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Sundays in the City: Hearing the Voices of Hong Kong Helpers

  • roisinwrtes
  • May 14
  • 9 min read

Updated: May 15

When I first landed in Hong Kong, I thought I knew what a city in motion looked like. I was wrong.


The weekday crowds surge through MTR stations, office blocks, lifts and across footbridges, faces set, everyone on a deadline.


But it’s Sundays that turn the city inside out.


Suddenly, skyscraper shadows and concrete plazas come alive with laughter, music, and a sea of makeshift tents and flattened cardboard box blankets.


For one day, the city’s engine room steps outside.


They are Hong Kong’s “helpers” - nearly 400,000 foreign domestic workers, mostly women from countries such as the Philippines and Indonesia. Six days a week, they are almost invisible, caring for children, scrubbing floors, walking dogs, and nurturing families that are not their own.


On Sundays and public holidays, they claim a sliver of public space, and for a few hours, become visible.


Why Listen?

As a teacher in Hong Kong, I straddle two worlds: privileged families preparing for elite schools, and the quiet force of women who make that privilege possible. I’ve seen helpers embraced as family, celebrated at birthdays, and spoken to with genuine warmth. Sadly, I’ve also witnessed the opposite: children turning away from the women who care for them, bags tossed without a word, and helpers treated as if they were invisible or mere machines.


Reflecting on my childhood, I remember love in abundance, but little money. My parents worked long hours in working-class jobs, and sometimes we relied on the kindness of grandparents and neighbours - outside help was a luxury we couldn’t imagine. Here, I see women working just as hard, pouring tenderness into families far from their own, while their own children wait across oceans. They are, heartbreakingly, both parent and surrogate.


I could fill pages with what I’ve witnessed, moments of kindness and countless small indignities. For all the stories told about “helpers,” we rarely hear directly from the women themselves. As a teacher, I remind students that their helpers are people, real human beings who give so much. But as a writer, I felt a deeper responsibility to help them be heard.


So, nervously, I set out into the city. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve spent Sundays on park benches and planters, listening. Many women hesitated to share names or details, understandably cautious. Yet they wanted their stories told and wished me luck. I promised to honour their privacy, to listen well, and to write with respect.


Here are five stories, each a window into a life.


“I Dream in Two Languages Now.”

She's sitting cross-legged, under a tree in Victoria Park, cross-legged, FaceTiming her daughter back in Cebu.  Her laughter is easy, but her eyes betray exhaustion.


“I dream in two languages now - Tagalog and Cantonese,” she says with a smile. “Sometimes I wake up and forget which city I’m in.”


She is 32 and has been in Hong Kong for nearly seven years, considering herself to have a really lucky life. Paid on time, invited to eat with the family, and included in their outings.


Still, the distance is heavy.


“I miss my daughter’s school plays. My sister sends me videos, but it’s not the same. At night, when it is quiet, I talk to her teddy bear and tell her about my day. Silly, right?”


She shrugs, then leans in, voice soft but stubbornly hopeful.


“On Sundays, I feel like myself again. We cook, laugh, and dance. It’s our only day to be loud.”


Invisible Until Something Goes Wrong.

The next woman I speak to, I can instantly tell she has a dry sense of humour and a sharp tongue. She greets me not with a handshake, but with a story about her employer’s pampered Pomeranian.


“That dog eats better than I do. Special salmon treats, hair bows in every colour - it has more outfits than I’ve owned in my life! Me? Leftovers. I tell my friends, maybe in my next life I’ll come back as a dog in Mid-Levels!"


She’s worked for the same family for over a decade, raising their children from toddlers to teens.


“They used to call me ‘Auntie.’ Now, they barely look up from their phones. But if a uniform isn’t ironed, or a favourite snack is missing - suddenly it’s ‘Auntie!’”


She laughs, but there’s a sting underneath.


“It is nice to still be needed. Invisible, until something goes wrong. That’s the job.”


Her favourite escape? Karaoke in the park with friends.


“We drag out our speaker and take turns singing. Some of us can sing, some of us really can’t, but who cares? For a few hours, we’re all stars."


My World is 400 Square Feet.


She is new to Hong Kong, her voice as soft as a whisper.


“My world is 400 square feet. I sleep in the storage room, next to the washing machine. It’s noisy, but I’m grateful - some of my friends sleep in the kitchen.”


Nearly all of her salary goes home to support her parents and pay her younger brother’s university tuition.


“I want him to be an engineer. Maybe one day, he can come here to visit and explore the city, not to work.”


The city overwhelms her, but Sundays bring relief.


“I meet my church sisters. We sing, pray, and share rice and adobo. For a few hours, I forget how small my room is.”


Your Child’s First Words - And It Isn’t Mama


Warm but guarded, she recounts life with her employers.


“They trust me with their child, but not their Wi-Fi password,” she says, laughing. “I get my news in bits, from other helpers.”


She finds joy in small victories.


“When the little boy hugs me, or draws me a picture, I keep it. I send photos to my son, so he knows I’m making another child smile, even if I can’t be there to tuck him in.”


A Dream Set Aside

One woman tells me she feels like the luckiest person in the world.


“They treat me like family,” she says. “I have my own room, good food, and even holidays with them. I know how rare that is.”


Yet, as she folds laundry or helps with homework, her thoughts sometimes drift elsewhere.


“When I was young, I wanted to be a nurse. I thought I would wear a white uniform, help people, and have my own name on a badge. Life had other plans. My job here is good and I am grateful. But sometimes I wonder - if I had been born somewhere else, or with more money, what could I have been?”


She smiles, not with regret, but with quiet acceptance.


“I tell my niece to chase her dreams. Maybe one day, she will wear the uniform I never did.”


The Unseen System


After spending time with these women , listening to their laughter, their worries, and their karaoke renditions in the park, it's easy to focus on the personal: their individual struggles, small victories, and the everyday heroism that too often gets romanticised. But the reality that shapes every moment of their lives in Hong Kong is much bigger than any one family or city, and, as an outsider, I’m still learning to see it clearly.


Most domestic workers in Hong Kong are from the Philippines, though not all. Their stories are not isolated; they are woven into a global system of policies, economics, and history. When you listen closely, you realise their journeys are shaped by forces that benefit families here, the Philippine government, recruitment agencies, and global banks, while quietly extracting the most from those with the least power.


Interviewing these women made me want to understand more. I owe much to a co-worker who challenged me to dig deeper and pointed me to wider sources such as this New Naratif article, which helped me see how the export of Filipino labour isn’t an accident or just a response to poverty - it’s an intentional policy, promoted by the state for decades. The Philippine government has systematically made it easier for citizens to leave, not harder, because the money they send home now forms the lifeblood of the national economy, over $30 billion a year, more than 10% of GDP. Nearly half of Filipino families rely on these remittances to pay for food, school, or medical care.


But, as the article points out, this “solution” comes at a steep price. While migration brings short-term economic relief, it creates a dangerous dependency. Instead of building local jobs or public services, the government relies on exporting its people, a policy that began in the 1970s and has only deepened. The education system itself is shaped around producing workers for export, teaching English and skills needed abroad, rather than investing in building a future at home.


And who benefits? Recruitment agencies charge hefty fees, often trapping workers in debt before they even arrive. Banks and money transfer companies profit from every remittance. Employers in Hong Kong and beyond get affordable, flexible labour. The Philippine government can point to economic growth, collect taxes, and avoid the harder work of true reform. Meanwhile, women pay the real cost: missed birthdays, “de-skilling” (teachers or nurses working as maids), and the constant sense of being “invisible until something goes wrong.” The system is designed to keep them moving, working, and sending money, but they are never fully able to settle, always temporary, always replaceable.


Hong Kong, like many wealthy places, benefits enormously from this arrangement. Comfortable routines, dual-career families, and long work hours are possible in large part because we can “import” care and domestic labour at low cost. This isn’t a bug but a feature of a global system that shifts the burdens onto those with the least power, while the rewards flow elsewhere.


Listening - and Learning

It would be easy to comfort ourselves with small acts of kindness, or to believe that listening to migrant domestic workers’ stories is enough. Though these stories are not only about individual resilience, they are about a system that keeps these lives invisible and profits from their sacrifices.


This invisibility is not an accident. I am reminded of the scholar Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, who asks: Can the subaltern speak? Spivak warns that those most marginalised, the “subaltern”, are often silenced not just by neglect, but by the very structures that claim to help them. Even well-intentioned efforts to “give voice” can end up speaking for others, translating and simplifying their experiences to fit the expectations of those in power.


In Hong Kong, domestic workers are essential yet largely invisible; their perspectives are filtered through employers, agencies, governments, and, yes, sometimes even journalists like me. As I listened to these women, I was struck by how easily my own questions, my language, and my framing could shape their stories. Spivak’s warning is clear: unless we challenge the structures that marginalise, even the act of “amplifying” voices risks reinforcing their silence.


And yet, despite these odds, domestic helpers in Hong Kong are not simply passive victims. Many have organised unions, established advocacy groups, and built networks of mutual aid. Through collective action, they refuse to be spoken for; they demand not just to be heard, but to shape the conversation themselves.


Change cannot come from personal goodwill alone.


These women’s voices are not just a quiet chorus in the background of Hong Kong life - they are a call to all of us to see the system for what it is, and to imagine something better. Listening is only the beginning.


We must demand real change:

  • Change that starts with recognizing the cost paid by migrant workers and refusing to let their sacrifices remain invisible.

  • Change that means speaking up for workers’ rights - rest days, fair wages, protection from debt and abuse - not just in private, but publicly and politically.

  • Change that means questioning the economic model that treats people as exports, and working towards a society where migration is a true choice, not an economic necessity.


Most importantly, we must create space for these women to speak for themselves and to lead the conversation. Their expertise, stories, and demands should not just inform how we treat “helpers” - they should shape the kind of society we want to build.


The real question is not just what kind of employers we are, but what kind of neighbours, citizens, and human beings we choose to be.


Change will not come easily, or all at once. But it begins when we refuse to look away.


Hong Kong-based Charities and Organisations


Mission For Migrant Workers (MFMW)

What they do: Legal aid, shelter, advocacy, and education for migrant workers.


HELP For Domestic Workers

Enrich HK

International Domestic Workers Federation (IDWF)

Asian Migrants Coordinating Body (AMCB)

  • What they do: Coalition of migrant groups organising for labour rights and policy change.

  • Facebook


Bethune House Migrant Women’s Refuge


References:

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