New homeowner looks forward to saying goodbye to years of rental disputes

November 10, 2024 Canuck

This First Person article is the experience of Bella Luna Zuniga, a Winnipeg homeowner and artist. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see this FAQ .

I’ve bought a house.

In the spring, I’ll cross the threshold into a new chapter, leaving behind years of frustration and neglect.

But as I prepare for this next chapter, I can’t help but think of my neighbours.

Many of them are newcomers to Canada, just as my family was 40 years ago, when we arrived as refugees from Chile. They came here searching for a better life. Yet like me with my rental struggles, they’ve been met with silence and indifference. Unlike me, they don’t have the option to leave.

Close-up of a beige wall with a plaster patch on it and brown spots of mould around it. — Zuniga says a hole in the pantry room was repaired with a patch of packing tape and a bit of plaster. (Submitted by Bella Luna Zuniga)

Six years ago, when I moved into this townhouse complex, I was searching for more than just a roof over my head. I wanted a sense of belonging, a place that truly felt like home.

Nestled by the river and surrounded by towering trees, the complex had a cabin-like charm, an oasis that seemed to promise peace and community. But it didn’t take long for that vision to unravel.

I sent email after email, but my requests disappeared.– Bella Luna Zuniga

Shortly after I settled in, a notice arrived; our homes were due for a renovation. It sounded harmless enough — new paint, a few repairs. But then the pandemic came, and with it, a silence that fell across the world.

Everything stopped.

My home was chaos. Exposed insulation around the windows turned my living room into a winter cave, ice forming on the inside of the glass. Gaps in the walls became highways for rodents, and birds took up residence in the open spaces under the roof, tearing apart what little insulation remained. Without gutters, every rainstorm flooded the ground outside, turning it into a swamp.

And the mould – it crept along the bathroom walls and spread into the kitchen, a quiet invader that no one seemed willing to acknowledge. When I called for help, I was told it was “normal.”

The electrical outlets dangled with exposed wiring, a silent danger lurking in plain sight. The front door barely hung on by splinters.

Close-up of a shattered window, with a small hole in the centre of it. — A window that was shattered when something was thrown through it awaits repair in Zuniga’s rented home. (Submitted by Bella Luna Zuniga)

I sent email after email, but my requests disappeared.

Years passed, and the decay only deepened. The foam insulation became a canvas for children to etch their drawings on. The birds continued their slow dismantling of the roof.

And then earlier this year, I was hit by a car. The impact left me with severe injuries. The door, which had always been difficult to open, now felt like an impenetrable barrier.

Trapped by both my broken body and my deteriorating surroundings, I reached out again to my landlord, pleading for repairs. I was told that my injuries were likely the reason I couldn’t open my front door.

“Take comfort,” they said. “At least it will be sealed tightly for the winter.”

I saw how quickly things could change when someone, anyone, finally listened.– Bella Luna Zuniga

The cracked sidewalks and potholed driveway became treacherous. In my wheelchair, crossing the street was too dangerous, forcing me to rely on a disability van just to make it across to the other side.

It wasn’t until I found myself utterly trapped by the suffocating weight of silence that I reached out to those I thought could offer help. In desperation, I knocked on doors — organizations, city councillors, even my MLA. But the machinery of bureaucracy ground slow.

It felt like even the provincial Residential Tenancies Branch was bound by rules that seemed to protect everyone but me. The bylaws were clear, the lease airtight, but enforcement was a different beast altogether.

Then an inspector came, and for the first time, someone bore witness to the cracks, the decay, the indignities I had endured.

They ordered repairs, set deadlines, and when the landlord failed, the RTB took a stand. My rent was redirected. It went to the RTB, who held onto it until repairs were made.

What I had pleaded for over the years — repairs promised and never made — materialized in days.

The door, which had resisted me like the world itself, swung open effortlessly. The exposed wiring, once a silent threat, was safely sealed away.

I saw how quickly things could change when someone, anyone, finally listened.

There was a measure of relief, but it came with the bitter taste of exhaustion. Why had it taken so much to secure the basic dignity of a safe home? Why had I needed to fight so hard for something that should have been mine all along?

As I pack my things and prepare to leave, I think of my neighbours, many of them unaware of their rights, their voices drowned out just as mine was, still pleading to be heard. And I cannot help but wonder — who will listen?

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