Letters to the editor

Members and supporters of the Migrant Workers Protection Society (MWPS) sent this heartfelt account of the recent death of 33-year-old Nadia Mohammed to Gulfweekly.

The plight of the dying cancer patient who was unable to prove her identity or nationality was highlighted in our sister paper the GDN. After an agonising struggle, she died on March 28.

A spokesperson for the organisation explained: "While Nadia's story is unique, its tragic nature is also shared by other migrant workers. Too often their personal tales are overlooked and their feelings disregarded. Recognising the humanity of those less fortunate than ourselves is an essential part of developing a just society." Nadia died this morning. None of us were with her when it happened. We heard three hours later. It was a sad end to a tragic life.

We first met Nadia two months ago in a crowded office. She was a dark, hunched up figure who wore her shawl draped awkwardly over her shoulders and her black headscarf wound carelessly round her head, barely covering her wavy hair. Her eyes were lowered, unwilling to meet ours.

It was on this occasion that we asked her where she came from. We already knew she was a terminal breast cancer victim who was seeking 'repatriation' from the Indian Embassy. She never really stood much chance of that - the odds were against her from the start. She had no documents - no passport, no CPR, no visa, no address in India ... nothing to prove either her identity or her nationality. Added to this there were rumblings in the community that she was not Indian but Sri Lankan - rumours which along with her condition served to ensure she remained in Bahrain.

This initial 'interview' was painful and frustrating for both her and us. She was clearly experiencing extremes of pain, both physical and psychological which we found difficult to witness. We were frustrated because we wanted to help her to prove her nationality. She related her account reluctantly and briefly and was often inconsistent and unconvincing.

We met a second and third time that week. She often had to wait hours to see us in a small, hot and overcrowded room, nursing her swollen breast and arm and bearing her pain. But slowly she began to trust us, to know that we were not figures of authority and that we would not judge her. In between bouts of pain her story emerged - a story of abject poverty, loss, hardship and deception. We cannot vouch for, or authenticate its truthfulness. There are gaps and there may well be concealments for reasons of pride, fear and even habit but the essence of truth is here - of that we feel sure:

Nadia was born in Bombay. When she was eight years old her father died. This brought an end to her two years of schooling and left her penniless mother alone with Nadia and her sister and brother. Her brother was killed several years later in a traffic accident and it was this, Nadia reasoned, that caused the subsequent death of her mother when she was only 12.

The two orphan sisters were then claimed by the childless sister of Nadia's mother who lived in Kerala and who came to Bombay to collect them and take them back with her.

After her sister left the aunt's house, Nadia, aged 18, ran away with a man to whom she was not married. With this man she had a son. When the boy was two years old his father was killed in a truck accident. This was a desperate time for Nadia.

She literally bore the scars. Her wrists and inside forearms were covered with faded self-harm scars which she said she did at this time. She described her destitute state simply: 'Have baby - no house, no money - what to do?' However, she eventually made her way back to the aunt with her son and found work as a cleaner.

With false promises of an exceptional salary, it was at this point that she was recruited by an 'agent' in her country to work in Bahrain. This man provided Nadia and at least eight other girls with visas and fake passports. The significance of this last item was lost on her at that time. 'What did I know then?' she commented.

Thus in 1994 at the age of 20, Nadia began her life in Bahrain. She has never been back 'home' since, nor seen either her son or aunt though she sent them money through a third party, which it is hoped they received.

Five years ago she was informed by the third party that they had moved. She was not given the new address and thus lost touch entirely with her family. Retelling this part of her story in particular was clearly stressful and upsetting for her.

Nadia worked as a housemaid when she first arrived here but only briefly before being persuaded to move in with a man whom she barely knew on the promise of being well-paid and his offer to bring her son to join her.

It would appear that this man was a pimp as she described the type of 'work' he was responsible for organising, although she was keen for me to understand that she herself was not engaged in this type of activity. He eventually abandoned her after seven years, taking her money and gold with him and leaving her more embittered.

What immediately followed this period is unclear but during the last two years we think she lived by herself selling lottery tickets and perfume. She had detected a large lump in her breast at the beginning of 2007 but was not correctly diagnosed and applied cream and took tablets for many months afterwards.

She became too ill to work about seven months ago and we have no idea how she managed. She was obviously fearful of her illegal residency status here and felt helpless.

Another series of misfortunes befell Nadia after she became very sick. She collapsed twice - once in the street and once at the Indian Embassy.

She was taken to hospital and discharged the same day on one occasion and on the second occasion admitted for 22 days before being discharged. She then handed herself in to police custody because she had nowhere to go and could no longer work - she was destitute once more.

It is at this point that we met Nadia and tried to give her friendship, warmth and love. She came to trust us and when she was admitted to hospital for surgery to relieve at least some of the pain we did as we had promised her and stayed by her side as much as possible.

Her cancer was extremely advanced and we always knew there was no chance of recovery. Her surgeon commented that he had never seen such an extreme case in his 30 years of surgery. She had a total mastectomy and a large part of her chest cavity removed.

Reconstructive surgery was too dangerous for her and so she had to bear the agonising daily dressing changes of large open wounds. She was 'guarded' continuously by policewomen since she was officially in police custody and this was fortunate for her because they all knew some of her lonely story and sympathised, chatting with her and supporting her where possible, even though they found her pain distressing. She spoke good Arabic and English, as well as Hindi and Malayalam.

We continued to visit her every day. In her hospital bed for almost a month she sat, propped up by pillows - never lying down to sleep even at night as the pain in her back where the cancer had spread would be too much to bear.

She slept leaning forward hugging the pillows for support. Her arm was almost paralysed by the effects of the disease and she therefore struggled even to shift positions. In spite of this, we had some 'cosy' hospital visits when she was feeling reasonably well but some very emotional visits when she was not. Sometimes she laughed and could share a joke.

At other times she would cry out loudly in pain and then, particularly towards the end, she would shout out - angry at her situation, blaming everyone, though no one in these last months was to blame.

We made her tea, bought her food, clothes, magazines and toiletries, prepared her fruit, washed her hair, helped to rearrange her bed etc. - little things. She loved us for that simple care.

One day she had thanked us for some small thing we had done and when we dismissed it as 'nothing' she replied simply, 'For me ... everything.'

Her health deteriorated over the past few days as her mind, too, became affected by the cancer and she began to suffer from frequent seizures. She was heavily sedated and we were no longer able to communicate with her.

She died today and we are sad, even though we know she is now happily liberated from her suffering.