I was undocumented in Canada for 13 years. Now I fight for others like me

This First Person piece is written by Luisa Ortiz-Garza, who lives in Toronto and is an organizer with the Migrant Workers Alliance for Change. It was originally published in April 2023. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I was outside the federal Liberal cabinet retreat in Hamilton, leading a rally of 200 migrants, undocumented people and supporters. I stood under a bright pink banner that read "Status For All." I started my speech by introducing myself. 

"My name is Luisa and I was undocumented." 

That was in January 2023. To this day, saying that I was undocumented aloud is scary. 

I was 24 when I came to Canada from Guadalajara, Mexico, in 2006. My parents and sisters had already migrated to the United States, because finding jobs in Mexico was hard. I had finished a bachelor's degree in visual arts in Mexico, and after nearly a year of searching, the only job that I could find was a low-paying one at a call centre. That place only hired people with high school diplomas to get away with paying lower wages, so I lied about my university degree. It's why I also decided to come to Toronto in the hope of finding a job and for a better life, because there weren't many job opportunities for young women like me in Mexico that guaranteed a future.

A few months after I arrived, I met my now-husband, who was also from Mexico and living in Canada. Our tourist visas were expiring, but we decided to risk staying here even though it would mean we were undocumented. We were scared to stay without papers, but we also felt that we did not have options. I was pregnant and we had nothing to go back to in Mexico.

Our first child was born in 2008. At that time, I worked in a fruit and vegetable packing plant in Mississauga, Ont. As soon as my manager found out I was pregnant, I was fired. Since I wasn't a permanent resident or citizen, accessing employment insurance benefits was not an option. Being pregnant and out of work felt like I was falling from the sky without a parachute. I knew what my manager did wasn't right, but I had to be quiet as I was undocumented.

It was lonely and scary to have a newborn with no extended family around or any support. We lived paycheque to paycheque. My husband had to work several jobs to earn enough for us to survive.

In 2013, our second child was born. I had to work as a cleaner right up to three days before the delivery to afford the thousands of dollars we needed to pay hospital fees. At the time of the birth, the anesthesiologist stood outside the door and refused to enter until we paid him in cash. We didn't even get a receipt.

When my husband had an accident at work in 2013 while using a circular saw, his co-workers wanted to call an ambulance but he refused even though he almost lost his fingers. 

On his way to the hospital in the taxi, he had to ignore his pain to focus on what to say to the doctors. If the accident was reported, questions about his status might have arisen. That's why he said that he was working on a project at home and paid the hospital costs in installments for over a year.

We couldn't keep living like this. 

Our kids were growing and asking more questions, like why we couldn't travel to other countries. That's why in 2016 we started the only pathway to permanent residency available for undocumented people — the humanitarian and compassionate application. 

The application process was terrifying. We had to out ourselves to Canadian immigration officials and put a target on our backs for deportation while we waited for an answer. It was incredibly expensive for us, because I was working as a part-time cleaner and my husband worked in construction. We were both paid under the table, so putting together the nearly $3,000 just in application fees was a challenge. 

We also were required to include letters of support, and we had to tell friends and colleagues about our status. We didn't know how they would react to our news. That's why my husband and I would strategize about the "right moment" to bring it up. It was always an awkward conversation, but fortunately everyone was supportive. 

Around the same time I applied for permanent resident status, I knew that I had to do more — not just for my friends and family but for the estimated half a million undocumented immigrants in Canada. I joined No One Is Illegal - Toronto, an activist group made up of people like me. A few years later, I started working at the Migrant Workers Alliance for Change. 

After more documents, photos, medical exams and fingerprints, we were finally approved. Three years of constant fear waiting for a call or a rejection. Thirteen years of being undocumented.  

I felt so relieved and happy when our permanent resident (PR) cards finally arrived in the mail in 2019. The first thing we did was tell our 11-year-old son and six-year-old daughter.  Until then, we hid from them the fact that we didn't have immigration papers. They were young and we had lived in fear that they would accidentally tell someone we were undocumented, and inadvertently put our family at risk. It was a burden that affected me mentally, emotionally and physically. They were too young to understand the significance of it but over time they have come to appreciate the changes in our lives, like when we bought our first car or took our first trip outside of Canada. 

Having a PR card also meant we could live without fear. I thought back to all those moments when we were silenced — like when my husband was injured or I was fired without cause over my pregnancy. It lit a fire within me, and the PR card gave me the power to speak up and fight for equal rights for all. I wanted to support others — like our friends had supported us throughout our application process.

Even though my family got permanent residency, many people cannot apply and over 70 per cent are rejected. 

This is why Prime Minister Justin Trudeau's promise of regularization in December 2021 was so meaningful to people like me. Regularization doesn't mean special rights; it means living with dignity. It means walking into a hospital or a school without having to whisper that we do not have status. It means being able to protect ourselves from a bad boss just like anyone else who lives here.

Having permanent residency status has changed my life. I am about to finish a bachelor's degree in Indigenous Studies. In December 2022, we travelled for the first time since arriving in Canada to see and hug relatives we had gotten used to seeing only on a screen. After almost 17 years, my husband was able to hug his parents, siblings, nieces and nephews. He visited his sister's grave; she died while we were undocumented in Canada. He never got the chance to say goodbye to her, and going to her grave was closure. 

I am lucky, but so many people are not. It's been more than a year since Trudeau's promise, and we are still waiting for a regularization program that gives permanent residency to everyone.

Writing this so publicly is still not easy for me. I have my permanent residency but the years of living in fear and in crises have not left me. But I must speak up so that you understand what it's like for your neighbours and friends. We live here, and we want to live dignified and equal lives and that's only possible when we all have permanent residency status.

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