Buried without answers: The hidden toll on Kenyan women in the Gulf

At 18, Boniface Murigi never imagined he would be recounting his mother’s life and death to the world. 

Yet he sits on a couch in his family’s living room in Gilgil, a small town about two hours northwest of Nairobi, struggling to describe who Sylvia Waithera Karuri was to him. “She was a great mother and a hard worker,” he says.

A Sunday school teacher and mother of four, 38-year-old Sylvia owned a hardware store and was building rental houses to support her family. “I remember her carrying big bags of cement on a motorbike to the construction site herself,” Boniface recalls, a faint smile crossing his solemn face. Her church and mission work earned her the local nickname “The Preacher.”

After a divorce made it harder to provide for her children, Sylvia accepted a domestic work job in Saudi Arabia in 2021, hoping to invest the earnings into expanding her businesses. Her mother, 68-year-old Masengena, opposed the idea. 

“I heard so many stories of young women ending up dead there or unspeakable things happening,” she tells TRNN. Sylvia eventually persuaded her it was necessary for the family.

For about a year, the plan seemed to work. Sylvia called home regularly and sent money to renovate her mother’s house and support the rental business. The family started to believe their fears about Saudi Arabia may have been exaggerated.

But in 2023, after a few months with a new employer, everything changed. The family received a frantic message: her employer accused her of stealing a gold chain on the way to a wedding—and he was carrying a pistol. Sylvia said she feared for her life. Then her phone switched off, and she went completely silent.

Two months later, Masengena received a call from an unknown man informing her that her daughter had died. It felt like Sylvia’s life was taken twice when Saudi authorities later ruled it a suicide—an impossibility for those who knew her.

“My mom was a good Christian, a true believer,” Boniface says. “She couldn’t just commit suicide. She loved us and would never do that to her children.”

For weeks, Saudi and Kenyan officials denied having her body or any record of her presence in the country, trapping the family in a bureaucratic maze. With the help of a Kenyan lawyer, Sylvia’s body was eventually located in a Saudi mortuary. After eight months and fundraising 200,000 Kenyan shillings (about $1,550), her remains were repatriated.

An independent autopsy confirmed the family’s fears: Sylvia had been severely beaten around the midsection and strangled from behind with a cloth, her neck marked with scratches from struggling to breathe. Despite what the family says is clear evidence of murder, they remain without answers or accountability.

“We don’t know where to turn,” Boniface says, his head slumped, hands fidgeting. “Our own leaders are sending women there to make money. So when it’s your own government doing this, where can you even complain?”

“We just ask God to deliver justice,” he adds. “We don’t have the power or money to hire lawyers, travel abroad, or investigate ourselves.”

“We just ask God to deliver justice,” he adds. “We don’t have the power or money to hire lawyers, travel abroad, or investigate ourselves.”

Rather than confronting long-standing systemic failures that leave families like Sylvia’s without accountability, President William Ruto’s administration has rapidly expanded Kenya’s labor migration system to boost remittances and foreign exchange amid debt and job shortages. Since taking office in 2022, Ruto has pledged to send one million Kenyans abroad annually—more than double current levels.

The result is a booming labor export pipeline to Saudi Arabia, driven by the promotion of Kenyans as among the lowest-paid workers. Critics warn that the government’s financial incentives have consistently outweighed protections against well-documented labor abuses in the Gulf, leaving workers increasingly vulnerable to exploitation.

Hundreds of families like Sylvia’s are left to grieve alone—abandoned by the state meant to protect them.

‘No one cares’

After maintaining his composure for much of the interview—methodically recounting the gruesome details of his mother’s suspected murder—Boniface finally breaks down. His face collapses into his palms as he sobs.

“I still sometimes don’t believe she’s dead,” he says through tears. “What would happen if the Saudis came here to Kenya and we killed them? Wouldn’t their government push for justice? So doesn’t my mother deserve the same?”

Boniface is not alone. At least 371 Kenyan migrants, mostly young women, have died in Saudi Arabia between 2020 and April 2024, with many deaths officially recorded as “natural causes,” “cardiac arrest,” or “suicide,” even when bodies show clear signs of abuse.

“If the [Saudi] state and employer can shift responsibility for the death to the individual, then they don’t need to follow up on anything,” says Vani Saraswathi, a human rights advocate and editorial director of the Migrant Rights Research Open Repository (MRRORS). “The way this system is designed is to make sure there is no evidence of any kind of abuse, even in cases of death.”

“The only way to get justice for families from within Saudi Arabia is through [independent] civil society groups, and Saudi Arabia has absolutely none.”

These deaths reflect a systemic pattern of abuse under Saudi Arabia’s kafala system, which ties a migrant’s legal status to an employer and creates extreme power imbalances. Workers are left vulnerable to forced labor, confinement, medical neglect, wage theft, and physical and sexual violence. “Deep-rooted racism” in Saudi society further exacerbates the dangers, with African workers often treated the worst and paid the least, notes Saraswathi. 

The crisis is also fueled by predatory recruitment networks in Kenya reaching deep into rural areas. Local brokers, including village chiefs and community leaders, convince young women with promises of high salaries and take kickbacks for each recruit.

A 2022 study by NORC at the University of Chicago found that 98.24% of Kenyan migrant workers returning from the Gulf experienced forced labor—a rate described by researchers as “truly rare, if not unprecedented.” Among those surveyed, 65.2% reported physical or sexual violence, while 97% faced severe restrictions on their freedom, including confiscation of passports and phones. 

Kenyan domestic workers in Saudi Arabia have also been victims of suspected illegal organ harvesting, according to MRRORS.

When bodies return home under suspicious circumstances, autopsies are rare, explains Francis Auma, rapid response officer at Muslims for Human Rights (MUHURI), a Mombasa-based rights organization.

“[Kenyan] recruitment agencies often swoop in to pay for a decent burial and cover funeral expenses before an autopsy can take place, in an attempt to protect themselves from scrutiny,” Auma tells TRNN. “Because these families are very poor, they often accept this small financial relief instead of pursuing an autopsy that won’t lead to justice anyway.” 

For victims and their families who attempt to seek justice against local recruitment agencies in Kenya, the process is often met with intimidation, harassment, or obstruction aimed at derailing accountability efforts. Many of these agencies are connected to powerful political insiders—frequently through proxy ownership by relatives or associates—allowing them to evade oversight and accountability altogether. 

Even in serious cases, including murder, the Kenyan government has failed to act decisively both domestically and in addressing crimes against its citizens in Saudi Arabia. “Pursuing a case across borders requires resources and political will—and the Kenyan government simply doesn’t care,” Auma notes. “They might follow up if the victims were children of politicians or wealthy businessmen. But these migrants are poor, perceived as nobodies. No one cares what happens to them.”

Avenues for accountability within Saudi Arabia are effectively nonexistent, explains Saraswathi. “There’s no transnational grievance mechanisms for such cases,” she says. “So the only way to get justice for families from within Saudi Arabia is through [independent] civil society groups, and Saudi Arabia has absolutely none.”

Reforms introduced to the Kenyan overseas labor trade in 2021—including stricter oversight of recruitment agencies and mandatory registration through the National Employment Authority (NEA)—were meant to curb abuses exposed during the COVID-19 pandemic. In 2022, the two governments signed a new bilateral labor agreement—yet its contents remain undisclosed.

Since taking office, Ruto has been accused of rolling back protective measures and making it cheaper to send workers abroad.

Nearly 40% of Kenyans live below the poverty line. Even the lowest-paying jobs in Saudi Arabia offer far more than most can earn at home, driving a relentless flow of workers willing to risk everything for better opportunities.

Without meaningful protections, many of these workers return home with horror stories—or don’t return at all. From safeguarding their rights abroad to repatriating bodies and pursuing accountability at home, mourning families say the Kenyan government has failed them at every stage.

Architecture of profit

In response to mounting debt, strained public finances, and insufficient jobs, Ruto has made labor export a central economic strategy, with Saudi Arabia at its core. Remittances from Kenyans abroad have become a critical source of foreign currency, generating roughly $5 billion annually—surpassing traditional earners like tea, coffee, and tourism. Saudi Arabia has emerged as the country’s second-largest source of remittances, trailing only the United States.

Between 2022 and mid-2023, the number of documented Kenyan workers in Saudi Arabia more than doubled to an estimated 200,000, and by late 2024 it had surged past 310,000. Saudi Arabia is now the primary destination for Kenyans in the Gulf, the majority of whom are women employed as domestic workers.

This expansion has come at a steep human cost. As migration accelerates, safeguards have lagged behind, leaving many women exposed to exploitation. A recent New York Times investigation found that Kenya’s strategy of branding its workers abroad as among the cheapest and most accessible has contributed to abuse. 

A recent New York Times investigation found that Kenya’s strategy of branding its workers abroad as among the cheapest and most accessible has contributed to abuse.

These failures have extended to the Kenyan embassy in Riyadh, where returnees report being dismissed, ridiculed, or turned away while fleeing abusive employers. A longtime labor official, Robinson Juma Twanga, is alleged to have demanded sex or money in exchange for assistance—at times urging women into sex work to fund their return tickets. These claims reached Kenya’s Labor Ministry as early as 2019, but were not acted on before his retirement.

Investigations have also linked Kenya’s labor export industry to senior political figures who profit directly from the recruitment pipeline, including a lawmaker on the parliament’s labor committee, members of Ruto’s government, and close allies. Corporate records also show the president’s wife and daughter are the largest shareholders in the sector’s dominant insurance firm.

To meet export targets to Saudi Arabia, the government relies on hundreds of recruitment agencies that follow its low-cost, high-volume strategy—about 10% of which are owned by politically connected individuals, according to the New York Times. These agencies recruit workers and sell their contracts to Saudi firms, which then place them in domestic jobs.

Local labor recruiters earn about $1,000 per worker, minus travel, medical, and training costs—creating incentives to cut expenses. In 2024, the government cut the mandatory training period from 26 to 14 days, and capped the cost for pre-departure training at roughly $100—despite prior findings that the program, which covers basic Arabic, appliance use, and contractual rights, was already inadequate. Lobbyists said these changes could be implemented because many officials and their families have financial interests in the industry.

TRNN reached out to the Kenyan government for comment, but did not receive a response.

Advocates stress that the issue is not labor migration itself, but the absence of meaningful safeguards. “We’re not against Kenyans going to Saudi Arabia to earn money and support their families,” explains Auma, from MUHURI. “But these workers need protection. The government should not be prioritizing profit over the safety of their own citizens.”

For families like Sylvia’s, the pull of domestic work abroad remains painfully familiar. “If a woman asked us whether she should go to Saudi Arabia, we would say no,” says 54-year-old John Mwangi Karuri, Sylvia’s brother. “But the hope of escaping poverty is irresistible. In Kenya, there are no jobs—even with many degrees or a PhD—unless you have connections or can pay bribes.”

“No matter the warnings, women will still keep taking the risk,” he adds, “because everyone wants a chance at a better life.” 

Amid Kenya’s grieving, Sylvia’s family considers themselves strangely fortunate. “Many families are still searching for the bodies of their loved ones,” says Boniface, his tone measured and controlled, refusing to let the tears return. “At least we could bring my mom home, say our final goodbyes, and know she is at peace. We see that as a gift.”

For others, that closure remains out of reach.

Buried in a foreign land

For years, Lucy Wambui Nganga’s grave lay open, carefully dug in hope of her return. But after bureaucratic dead ends, her body never arrived. Eventually, the family filled the grave with soil, their daughter still absent.

“Every day I think about Lucy,” says her mother, 63-year-old Rose Nyambura, tears welling in her eyes as she sits in her quiet home in a small village in central Kenya. “Our government doesn’t care about our daughters. Money matters much more to them than our children’s lives.”

When Lucy, a mother of four, first went to Saudi Arabia, it seemed she had caught a break. She spent two years working there and returned home safely. In 2019, she made the decision to go back, hoping to provide even more for her growing family. She was assigned to a house near the Saudi-Iraq border—but soon after, she called her family to say she was working in Iraq.

The family was left confused; her contract from the Kenyan agency made no mention of Iraq. Lucy tried to shield them from worry, but they now believe her Saudi employer had trafficked her across the border. 

For a year and a half, Lucy worked for several families in Iraq, sending money home without much complaint. But, in December 2020, her friend in Iraq posted in a WhatsApp group that 36-year-old Lucy had been found dead at an employer’s house. The news reached her family a week later.

“I couldn’t believe it,” laments her father, 61-year-old John Nganga Muigai. “If it wasn’t for that Kenyan lady [in Iraq] trying to reach us, we might never have known Lucy died.”

Her sudden death marked the start of a years-long ordeal. Nganga flips open a thick folder brimming with documents chronicling the family’s repeated attempts to secure government assistance in repatriating her body. They were told Iraqi authorities required $7,000. Despite their limited means, the family raised the amount—but the Kenyan Ministry of Foreign Affairs kept telling them to “wait.” 

After about a year, they learned Lucy had already been buried in a Baghdad cemetery by a “well-wisher”—without their consent.

“We tried everything,” Nganga tells TRNN, flipping through letters addressed to every authority the family could reach—from a criminal complaint filed with the DCI, to written appeals to their local MP, county governor, embassy officials, labour offices, and even a formal petition to parliament.

“We petitioned officials at every level,” he says. “We did not leave a single stone unturned. But the only response came from the ministry of foreign affairs—and they just played games with us for years.” 

Two contradictory death reports from Saudi Arabia deepened their concerns, listing causes as both a “short cough” and pneumonia. The family strongly suspects foul play in Lucy’s death and believes authorities are covering it up. But without a body, an autopsy—and any chance of clarity—is impossible.

“We’ve now left everything to God because it seems no one is coming to help us, not even our own government,” Nganga murmurs, his voice barely rising above the loud patter of rain on the tin roof of his home. 

Administrative torment has also persisted after an error in Lucy’s name on her Iraqi death certificate led the Kenyan government to refuse to issue a domestic one. To this day, most of her life savings remain frozen in a local bank, inaccessible to her family.

“I can never feel peace until I have my daughter’s body,” Nganga says, his eyes fixed on the concrete floor. “She’s far away and alone in a foreign land, and that eats at our hearts every day.” 

‘Treat citizens like slaves’

The Kenyan government’s failures are deeply felt by families who have lost loved ones in Saudi Arabia. Stories of abuse and loss that should shock the conscience have instead become tragically routine for hundreds of families.

Benard Njega Githire recounts his wife’s death with quiet detachment, knowing that however carefully he shapes his words, the government will not act. His wife, Esther Wanjiku Thuku, left for Saudi Arabia in 2019 without telling him. 

“She knew I’d be against it,” says the 52-year-old tuk-tuk driver from his small office in Thika, a town northeast of Nairobi. “I knew all the stories about how Kenyan women are treated there. But she wanted a better life for our children.”

His worst fears quickly became reality. According to Benard’s sister, 45-year-old Milkah Wahome, who stayed in close contact with Esther, the mother of four was forced to work across multiple households and sexually harassed by one employer and his sons. She reported the abuse to a local Saudi police station but was returned to her employer; during the drive back, she jumped from the car after being threatened, suffering bloody injuries before being caught and returned to the house.

“The wife of the employer convinced her to stay, and assured her the harassment would stop,” Milkah recounts. “They told her that when her contract ended after three months they would support her to return to Kenya.”

In January 2021, a month before her contract was set to end, she suddenly stopped responding to her family’s messages. When she missed her son’s tenth birthday, the family knew something was wrong. “That was not like Esther,” Milkah tells TRNN.

The family sought answers from Kenyan and Saudi officials without success and contacted the Saudi employer, who falsely claimed Esther, then 43, had already returned to Kenya. “I knew that was a lie,” Milkah says. “If she were back, I would have been the first person she contacted.”

Five months after her disappearance, and only after the family’s appeals went viral on social media, the Kenyan embassy confirmed her death. Saudi authorities ruled it a suicide by hanging, a conclusion the family vehemently rejects.

Esther’s body was returned to Kenya seven months after her death, its condition immediately casting doubt on the Saudi account. “She was decomposing,” Benard recalls. “Her eyes were sunken. She was covered in soil. It didn’t look like she’d been kept in a mortuary. It looked like someone buried her, and then dug her back up.”

Benard is certain his wife was murdered. Yet the family chose not to pursue an independent autopsy, which costs 20,000 Kenyan shillings ($155). “It would have changed nothing,” he explains. “We’d receive a paper saying what we already know, with no hope for justice. I’d rather use that money for my children’s school fees.” 

Now raising his four children without their mother, Benard directs his anger squarely at the Kenyan government. “They have allowed this to happen,” he says. “The Saudis get away with killing us because they know our government will never stand up for its own people.” 

“Our leaders,” he adds sharply, “are corrupt cowards who treat their own citizens like slaves.”

This content originally appeared on The Real News Network and was authored by Jaclynn Ashly.