“We look after other people's children all day – and we're not allowed to have our own kids with us”

The caseworker spots the problem right away. “That’s not going to work; this is a different kind of Stamp 1,” says Bizumuremyi. The woman visibly crumples, her optimism and excitement gone in a moment. “I’ve been here 22 years!” she cries. “All those years of taxes paid! I was so hoping for good news this time.” Bizumuremyi, known to everyone here as ‘Biizi’, is unruffled. He speaks to her patiently, his voice calm. He studies her documents and helps her to register for the online system of the Irish immigration authorities. The woman originally came to Ireland from Mauritius on a student visa, simply staying on after it expired – Biizi’s story was once the same. ‘Simply’ here is, of course, a relative term. “For me, there was no going back,” he tells later, referring to the war in Rwanda. Back in Ireland, those living without papers are constantly in hiding, and there is no state support for those who find themselves in tricky situations. “That’s a real struggle.”

While the woman currently sitting at Biizi’s desk was able to legalize her status five years ago, she received her stamp 1 on an exceptional basis – and now finds herself stuck with its restrictions for longer than normal. After more than 20 years in the country, it goes without saying that she calls Ireland home.

Ireland’s economy is growing, the country has reached full employment, with many posts remaining unfilled. And this is not just a case of highly skilled specialists; migrants are hired across the care, agricultural, and meat processing industries. All this has resulted in ever-growing numbers of migrants being recruited from outside the EU, with the government playing a hasty game of catch-up to bring in new regulations. Despite this, there are already a multitude of migrant workers, regular and irregular, whose access to the open labor market is restricted by bureaucratic obstacles. Because ill-conceived regulation ends in suffering, a fact that impacts not only Ireland, but the EU as a whole. This case could be anywhere in Europe.

“Here at the Center, we get a clear picture of where the real problems lie,” says Neil Bruton, MRCI campaign manager. The organization has been advocating for migrant labor rights for over 15 years now and has joined the European PICUM network which takes the issue to EU policymakers, not least through the voices of the migrant workers themselves. This principle also underpins the political work of the MRCI: “We involve those affected in the design of our campaigns. We make sure they have their say and help their voices be heard,” explains Bruton. “Those affected work with the Center on every single campaign.”

A recent campaign from the MRCI, for example, calls for migrants in low-pay sectors to be allowed to switch both their employer and their line of work. While new rules aiming to simplify employer switches have been in place at EU level since April 2024, they remain open to adaptation by member states. As a result, the situation continues to differ from one country to the next. Until recently, residence permits were tied to the worker’s initial employer, and should an employer terminate the migrant’s employment in Ireland within the first five years of residency, the migrant worker was obliged to leave the country.

The consequences of this regulation were drastic, not least in terms of employee dependency, with Bruton and his colleagues observing not only many cases of exploitation, including poor pay, unpaid overtime, and inhumane working conditions, but also that those affected were left without recourse for defense. Although an MRCI campaign has just succeeded in granting migrant workers the right to change employers, it falls short of allowing them the right to change sectors. Meanwhile, the regulations are different in ‘critical skills’ areas, namely higher-skilled roles. Migrants who move to Ireland from outside the EU for a job in the IT sector, for instance, receive not only better remuneration but are also tied to their employer for only two years. In comparison, the low-pay sectors tie workers to a period of five years. “Our goal is to achieve fairness and equity across the board,” says Bruton.

Another MRCI campaign calls for a simplified family reunification process. Bruton explains how for a number of years now, the law has allowed companies in Ireland to hire workers from non-EU countries, even in traditionally low-paid sectors such as agriculture, meat production, and care, with these workers granted residence permits. Yet these industries have negotiated the hard-won minimum wage for migrant workers down from €30,000 a year to €23,000. “This erodes their right to bring their families with them,” says Bruton. Because, to qualify for family reunification, workers must prove they bring home a certain minimum income, a threshold they fail to reach if they are earning just €23,000, meaning they are unable to bring their families to join them. Ever since, the number of desperate spouses, mothers and fathers approaching the MRCI drop-in center after the authorities have refused their partners or children family visas has only increased.
 
One such mother is Bethel. “We work 12-hour days caring for other mothers’ children and then we come home at night to an empty apartment in a foreign country,” says the 36-year-old carer from Zimbabwe, who has not held her own children in her arms for two years now. As the Irish government has forbidden them from joining her, Bethel’s only option is to see them over video calls. The carer works in a center for children and young people with mental health issues in Dublin and was recruited by an agency back home in Harare. She was told it would only be a year before she would be allowed to bring her family over to Ireland, and so despite her misgivings, she left her nine-year-old daughter, 11-year-old son, and husband behind. She was promised a good salary in Dublin to provide for her children and a relatively short separation. “That was a lie,” says Bethel, not without a trace of bitterness.

Now, Bethel has had enough. Which is how she finds herself sitting on a Sunday in September in the MRCI, making plans for a new campaign. She is joined by a circle of eighteen others, all similarly affected. The group is taking part in a campaign workshop for anyone seeking to improve their own situation as well as that of other migrant workers. The first question on the agenda: What exactly needs to change? Bethel describes her own desperate struggle to claim residency rights for her husband and children, listing voluminous applications, endless documentation, and processing wait times of up to a year. After all that, she has just received a negative decision, even after “revealing my innermost thoughts and feelings.” The authorities requested proof of her relationship, including photos, chats, and the most private of communications. “I’m married! Isn’t that proof enough?” She lists her countless attempts to bring her children to join her alongside the endless obstacles that seem to crop up in her way. Finally, she can no longer hold back her tears: “We are the backbone of the Irish healthcare system,” she sobs. “Why are we being treated this way?”

A woman from Mexico hugs her, while a man from South Africa sympathizes: “We share your pain.”

Once they have identified to whom in Irish politics they should address their concerns, the workshop turns to look for the ‘cupcakes’: “What do you have to offer these politicians? How can you reach them?” asks Mairéad McDevitt, head of community work at the MRCI. She is jointly leading the workshop alongside Neil Bruton. “Families belong together!” shouts one woman. “Happy workers do the job better,” suggests another.

The participants split into smaller groups to discuss further.

Irene from the Philippines joins the group discussing family reunification. She was the face of a successful MRCI campaign for undocumented workers who ultimately went on to receive an amnestya regularisation. She herself lived in Dublin for 15 years without a valid residence permit. “I was scared and on edge,” she recalls of attending her early campaign meetings. “When you’re undocumented, you don’t want to go public; you don’t know who you can trust.” When she sees Bethel’s tears, she remembers her own story only too well. Irene had travelled on a tourist visa, planning to work in Ireland only a few weeks to earn money for her two-year-old son, who has a heart condition. But earning enough money wasn’t as simple as she’d planned, and she ended up staying longer. Yet without holding regular status in Ireland, she was not able to leave the country. “I didn’t see my children for 15 years,” she says. “It was just awful.” Now, thanks to the campaign’s success, she holds a residence permit and has been allowed to bring her children, some of whom have since reached adulthood, to join her.

Irene from the Philippines joins the group to discuss family reunification. She was the face of a successful MRCI campaign for undocumented workers who were eventually granted amnesty and allowed to stay. She herself spent 15 years in Dublin without a valid residence permit. "I was anxious and suspicious," she recalls of her first campaign meetings, "as an undocumented person you don't want to go public, you don't know who to trust.

When she sees Bethel crying, she remembers her own situation: she had come on a tourist visa, planning to work in Ireland for just a few weeks to earn money for her two-year-old son, who has a heart condition. But it wasn't easy to earn enough, so she stayed longer, living in Ireland without regular status and unable to leave the country. I didn't see my children for 15 years," she says, "it was terrible. Now, thanks to the successful campaign, she has residency status and can bring her children, some of whom are now of age, to join her.

She recalls how the campaign was a real rollercoaster, full of highs and lows: “But I never gave up hope. I did it for my children.” Today, it was all worth it, she believes, her pride evident as she explains: “As a result of the campaign, 9,200 people have been granted permanent residence.” For her, the community provided by the MRCI was a real lifeline: “We were our own family.”

The afternoon saw the activists sort the various stakeholders at play, including politicians, parties, trade unions, employers, and more, into a diagram in an attempt to analyze different power structures. Bodies they felt would be open to the MRCI’s demands were placed on the right, with those likely to oppose sorted to the left. Those with more power were placed higher up, while less powerful stakeholders featured lower down. “An individual migrant who faces these issues,” asks Bruton, “where would they go?” It doesn’t take much to guess right – after all, they’re in favor of the demands – but also at the bottom – they have next to no power. “But what about a community of activists?” Collectively, their power is much greater: “And so, just by coming here, you have already supercharged your power.”