The Care That Holds Other Families Together

Two premature babies were placed in her care soon after she arrived in the Netherlands. They were only a few months old, so small and fragile that their parents feared they might not survive. Yet far from her own family in the Philippines, a Filipino migrant domestic worker became responsible for helping hold another family together.

More than two decades later, after years of raising children, cleaning homes and serving her community, her own place in the country remains uncertain.

She first came to the Netherlands in 2002. The babies she cared for had been born early and were, as she remembers, “really tiny.” She fed them, watched over them and helped guide them through their vulnerable first years.

She stayed with the family for four years. By the time she returned to the Philippines, the children were no longer the fragile infants she had first met. Their parents were amazed by how they had grown.

That experience became the beginning of a life built around care.

She had grown up as the youngest of nine children on a farm in southern Luzon. She remembers walking several kilometres to school, sometimes barefoot, with mud beneath her feet and a river that could become impossible to cross when it flooded.

She also remembers quieter moments: lying in the grass, looking at the sky and speaking to God.

Faith had been part of her childhood, but migration gave it a new meaning.

In the Netherlands, far from her parents and siblings, she found a Filipino church through her sister. At first, she resisted becoming too involved. She knew commitment would mean attending every Sunday, taking on responsibilities and allowing the community to become a central part of her life.

Gradually, the church became more than a place of worship. It became a family.

“When you are sent outside your country,” she says, “you are trying to search for the community to become your family.”

She returned to the Philippines in 2006. With a degree in commerce and computer management, she found office work and took on administration, accounting and human-resources duties. She also became deeply involved in church organisation.

Then, in 2012, her former host family contacted her.

“We really want you in the family,” they told her.

She returned to the Netherlands and remained with them for another eight years. The baby boy she had last seen at around two months old was nearly seven. Once again, she entered the daily rhythms of another household: school schedules, meals, cleaning, childcare and the quiet work that allows a family to function.

Her labor was intimate and trusted. Her own future, however, remained uncertain.

Years later, she learned through a friend about a woman who claimed she could help arrange a Dutch residence permit. She was skeptical. After living in the Netherlands for so long, she doubted that such a straightforward route existed.

But she was told that another applicant had already completed biometrics and that the procedure was moving forward.

“If you trust that lady,” she told her friend, “then I will trust you.”

She paid €4,000, handed over personal documents and attended a biometric appointment. For a time, everything appeared legitimate. She received a temporary sticker that she understood to be part of the process.

Then she and the other applicants began looking more closely. The promised route did not appear to be legally possible.

She later received a decision instructing her to return to the Philippines. A pro bono immigration lawyer helped challenge the case, but the uncertainty continued. She and other people affected by the alleged scheme explored making complaints, preparing affidavits and seeking legal support.

Yet for people without secure immigration status, approaching the authorities can create another layer of fear. Reporting exploitation may also mean exposing their own legal vulnerability.

The loss was not only financial. She had built a life in the Netherlands through work, friendship, church and study. She had spent years helping children grow up and allowing parents to pursue their own careers. Now she faced the possibility of being removed from the place where much of her adult life had unfolded.

She speaks about this uncertainty through the language of faith.

“Waiting is not denial,” she says.

Sometimes, she explains, the answer to a prayer is yes, no or wait. Her own case is the miracle she is still waiting for.

But she has not responded by waiting silently.

After stepping back from church responsibilities for a period, she began studying human rights and later continued into global studies. She learned about sociology, politics, economics, migration and modern slavery.

The studies gave her new language for experiences she had previously understood mainly through faith and personal endurance. She began to see that the difficulties facing domestic workers were not simply individual problems. They were connected to systems that depend on migrant labor while keeping many workers insecure and unseen.

She joined a labor union and became active in its domestic-worker sector. The woman who once avoided public speaking began attending conferences, giving interviews and taking on a representative role. She now speaks about the people who clean homes, care for children and make it possible for other workers to build careers outside the home.

“We are doing essential work for society,” she says.

Her message is direct: “Instead of criminalising us, regularise us.”

She still describes herself first as someone who wants to help. When asked what she would do if the €4,000 were returned, she does not begin by listing what she would buy for herself.

She talks instead about school supplies for children, support for families affected by fire, help for people who are ill, funeral expenses and church missions.

“My heart breaks when I cannot help people,” she says.

Her legal future remains unresolved. Yet her story is not only about uncertainty. It is also about becoming visible: first as a caregiver inside private homes, then as a student, missionary and advocate speaking publicly for workers like herself.

For years, she has helped hold other families together. Now she is asking the country that relies on that care to recognise the people who provide it.