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In the wake of Sri Lanka’s economic collapse, the country has once again turned to its overseas workers—especially female migrant domestic workers—as a lifeline. Their remittances, along with earnings from tourism, have become the two critical pillars supporting the country’s fragile economy. But behind the currency inflows and official rhetoric of admiration lies a far more uncomfortable truth: the Sri Lankan state continues to profit from the labour and suffering of its poorest citizens without providing the protections they so urgently need. 

The story of female migrant workers, many of whom are mothers, is not a new one. It is deeply rooted in Sri Lanka’s post-conflict and post-liberalisation trajectory. During the 30-year armed conflict, official figures show the state sustained itself—ironically—not just through foreign loans or trade, but also through the remittances of women labouring in kitchens and households across West Asia. These women, mostly from rural, underprivileged backgrounds, funded everything from basic consumption in their villages to the government’s foreign currency needs, often at the cost of their families, dignity, and well-being.

Now, in the aftermath of the 2022 economic meltdown, history is repeating itself. But it is time we ask a fundamental question: does the Sri Lankan state not bear a responsibility—a moral, legal, and constitutional duty—to ensure decent working conditions and safety for those it relies on so heavily?

As a recent study by the Institute of Policy Studies (IPS) reveals, Sri Lanka’s female migrant workers (FMWs) engaged in domestic labour, particularly in West Asia, routinely experience exploitation. They are made to work beyond their contracts, denied payment, and face delays in remitting money to families back home. This not only undermines their individual well-being but also the broader macroeconomic goal of maximising foreign exchange.

For many of these women, migration is a desperate attempt to escape poverty and provide for their families. Yet the cost is immense. A research done by the United Nations notes that mothers in particular endure long working hours, emotional separation from their children, and frequent abuse. And while their earnings may be used to pay for school fees and books back home, their children grow up without maternal care, resulting in lasting social and psychological damage.

The social costs—fractured families, rising child depression and behavioural issues, and the weakening of community bonds—are harder to measure than dollar inflows. But they are no less real. And the longer Sri Lanka delays confronting these consequences, the greater the burden the next generation will have to carry.

Sri Lanka has, for decades, built a remittance-based economy without corresponding investment in the rights and protections of its labour exports. Politicians periodically offer rhetorical nods to the sacrifices made by female migrant workers. One Finance Minister even suggested they be garlanded at the airport, declaring them “true heroes.” But flowery speeches have not translated into structural change. On the contrary, the state continues to reap economic benefits from migrant labour with minimal expenditure or accountability.

Recruitment agents are frequently vilified as exploiters—a charge not without merit. But to lay the blame solely at their feet is to ignore the far more powerful actor: the state. It is the state that authorises recruitment, sets the legal framework, signs bilateral agreements, and collects fees through the Sri Lanka Bureau of Foreign Employment (SLBFE). Yet it has failed to institutionalise robust protections, offer adequate pre-departure training, or provide effective consular support in times of crisis.

The dependence on foreign remittances has grown so acute that the state now actively encourages migration to high-risk zones, as it did in the recent cases of Sri Lankans being sent to Israel during wartime. Despite serious concerns about safety, the SLBFE has last week once again issued a call for new applicants to work in Israel’s construction industry. With over 20,000 Sri Lankans already working in Israel, including in areas affected by the 12 day war between Israel and Iran, this decision raises pressing ethical questions. Should a democratic government knowingly send its citizens into harm’s way for economic gain?

Meanwhile, desperation has pushed some Sri Lankans to illegally join foreign militaries, including in Ukraine and Russia. Whether these individuals go as contracted workers or mercenaries, the fact remains: Sri Lanka’s economic desperation is now directly endangering its citizens.

Behind every female migrant worker is a family that has made a painful trade-off. The decision to leave is rarely taken lightly. For mothers, it means years of separation from children at crucial stages of their emotional and educational development. Studies consistently show that children of migrant mothers are at higher risk of falling behind in school, developing behavioural issues, and experiencing emotional neglect.

Teachers in rural areas often report declines in school performance among children whose mothers are abroad. Anecdotal evidence from community health workers and social service officers points to rising numbers of adolescent mental health cases linked to parental absence. Yet these issues barely feature in national debates or policy frameworks.

If Sri Lanka is to be a truly just society—one that respects the dignity and rights of its citizens—it must confront its own complicity in the exploitation of migrant workers. This begins with acknowledging that remittance-based economic strategies cannot be sustained on the backs of the voiceless and unprotected.

It is time Sri Lanka recognised that its migrant workers are not an expendable class. They are citizens. Mothers. Breadwinners. Survivors. They carry the weight of the nation’s failures and still deliver its lifeline. The state cannot continue to look the other way while benefiting from their sacrifices.

Sri Lanka’s Constitution affirms the right to equality and dignity for all its citizens. That includes those who clean the homes of foreign employers, sleep on kitchen floors, and send money home not just out of duty, but out of love. It is not charity to protect them—it is the government’s duty.

If Sri Lanka is serious about rebuilding a humane and resilient economy, it must begin by repaying its debt to these invisible heroes—not in slogans, but in laws, institutions, and above all, action.

(javidyusuf@gmail.com)