The Mass Migration of Ugandan Women to the Gulf: Are the Gains Worth the Pain?

By Karungi Kajura

If you’ve travelled through Entebbe International Airport in Uganda in recent years, you’ve likely seen groups of young women, often veiled, wearing white t-shirts branded with a labour company’s logo and maintaining a subdued demeanour. 

For many of us, these women are little more than a familiar sight, with most of what we know about them stemming from stereotypes—stories of “house girls” headed to “Dubai.” Occasionally, we hear their voices through social media, or watch their families on TikTok, pleading with Ugandans to help pay medical expenses due to the abuse they have allegedly suffered at the hands of employers abroad. In the most tragic cases, we come across videos of their families asking for help to bring the bodies of their loved ones back home.

For the average Ugandan, little is known about the complete journey of these women who seek employment in the Gulf region. The stories that do reach us are often tales of unbearable hardship and horror. That’s why, after years of being like many Ugandans—knowing only fragments about their experiences—I decided to explore these women’s journeys. From understanding why they leave to weighing whether the sacrifices were worth it.

Recently, a growing number of Ugandan women have found themselves navigating domestic labour markets in Gulf states. This brave move is driven by a range of push and pull factors, the most common ones being unemployment despite qualifications, the rapid emergence of labour export agencies and dreams of a better life. In 2022 alone, over 54,000 Ugandan women left for countries like Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Qatar, and the UAE, often lured by stories of financial success. Yet, behind the gloss of opportunity lies a stark reality: while some women achieve their dreams, many endure exploitation and abuse, many times with limited recourse.

Labor export agreements between Uganda and Gulf nations have facilitated migration to address Uganda’s unemployment crisis, which affects 4.2 million young people who are neither in employment nor education. These agreements aim to boost the economy through skill development for Ugandans and increased remittances. On paper, these agreements include protections such as equitable employment contracts and mandatory pre-departure training. In practice, enforcement is weak, leaving Ugandan women vulnerable to harsh working conditions, physical abuse, and isolation.

For some, the gamble pays off. Women who have returned from the Gulf recount using their earnings to build homes, start businesses, or pay for their children’s education. Hope, a 42-year-old who worked as a cook in Abu Dhabi, told me, “I got what I wanted from Abu Dhabi: money, and now I own two businesses in Uganda.” Similarly, Rachel, a domestic worker in Saudi Arabia, shared proudly with me about how she “bought a plot of land and built four rentals” with the income she earned abroad. This financial empowerment can indeed transform lives. However, it comes at a significant cost.

Many women explained to me how they work from dawn until late at night with minimal breaks, face severe restrictions on their movement, and live in substandard conditions. Rachel described her daily routine in Saudi Arabia, “There are 29 people living in a three-story house, and I clean, iron, and care for the babies and grannies all by myself. They don’t mind that I don’t get days off.” Another woman, Cynthia, shared how her living conditions in Saudi Arabia were far from humane: “I didn’t sleep in the house. They built a metal sheet shelter outside the house for me. If the weather was bad, they let me sleep on the kitchen floor.”

One of the most problematic aspects of this migration is the Kafala system, a sponsorship arrangement in Gulf countries that ties a migrant worker’s legal status to their employer. Under this system, workers cannot change jobs or leave the country without their employer’s permission, effectively trapping them in exploitative situations. Although labour regulations exist in some Gulf states, my research found that they are not consistently enforced, allowing abuses to continue unchecked.

Furthermore, the mandatory pre-departure training programs that are intended to prepare workers for their roles, often fall short. Many women reported to me that training was limited to household chores and provided little guidance on navigating the legal and cultural challenges they would face. “They taught us how to cook and clean, but they didn’t teach us what to do when there is a problem,” explained Daisy, who worked in Qatar. Worse, some agencies issue training certificates without conducting any actual training which leaves women ill-equipped for the realities of their new lives.

Uganda’s government must do more than sign bilateral agreements—it must ensure that these agreements are enforced and that the rights of migrant workers are protected. Establishing stronger monitoring mechanisms, enhancing pre-departure training to include cultural orientation and workers’ rights education, and holding recruitment agencies accountable are essential steps toward safeguarding our women.

The resilience of Ugandan women is evident in their determination to support their families despite the risks. Yet, we must question the cost of this resilience. Should financial success abroad come at the expense of dignity and safety? 

As long as the Ugandan government fails to address the structural issues driving mass labour migration and neglects the welfare of its citizens abroad, we will continue to export our women’s labour at a tragic human cost. The time has come for policymakers in Uganda to rethink these labour export practices. Without these measures, the labour agreements will continue to favour employers over employees, and the stories of success will remain overshadowed by those of suffering.

Karungi Kajura is a communications officer at a nongovernmental organization in Uganda who explored the impact of Uganda’s labour export policies on women for her master’s dissertation.