Maid lived 20 years in quiet struggle
mozil
Maid lived 20 years in quiet struggle
Couple manipulated traditional arrangement with threats, smuggling
By VIKKI ORTIZ
vor...@journalsentinel.com
Posted: Jan. 13, 2007
Elnora Calimlim fixed her gaze on the younger woman stepping onto the
witness stand.
For nearly 20 years, the two had shared an almost unimaginable secret.
Calimlim, a successful Brookfield doctor, hid Erma Martinez, an illegal
immigrant, in her home as a maid.
During her two decades of servitude, Martinez surrendered the things
that most people take for granted: the freedom to talk on the phone, to
learn to drive, to date, to fall in love.
Now their secret was forced into the open, and the women were about to
trade positions. At 40, Martinez would finally start her life.
And at 60, Calimlim was about to lose everything. Yet she believed
things could turn at this pivotal moment during her trial in May 2006.
She'd told her lawyers she believed in her heart that Martinez would
spare the family, that she would take the witness stand and testify that
their living arrangement was based on mutual respect and understanding
of Filipino culture.
Not slavery.
As Martinez raised her right hand, Calimlim sat in the defendant's chair
and stared. Her eyes seemed to plead: tell them, tell them.
Martinez never made eye contact.
Prosecutors saw Martinez as a victim, plucked as an innocent 19-year-old
from an impoverished life in her native Philippines in 1985, only to
spend the next 19 years hidden and exploited in the United States.
But the ordeal was not always so clear-cut - even from Martinez's
perspective.
For someone who lost nearly half of her life, Martinez was surprisingly
stoic in court. There were no tearful tirades or angry confrontations.
She answered questions in mostly short sentences, sometimes single words.
Her emotional letters home over the years, however, portray a woman who
was conflicted and confused, torn between a desire for freedom and
loyalty to captors who paid her paltry wages, yet bought her Christmas
presents and took her along on family vacations.
The letters between Martinez and her mother in Camarines Sur, a rural
province in the Philippines, also show she was just as manipulated by
her own family back home.
Martinez, the dutiful eldest daughter of uneducated farmers, became the
provider for her parents and siblings. She paid for the bulk of their
school tuition, medical procedures and even their weddings. Over the
years, her family grew more and more dependent on her to emerge from
poverty.
Her story speaks to the vast cultural differences that have divided the
Filipino community in the Milwaukee area.
The jury found the Calimlims' crimes so severe that their case became
the nation's first forced labor conviction not involving use of
violence. The couple will report to federal prison Wednesday unless the
judge grants an extension while the case is appealed.
Yet just days before the Calimlims are expected to begin their four-year
sentences, some in the Filipino community still believe that Martinez is
the villain.
She owes her freedom to one young Filipina-American who felt differently.
Welcome to America
Elnora Calimlim needed help. In 1985, she and her husband were juggling
the demands of adjusting to a new country while raising three young
kids. When Calimlim's mother visited from the Philippines, she saw how
exhausted her daughter was and made a suggestion: Why not bring one of
the maids from their home in the Philippines to Wisconsin?
Elnora Calimlim's father took care of the arrangements. He accompanied
Martinez on a flight to the U.S. and posed as her doctor bringing the
19-year-old abroad for treatment.
The day Martinez arrived in Chicago, the entire Calimlim family waited
outside the airport gate.
"It was sort of like welcoming somebody who's going to be a member of
the family," Elnora Calimlim would testify.
Martinez agreed to work for an initial period of five years. Calimlim's
father handed Martinez's passport to his daughter.
In the months that followed, Martinez adjusted to her surroundings. She
learned to use cookbooks. To make grocery lists. To save money by
cutting her own hair.
She got used to Wisconsin's chilly autumns and winters, which gave her a
constant runny nose. The average January low in Camarines Sur is 70
degrees Fahrenheit, compared with a frigid 13 degrees in Milwaukee.
Martinez also learned that her new employers wanted to keep her hidden
from even their closest friends. Sometimes they introduced her as a
distant relative. During parties she hid in her basement bedroom with
the door closed as guests dined on meals she helped prepare.
At church, Martinez sat in a pew far from the family. At home, she let
the phone ring. She could pick up only after 10 rings - code that one of
the Calimlims was calling.
Even her letters were handled in a clandestine way. Her parents wrote to
a post office box registered to the Calimlims. Martinez sent her letters
in a double envelope, addressed with her name on the inside, without a
name on the outside.
The Calimlims kept her in line with threats of deportation. They told
her if people found out she was an illegal immigrant, she would be sent
back to the Philippines. The Calimlim family would be in trouble as
well, they told her.
Yet despite the restrictions, Martinez remained upbeat. She accepted her
place in the world and, in heartfelt letters to her family, repeated one
line again and again:
"If you're wondering about me, I'm fine. Even if I'm lonely."
Sending money home
Martinez earned $150 a month for the first 10 years and $400 a month
thereafter. She believed most of that money was sent to the Philippines,
but no one can be sure.
It was a complicated process. First, the Calimlims told Elnora's parents
in the Philippines - the Mendozas - how much Martinez earned. The
Mendozas would front the money for the Calimlims, and someone from the
Martinez family would travel 10 hours to pick up the earnings.
If someone from the extended Calimlim family traveled from the U.S. to
the Philippines, they could also deliver some of Martinez's earnings.
But the system was irregular, and not every transaction was documented,
investigators later found.
Money did make it home. And for the next decade, her earnings gave her
family a lifestyle they could never have had.
Her salary paid for the education of all her younger siblings, from
costumes in the Christmas pageants to college computer programs. The
dutiful daughter paid for her father's blood pressure medicine and her
mother's tumor operation and for plots of land.
She paid for a water buffalo to pull a plow on the farm, and later a
Honda tractor.
In letters, Martinez's mother gave her choices about where her money
went: Did she want her brothers studying to be police officers or
nurses? Did she want to buy dresses for her nieces for Christmas?
And almost every letter came with a request for more."Your father, Glen
and Nonoy Kee are also asking that you buy them a watch and a set of
necklace, ring and earrings for me. My earrings have lost its shine and
some of the stones have come off."
Sometimes her mother bragged about how well-dressed Martinez's siblings
were because of the money she sent. Other times she described the
children as not having enough to eat or being embarrassed that they
didn't have a nicer home.
With the needs of her family in the Philippines, there was little left
to fund Martinez's dream: a house in her hometown of Sampaloc. That's
where she wanted to raise her own kids someday, near the town's basilica.
Still, she continued her work, year after year, missing milestone after
milestone.
She missed Christmas fiestas in her hometown.
She missed all her siblings' weddings.
She missed the birth of her three youngest brothers and the deaths of
her grandfathers.
Just before Christmas 1992, seven years into her stay with the
Calimlims, Martinez received a letter from her mother with tragic news.
Jesson, the youngest of her siblings, died after a sudden case of
bronchitis. He was 2 years old. Her father bought him a casket with
2,000 pesos from her earnings. Martinez read her mother's words but
refused to believe them. How could this have happened? Was her family
making the story up so she'd feel guilty and come home? Didn't they
understand that it was no longer up to her?
She studied a photo of Jesson, the baby brother they called Nonoy or
"Little Boy." He had short hair and dimples, just like hers. And now she
would never meet him.
Overcome with grief, Martinez reached for her parents in the only way
she could.
She reached for a pen and paper.
Mom and pop,
I don't know how to begin my letter to you. I don't even know what to do
with all of the loneliness. . . . Mom, after reading your letter, I feel
helpless. I'm sorry that I can't even visit you during this time. I
didn't even have the chance to see Nonoy. I loved him.
I'm always asking myself, "When will I see, talk and hug everyone?"
I'm always reassuring myself that it is only a little more time. . . .
Promise me, mom, that you will not tell me this sort of sad story again,
because I cannot handle it anymore. Please take care of yourself and
papa because I am sure that I could not handle anything worse. . . .
Love, kisses, hugs from your Erma Martinez
USA
Suspicion arises
Over the next decade, the three young children Martinez cared for in the
U.S. grew into adults. They got drivers' licenses, went to college and
landed full-time jobs.
Martinez lived in the Calimlims' six-bedroom, $1.2 million home, where
her duties stayed the same.
By the Calimlim's account, each morning Martinez toasted bagels or set
out cereal for breakfast. She cooked dinner and weekend brunches of
bacon, rice and eggs. Once a week, Martinez vacuumed the
8,600-square-foot house. She did laundry every Saturday.
Martinez testified about several additional jobs, from waxing the car
and changing its oil to painting the house and polishing medical
equipment at Jefferson Calimlim Sr.'s medical practice.
She said the Calimlims, who were ear, nose and throat doctors, refused
to take her to the dentist when she had a toothache. And when she was
doubled over in pain from menstrual problems, Elnora Calimlim told her
she would never have children.
After the Calimlim children grew, they helped to keep Martinez hidden.
When she needed to go to church or to the mall, one of the children -
Jefferson Jr., Jack or Tina - drove. When Martinez made a grocery list,
one of the children went to the store.
The Calimlim children followed their parents' rules when it came to
Martinez. They called her "Tita" -"Auntie" in the Filipino language of
Tagalog. They never told anyone, not even their best friends, that their
family had a maid.
By the late 1990s the Calimlims' younger son, Jack, had a serious
girlfriend. Sherry Bantug was a beautiful Filipina-American who grew up
in the Milwaukee area.
She modeled for local clothing boutiques and fashion sections while
studying at Marquette University. She performed Filipino dances at the
Asian Moon Festival and in 1998 wore the crown of Miss Philippine
Centennial Wisconsin.
In time, Jack Calimlim brought Bantug home to meet the family. And Martinez.
At first he told Bantug that the woman in the kitchen was a relative
from Chicago. But after a while, the explanation didn't make sense,
Bantug testified.
She questioned why "Tita" seemed to be visiting all the time. She didn't
understand why Martinez didn't sit with the family during dinner.
Bantug again confronted her fiancé. This time he told the truth.
After Jack Calimlim and Bantug became engaged, Bantug reached out to
Martinez and was saddened by what she found.
Martinez told Bantug she had a boyfriend in the Philippines but hadn't
seen him since she left. She said she longed for her own children but
feared she'd missed her chance.
When Bantug and Jack Calimlim planned the seating chart for their
wedding, the elder Calimlims objected to Martinez being invited. After
Bantug persisted, Elnora Calimlim said Martinez could be seated on the
other side of the hall.
The marriage between Jack Calimlim and Bantug lasted seven months.
Nearly three years after Bantug first met Martinez in the Calimlim home,
the couple filed for divorce. And Bantug made an anonymous call to the
U.S. Department of Immigration and Naturalization Services.
Human trafficking
While hundreds of thousands of foreign domestic workers toil in American
homes, illegal or abusive arrangements are still largely unreported.
Cases are rare. Between 2001 and 2003, 110 people have been prosecuted
for human trafficking nationwide.
Since 1974, domestic workers in the U.S. have been protected under
federal law. But foreign workers are often unfamiliar with these rights,
and few agencies teach workers how to leave dangerous living situations.
Even if they're lucky enough to go through a training program before
leaving their home countries, such programs teach mostly job skills: how
to operate a vacuum, how to pronounce "yes, ma'am," how to differentiate
between Windex and Pine-Sol.
The circumstances make it difficult for federal authorities to protect
the rights of foreign workers. The workers often view authorities as the
enemy and are reluctant to cooperate.
And even when domestic workers are mistreated or abused, some still
won't report the offenses because of the enormous sense of
responsibility they feel to provide for their families back home.
Such was the case with Martinez, who, even after 17 years in the
Calimlim home, felt obligated to stay.
Sept. 1, 2002,
To my Dearest Mom, Dad and Family,
Hi mom and pop, before anything else in this letter, I want to give my
respect and regards to all of you. If you're wondering about me, I'm
fine. As usual, waiting to go home.
Mom, sorry if I'm unable to write to you because I am busy these days.
I'm glad that you and papa called. Sorry if it was a short conversation.
Ms. Nora is not giving me enough time. She stands and watches beside me.
You might think I don't want to talk to you, but I was working when you
called and I was also tired. The house is too large and I am the only
servant. I also paint the house and the salary is small. The visa that
they promised me has not been arranged. I am so tired of waiting and of
the work here, I don't know what to do. . . . If I will go home there
without my visa, I will never be able to return here. If I go home there
now, you will not have anybody to help you educate the others.
You know ma, it is so difficult because I cannot say when I will be
going home. I hope that you will continue to understand me through
letters and the telephone. I hope that you're not thinking that I'm
upset at you. I am not. I am upset at Ms. Nora. . . .
Raided, rescued
Federal agents arrived with a search warrant at the Calimlims' home in
September 2004. As they raided the house, they confronted Jefferson Jr.
and asked if he had seen Martinez.
Not in about a year, the eldest of the children replied. In truth,
Martinez was in the basement. Elnora Calimlim rushed to warn her.
The authorities made it down the stairs, where Martinez's bedroom had
been for years.
They walked past the leather sofas. Past the entertainment center and
large-screen TV. Past the bar, the refrigerator, the fireplace and Tina
Calimlim's ballet practice area.
The FBI and Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents entered a room
just past a dining room table.
The bed was hastily made. Boxes were piled in the corner. Perfume
bottles, beauty products and a blow dryer cluttered the top of a
dresser. Clothes hung along the rail of a StairMaster machine.
There was a door next to the StairMaster. The agents discovered Martinez
just beyond that door.
She was hiding in her own closet, terrified of the people sent to rescue
her.
Cultural difference
In the Philippines, the use of servants is culturally accepted. Domestic
workers are hired, sometimes several per household, to handle everyday
tasks from cooking meals and washing clothes to caring for children.
Filipinos affluent enough to have maids generally provide them with
separate living quarters and expect to call on them at any time. The pay
is low - typically about $3 a day.
Maid culture is most common in countries with extreme disparities
between the rich and the poor, as in the Philippines, where nearly 80%
of the country's population is unemployed. One out of every seven people
leaves the country to make money.
Most of them take jobs as domestic workers around the world, pumping $7
billion a year into the struggling Third World country. The Filipino
government credits these workers with keeping the country afloat.
In turn, many Filipinos consider the idea of hiring maids who send money
home a positive thing. To hire a Filipino maid and bring her to the U.S.
is an act of allegiance to the home country.
Because of this mind-set, the Calimlim case has been difficult for the
local Filipino-American community to understand.
Defending the Calimlims
On a hot July evening on Milwaukee's northwest side, more than a dozen
local Filipino-Americans crammed into the Philippine Community Center.
The purpose of the meeting was to ask the Calimlims' attorneys how they
could help. Even people who had never met the Calimlims wanted to defend
the family and explain Filipino culture to the larger Milwaukee community.
Some said if they hired a maid from the Philippines, they would pay
exactly the same thing. Others didn't understand why the Calimlims went
to such lengths to hide Martinez, but they didn't believe doing so made
them bad people. Still others questioned whether Martinez was exploiting
the Calimlims for money.
Most agreed that the trial didn't allow enough explanation of Filipino
culture and tradition.
"Americans, they probably think it's slavery, but back in the
Philippines, you're doing (the maids) a big favor," said Raymond
Ballecer of Milwaukee, whose family had two live-in maids in the
Philippines but does not have maids in the U.S.
Michael Fitzgerald, Elnora Calimlim's attorney, listened to the group's
concerns, then offered advice. He told them to write letters to U.S.
District Court Judge Rudolph T. Randa.
The sentencing
Elnora and Jefferson Calimlim leaned back in the leather defendant's
chairs of Judge Randa's courtroom. It was Nov. 16, 2006, six months
after a federal jury found them guilty of harboring an illegal immigrant
for financial gain, conspiracy to harbor an illegal immigrant, forced
labor and attempted forced labor.
Prosecutors had recommended just under six years in prison. Because they
were not U.S. citizens, the Calimlims also faced deportation.
The stress of the months between the trial and the sentencing had taken
a physical toll on Elnora Calimlim. She'd lost considerable weight, and
her neatly pressed clothes hung loosely on her frail body.
More than a dozen prominent members of the local Filipino American
community packed the courtroom's wooden benches in support of the
Calimlims. Many had also attended a "Mass for Unity and Healing" in
August, which attracted hundreds who prayed for the Calimlim family.
For the previous nine days, members of the Filipino community had prayed
over the case to the Virgin Mary. And more than 100 local Filipinos
signed a letter sent to Randa begging him to be lenient.
Randa entered the courtroom and took his seat next to the American flag.
Moments later, the heavy door to the courtroom opened.
Martinez walked in sporting a new look. The stiff, pink knit blazer and
pinstripe pants of her last court appearance were replaced by khaki
pants, a white blouse and a black leather jacket. She carried a Louis
Vuitton handbag and wore black sunglasses on top of her head.
She held the hand of a woman hired by the prosecution to comfort victims
during trial.
Martinez trembled as she told the courtroom that the case "broke her
heart into a million pieces" that she "didn't know how to put back
together."
"I don't know how to say it. When I was with them, I just had to do the
job that had to be done. Follow the rules. I was waiting for my green
card. The green card they promised to me," Martinez said.
She said she trusted the Calimlims and didn't know they were lying to
her from the start.
Martinez, who has been granted a rare visa for victims of severe
trafficking cases, will be eligible to apply for a green card in three
years. She said she had a new job in Chicago, at a Sephora cosmetics store.
"You may have heard of it," she said, brightening.
At Sephora, Martinez said, if she worked more than 40 hours, she earned
overtime. After a day's work, she still had time for herself.
Martinez said she still loved the Calimlims. She never wished for
prison, deportation or the stress the case had caused them. But she
wanted more than what she had.
"I was waiting for that freedom," she said.
After Martinez spoke, Randa sentenced the couple to four years in prison
each. (Jefferson Jr. later received three years' probation). The judge
has not made a decision on restitution. Prosecutors have recommended
back wages of $704,635.
Martinez didn't stay long enough to hear the outcome. Midway through the
sentencing, she stood, walked down the hall, onto the elevator and
outside into the cold, open air.
--
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jek
not deprive her wage, unlike the midle eastern people. The middle eastern
people, the majority of them they maltreat their domestic helpers, they beat
on them, raping them and not paying them the wage. SOBRA ANG KAHAYUPAN NG
MGA MIDDLE EASTERN PEOPLE, BUT NOT ALL. THE MAJORITY OF THE MIDDLE EASTERN
PEOPLE ARE VERY BRUTAL TO THEIR DOMESTIC HELPERS.
"mozil" <mo...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:45ab50dd$0$4768$8826...@free.teranews.com...