Yo arrived in Toronto at the end of 2008. I had migrated from Nepal, where I had fled in the early 1960s, not long after China occupied my homeland of western Tibet. It took a while, and a lot of hard work, to get my bearings. I studied at first, before starting work as an educational assistant. By the time my wife and children were preparing to join me in 2010, I was ready to rent a small apartment. After years of living precariously, our family was finally reunited and settled, part of a community.
Our home was in Parkdale, an area with many immigrant communities. It’s also close to the city center and the increasingly desirable lake shoreline. By 2015, property prices in the area had started to increase. With wealthier people arriving, landlords spied an opportunity to increase their profits.
In early 2015, our landlord informed us that our rent was going to increase. Our tenancy agreements, as well as local legislation, cap rent increases at 2% a year landlords make major capital investments in the property, so ours unless did some renovations in the lobby. Then we were told our rent would increase 5% annually for the next three years.
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I couldn’t afford that; it would make living in my much-loved home impossible.
After talking to my neighbours, it was obvious I was not the only one who would struggle. Similar things were happening to tenants across the neighbourhood. Many of them were immigrants like me: people who didn’t understand their legal rights, or felt too afraid or unable to stand up for themselves. That, I think, was part of the plan: clear out the residents who had lived here for years and bring in a wealthier demographic.
Thankfully, I knew about a community group of volunteers called Parkdale Organize. There was talk of coordinating a response to what was happening.
A group of us identified 25 to 30 buildings facing similar issues. We set about visiting all of them. Our pitch was straightforward: we would ask about their situation, share information about their rights and encourage them to join us.
What we found was shocking. Some buildings were infested with cockroaches and mice; others had leaks, mold or broken windows. People were putting up with awful conditions, yet their landlords failed to act. Something had to be done.
We started to organize. Representatives from every building met regularly to strategise. Our demands were simple: all homes must be made suitable for human habitation and unaffordable rent increases had to stop. Soon, we were ready to launch our campaign. We spoke to local media, marched in the street and worked with lawyers. But we were still ignored. We needed to speak in a language that would make these landlords listen.
In May 2017, we took our fight one step further. By now, we were a network of hundreds of households. So we started a rent strike, each of us withholding monthly payments until our conditions were met. A legal fund was crowdfunded and our supporters joined us at rallies. We stood firm, proving we were the party with power.
Three months later, the landlords agreed to negotiate. At first, they offered to create a temporary fund for tenants who needed financial support. That wasn’t good enough. All the buildings rejected it. Soon, the landlords were forced to renegotiate. There were cheers when we heard they’d conceded.
While the settlement varied from building to building, we’d succeeded in our mission. The new proposals included no rent increases above 2% for three years for all tenants.
As a refugee, I’d spent a lifetime searching for a sense of belonging, of feeling secure. The proposed rent increases had me worried I’d be forced from my home again. Our victory proved I was part of a community – that my neighbors had my back and I had theirs. That was special.
What we achieved is proof that fighting back – and winning – is possible. Numbers matter; if you come together, stay together, you’ll achieve success. That’s precisely what we did.
As told to Michael Segalov
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George is Digismak’s reported cum editor with 13 years of experience in Journalism