to go to work, because I won't know if my daughter is eating or if she gets sick. Instead, here we are in the same situation,” she says. 

Employees with permission to travel to their jobs in the health emergency are health personnel, food distributors, drivers, police, journalists, among others. As usual, the role of domestic workers has not been part of the public discourse. The invisibility with which this work is approached is the one that allows some employers to act arbitrarily. They offer them two options: stay at work indefinitely or go home, hungry. 

It's Monday, April 20, and Daysi, the housekeeper who now sells mangoes, points the way to the home of Aracely Coto, the domestic worker who spent her last ten cents on acetaminophen. She walks through the dust and then through the streets of a neighborhood of passages guarded by teenage gang members.

After a ten-minute walk, Daysi arrives at Aracely's house. She lives in a small concrete house on a passage. And, although she lives better than Daysi, in the last three days she has not even had drinking water, because it has not been supplied in the neighborhood. 

The women talk to each other and share their sorrows. Aracely talks about the lack of food and her health problems. She is hyperintense and has depression. Quarantine, unemployment and hunger make her more anxious and sad. Her eyes glaze over. 'You get sick, you have to control yourself,' her friend scolded her. They both hope that Covid-19 will pass soon so they can return to normal. That normal life they yearn for today consists of working days of up to 15 hours for a salary that is not enough to afford them the basic basket. 

Despite having very little, women offer mangoes and juice to those who visit them. This is how they have managed to eat the last month: sharing what they have. Last week, for example, Aracely gave Daysi a package of macaroni, her granddaughter's favorite food. The visit lasts twenty minutes and the women say goodbye.

For now, neither has a salary nor the certainty that their family will eat tomorrow.

logo-undefined
Support Independent Journalism in Central America
For the price of a coffee per month, help fund independent Central American journalism that monitors the powerful, exposes wrongdoing, and explains the most complex social phenomena, with the goal of building a better-informed public square.
Support Central American journalism.Cancel anytime.

Edificio Centro Colón, 5to Piso, Oficina 5-7, San José, Costa Rica.
El Faro is supported by:
logo_footer
logo_footer
logo_footer
logo_footer
logo_footer
FUNDACIÓN PERIÓDICA (San José, Costa Rica). All rights reserved. Copyright © 1998 - 2023. Founded on April 25, 1998.