Good morning. As you heard, my name is Mariela. I believe everyone who comes to Canada has a story, and this is mine.
I was about 17 years old when my family and I received a removal order. The year was 1998, exactly eight years since we had come to Canada. At that time I was finishing secondary school—grade 11, to be exact. My sister had just passed grade 5, and my parents were working in their own business, which had been open for about two years.
It didn't feel fair to be removed when all these years we had confirmed and contributed to Canada. We had nothing to go back to. My younger sister didn't even speak Spanish. The deportation order was already in progress, and so we had no choice other than to go underground, fleeing from our everyday lives.
This meant that even the house we lived in had to be abandoned, with all our belongings. Years of hard work were lost in a matter of hours. The business that my parents owned was left with the person who had co-signed our lease.
We had lost part of our identity. We were no longer part of Canada, the country we used to call home. There were nights I spent thinking about the concept of being illegal, being without any status. It seemed to me that I had lost everything that mattered to me. We were close to despair.
Our only option was to look for hideaways as if we were criminals. With nowhere to go, with no one to help us, we trusted unreliable immigration paralegals who did nothing for our cause other than rob us of our hard-earned savings. In our fear, we were taken advantage of not only by immigration consultants but also by unscrupulous employers.
My parents had no choice other than to work under the table, making half the minimum wage, only to have enough for us to eat. Sometimes they even worked 18 hours a day, while my sister and I prayed each day that they would come home safely.
As a refugee claimant waiting on an answer, we managed to go without any social assistance. I even opened a small business. We were part of many multicultural events held in Toronto. We did everything possible to integrate into Canadian society.
This country felt like our home. We were as proud as any Canadian, the only difference being that we never knew how long we were going to stay.
I was taught by my parents and our school that education was important, but after we received the deportation order, even finishing secondary school was questionable. My whole future seemed to be in the hands of immigration. My dreams were put on hold.
No legal status meant living in anguish and horrific conditions. No one wanted to rent to us, because we did not even have proper identification. No legal status meant losing all my friends because of the fear of being reported to Immigration. School was hard. The thought of being caught made it difficult to concentrate and enjoy learning. Our fears put our health at risk and also prevented us from going to the hospital.
The hardest part was the feeling of betrayal by the country I loved most. I believed we'd crossed many barriers and were important to Canadian society, but being denied just about everything from one week to another was like being punished for trying to live as a good citizen would.
The day my family and I were accepted as permanent residents was the day our dreams were renewed. However, not all people acquire that privilege of being accepted. The fact that there are people whose voices are still not heard and who continue living in fear has encouraged me to focus my studies on the settlement sector.
I believe no child should see their parents break down in front of their eyes, as was the case in my family. At the end of it all, all we wanted was to become responsible Canadian citizens who pay their taxes and vote in elections, to be part of Canadian society.