A woman in the Philippines on a housekeeping training course. An estimated 100,000 women from the Philippines work as domestic workers overseas, and many are vulnerable to abuse. Photo: Getty.
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Abuse of women domestic workers in Qatar exposes uncomfortable truths closer to home

A new report from Amnesty International describes how domestic workers in Qatar face abuse and exploitation. The problem isn't just limited to Qatar, however: domestic workers in the UK are similarly vulnerable.

After the controversy surrounding the deaths of construction workers in Qatar, the oil-rich micro-state’s treatment of foreign workers is once again in the spotlight over its mistreatment of migrant labourers. Today Amnesty International has published a report detailing the mistreatment of the  84,000 women, mostly from south and south-east Asia, who are employed to clean the homes and look after the children of wealthy Qataris and expats – a considerable number in a country of just over 2 million people.

Some of the women interviewed by Amnesty have been forced to work over 100 hours a week with no days off, have been subject to sexual and physical violence and have had their pay cut. Domestic workers who are abused have little recourse to justice: under the country’s sponsorship system (known as kafala) they cannot leave their jobs or the country without their employer’s permission – and those who choose to run away from abusive employers risk being detained or deported.

Nor is it easy to report mistreatment. Those who report sexual abuse can be charged with “illicit relations” and face a year in prison followed by deportation, and those who complain of long working hours will face no legal protection:  Qatari law places no restrictions on the amount of hours domestic workers can be asked to work, and there is no requirement that they have a day off.

Although the report focuses on Qatar, it’s worth remembering that the same problem exists elsewhere. According to Human Rights Watch there are around 53 million domestic workers worldwide and “they are among the most exploited and abused workers in the world”. The rights of domestic workers is a global women's rights issue, and one that still doesn't receive enough attention.

One country in which domestic workers are especially vulnerable is the UK. A Human Rights Watch report published in March this year found evidence of some domestic workers in the UK having their passports confiscated, having their pay cut or even stopped altogether and being forced to work 18-hour days, seven days a week.

Each year, the UK hands out 15,000 visas to domestic workers, mainly from Asia and Africa, who arrive in the UK with their employers.  Since 2012, these have been “tied visas” which means that domestic workers seeking to leave their jobs lose their right to remain in the country: either they must return to their home country or they will find themselves staying in the UK illegally. Those who run away from abusive employers face high barriers to seeking legal redress: their immigration status might make them fearful of going to the police, and cuts to legal aid means many will struggle to find legal representation. A government commitment to cut immigration has inadvertently created conditions for domestic workers that isn’t too dissimilar from Qatar’s “kafala” system.

On top of that, the UK is also one of only nine countries that did not sign the International Labour Organisation’s Domestic Workers Convention which came into force in September 2013 and grants domestic workers the same rights as other workers.  And, domestic workers whose employers are diplomats are even more vulnerable, as their employers are shielded by diplomatic immunity.

To offer better protection for these vulnerable workers, Human Rights Watch has called on the UK to change its visa rules, to sign up to the ILO's domestic workers convention and to ensure that domestic workers entering the UK are fully aware of their rights. 

It’s easy to point a finger at Qatar’s human rights abuses – and the issues Amnesty International has raised are very important – but this also means we need to face up to some uncomfortable truths closer to home, something that many find altogether more difficult.

Sophie McBain is a freelance writer based in Cairo. She was previously an assistant editor at the New Statesman.

Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko
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Ruin porn: the art world’s awkward obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture

Deserted fairgrounds, disused factories and forgotten military bases may look cool, but are we fetishising the remnants of such a cruel history?

Armenia, where one side of my family is from, was one of the first members of the USSR, annexed by Russia in 1922. A few years ago, when I visited this little country that perches precariously in the south of the Caucasus, I was struck most by its Soviet architecture.

Although its landscape is a hotchpotch of medieval Orthodox churches, a smattering of Persian-era domes, and brutalist concrete, it was the latter that particularly stuck out. From unfelled statues of Stalin to giant tower blocks spelling out the letters “CCCP” from a bird’s-eye view (well, half spelt-out – construction stopped partway through, with the fall of the Soviet Union), I’ve never forgotten it.

Perhaps it was so compelling because such stark physical symbols make recent history all the more tangible. A history still profoundly affecting the country of my ancestors (and all post-Soviet and communist states). But also, it just looked really cool.


Mixed air corps, Mongolia. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Eric Losito

It’s a bit passé now to mock the hipster obsession with reclaimed industrial detritus, exposed pipes and bare concrete. An aesthetic – that of a post-industrial wasteland, but a chic one – which has gripped western cities for years, and crept worldwide.

But it could be this tendency to find disused stuff visually intriguing, and a morbid fascination with cruel regimes, which has led to the art world’s obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture. A whole wave of artists and photographers have been poking around the eastern bloc’s architectural graveyard in recent years.

Late last year, we saw the hugely popular disused Soviet bus stop series by photographer Christopher Herwig, echoing photographer Sergey Novikov’s equally absorbing collection of abandoned Soviet cinemas from 2013.

Following Russian filmmaker and photographer Maria Morina’s “Atomic Cities” project four years ago, London-based artist Nadav Kander explored the “aesthetics of destruction” in his exhibition, Dust, in 2014, snapping “radioactive ruins” of secret cities on the border between Kazakhstan and Russia. The same year, Moscow photographers Sasha Mademuaselle and Sergey Kostromin travelled to the disputed region of Abkhazia, capturing fragments of its deserted infrastructure.


Fighter aviation regiment, Mongolia. Photo: Eric Losito
 

And photojournalist Anton Petrus’ now iconic pictures of Chernobyl’s abandoned amusement park have long been an internet favourite, as have numerous haunting images of Pripyet – the city famous for lying deserted following the nuclear disaster.

Jamie Rann, a lecturer in Russian at Oxford University, has written that the quality and technical accomplishment of most of this photography make the style more “ruin erotica” than “ruin porn” (the tag being used by some critics), but argues: “The enormous online popularity of this genre . . . combined with their voyeuristic, almost exploitative feel, certainly has something porny about it.”

The latest exploration of Soviet society’s skeletons can be found at the Power & Architecture season at London’s Calvert 22 Foundation. In an exhibition called Dead Space and Ruins, we see abandoned military bases and formerly mighty monuments, forgotten space ports freezing in the tundra, the ghost of an entire unused, unfinished city in Armenia lying derelict.



The unfinished "ghost city" built in Armenia to house earthquake survivors (water added by artist). Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Vahram Aghasyan

The works are beautiful, but do they feed in to this zeitgeisty lust for Soviet ruins?

One of its curators, Will Strong, laments this trend. “I was keen that this didn’t become like a kind of ‘ruin lust’, ‘ruin porn’ thing; this slightly buzzwordy term that there is at the moment, this kind of fetishisation of dead space,” he tells me.

“This history is incredibly loaded, and it did not end in 1991. To sort of fetishise it in the very bourgeois western way of, ‘oh yeah, look at all this wonderful Soviet architecture, isn’t it fantastic?’ Obviously a lot of people who lived in that time hated it . . . a lot of people were very miserable under these regimes, so it’s important not to forget that.”


Gym at the Independent Radar Centre of Early Detection, Latvia. Photo: Eric Losito

He adds: “It’s more a point of reflection on how buildings were designed, what their legacy is, what their narrative is, and who the people are who live with that story. This show looks at the aftermaths of when utopia hasn’t been delivered.”

This view is echoed by the Moscow artist, Danila Tkachenko, whose work is featured in the exhibition. “It is rather a metaphor for the future, not the past,” he says. “It represents an image of a possible future. When there is a visualisation of this issue [utopia], it evokes a response in people; they see this utopia in their lives . . . There is disappointment in all utopias.”


The world's largest diesel submarine, in Russia's Samara region. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko

His Restricted Areas series explores great behemoths of European communism left to lie forgotten in the tundra of remote regions in and around Russia and Kazakhstan: the world’s largest diesel submarine, like a beached whale in the snow; a giant satellite, thatched with antennae, built to communicate with Soviet bases on other planets some day; the deserted flying saucer-like communist headquarters in a region of Bulgaria. The structures hover in blank, white space, making the photos appear black-and-white.


Deserted observatory, Kazakhstan's Almaty region. Photo: Danila Tkachenko
 

Anton Ginzburg is an artist who grew up in St Petersburg in the Eighties as the Soviet Union was disintegrating. He believes studies like his film, Turo, of disused modernist constructions in the post-Soviet bloc, appeal to people’s connection to history. After all, picking through the architectural carcasses of former societies isn’t exactly a new thing:

“Russian culture is still haunted by its Communist past, and constructivist architecture is a decaying shell for its ghosts. It is an active reminder of the recent history,” he reflects. “Perhaps [its appeal] is a mixture of memento mori, with its thrill of beauty and destruction, along with a Romantic tradition of contemplation of Greek and Roman ruins.”

(Anton Ginzburg Turo teaser from Visionaireworld on Vimeo.)

The Power & Architecture season is on at the Calvert 22 Foundation, London, from 10 June-9 October 2016. Entry is free.

Anoosh Chakelian is deputy web editor at the New Statesman.