Par the course in this country:
The man says he later learned that the trucking owner sought political help to reinstate insurance and avoid further scrutiny, allegedly meeting with two elected officials, one of them a cabinet minister. While the Sun has not confirmed those meetings, the pattern of influence fits with complaints from industry insiders that certain carriers enjoy political protection. “They know who to call,” one safety auditor said last year. “That’s why enforcement fails.”
Meanwhile, the workers remain trapped. Closed work permits mean they cannot easily change employers without losing status. Those who speak out risk retaliation, loss of income, or deportation. Some, the man says, were threatened directly: “They said your PR can be cancelled if you make trouble.”
He eventually went to the authorities, filing complaints with Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada, Manitoba Employment Standards, and federal labour officials. Correspondence seen by the Sun confirms that investigations are ongoing into both unpaid wages and illegal recruitment fees. Yet months later, he remains unpaid and deeply afraid. Police advised him to call 911 if threatened, but he has not been granted a protection order. “I can’t sleep,” he told me. “I left home for safety and found none.”
The story is horrifyingly familiar to those following Manitoba’s trucking sector. In my earlier investigation, industry veterans described the same cycle: illegal LMIA payments, falsified documents, overworked and underpaid drivers, unsafe trucks on the highway, and regulators too slow to connect the dots. One executive said it plainly: “If this were the United States, it would be a racketeering case.”
The financial incentives are enormous. By charging workers for job offers, skirting payroll taxes, and underbidding legitimate carriers, rogue operators can pocket millions. The WCB’s analysis of $165 million in hidden payroll hints at the scale. Add to that the LMIA fees paid in cash — often moved through informal channels or disguised as gold or jewelry — and the outlines of an underground economy come into view.
The human cost is harder to quantify. Newcomers are lured with promises of stability and are instead met with threats and poverty. Some live 10 or 20 to a house, earning a fraction of the legal wage. In my previous report, one veteran described it as “modern-day slavery.” This man’s account makes the phrase feel less like rhetoric and more like fact.
He now supports his family through odd jobs, waiting for his case to proceed. He keeps a box of evidence in his apartment — documents, screenshots, and recordings — in case something happens to him. “I told my wife,” he said quietly, “if I disappear, give this to the newspaper.”
The agencies investigating his claims have declined public comment. The company and consultant he identified have not responded to repeated requests for answers.
(Sidebar: of course, they haven't.)
This story may read like a single man’s nightmare, but it’s part of a pattern stretching across Canada’s freight corridors. The LMIA system, once meant to fill temporary labour gaps, has been weaponized into a revenue stream for criminals and unscrupulous operators. Safety systems have been compromised, regulators overwhelmed, and genuine carriers forced to compete with those who cheat.
The above doesn't happen by accident.
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