This story was shared through the City in Colour's project, "Safer WorkPlaces: Racialized Immigrant Women Experience of WorkPlace Health and Safety".

Animation and design: Alejandra Villanueva

Photography: Natalia Botero

A South Asian woman with a PhD, still to land a stable paid job in Canada testifies to the serious issue of deskilling: "A taste of hope When I walked into the community kitchen for the first time, my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. My resume—a single, wrinkled sheet of paper with barely anything on it—felt like a cruel joke. I was from an academic background with a deep love for cooking, and I had no formal culinary training, just years of cooking for my family in India. But I clung to one thought: I can do this. Jeff, the manager, greeted me with a big smile. His handshake was firm, his voice warm. “So, Swa,” he said, flipping through my pitiful resume, “what’s your specialty?” I had been prepared for this question. Pulling out the container I had brought , I opened it to reveal fresh, golden-brown aloo parathas. Jeff took one bite, and his eyes lit up. “These are incredible,” he said. “You’re hired.”I walked home that day with my heart soaring. After months of rejection, I finally had a job. More than that, I had a purpose.

Finding My Place

The community kitchen buzzed with noise and activity. Maria, a single mom juggling two kids, managed the salad station. Carlos, a chef with a booming laugh, prepared the hot dishes. And then there was me, stumbling through my broken English but determined to prove myself. The first week was tough. I burned the rice, spilled a vat of soup, and accidentally dropped a stack of plates. But Maria patted my back and said, “Don’t worry, girl. We’ve all been there.” By the second week, I found my rhythm. I introduced dishes from my homeland—spicy chana masala, crispy samosas, and creamy kheer. The kitchen smelled like home, and the clients loved it. One woman hugged me, saying my food reminded her of her grandmother’s cooking. I felt like I belonged for the first time since I arrived in Canada.

The Fall

Then it all came crashing down. It was a Friday morning, and the kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and cumin. I was chopping onions when Jeff called me into his office. My heart raced. Maybe he would thank me for my hard work or give me a raise. Instead, he avoided my eyes. “Swa, we have to let you go,” he said, his voice flat. For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. “Let me go?” I echoed. “But…why?”"