I scroll through Facebook and stumble upon an advertisement from a company in Tripoli, the Libyan capital, where many small and medium-sized business owners operate through social media platforms. I was on a mission to find a domestic cleaner. I read the ad: “Insanely low prices. A cleaner from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. for nine dollars, with free delivery.” The ad is oddly phrased, likely due to the sharp rise in the dollar exchange rate in Libya’s black market in August 2024, which jumped from six to nine dinars. The company likely chose this phrasing to attract as many customers as possible. Similar marketing language is found across other companies offering home cleaning services.

Domestic cleaning companies in Libya market their services commercially, akin to businesses selling goods. They post images of the workers they employ, list the service prices, and even produce promotional videos starring the workers themselves without regard for the workers’ privacy or consent. Perhaps the most alarming and dehumanizing example is the phrase “free delivery,” as if the workers were commodities.

I delved into this world of companies to investigate what these workers go through. It wasn’t easy in a country plagued by crises since the 2011 revolution and one that serves as a gateway for illegal migration to Europe from sub-Saharan Africa. Most of the workers at these companies are brought from African countries whose youth dream of reaching Europe in search of a better life. Many see Libya as a temporary stop to earn money before continuing their journey. But reality hits hard—they are intercepted by smugglers and traffickers who exploit them for profit in a cross-border illegal trade. The lucky ones make it out alive.

I found myself trapped. Company owners refused to speak with me once they learned I was a journalist hoping to interview their workers or them. I realized I had to “hire” a cleaner through one of the countless pages on social media operated by companies with no clear ownership or legal identity. Most of these companies operate in a legal gray area and exploit workers for quick profits, employing them under inhumane conditions. They don’t offer contracts, nor do the workers receive the rights guaranteed under Libyan labor law, such as days off, healthcare, or a standardized wage. The majority of these women live in Libya irregularly, making them entirely dependent on the goodwill of their employers who may themselves be Libyan or from the same home countries as the workers, and also undocumented migrants.

Since taking power in 2021, the Government of National Unity has attempted to resolve the migrant crisis by implementing a sponsorship system. It encouraged business owners and companies to register through a platform called “Wafed” yet uptake has been low. The system clashes with a post-2014 reality shaped by civil war, where employing undocumented workers is far easier than working within the legal system.

Historically, some Libyans did not shy away from working as domestic help, even before the mid-1960s. Historical writings, like Agnes Keith’s “Children of Allah” translated into Arabic by Dar Al-Fergiani in 2022 describe well-off Libyans and foreigners employing local household help. Keith recounts hiring a Libyan man who cleaned her house, helped with groceries, and maintained her home. Back then, a large portion of Libyans lived below the poverty line, and securing a job was considered a blessing.

All of this changed when Libya’s oil economy flourished in the late 1960s and the monarchy fell in 1969 to the Free Officers Movement led by Muammar Gaddafi. As Libyans’ economic status improved, some began employing “servants” or “workers” in their homes and farms. Gaddafi, however, introduced revolutionary ideas aimed at reshaping social structures. In the social section of his Green Book, he referred to servants as “modern-day slaves,” arguing that wage labor was a form of slavery and that domestic workers were even lower in status than other wage laborers. His solution: abolish domestic labor and transform homes into self-serving units. “The home should be served by its own people,” he declared. That concept, along with the slogan “partners not employees,” became a central tenet of Gaddafi’s vision of a mass-based, egalitarian society.

In the early 1980s, the Gaddafi regime intensified efforts to implement the Green Book’s doctrines through Revolutionary Committees. That decade marked the peak of socialist policy enforcement. Domestic workers became scarce, employed only by elite families who often hid their presence for fear of legal consequences. At the time, most domestic workers came from neighboring Arab countries, except in Libya’s south where African workers were commonly employed, reflecting the region’s historical ties to the trans-Saharan slave trade. Some families in Sebha, including relatives of Gaddafi himself, were known for employing African workers.

Libya’s foreign policy, especially after the 1988 Lockerbie bombing involving Pan Am Flight 103, led to a crisis with the U.S. and international sanctions that lasted until the early 2000s. These sanctions weakened Libya’s socialist system, forcing the regime to ease restrictions and allow private enterprise during the 1990s. Following reconciliation with the U.S. in 2006, Libyan society began embracing a more luxurious lifestyle. The use of domestic workers slowly increased, though legal prohibitions remained.

Libyan law continued to criminalize domestic labor, considering it a violation of human rights. Law No. 12 of 2010 rebranded “servants” as “household managers” and limited their employment to exceptional cases such as when a parent is disabled or a child has special needs. Legal hiring required a formal contract guaranteeing rights like social security, sick leave, rest days, a minimum wage, and proof of legal residency through a registered employment office.

Decision No. 46 of 2009 mandated state monitoring of these services. Despite this, illegal migration to Libya persisted even before the fall of Gaddafi, though the state attempted to regulate it at the time.

The number of household managers increased after the 2011 revolution, driven by a rise in illegal migration and the collapse of state institutions and legal enforcement. Libya is now estimated to host around two million undocumented migrants roughly a quarter of its population. Smugglers exploit the absence of law and weak security apparatuses to bring in women from nearby Arab and African nations. Most workers, however, come from Sahel and sub-Saharan countries like Niger, Chad, Nigeria, Ghana, and Mali.

Cleaning service companies multiplied, offering a range of employment types and nationalities. Some offer live-in workers for monthly rates between 900 and 1,200 Libyan dinars (USD to LYD official rate: 1:4.8), plus a sign-on fee equal to two months’ salary. Others hire out cleaners by the day, paying between 60 and 80 dinars for four to eight hours of work. Rates vary by city, influenced by supply and demand and the distance from recruitment hubs.

After failing to secure interviews, I chose to “hire” a cleaner through one of these Facebook-based companies. The page admin explained that the cleaner would cost 80 dinars for four hours, payable to him, not to the cleaner. He insisted she not be given a phone or allowed to leave the house and instructed that I speak to her only about work. When I asked about her ID, he said she had no passport but did have a health certificate a questionable claim, as official health documents should require valid identification. But in Libya, with the right connections, anything is possible.

The cleaner, Aisha, arrived at 8 a.m. accompanied by a company staffer. She wore a pink uniform with a matching headscarf—standard attire in the cleaning service industry to convey professionalism. Aisha appeared to be in her twenties and spoke limited Arabic. I had previously seen a training video by one company teaching workers the names of household items in Libyan dialect and typical commands from housewives. The girls in the video wore the same outfit as Aisha. She looked at me nervously, waiting for instructions.

I tried to act like any regular homeowner and not let her sense my investigative intent. I gave her a tour of my apartment, explained her tasks, and let her begin. After an hour, I asked her to take a break and have a snack.

I asked about her nationality, how and when she came to Libya. She told me she was a 24-year-old Nigerian with no ID papers. She entered Libya in 2023 with a group of migrants after a two-week journey from Nigeria to the Tumu border crossing between Niger and Libya. Upon arrival, a Libyan man named Maimoun (a pseudonym for safety reasons) approached her and four other girls, offering to take them to Sebha—Libya’s largest southern city—in exchange for working in his cleaning company. They agreed, seeing him as protection from traffickers. Nigerian migrant girls are at high risk of being kidnapped, detained, and forced into sex work—a fact confirmed by journalistic investigations and reports like the IOM’s 2017 study on modern slavery in Libya.

Aisha told me that she and the four others took the offer. The trip to Qatrun, about 300 km from Tumu, took three hours. From there, they traveled to Sebha—500 km farther. Maimoun avoided security checkpoints, bribing officers when necessary to proceed safely.

Aisha and her companions arrived safely in Sebha after a grueling journey of more than two weeks. They were housed with other migrant women in an abandoned government building. Soon after, Maimoun informed them they were not allowed to leave the building and that he would lock the door from the outside. There was only one mobile phone shared among them, held by the oldest girl, who had worked with Maimoun the longest and spoke Arabic fluently. He told them the phone was only for contacting him and forbade any communication with their families. Aisha described those days as terrifying: “It felt like prison. I couldn’t tell if coming to Libya was the right decision or a terrible mistake.”

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Aisha started working a few days later and was shocked by how hard the work was and how little money she received. Maimoun paid her whenever he pleased and with inconsistent amounts, justifying it by saying he provided her with food, clothing, and shelter. She told me she once asked to leave, but he threatened to send her back to the desert border. Afraid of that fate, she kept working, hoping for a way out or a chance to escape.

She said Maimoun regularly brings in new workers who don’t stay long he often transfers them to companies in Tripoli. Aisha hoped to go there too, believing she’d earn more and maybe get a chance to migrate to Europe. She also told me she was once imprisoned after a police raid on their housing compound. The neighbors had reported them. The police took her and the others to jail while Maimoun was away. But thanks to his connections in the city, he managed to get them released.

Most domestic workers in Libya go through multiple stages of exploitation beginning in their home countries and continuing at their workplaces in Libya. Many migrants pay half the fee for their journey in advance, with the rest to be paid later through work. The full cost can reach 2,000 eurosa large sum that may take a year or more to pay off. Their employers often deduct wages to recover this amount. Once the debt is paid, the worker may gain a bit more freedom.

One Ghanaian woman told the Libyan News Agency in December 2023 that she worked for a Libyan family for several months without finishing her migration debt from 2022. The man who brought her never told her how long she would need to keep paying. The workers themselves are often aware of this dynamic. In one Facebook video, a Nigerian woman advised others to save money to buy a phone and join migrant communication groups to gain independence and start negotiating directly with employers.

In Libya’s current lawless environment, with companies ignoring labor regulations, undocumented domestic workers are at the mercy of their employers’ ethics. If the employer is kind, they might allow her time off, use of a phone, or freedom to go outside. If not, she could be denied everything, leading to situations of exploitation including sexual abuse. One migrant told Migrant News how her employer repeatedly raped her.

Some workers are even “gifted” to others, treated as property. In an article for the “Khat 30” platform, Libyan writer Kholoud Al-Fallah recounts a story from a woman named Aldaan  African migrant who was passed from one family to another. When her original employers planned to travel abroad, they sent her as a “gift” to a friend in Benghazi, without asking for her consent.

In Libya, domestic workers are often referred to as “shaghala,” a term the workers themselves have adopted to describe their lifestyle. On TikTok, many videos some scripted, others real use the term “shaghala life.” One video shows a woman crying because her employer refused to pay her. Another shows a worker happily dining at a restaurant with her boss. These contrasting clips highlight the inconsistency of their experiences in a country with no legal protections.

These cleaning companies rely heavily on social media ads. They post content even on weekends. For instance, on Friday, October 18, 2024, Clean Cleaning Services posted a Facebook ad showing one woman reading the Quran in the living room and another cleaning a different room. Facebook groups run by housewives also circulate photos of workers, asking about their performance or character.

Some companies go further by hiring influencers to promote their services. Influencer Hadeel Fahmi posted a promo for a cleaning company featuring images of the workers. TV presenter Neyrouz Al-Qamoudi did the same, as did Dzukiru, a popular Libyan influencer. These influencers all claim to be customers of the companies they promote a common marketing tactic in Libya.

These ads often spark controversy among human rights activists. The Libyan rights platform “Doroob” condemned the use of domestic workers’ photos in ads, writing: “Modern slavery in Libya is visible through exploitative and defamatory practices targeting some domestic workers, especially migrants, including violations of their privacy and posting photos with racist and hateful captions.”

Khadija Al-Bouaishi, a human rights activist, told Al-Furats magazine: “These companies are literally trading in slaves. Most of these women entered Libya illegally, and everything happening to them violates Libyan labor law. They’re photographed without consent and even if consent is given, these women are vulnerable and may have no choice.” She emphasized that such acts constitute a felony under Libyan law and can result in prison. She added, “This damages Libya’s international image regarding human rights and protection of women and vulnerable groups.”

Journalist Souad Salem, who focuses on human rights, said she visited some of these companies’ Facebook pages and was shocked by the photos of women in uniform. “The comments treated them like products for sale or rent. It was truly disturbing,” she said. “Unfortunately, no one is talking about it human rights groups in Libya seem to consider this a low priority, or it’s not on their agenda at all.”

I met Ruqayya, a cleaning company owner in Sebha and one of the first women in the field. She told me she hires African women who speak Arabic: “They’re better at handling the workload than Arab workers, their salaries are lower, and they’re easier to control.”

Ruqayya claimed she provides health certificates and local work contracts for her staff. I asked how that’s possible without proper ID. She replied, “The Ministry of Health facilitates this, especially since most bakery and restaurant workers are undocumented migrants. The ministry turns a blind eye, conducts exams, and issues health certificates in their names.”

This opens the door to forgery. Ruqayya admitted, “Most traffickers get health certificates for workers without even testing them. You never know if they’re fake or real they get them through connections.”

Dr. Fatima (a pseudonym), a physician at a healthcare office formerly authorized to issue health certificates, confirmed this. “I’ve personally seen cases where the test came back positive for a contagious disease, but later someone else issued a certificate stating they were healthy,” she said. “There’s collusion within the ministry some people even issue certificates without any testing at all, using old stamps outside the ministry, beyond anyone’s oversight.”

An anonymous official from one health office added, “Even if a person tests positive for a contagious disease, they get their certificate and walk away. There’s no system to follow up or deport them.”

Ruqayya also revealed that she works with a smuggler who brings in workers from Libya’s border with Niger. She pays 1,000 dinars per worker. This is common practice companies contact smugglers in southern Libya to arrange transport to cities across the country. These businesses are unlicensed and operate outside the law. The Ministry of Labor has repeatedly stated that it does not authorize such companies. They often claim to be “general service offices” that happen to provide “labor recruitment.” But their work remains illegal.

Some Libyans even go to migrant detention centers to pick workers, often aided by officials who allow this and enable unpaid, contractless labor.

Libya’s labor laws are complex, and many companies avoid them, taking advantage of the country’s instability and lawlessness. Legally, hiring a domestic worker requires extensive paperwork medical evaluations of the family requesting help, approval from local labor offices, verification of the worker’s identity, background checks via Libyan embassies, and finally, a work visa. The visa is valid for 90 days, during which the worker must finalize their residence and undergo a medical check. These legal steps take weeks or months.

Because of this bureaucracy, many households and businesses turn to unlicensed “general services offices,” which are much faster and easier.

Statistics from the Ministry of Labor highlight the gap: in 2021, there were 963 authorized household labor hires; in 2022, 797. By August 2024, only 464 domestic workers were officially registered. Most were Moroccan, followed by Indonesian, Ethiopian, and Tunisian workers. These numbers pale in comparison to the estimated 2 million migrants in Libya. No one knows how many companies are operating outside the law.

Tariq Abboud, head of employment at the Ministry of Labor, told “Bekam” in 2023: “Although we approve recruitment requests, few employers actually register contracts, so we don’t know how many workers are really here.”

All these companies and household employers follow the same pattern: workers are denied phones and not allowed outside, to prevent them from contacting anyone or escaping. I asked a 45-year-old Libyan woman named Amina why she didn’t allow her Nigerian domestic worker to use a phone. “It’s safer for me,” she said. “I don’t want her contacting strangers or causing problems. I don’t even let her leave the house alone.”

Part of the concern is smugglers’ fear that the workers will contact international organizations or find a way to escape.

Tariq Lamloum, a researcher on migration and refugee issues, told Al-Furats: “There is a legal loophole in these recruitment businesses. Employers don’t sign contracts with the workers via the Libyan Ministry of Labor or the authorities in the worker’s home country. There are no guarantees or protections for the workers’ wages, either through banks in Libya or abroad. It’s all done informally.”

He continued, “If a dispute arises, the worker loses all rights. There’s no framework to regulate the relationship between her and the employer.”

The industry also relies on a hierarchy where other migrant women act as both victims and enforcers. Many workers are brought in by people from their own country often women who act as middlewomen or “Mamas.” These women take their wages, claiming it’s repayment for helping them reach Libya. The debt can last a year or more.

In a 2023 interview with the Libyan News Agency, a Nigerian broker named Nafisa described her role: “I bring girls from Nigeria to Libya through Niger using smugglers both Nigerian and Libyan. I pay half the journey cost upfront and the rest when they arrive in Tripoli. Then I hand them to a Libyan family that pays me their monthly wages until I recover the cost and my fee. Only then do the workers start receiving their pay.”

Since 2021, the Government of National Unity has tried to regulate foreign workers. It launched the “Wafed” platform to register them. But, according to Tariq Lamloum, as of mid-2024 only 15,000 workers had registered an insignificant number compared to reality.

Labor Minister Ali Al-Abed stated in June 2024 that the government plans to adopt a “private sponsorship” model inspired by Gulf countries though some of these countries are abandoning it, such as Saudi Arabia. Al-Abed told Maghreb Voices: “The idea is to hold employers accountable for their workers’ safety, legal status, and health.”

Tariq Lamloum strongly opposes this model. “It’ll only make things worse,” he said. “It allows anyone to become a sponsor and bring in workers, opening the door to trafficking and sexual exploitation. Libya is not ready for this. There’s no way to regulate sponsors, especially in remote and border areas.”

Abdel Qader Bouchnaf, the Ministry of Labor’s spokesperson, told Al-Furats: “There is no new law regulating labor recruitment companies.” He said the employment of household workers is governed by Ministerial Decree No. 392 of 2021, which is supposed to define the relationship between companies, the ministry, and the worker. Companies may be licensed under Cabinet Decision No. 148 of 2024, and 455 companies were registered on the Wafed platform by mid-September 2024.

The Wafed platform was created in December 2021 and is jointly managed by the Ministry of Labor, security agencies, and the passport and immigration authority. Its goal is to regulate foreign labor and the companies employing them. The government hopes it will help control the labor market, ensure tax collection, track the number of migrant workers, and guarantee their labor rights.

Bouchnaf concluded: “Wafed is still in its early stages. We hope more companies and foreign workers register, so we can legitimize their employment and protect both them and the country from abuse and exploitation.”

However, Wafed’s requirements are so strict that many migrants cannot meet them. The platform requires a valid passport, a recent health certificate, and health insurance valid for three months. It also verifies that the worker’s experience matches the job they’re being recruited for. While these are important conditions, they have discouraged many companies especially those reliant on undocumented labor from registering.

This, in turn, further complicates the lives of domestic workers and prevents any meaningful resolution to their plight. It’s all tied to broader, equally complex issues such as securing Libya’s borders, drafting and enforcing labor laws, and regulating the companies employing these workers. All of this depends on ending Libya’s political crisis and achieving security and economic stability. It also depends on the international community addressing the root causes that force people to leave their home countries.Until then, we will continue to hear stories like Aisha’s or even worse.

This article was written by Rima Alfellani and originally published by Alpheratz Magazine.