Each morning, dozens of women navigate the narrow, muddy alleys of displacement camps in northern Syria, their shoulders burdened with heavy bags filled with cosmetics or cleaning products. They knock on doors, seeking a modest income — and a measure of dignity — in communities where traditional attitudes still cast a long shadow over women working outside the home, particularly in roles that involve going door-to-door.
For Um Fajr, a 40-year-old displaced from Khan Sheikhoun and now residing in a camp near the Turkish border, the hardest step was the first. “The first time I went out to work, I was trembling. I didn’t tell any relatives. My heart shook more than my hands as I knocked on doors. But at the end of the day, when I bought my husband’s medicine with my own money, I knew I was on the right path.”
Livelihood or Humiliation
Women like Suad, a 38-year-old widow and mother of three, begin their day at dawn. After preparing breakfast, she leaves her children with relatives and sets out with her bag of products. “My children have grown used to my absence. Their grandmother is their comfort now. I try to spend more time with them, but need is stronger,” she explains.
The work often invites rejection, ridicule and, at times, outright humiliation. Yasmin al-Issa, in her twenties, recalls being met with scorn. “A man opened the door, looked at me with contempt, and said: ‘I don’t welcome beggars,’ before slamming the door in my face. I held back tears as he told me never to return.”
Men Torn Between Tradition and Reality
Men’s views on these women vary sharply. While some regard their efforts as dignified, others view them as shameful. Um Fajr’s husband, though unwell, offers unwavering support. “He always tells me this is honest work — better than asking anyone for help.”
Others remain firmly rooted in tradition. Abu Alaa, 45, insists that “a woman should stay home. Carrying a bag from house to house is inappropriate.” In contrast, Abu Mahmoud, 50, adopts a more pragmatic stance. “As long as the work is honest and puts food on the table, why not? We live in hard times, and need doesn’t forgive.”
Limited Income, No Protection
Most of the women work on commission or receive minimal fixed wages. Um Fajr earns around $100 a month — barely enough to cover her husband’s medication, let alone household essentials. Economist Mervat al-Attar says the trend stems from necessity and a lack of alternatives. “Sales work requires no capital, but it’s fragile. There’s no legal protection, no health insurance, and no stable income. Yet it offers women a degree of financial independence in suffocating conditions.”
Aya, a 21-year-old university student from Ariha, took on the job in secret to pay for her studies. “Sometimes I hide the products in a plain bag so people don’t know I’m working as a saleswoman. It’s very hard emotionally, but I can’t afford the luxury of shame.”
Social and Family Strains
Beyond financial pressures, the work is reshaping family dynamics. Long hours outside the home widen the emotional gap between mothers and their children. “Sometimes I feel like a guest in their lives,” Suad confesses. “I try to make up for it on Fridays by cooking, reading stories and playing with them, but the absence is heavy.”
The daily routine is relentless — marked by physical exhaustion, public judgement and unsafe working conditions. Yet many women persevere, driven not just by the need for income, but by a deeper pursuit of survival and self-respect.
At the end of each day, Suad returns home, worn out, placing her bag aside as her children run to greet her. She smiles through the fatigue and whispers: “Tomorrow I’ll carry my bag again. There’s no other choice. But as long as my children hug me like this, I know my struggle isn’t in vain.”
This article was translated and edited by The Syrian Observer. The Syrian Observer has not verified the content of this story. Responsibility for the information and views set out in this article lies entirely with the author.
