We’re not in this together: Necropolitics, Necrocapitalism and Racialized Migrant Communities’ Experiences during Covid-19, by Ethel Tungohan

Covid-19 has led to a crisis in social reproduction. Numerous articles highlighting how this crisis has disproportionately affected women[1] and immigrant, newcomer, and BIPOC communities.[2]

I relate all too well to the substantive points raised by such research, namely the high degree of stress and anxiety the pandemic has wrought, the fact that it would take several generations for those who are most affected by the pandemic to ‘catch up’, and the depressing realization that public policies are developed without taking into account human costs. Throughout this pandemic, I have been trying to attain a sense of ‘balance’ with my responsibilities at work and my obligations to care for my family and my larger community. To give you a sense of what attempting to achieve this balance looks like for me, allow me to set the stage of what my life is like right now:

 I am a mom with two kids. My two-year-old daughter, Georgina, is now in daycare, where she is being cared for by her wonderful teachers. My six year old daughter, Winifred, is now in school under the tutelage of supportive teachers. For the past two years of the pandemic, my children have been placed in and out of daycare and school. With constant and last-minute fluctuations in provincial policies regarding closures of daycares and schools, and with requirements mandating that children be symptom-free in order to attend them, families like mine have to constantly adapt to these shifts.  In a situation where there is very little information on Covid-spread in daycares and schools, or on the measures that daycares and schools are implementing to ensure school safety, families are placed in a horrific position of having to make difficult and risky decisions. In January 2022, my family and I experienced the drawback of our decision to send our kids back to school when we all tested positive for Covid. As the only unvaccinated member of my family, Georgina experienced the worst of it. Thankfully, we all recovered, though some of us are still experiencing lingering health effects.

“In America, How Could This Happen is a project by artist Suzanne Brennan Firstenberg on the Armory Parade Grounds. There is a flag planted for each death, with more flags added each day as the death toll increases.” Image, Victoria Pickering (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0).

My worries about care extend beyond Canadian borders. As I write this piece, my phone is next to me, where I am in several group chats. One of the groups that I am in has forty members of my extended family, living across the United States, Canada, and the Philippines. Throughout the pandemic, various family group chats have sent updates regarding family members who have gotten exposed to Covid, who have been infected by Covid, and, more horrifically, who have died from Covid.  I wish I could say that I am new to transnational mourning rituals, but Covid has hit my family and my community quite profoundly. Since March 2020, I’ve taken part in no less than five virtual wakes, all in honour of lives lost either because of Covid or because Covid curtailed people’s access to care. I have nurses, doctors and other healthcare workers in my family and I am aware of the risks that they face. I know that these risks are compounded by race and by class. For instance, even though Filipina nurses make up 3% of all nurses in the United States, they make up 40% of all Covid positive transmissions.[3]

Why am I starting with all of this information? Given that the personal is political and the political always stems from the personal, I want to establish that the narratives I share in this article are ones that I relate to deeply, given my family’s and my own experiences during Covid. When research shows the disproportionate effects of COVID on racialized migrant communities, I understand this all too well.


Let me begin by thinking through statements of solidarity and encouragement that have been shared incessantly since the beginning of the pandemic. All of these are variations of “we’re all in this together.” I understand why it is important to foster a sense of community solidarity to encourage people to fight against the common enemy of Covid. These sentiments also help mitigate people’s sense of social isolation.

Reading these, though, what these sentiments make me think about are the vast social inequities that have been amplified during Covid. To be clear, Covid has created and magnified inequities that are already widespread. Institutions that are already beset with sexism, racism, ableism, and classism, such as workplaces, schools, and even the family unit, have revealed just how unequal they truly are during Covid. Austerity measures passed by successive neoliberal governments have steadily chipped away at existing protections such that, when Covid hit, the safety barriers that might have protected communities had been eroded, leading to even more cases of Covid infections and Covid deaths.

It isn’t lost on me that the industries that are dominated by women and racialized immigrant workers are the ones that face the least protections when it comes to Covid. The majority of care providers in LTC facilities are women, as are the majority of teachers. Meatpacking plants and farms which have had Covid outbreaks are likewise predominantly staffed by racialized migrant workers.

What this pandemic has shown us is the persistence of necropolitics and necrocapitalism in our society. Specifically, in Canada, racialized, working-class, migrant communities have been hit hardest by Covid yet government and corporate discourses of migrants as ‘essential workers’ and as ‘heroes’ deliberately obscure migrant workers’ vulnerability. In fact, the workings of necropolitics and necrocapitalism during COVID enable the conditional inclusion of some migrant workers, provided that these migrant workers are willing to sacrifice their lives to ‘save’ (white, middle-class) Canadians and Canadian businesses.

“Philippines, 5 May 2020: The IFRC has sent essential supplies like face masks and tents to the Philippine Red Cross to support its operations and scale up response to help halt the spread of COVID-19.” Image by Cruz Roja Española (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0).

What is necropolitics? As a concept first defined by Cameroonian political philosopher Achille Mbembe (2011), necropolitics highlights how states exercise sovereignty by being able to determine who may live and who must die.[4]

Taking his cue from Mbembe, American political geographer James Tyner argues that “there is a fundamental contradiction between the demands of capitalism in the pursuit of profit and the requirements to sustain life itself. ” In writing about a “new political economy of premature death,” Tyner believes that capitalist economies only value those bodies that are productive (i.e., those that are “in a position to generate wealth”) and are responsible (i.e., those that can participate fully in the market.) Those bodies “deemed nonproductive or redundant” – i.e., those who do not generate enough wealth – are “disproportionately vulnerable” and are “allowed” to prematurely die. In addition, Tyner argues that increasingly, necrocapitalist logics rely on some bodies being more vulnerable to premature death over others.[5]

The best way to fully grasp these concepts is to consider the contradictions between government discourses acknowledging that COVID has led to an immense public health crisis, with ‘essential workers’ leading the ‘fight’ against COVID, and economic reports showing that despite – or even because – of this public health crisis, corporations are enjoying record profits.

Consider, for example, the case of Canadian grocery chain Loblaws. In the beginning of the pandemic, it gave its staff members – which include grocery store cashiers, clerks, and other workers – a $2 pandemic raise. This extra $2 in pandemic pay has since been stopped. Is Loblaws losing money? Can it not afford to keep paying its workers an extra $2? On the contrary, news reports show that the company has amassed profits high enough “to hike the company’s dividends to shareholders.”[6] Juxtaposing these two realities – that ‘essential’ workers are no longer receiving pandemic pay as we proceed into a new resurgence of the pandemic and as we witness even more outbreaks in grocery stores while shareholders enjoy more money – highlights the precise workings of necrocapitalism.

Consider, also, the case of for-profit long-term care homes. Between 50% to 80% of all Covid deaths in Canada are tied to long-term-care homes,[7] with Personal Support Workers 3.3 times more likely to get infected with Covid compared to doctors and 1.8 times more likely compared to nurses.[8] Private long-term-care homes have the worst health outcomes during Covid. In fact, in the wake of reports of even more outbreaks in long term care homes,[9] there have been more calls from advocates and from opposition party leaders to abolish private care homes.[10] Workers in these homes whom I interviewed have also called for better labour conditions and also for a permanent pay increase (the extra $4 in pandemic pay that they received in the beginning of the pandemic has since been lowered to an extra $3 in pandemic pay, but only until March 2021.) They say that this extra money doesn’t adequately compensate them for their increased workload.

Are there more outbreaks and decreased pandemic pay for workers because for-profit long-term-care homes are having a hard time coping financially with the pandemic? If that is the case, why, then, are we seeing private for-profit care corporations enjoying improvements in their market performances? Reading about how most of the Covid-19 deaths in Canada are tied to long-term-care homes and talking to workers in these homes about their experiences of substandard working conditions while also seeing these companies growing (and shareholders profiting), again shows necrocapitalism at work.


We are all complicit in allowing necrocapitalism to continue. All of us are enmeshed in this system. Within it, our idea of what is acceptable keeps shifting, influenced by the false dichotomy being presented to us: health or economics. Whereas in the beginning of the pandemic, we all likely agreed that no one should die of Covid, now, somehow, we’ve gotten used to the new normal. Instead of aiming for zero Covid deaths, we have somehow changed our thinking to agree – without questioning – that we shouldn’t aim for zero deaths but an ‘acceptable’ number of deaths. We are OK with Covid deaths – provided we don’t have to think too much about which communities are dying.  

In internalizing these ideas, we have forgotten that the imperative to keep the market growing has caused racialized, working-class, migrant communities to be disproportionately affected by Covid-19.  Necrocapitalism dictates that where you are positioned in the class and race hierarchy determines your vulnerability to premature death. As human beings, we will all die, of course.  Our social positioning (as seen through the types of work we do and our exposure to risk and to premature death) determines when we die. 

In short, we need to resist the idea (one we’ve all internalized) that Covid deaths are an unfortunate but inevitable reality of living in a pandemic. Exposure to Covid in workplaces like long-term care homes and farms and schools could have been avoided but necrocapitalist logics mandate that these lives should be sacrificed in order to keep the economy going. And, to repeat, the lives that are worth sacrificing are those of seniors. The lives that are worth risking are those of women and racialized, working-class migrants.

What then of necropolitics, of states’ determination of who may live and who must die? Is Canada complicit in necropolitics?


To better understand how necropolitics and necrocapitalism operate in public policy, allow me to now turn to immigration policy and care work, my primary research and advocacy interests. I want to discuss the sharp contradictions in policies towards different migrant groups to illustrate my point that Canada, on the one hand, sees migrant workers as providing valuable work that is crucial to Canadian society while on the other hand, deeming them an economic and security threat. Canada welcomes immigrants, seeing them as essential to the economic and social growth of the nation, but in times of crises, such as a recession or a pandemic, the same migrants that Canada welcomes are constructed as being both necessary and a threat.[11] Undergirding these contradictions is an abiding ethos of necropolitics. These contradictions become even more obvious during Covid-19.

First, let’s consider the experiences of internationally-trained doctors. They encounter manifold difficulties when qualifying to practice in Canada. The official reasoning behind presenting roadblocks to getting internationally-trained doctors accredited to practice in Canada is that Canada simply cannot guarantee the quality of the medical training doctors from abroad have received. It is, the logic goes, essential to the safety of Canadians to make internationally-trained doctors fulfill requirements first.

Yet what happened within some provinces during Covid? Because of the need for doctors, the province of  Ontario, for example, is issuing “Supervised Short-Term Duration Certificates,” allowing internationally-trained doctors to work under the supervision of a Canadian-trained doctor.[12] A few internationally-trained doctors have applied for these certificates, valid only for 30 days, in the hopes that their decision to put themselves on the frontlines during the pandemic will be looked upon favourably when they are applying for Canadian citizenship and when they are applying for their medical licenses.

The decision to give internationally-trained doctors temporary medical certificates lays bare the fiction that Canada is trying to ‘protect’ the safety of Canadians by having these doctors pass, during ‘normal times’, numerous requirements before being able to practice. Why, during Covid-19, do we say we need their skills now and allow them not to go through all of the qualification requirements but when there isn’t a pandemic, we say that they present a threat to Canadian public health? Could it be that the policies themselves were only designed to gatekeep?

Second, let’s talk about migrant farm workers. Many agri-businesses rely on migrant farm workers entering through programs like the ‘low-skilled’ Temporary Foreign Workers Program and the Seasonal Agricultural Workers Program. On 16 March, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau shut down the borders but two days later, after being lobbied by agribusinesses who reminded him that we still need to keep feeding Canadians during the pandemic, Canada amended its border closure policy to allow for the entry of migrant farm workers. As part of their conditions for entry, migrant farm workers would have to quarantine for 14 days before they could work. And some workers – specifically those coming from Jamaica – were made to sign a waiver whereby they agreed NOT to blame the Jamaican government for any “costs, damages and loss from COVID.”[13] During COVID, working conditions in farms are abysmal. There have been many COVID outbreaks in farms. Workers who have tested positive and who dare speak out, such as Luis Gabriel Flores, are fired.[14] Scholar-activist Evelyn Encalada Grez’s observations that migrant farm workers are “essential but expendable” during the pandemic holds true.[15]

Third, let us turn to temporary foreign workers who are part of industries where there are COVID outbreaks. Specifically, I am thinking about meatpacking plants like Cargill, whose workforces consist of low-skilled temporary foreign workers. If you will remember, in Alberta, Cargill had to shut down briefly because of a COVID outbreak among its mostly Filipino workforce.  

The Alberta government, through spokespersons like Dr. Deena Hinshaw, said that Filipino culture is to blame for Covid. She claimed that the Filipino work ethic mandates going to work even when sick, thus spreading Covid, conveniently forgetting that managers threaten workers with reprisal if they miss too many shifts. Hinshaw also blamed Filipinos for spreading Covid because of their (our) purported cultural preference to live in large households. In doing so, Hinshaw ignored systemic racism and classism.[16] In blaming Filipino culture, structural workplace conditions were ignored.

 As my co-writers Whitney Haynes, Marco Luciano, Deanna Neri, and Mycah Panjaitan and I show in our report Precarious Work and Precarious Housing: Investigating Stories of Migrant Workers’ Housing Struggles in Edmonton, Alberta (2020),  Filipino and other racialized migrant workers have a hard time accessing housing because of endemic racism against Filipinos by landlords and by the perception that some migrant workers present security risks.[17] Other reports show that Filipino workers experienced an uptick in racial discrimination during the pandemic, with many reporting experiences of facing aggression from random members of the public who see them as sources of contagion.[18] These encounters, in fact, resonate with historical constructions of Asian migrants as constituting a “yellow peril.”[19]

The government of Alberta, by the way, allowed Cargill to re-open after two weeks, despite the opposition of its workers. While Cargill workers initially received a $2 pay rise during the pandemic, this concession was quickly rescinded.

Fourth, I now want to talk about international students. Contrary to popular perceptions that international students are all rich and are here only to study, a collaborative research study I conducted with co-investigators Jesson Reyes and Mithi Esguerra at Migrants Resource Centre Canada shows that international students have, in many ways, become Canada’s new temporary foreign workers.[20] Over the past decade, the numbers of international students who are older and who are coming here with degrees from their home countries have risen. This means that many international students are entering the country on international student visas in order to open the door to Canadian permanent residency. Since the pandemic, many international students have faced economic anxieties, magnified by restrictions on their visa limiting their ability to work to 20 hours per week. The Canadian government lifted these restrictions in the beginning of the pandemic, allowing international students to work more than 20 hours per week, provided that they are working in essential industries such as meatpacking plants and long-term care homes. With respect to the latter, thepersonal support workers I’ve interviewed have told me that they are being made to train international student visa-holders to do personal support work because long-term care homes are seeing international students as an untapped source of labour.

And finally, let’s discuss migrant care workers. I am currently part of a collaborative research study with GABRIELA-Ontario (a mass organization of women of Filipina descent) and the Migrants Resource Centre Canada examining the experiences of Filipina migrant care workers during COVID. While our project is ongoing, one thing is clear after conversations with 76 Filipina care workers: migrant care workers have to navigate being seen as both providing essential work and as being seen a threat to safety.

“We go where we are needed.” Image by John Twohig (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0).

In the beginning of the pandemic, much of media coverage actually blamed migrant care workers for spreading Covid-19.[21] While such hysteria has died down a little bit, with some provincial governments recognizing the important work care workers provide by giving some (but not all) care workers pandemic pay,[22] it is illuminating to hear from care workers who discuss the effects of contradictory policies and rhetoric on them. To be clear, the pandemic has affected migrant care workers differently. Those who already have Canadian citizenship and who work in unionized environments enjoy more security compared to those who only have temporary work permits and who are non-status and who work in non-unionized work environments. Yet despite these key differences, the similarities of workplace precariousness are sobering.

The unevenness of pandemic pay is a source of stress for all care workers. For many, pandemic pay is insufficient. As one PSW told us, a pandemic pay of an extra four dollars an hour, which has since been lowered to three dollars an hour, doesn’t really compensate for the extra work that they have had to do. “Tinataya naming ang buhay namin araw-araw,” says another PSW, “every day, we put our lives at risk. Is $3 really worth it?”

The most revealing example of how migrant care workers in their everyday work are socially constructed – as providing necessary labour but also as threats – can be seen through narratives that make obvious these contradictions. As some migrant care workers remark, why is it that there are signs saying “We support care workers,” “thank you care workers,” “you are all heroes!,” on the one hand, yet on the other hand, such gratitude has not translated into fair compensation, into health benefits, and, for some, the provision of Canadian citizenship?

Why is it that, while some of their employers openly acknowledge that they wouldn’t be able to function without their help, the same employers explicitly prohibit them from using their washrooms or from using their kitchens to eat. This is especially ironic since the intimate care work that PSWs and caregivers perform involve the mundane but important tasks of helping people bathe, shower, get dressed, brush teeth, and eat – there is a level of intimate trust involved in care work.  Yet despite the intimacy that is already at the core of this relationship, some employers still see the bodies of racialized, migrant women as constituting such a huge health and safety risk that they bar them from using their washrooms and from sitting in their kitchens to eat. The lack of access to public space, in fact, is a huge problem for community PSWs, whose workday involves going to different clients’ houses. Since in-door dining is closed, as are libraries and other public spaces, caregivers do not have access to places where they can use the washroom and eat between client visits. In pre-pandemic times, care workers would go quickly to the library or to Tim Horton’s to eat and to use the facilities. Now, they don’t have anywhere to go.

We can also witness these contradictions when looking at immigration policy towards care workers. There have been many amendments to the Caregiver Program, but in its current iteration, to qualify for Canadian citizenship, migrant workers have to finish a two-year work contract, demonstrate their completion of one-year of post-secondary studies, and pass an English- or French-language test with a result showing an ‘intermediate’ level of comprehension. We could have a debate about the legitimacy of these requirements – but what strikes me, when thinking about how many caregivers are finding them challenging, is that, once again, the Canadian government is sending out contradictory messages.

On the one hand, it claims to accept and value the contributions of care workers. Yet on the other hand, it seeks to limit possible ‘economic threats’ that care workers might pose by asking them to meet educational and language criteria that would supposedly determine their success in the Canadian labour market! What these educational requirements and language tests suggest is that care work, which is seemingly deemed essential, cannot by itself be considered a contribution to Canadian society. I know that I may be harping on a technicality here, but let me explain it in simple terms: care workers, by virtue of their being currently employed as care workers, already show that they are contributing to Canadian society. They do not need to pass an intermediate language test to show that they can get by, because they already are getting by. And in a time of a pandemic, the Canadian government’s insistence on maintaining these requirements seems especially short-sighted, given the country’s needs for workers.

What ties the experiences of internationally-trained doctors, migrant farm workers, ‘low-skilled’ temporary foreign workers, international students, and migrant care workers working in essential industries together, is that such workers are only conditionally accepted into the Canadian state. And such conditional acceptance is deliberate. Internationally-trained doctors are conditionally accepted into medical professions during Covid but are normally presented with barriers that make it hard to practice medicine.  Migrant workers are conditionally accepted into Canada only if they keep working in their jobs. In order to ensure that there is a steady supply of workers in essential industries that Canadian workers generally don’t want to be part of, the Canadian government issues migrant workers visas that are tied to their employers and their occupations! What this means for all five migrant groups is that they are allowed  to keep working and living in Canada, provided that they show their willingness to put their lives at risk. Thus, the Canadian government embodies necropolitics: the Canadian government is clear on which lives it prioritizes.

I also want to emphasize that, in an environment where we are viewing everything through the lens of Covid-19, we forget that the requirements imposed on these groups of migrants are based on a false premise of ‘protecting’ Canadians from the threat they constitute. Simply put, internationally-trained doctors should be given licenses to practice and migrant workers should all be given status – now. If we want to ensure that there are workers in unpopular industries like care work or farm work or manufacturing, then we should improve conditions of work and give better pay. Do not tie migrants to these workplaces.

I would like to briefly note that there are workers who are contesting these policies. In fact, part of our work on the Filipina Care workers and Covid-19 project involved talking to community activists to discuss social movement organizing during Covid! Many reject the false notion that it is a choice between economics or health, and hold policymakers individually accountable for the policies that they make that compromise racialized migrant communities.

Many of the activists we spoke to noted that this pandemic – when seen in conjunction with Black Lives Matter and Indigenous activists’ calls to defund the police and abolish the carceral state – have inspired new and older generations of activists. They point to how this current moment has shown that all of our struggles are inter-connected, that the logics of necrocapitalism and necropolitics, of white supremacy, of neoliberalism, have been revealed so starkly that if we don’t act in solidarity, there will be more premature deaths, either within the criminal justice system or within health-care systems and within workplaces. We are starting to realize the truth of the notion of “shared fate.”

By thinking of our collective fates as intertwined, perhaps we can imagine the possibility of new economic, political and social arrangements that don’t prioritize profit and that seek to place at the centre values of care, relationality, and accountability.

To return again to the personal, despite the struggles of the last few years, with Covid hitting me and my family and my community so harshly, I also see the current moment as one of multiple possibilities. Given that Covid has revealed to me what really matters by making clear that the necropolitical and necrocapitalist status quo is untenable, I see much potential in an abolitionist ethos that seeks new ways of being and doing.

[1] Kate Power, “The COVID-19 Pandemic has increased the care burden of women and families,” Sustainability: Science, Practice and Policy 16, 1 (2020): 67-73; Sara Stevano, Alessandra Mezzadri, Lorena Lombardozzi and Hannah Bargawi, “Hidden Abodes in Plain Sight: the Social Reproduction of Households and Labor in the COVID-19 Pandemic,” Feminist Economics 27, 1-2 (2021), 271-287.

[2] Carl James, “Racial Inequity, COVID-19 and the Education of Black and Other Marginalized Students,” Impacts of COVID-19 in Racialized Communities (Ottawa: Royal Society of Canada, 2021), 36-44, Link to source.

[3] Rosem Morton, “Filipino American health workers reflect on trauma and healing on COVID’s frontlines,” NPR, 9 November 2021, Link to source.

[4] Achilles Mbembe, Necropolitics (Durham: Duke University Press, 2019).

[5]James Tyner, Dead Labour: Toward a Political Economy of Premature Death (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2019), 151.

[6] Pete Evans, “Loblaws hikes dividends on higher grocery sales – but no plans to bring back pandemic pay hike, too,” CBC News, 13 November 2020, Link to source.

[7] Janine Clarke. “Impacts of the COVID-19 pandemic in nursing and residential care facilities in Canada,” StatCan COVID-19: Data to Insights for a Better Canada (2021), Link to source.

[8] Canadian Institute for Health Information, COVID-19 cases and deaths in health care workers in Canada. (2021), Link to source.

[9] Alexandra Mae Jones, “Long-term care outbreaks are rising and provinces have different strategies for keeping COVID out,” CTV News, 23 September 2021, Link to source.

[10] Christopher Reynolds and Paola Loriggio, “Federal NDP calls on government to eliminate for-profit long-term care,” CBC News, 22 March 2021, Link to source.

[11] Roland Coloma, “’Too Asian?’ On racism, paradox and ethno-nationalism,” Discourse 34, 4 (2013): 579-598; Yasmeen Abu-Laban and Rita Dhamoon, “Dangerous (internal) foreigners and nation-building: The Case of Canada,” International Political Science Review 30, 2 (2009): 163-183.

[12] Katherine DeClerq and Miriam Katawazi,  “Ontario asks anyone with medical background to step forward to fight COVID-19,” CTV News, 7 April 2020, Link to source.

[13] Sara Mojtehedzadeh, “Migrant farmworkers from Jamaica are being forced to sign COVID-19 waivers,” Toronto Star, 15 April 2020. Link to source.

[14] Kate Dubinski, “Migrant worker wins labour board case after being fired for speaking out about unsafe conditions amid COVID-19.” CBC News, 12 November 2020, Link to source.

[15] Evelyn Encalada Grez,  “Mexican Migrant Farmworkers in Canada: Death, Disposability and Disruptions during COVID-19,” Mexican Studies/Estudios Mexicanos 38, 1 (2022): 140-169.

[16] Bashir Mohamed, “Opinion.”

[17] Whitney Haynes, Marco Luciano, Deanna Neri, Mycah Panjaitan and Ethel Tungohan, Precarious Workers, Precarious Housing: Investigating Stories of Migrant Workers’ Housing Struggles in Edmonton, Alberta (Edmonton, AB: Homeward Trust, 2021), Link to source.

[18] Joel Dryden and Sarah Rieger, “Migrant workers at Red Deer slaughterhouse say they’ve felt unfair blame amid growing COVID-19 outbreak,” CBC News, 22 February 2021, Link to source.

[19] Carrianne Leung, “The Yellow Peril Revisited: The Impact of SARS on Chinese and Southeast Asian Communities,” Resources for Feminist Research 33, 1-2 (2008),135-149.

[20] Jesson Reyes, Mithi Esguerra, Ethel Tungohan, Migrants Resource Centre Canada, Link to source.

[21] Ethel Tungohan, “Filipino healthcare workers during COVID-19 and the importance of race-based analysis,” Broadbent Institute Blog, 1 May 2020, Link to source.

[22] Leah Nicholson, “Contrasting Care: Provincial Variations in Care Work Policy during COVID-19,” COVID-19 and the World of Work Research Reports, 9 September 2021, Link to source.