The Precarious Lives of Undocumented Parents Whose Kids Are Born in Canada

When I asked Rodrigo, which is not his real name, what it was like watching his youngest child being born, he told me he felt grateful just to be in a hospital.

Having a kid can be pretty stressful to begin with, but on top of that Rodrigo fears that just being in a delivery room could get his family deported. An undocumented migrant father of three Canadian-born kids, Rodrigo recalls looking over his shoulder, unsure if his conversations with hospital staff would upend his life in Canada. "I remember one of the people, before we left the hospital, she came asking a lot of questions," he told VICE. "Some questions I thought for sure were not part of the forms—when did you arrive from your country, how long have you been here." Rodrigo and his wife have chosen home birth twice before, just to avoid questions like these. A construction worker in Metro Vancouver pressed with long hours and small wages, Rodrigo says this kind of fear follows him everywhere—from job sites to family outings to the school where his older kids attend elementary. He says he mostly keeps to himself, trying not to give coworkers or anyone else a reason to call immigration on him. "It doesn't change, it doesn't go away," he told VICE. "If you don't have documentation, you always live with fear." The fact that Rodrigo and his wife could even access a delivery room is because health outreach advocates have pressed two BC health authorities to stop calling border services on patients in recent years. Byron Cruz, a Vancouver man who says his phone is the 911 for the city's undocumented, has made it his mission to ensure precarious immigration status is no reason to turn away patients and expecting moms from needed health care. Rodrigo knows he's breaking the rules, and understands that many people think his stay in Canada is wrong. If he were in America, accusations of "anchor babies" or worse would be hurled in his direction—from Trump followers especially. But moral opposition to Rodrigo's life choices doesn't change the fact his kids are Canadian. And this poses serious problems for health outreach workers, politicians, border services, and undocumented parents alike. One of Rodrigo's greatest worries—and he has many of them—is that his Canadian-born kids might grow up without any consistent medical coverage at all. Through the organization Sanctuary Health his family is connected to a doctor that sees patients with precarious immigration status—but emergencies and specialists are what keep Rodrigo awake at night. On paper, his kids should be eligible for universal Canadian healthcare. But in practice, applying for that coverage requires documentation parents like Rodrigo don't have, and attempts to get access trigger immigration investigations. Critics of British Columbia's government raised the issue earlier this summer. New Democrat immigration critic Mable Elmore asked the province's health minister what's being done for these Canadian-born kids. "Many of these parents want to apply for MSP [medical service plan of BC] for their babies but do not do so because they rightly fear being deported," Elmore told the legislature. "As a result, we are seeing—and it's being shared with me—that Canadian babies are being denied important health care that they need as infants." BC's minister of health responded simply that "no policy has changed"—aka Canadian-born kids should be able to apply. "If a baby is born in Canada, they are a Canadian citizen and immediately eligible for MSP," Minister Terry Lake said. For the undocumented parents who do choose to follow the rules and fill out the paperwork for their newborn's medical coverage, a visit from the Canadian Border Services Agency is pretty much a guarantee. That's what new mom Martina* found out last year when she applied for her newborn son. One afternoon a few months later, she says border services knocked on her door. "The official told me to do the best for my baby and find a good lawyer," she told VICE. "I don't know if somebody gave my name to them. I don't want to know. Because the truth is I feel it's good to get this process started. We need it, we want to stay here." With their application in limbo for over a year now, Martina and her husband are still paying $900 emergency bills to have their kid see a doctor for an ear infection or fever. That's more than parents like Rodrigo say they can manage, so they instead rely on health supports from Cruz and others. "I don't even want to try," he told VICE. "I know it's risky the way I am now, but it's also too risky to be facing deportation." Instead, Rodrigo keeps his head down, clocks extra hours on the job, and keeps his fears and struggles to himself—a secret he intends to keep even from his own kids. "Our neighbours have no idea, they think everything is OK," he told VICE. "Sometimes I dream that I have ID, that I can protect them. But I don't have that." *Names in this story have been changed to protect anonymity. Follow Sarah Berman on Twitter.