Author and photography: Leah Pattem
In a quiet restaurant in Barrio Quintana, Annelis sits across from me filling out a survey on gender-based violence. Her chipped nails a silent witness to the relentless hours she’s spent scrubbing floors and bleaching bathrooms. When her employer recently complimented her manicure while backhandedly suggesting she must be earning too much – Annelis quietly corrected her. The truth is she painted her nails herself a few days ago, and already the polish is peeling, worn down by domestic labour invisible to most and often dismissed by those who benefit from it.
Annelis is one of the first women I’ve interviewed for my ongoing investigation into gender-based violence (GBV) against migrant domestic workers in Spain. Her story, like so many others I hope to document, is layered – not only a testimony of abuse, but a quiet assertion of dignity in the face of structural indifference. “People think we’re supposed to look like victims,” she told me, reflecting on a Zara outfit her boss also commented on. “I just want to look nice.”
Since launching my investigation and survey on GBV among domestic workers – particularly migrant women and trans women – I’ve been overwhelmed by the response. Stories are coming in not only from those directly affected but from friends, followers and co-workers helping to spread the word. Annelis has already shared the survey among her network. Each response is a step toward understanding a hidden crisis – one that thrives behind closed doors and within legal grey areas.
Spain has the largest number of domestic workers in the EU – over 600,000 – who are mainly in Madrid and Barcelona. Many live in their employers’ homes, making them especially vulnerable. Here, 96% of domestic workers are women, and 45% are migrants, and around 70% of migrant domestic workers find themselves in an irregular situation. Victims rarely come forward and, when they do, it’s at their own risk. Obtaining legal or psychological support in the aftermath of GBV is limited, but associations and collectives such as SEDOAC exist to support domestic workers, and who I am collaborating with for this investigation.
Gender-based violence encompasses more than physical harm. It includes emotional manipulation, sexual harassment, financial control, stalking – both online and off – and coercive behaviour aimed at asserting power through gender. Domestic workers, especially migrants, are uniquely vulnerable to all of this. They often live where they work, depend on their employers for immigration status, income and housing, and are isolated from support networks due to long working hours. For many, the line between work and life – or survival – is thin.
Dalisay (not her real name), who moved to Spain from the Philippines at 18, knows that line well. “They made me cook their food but didn’t give me any time to eat my own, so I had to eat in secret,” she recalled about her first employers, a Spanish family. “I would go to my room, into my own bathroom and sit on the toilet with my plate so that they couldn’t smell my food. I felt trapped.”
That wasn’t the worst of it. Her next employer subjected her to what she now recognises as gender-based violence. “He’d wait until his wife was on a business trip and then he would walk around the house naked. I often think, if I hadn’t quit when I did, worse things would have happened. But I escaped.” She wipes away tears but her voice is steady. “Crying helps me tell this story, and now I have let it out.”
But there are stories of hope, too. “I now live in my own apartment and work for numerous families. I’m much happier having my own privacy and independence, and am treated very well by my current employers. I’ve helped raise a baby, who is now nine years old – I have so much love for them. They celebrate my birthday with me. They are like family to me,” she tells me.
The Filipino community in Madrid has become a central part of this investigation – not just for their vital testimonies, but for the joy and solidarity they offer one another. Through a growing network of students, colleagues, and friends, I’ve been welcomed into cultural celebrations, especially around the anniversary of Filipino Independence Day, complete with food, music, and the vibrancy of a homeland kept alive across borders.
For me, these gatherings stir a personal nostalgia – echoes of my own Indian diaspora, a community I haven’t found here in Madrid yet. But beyond the warmth, these spaces are also deeply political: they are acts of resilience. They push back against narratives that see migrant workers only as victims or economic units, rather than as full humans with culture, agency, and dreams.
While my investigation focuses on the prevalence of gender-based violence against migrant domestic workers, and how Spanish law both protects and fails them, it is also about something broader: the complex, often uplifting experience of migration. It’s about community, resilience, and the bonds that form in unfamiliar places. It’s about building new families, finding a sense of home, and unlocking opportunities for future generations – opportunities many never had themselves.
Migration is never easy, but it’s often undertaken with hope. Sometimes people are fleeing persecution, poverty, climate crisis, war or genocide. But these same people are also moving towards democracy, freedom, and the chance to become their best selves – these stories deserve not only attention, but celebration.
As I continue gathering testimonies and survey results, I hope the stories I gather help illuminate not only the violence, but also the quiet strength and radical hope carried by migrant domestic workers across Spain. These workers are not only surviving – they are building futures, and in doing so, they deserve to be seen.
Read more about my investigation here and please help share my survey.
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