by A Special Correspondent
When I first walked into the office at The Commonwealth of Learning, I had no idea that I would be stepping into a battle—a battle not just for my job, but for my dignity. My predecessor had died from a heart attack, and I had been brought in to replace him. However, my offer came with a shock: a salary of just $30k, far below what one would expect for the role. I had hoped that my expertise, qualifications, and international recognition would speak for themselves, but it became apparent that things would be different.
As soon as I received the letter of employment, my immediate supervisor—who was well aware of my extensive research and accolades—invited me to lunch. He had known of my international research award and the high regard in which I was held within my field. On the way to lunch, he casually asked, “Did you get the letter of employment?” I nodded. “Can I take a look?” he asked. I was taken aback, but handed it over. He scanned it briefly before saying, “May I have it?” At that moment, I didn’t understand why he needed the letter. It was just a formality. But his insistence made me uneasy.
Later that day, the head of administration came to my office, with a new letter of employment in hand. She threw it on my desk, her face an unreadable mask of hostility. “You know how to talk to your boss!” she said with a smirk. The tension in the air was palpable, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. That afternoon, I learned the truth. They had deliberately underpaid me. They had pocketed the difference, overpaying themselves at my expense, something that would eventually be exposed at a Board meeting.
The Board members were furious when they discovered the manipulation. Dr. W., a board member, came to my office one day and closed the door behind him. He looked at me and asked, “You’re paid so low. Are you happy with that?” I couldn’t answer. They knew what was happening, but allowed it to continue. To them, I was just another expendable cog in the machine.
It was a devastating realization. It felt as if I was a slave to a system I didn’t fully understand. Canada, a land that prides itself on multiculturalism and opportunity, had become a place where people like me were exploited, undervalued, and silenced.
But the racism wasn’t confined to the workplace. It was everywhere. I saw it in the way people treated me in public, in stores, and in the streets. The treatment I endured became more evident when I encountered what I can only describe as the Canadian version of modern-day slavery. I met farm workers from other countries who had been brought in to work the land, only to find themselves subjected to horrific conditions. Some of them, it was reported, had even frozen to death in the very camps where they worked.
In one instance, I struck up a conversation with a native gentleman while walking through a park. He said, “If you pay attention, you’ll see it. You’re walking through a meat grinder.” His words struck me deeply, reminding me of the time I was involved in a serious motor accident. The government-run insurance company, ICBC, refused to acknowledge my injuries and did everything they could to deny my claims. When I visited a clinic for treatment, I was subjected to further harm—treated as though I were faking my injuries. The doctor from the insurance company even had the audacity to say to me, “Your head is on your shoulders, you walk straight. I don’t see anything wrong with you. Why are you pretending?” It was a deliberate attempt to diminish my suffering.
When I hired a lawyer to represent me, I quickly learned that I was being bilked. My lawyer secured a pittance for my “pain and suffering,” barely enough to cover my medical bills. I was told to take it or leave it. But when I spoke to others, I learned that a white man who had been in a far less severe accident had been compensated enough to buy a house with cash. It dawned on me then that ICBC was not just neglecting me—they were actively trying to break me, to avoid paying for my injuries by pushing me to the brink.
My treatment in healthcare was no different. I was subjected to racist attitudes from staff members, who seemed determined to make my life as difficult as possible. A receptionist at a clinic kept me waiting for hours, claiming that “everyone else had appointments.” When I finally complained, I was met with a dismissive attitude. It was clear that I was being treated as less than, simply because of my ethnicity.
But the real betrayal came from the Public Guardian and Trustee (PG&T), the government agency tasked with overseeing the financial welfare of vulnerable individuals. Instead of providing care and oversight, they seized my retirement funds, my disability income, my tax returns—everything. They left me with just $50 a week to live on, forcing me to wander the streets of Vancouver, unable to afford even basic necessities. I couldn’t afford a phone, let alone transportation. They had taken everything from me.
It was then that I realized the truth: Canada, the land that had promised me freedom and opportunity, was nothing more than a meat grinder. The government, through its various agencies, had not only ignored me—they had actively worked to strip me of everything that made my life livable.
But the oppression didn’t stop there. I later learned that my information had been monitored for years. I had been followed, surveilled, and subjected to endless invasions of privacy. From the moment I arrived in Canada, I had been marked, and my every move was scrutinized. It was as if I was living in a state of constant surveillance, my every word and action watched.
I began to understand the truth of what I was experiencing—Canada’s systems of power were designed to crush people like me. The bureaucratic machinery was set up to exploit, degrade, and silence those who dared to challenge the status quo.
In the midst of this realization, I attempted to break free, to take control of my life once again. I looked into buying a small business—a gas station by the lake with a marina. But even that was a trap. The current owner, a local business official, warned me that the property was a disaster waiting to happen. The tanks underneath the gas station were leaking, and cleaning up the mess would cost millions of dollars. It was another attempt to deceive and defraud me, to trap me into financial ruin.
In my search for something better, I met other individuals who were also struggling, including a senior white gentleman who once owned a camping business. He tried to sell me his business, claiming that I had the money to afford it. But when I visited the site, I saw that his “business” was little more than a clearing in the woods with holes for human waste and a few pieces of steel for barbeque pits. When I rejected his overpriced offer, he lashed out, accusing me of being too “Chinese,” implying that I had billions of dollars and should be willing to pay whatever price he asked.
The racism and exploitation were constant, relentless. Everywhere I turned, I found myself facing a system that was designed to hold me back, to push me down. But despite the barriers, despite the prejudice, I refused to give up. Every day, I fought to survive, knowing that the systems in place were built to crush me.
To be continued
