My Canadian dream turned into an unsettling nightmare. That shouldn’t happen for any other refugee

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Mostafa Al-A’sar is a human rights journalist and the 2024-2025 Canadian Journalists for Free Expression Journalism Fellow and part of the William Southam Journalism Fellowships at Massey College.

Just a few hours after arriving in Canada last March, I started to ask myself: “Am I really in the right place?”

Fewer than three years had passed since my release from political detention in Egypt. I had been kidnapped and tortured in an underground cellar for more than two weeks, handcuffed and blindfolded; after that, the Egyptian authorities imprisoned me for nearly four years.

I then moved through four different countries in exile, leaving behind my family, homeland, friends, memories and the familiar scent of home before finally arriving in Canada. I let myself hope that my arduous journey – one filled with exhaustion and fear – was coming to an end.

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But one night was sufficient to shatter all my expectations, resurrecting my psychological traumas and forcing me to relive the feeling of imprisonment. It was, unfortunately, a harbinger of things to come – a story that is, unfortunately, not unique among refugees like me.

When I arrived at Toronto’s Pearson Airport, I was met by an organization called Polycultural Immigrant and Community Services, which I later learned was an independent, non-profit agency whose resettlement assistance program is funded by Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada. Through Polycultural, I was temporarily housed at the Crowne Plaza Hotel near the airport in Mississauga, but to my surprise, this hotel felt more like a prison, where newcomers were treated like detainees under constant surveillance.

Security guards stood outside our rooms all day – an unending watch, as if guarding cells. Did they not understand that many of us were fleeing political persecution or wars and conflicts in our home countries? Did they not realize that constant surveillance could reignite our psychological traumas?

(When asked about the specifics of this case, a spokesperson speaking on behalf of Polycultural said that it “runs counter to their purpose as an organization to inflict further trauma on any of these individuals by engaging with media on their specific cases.”)

The next morning, my social worker told me that we were not allowed to receive visitors in our hotel rooms, as if we were in solitary confinement.

I asked if I could see guests in the lobby, but not only was the answer no, I was told that even I wasn’t allowed to sit or walk around there. It felt as if the only thing I could do was to stay in my room. (When reached for comment, Jenna Mannone, a spokesperson for Polycultural, told The Globe and Mail that “clients are not asked to stay in their rooms, and they are welcome to have visitors to their hotel room.”)

The dining hall was another unpleasant surprise: The area was disorganized, unclean and lacked washrooms, and the food quality was very poor. Refugees had to wait outside the door with no place to sit, and were prohibited from entering until the meals arrived, and they were regularly late. The sight of migrants and their children sitting on the floor waiting to eat reminded me of scenes from a country suffering from famine or a humanitarian crisis.

When I arrived in Canada after being detained and tortured for my defence of human rights and freedom of expression, I hoped for safety and mental stability. I knew I was fortunate to be here, and I was grateful.

But I soon found that I had to make a stark choice: either stay in Canada, with all of its challenges, and suffer at the hands of those who were supposed to be my fellow citizens – whether it was the people who were supposed to help me, or bad actors trying to take advantage of vulnerable newcomers – or leave the country.

Just hours after activating my Canadian phone line, I began receiving calls from individuals pretending to be government officials or bank employees, relentlessly trying to steal my personal information. In addition to these calls, which I received almost daily, I got text messages containing malicious links or phishing attempts designed to compromise devices and steal data. The messages often appeared to come from government agencies or banks.

Given my proficiency in English and awareness of such scams, I managed to avoid falling victim. But I wondered: What about others?

I started asking friends, both newcomers and those already settled in Canada, if they received similar calls and messages after activating their phone lines. The unanimous response was yes. Most of them added that these attempts decreased over time – as if the fraudsters knew to ease up as vulnerable newcomers spent more time here understanding the lay of the land. What’s more, many told me that it feels like they are targeting newcomers in particular, as if they have access to contact lists and information held only by telecoms. How else would they be able to know about new phone lines, to target them directly?

Not all scam attempts are random; some are carefully planned and involve highly private information about the targeted victim. For instance, one newcomer told me she received a message that appeared to be from a government agency, accusing her of committing fraud to obtain housing and threatening eviction or a fine of up to $10,000. The message contained highly private information, including her address and an alias not listed in official documents, giving the impression that she was being meticulously tracked. It is terrifying to feel like someone is watching you in a new country.

Not all scammers hide behind anonymous messages and calls. Some pose as real estate agents, adding yet another layer of difficulty in the search for suitable housing.

That search was one of the biggest struggles for me, as it is for so many new migrants. Two days after arriving in Canada, I told Polycultural that I was uncomfortable in the hotel – that it brought back trauma from my captivity and torture in Egypt – and that I urgently needed to find housing. I shared my personal needs for accommodation with the logistics and housing team, emphasizing my logic behind them and the medical and psychological reports that supported them: Living in a basement would be unbearable for me after being kidnapped and tortured in one. I would rather sleep on the street than stay in another basement.

Ms. Mannone told The Globe that while the organization “does their best to help clients who want to live in specific areas with specific requirements, accommodations can be difficult to secure within a client’s limited budget, particularly in today’s rental and housing market. … Polycultural must work within specific funder guidelines and instructions.” But she added that clients are supposed to “pick one of two suitable housing options that meet the Canadian standard of health and safety,” and that never occurred for me, nor was I ever informed what that standard was. She also noted that “when clients refuse the suitable housing options provided, they may receive in-person meetings with IRCC officers for further discussions and actions, and in some cases a follow-up letter is sent,” but the letter was sent before my meeting with IRCC.

Over the next two months, I independently contacted more than 50 landlords without any assistance from the organization, using social-media groups, ads on apps and housing websites. I devoted my days to finding a place to live, sometimes leaving the hotel in Mississauga early in the morning to attend three different viewings in Toronto.

All these attempts failed, and I found that many were scams, with landlords demanding fees ranging from $100 to $500 just to apply; fortunately, I knew this was illegal. Others asked for a security deposit of three to six months’ rent, or requested bank statements, credit scores, and proof of stable employment – requirements that were unrealistic for me as a newcomer. Others simply refused to rent to new arrivals.

My search for suitable housing turned into a new nightmare, and I began to lose hope. I felt overwhelmed, depressed and deeply distressed by the situation. What’s more, in the midst of this struggle, the organization that was supposed to be responsible for my resettlement only exacerbated my stress. The logistics staff presented me with housing options that would have retraumatized me. Despite repeatedly explaining that I should not need to justify my refusal to live in a basement or recount my traumatic experiences, the staff continued to push unsuitable options. At one point, their manager claimed that I was not allowed to refuse what they offered me; I insisted that I did have the right to reject options and to select housing that did not adversely affect my mental health.

Then came the unexpected: a warning letter from the organization stating that I had rejected suitable housing options. They instructed me to quickly find a place or face another letter in 10 days, “as a step towards specifying a date for your check out of the hotel” – essentially, an eviction notice.

This letter amplified my anger and pushed me into a severe psychological crisis. I fell into a deep depression, crying in my room. I started asking myself: Why am I putting myself through this? Why is someone threatening to evict me to the streets? The blow to my dignity was crushing. I had not accepted my dignity being undermined while in prison – why should I accept it now that I am free?

I admit I considered returning to Egypt, where I face persecution and security threats – and even considered ending my life. I felt guilty, as if I were a criminal, under constant pressure to leave – as if I was responsible for the lack of affordable and adequate housing. I was surrounded by security personnel outside my room as if I were a terrorist, with no visitors allowed, as if I were a contagious virus. I felt I was solely to blame.

This is the situation I felt the organization, which was supposed to help me with my initial steps in Canada, put me in, turning into an obstacle rather than a source of support.

Then, I realized that this situation was not unique. Horrific events had occurred in this hotel and involving Polycultural. I read reports from CTV News about a transgender woman from Syria feeling “like a criminal” while waiting for resettlement as fellow refugees verbally abused her for her sexuality; about an Afghan family that was stuck in various hotels without information under strict rules for 10 months after fleeing the Taliban; and, most distressingly, about a refugee who had stabbed herself out of despair after failing to secure housing. I learned that a real estate agent who was assigned by Polycultural to help refugees find a new home had been charged with sexual assault. I was not an isolated case. I was not guilty of anything. (Spokespeople for Polycultural told CTV at the time of those reports that the transgender woman would be transferred to another hotel, and that it would not send refugee families with the real estate agent upon learning about the charges.)

Eventually, with the help of some friends, I found a suitable studio apartment, though the rent was higher than the monthly government assistance I receive, which is meant to cover rent, bills, and other living expenses.

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But though I found myself on the verge of losing hope again as I struggled to cover the extra costs and deal with the complex paperwork, my friends kept me going.

The biggest challenge was finding two Canadian guarantors for the lease. I reached out to an Egyptian friend who had moved to Canada 30 years ago, and his response was like something from a black comedy: “I never imagined prices could be this high or the housing crisis this complicated. Buying a house in Canada back then was easier than renting an apartment today!” Fortunately, he and his partner were willing to serve as my guarantor.

As a journalist, I wanted to understand why this was happening to people like me. One of the major problems seems to be leaving the resettlement process entirely to government-funded organizations such as Polycultural, seemingly without proper oversight. Various levels of government may rely on reports from these organizations submitted as part of requests for proposals, which would tell funders about their activities and the number of people they say they’ve assisted. But with the organization’s number of clients only growing – from 13,903 in 2021-2022 to 37,135 the following year – is the government asking how effective this assistance actually is?

I spoke with friends from Syria who fled the war and relocated to Sweden to discuss the nature of the refugee resettlement programs there. In that country, they told me, municipalities (or Kommun) receive a number of refugees based on their capacity and an annual national quota, and they are directly responsible for them for a year. The federal Migration Agency works to integrate them into language courses, provide training around the country’s political and social systems, offer community and psychological support, and manage housing directly through the municipality and relevant agencies. In this system, housing costs are manageable, allowing newcomers to cover rent with the monthly assistance they receive from the Employment Agency and still have enough for living expenses, making it harder for landlords to exploit them. According to Sweden’s Migration Agency, the government does not outsource any resettlement work to private companies.

It made me wonder why the Canadian government does not redirect the funds being spent on hotel accommodations through resettlement organizations to create sustainable and affordable housing for newcomers instead. Why not invest the millions given to these organizations into expanding government-run services, hiring additional staff under government supervision, or at least providing sufficient oversight and collaborating with other levels of government to solve the problems faced by refugees?

Beyond finding suitable housing and dealing with legal matters such as government paperwork and communication with the IRCC – obtaining a permanent-resident card and a social-insurance number, for instance – there are basic things that newcomers must understand. This includes learning about what clothing to wear for different weather conditions, navigating public transportation, and understanding educational procedures, their workplace rights and how to put themselves in the best position to look for and get a job. They also need to familiarize themselves with community norms, acceptable behaviours, local laws, the political system and civic engagement.

But our social workers and resettlement organizations often fail to guide us on these issues. I’ve met migrants stuck in temporary housing for months, unable to leave because they don’t know how to use public transportation. Worse, resettlement organizations can themselves become obstacles. Newcomers rely on them and trust them fully, but some staff members are simply unqualified and unable to offer crucial assistance. At times, they neglect cases or provide incorrect information, worsening the difficulties faced by migrants.

I met a newcomer who came from Tunisia with her high-school-aged daughter. Her first priority was to enroll her daughter in school to avoid losing an academic year. She worked with Polycultural, but they told her that enrolment wouldn’t be possible this year. Not believing them, she went to a nearby school – and was pleasantly surprised to find her daughter accepted and enrolled.

In my case, I was supposed to receive my permanent-residence card within 76 days of arriving in Canada. When the card was delayed past May, I repeatedly asked the organization to follow up with the IRCC, as my work sometimes requires international travel. But it failed to do so, and when I won a press freedom award in July, with the ceremony sponsored by the European Union in Beirut, I couldn’t attend to accept it.

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The organization consistently told me not to worry about the card process, until I contacted the IRCC myself after four months of waiting and learned they just needed a recent photo to send the card. I was fortunate; if I had waited two more months, the six-month period for applying for permanent residence would have expired, forcing me to start the process over. (Ms. Mannone told The Globe that “Polycultural is not authorized to communicate directly with IRCC’s Case Processing Centre,” and that “ultimately, the success of this application process is dependent on the client sending IRCC the correct information.” I was never informed of any appropriate ways to communicate to the IRCC, nor told that I was responsible; this would have been nearly impossible, too, if I wasn’t able to speak English, as is the case for many refugees.)

I also informed my social worker assigned to my case of my urgent need for a family doctor due to health conditions requiring regular follow-up. The social worker told me there was a shortage of family doctors and none were accepting new patients. However, after just two days of asking friends, I found a doctor myself, only a few hundred metres from my home. (Ms. Mannone told The Globe that “We rely on information listed online showing general practitioners who are accepting new patients. Caseworkers often reach out to dozens of clinics and doctors to match clients with a physician. Given the Canada-wide family doctor shortage, this process can sometimes take time.”)

But what about migrants who don’t speak English and lack social connections to help them navigate their initial steps? Who will speak for them?

Despite the arduous journey I’ve endured, I still consider myself fortunate. I have numerous dreams to chase here, I speak English and I have a supportive network of friends and connections that helped me during my early days. I’m grateful to be in my new home. But I hope that no one has to face the same struggles I did, ever again. This is why Canadians must seek and be open to constructive criticism and raise awareness about the challenges we face, striving for a country that embraces everyone and allows its citizens to thrive, and restores the Canadian dream to its rightful place.

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The government needs to listen carefully to the experiences of migrants if it seeks a better future for the country, and should consider these experiences directly rather than relying on second-hand reports. Every migrant who chose Canada as a new home closed one chapter of their life to begin a new journey and dream, and it is essential to ensure that this courageous choice to launch their dream does not deteriorate into a nightmare.

Doing so benefits Canada, too. The country’s economic growth doesn’t just rely on bringing in immigrants – it also relies on us wanting to stay here. According to a 2023 report by the Institute for Canadian Citizenship, the number of immigrants who have decided to leave Canada for another country has been steadily increasing since the 1980s, but in 2017 and 2019, it reached record highs. Most of those leaving are doing so after four to seven years in Canada, “indicating that positive early experiences may be key to retaining immigrants in Canada and reversing the recent spike in onward migration.”

That’s a problem that affects us all. Those numbers mean that these migrants did not realize their dream after years in Canada, and decided to look for it elsewhere. And Canada is better when every one of us can achieve our dreams.