Chicago's migrants face scams, sky-high rents and squalor in search for housing

On a blustery Thursday afternoon in February, Daniela and her family — whose members range in age from 9 to 35 — weren’t thinking about dinner or homework.

They were frantically tossing clothes, shoes and other personal items into bags, desperate to clear out their two-bedroom South Shore apartment before the sun went down.

The chaos had started earlier that week with a knock at the door. A woman claiming to represent Atlas Asset Management, the company that oversees the three-story multifamily building, stood at the door, asking who they were and to whom they were paying rent.

“She said this apartment was [supposed to be] vacant … that we needed to leave and that the police were on their way,” Daniela said in Spanish.

Daniela and her family are from Venezuela and no longer have a temporary legal status in the United States. WBEZ is not publishing their full names because the family fears deportation.

Unbeknownst to the family, they were squatters in a building that had recently changed ownership, having fallen victim to a scam. A fraudulent leasing agent had broken into vacant units at a building on 79th Street and Paxton Avenue and rented them out to desperate migrant families including Daniela’s.

When the police officer showed up, the message was blunt: The family had one week to get out.

Finding safe and suitable housing has become more difficult in Chicago as migrants face precarious legal statuses because of changing federal policies under President Donald Trump's administration.

Their lack of stable income and fear of deportation have made them more vulnerable to these types of housing scams. They also have to grapple with sky-high rents and an affordable housing shortage.

And a new state law that took effect in January makes it easier for landlords to call the police and vacate squatters without a lengthy eviction process, putting migrant households like Daniela’s at risk for homelessness.

Searching for a stable home

Since arriving in Chicago in 2023, the family has moved more than five times. After staying at a migrant shelter for months, they got a temporary rent assistance voucher from the state and found a house that fit all six members for nearly $2,000 per month.

But the stability was short-lived.

Within six months, the temporary voucher payments expired, and with only one of the adults holding a steady job, they couldn’t keep up with rent.

“During those six months, I went out every day, walking street by street looking for work, and I didn't find anything,” said Daniela’s partner, Pedro, in Spanish.

Without employment, Daniela said they were desperate for cash and begged in the streets for money with her 4-year-old in tow, even on cold winter days.

Eventually the family had to leave the spacious home they paid for with the voucher. They doubled up with friends and acquaintances in separate homes until the family figured out how to fit six people in a one-bedroom apartment.

“My mom, her partner and two other kids usually shared one bedroom," Daniela said. “Me, my partner and child used to sleep in the living room divided by a curtain.”

They were crammed.

So in November 2025, when a man who spoke fluent Spanish offered them a two-bedroom apartment for $1,000 — just a little more than what they’ve been paying for their one-bedroom — they jumped at the chance, ignoring several red flags.

The man, who claimed to be the building manager, never gave them his full name. They never got a lease or receipts when they paid rent in cash. All they had was an informal agreement.

On top of it all, the apartment was riddled with hazards, including a front door that didn’t lock, no central heat and peeling paint.

Despite the squalid conditions, they called it home. They patched what they could, added a fresh coat of paint and tried to keep it tidy.

A day before the police showed up, balloons filled the living room for a birthday party they had for one of the kids.

The party was the last time Daniela and her family said they felt happy and safe in their home.

According to housing advocates, the family’s search for a place to live reflects that of thousands of migrants in the area.

“We have seen it plenty of times,” said Michelle Gilbert, legal and policy director at the Law Center for Better Housing.

Gilbert also said the new “squatter law” exacerbates low-income renters’ housing struggles because it does not take into account situations where tenants are defrauded by fake leasing agents, like the one Daniela’s family encountered.

Building owners have a responsibility to make their properties more secure to deter scammers, she added.

Since the law took effect in January, Gilbert said her organization has heard of cases in which police back off once tenants show rent receipts or leases. In those cases, landlords proceed with standard eviction procedures, in which a court hears the circumstances of both sides and decides whether the tenant has a right to stay. A legal process also could provide tenants with access to emergency rental assistance programs.

Gilbert said new property managers could misuse the squatter law by calling police on tenants they don’t recognize without finding out more information.

“You can't just buy a building and clear it out by calling the police,” she said.

Housing advocates also said forcing tenants out so quickly makes them worse off than they were before. In the case of Daniela’s family, they had to leave behind most of their belongings, all their furniture, and even a cart they used to sell empanadas — a source of sorely needed income.

A lawyer for Atlas Asset Management, the property management arm of the company that owns the building where Daniela’s family was living, said in a statement to WBEZ that upon taking over the building, “our team discovered complex and challenging conditions at the site” and vacated the units in order to “ensure the safety of residents. This included working to identify all authorized tenants with valid leases.”

Atlas did not answer multiple questions from WBEZ, including how management secured the building upon purchase, how it determined there were squatters, and whether the company worked with any area nonprofits to assist families with relocation.

A review of records obtained through a WBEZ public records request to the Chicago Police Department shows that officers were called to the building Feb. 2 by a property manager “regarding squatters in 3 or 4 of the vacant units of the building.”

Public records also show that the building, which had long been in disrepair, was previously owned by the 5812 Group, a limited liability company. It was sold to Osiris Chicago Portfolio LLC, which shares an address with Atlas, on Nov. 20, 2025 — about three months before Daniela and her family were kicked out.

Adam Walls, the head of previous owner 5812 Group, did not respond to a request for an interview.

Despite the building’s conditions, which mirrored those of many properties in that area, desperate migrants have settled in South Shore, which has come to be known as the “eviction capital of Chicago.”

The neighborhood is also home to the site of a federal immigration raid last year. There were also reports of fraudulent property managers collecting rent from unwitting migrants in the apartment building where the raid took place.

‘Compassion is not a rental system’

As president of Manage Chicago, Chris Amatore oversees thousands of apartments for low-income renters. In late 2023, he provided apartments for hundreds of migrants in his buildings after experiencing a spiritual awakening.

Since then, Amatore has seen many migrants face housing challenges due to a lack of job opportunities, a language barrier, and “just not knowing where to turn to,” making them easy prey for apartment scams.

“It’s really just math,” Amatore said. “They can't afford the market rents. It's $2,000 to $2,700 for a three-bed [unit]. Post-COVID rents have gone up faster than a migrant salary.”

He said credit score requirements and proof of income are also hurdles for migrants seeking to rent apartments. Rising costs, higher taxes and inflation have also made landlords hike rents.

“I definitely sympathize with landlords, because it's happened to me, and it sucks,” Amatore said. “No one else is going to care. Your bank doesn't care. The utility companies are still gonna turn off the water or gas. Unfortunately, compassion is not a rental system.”

Still, Amatore believes there’s a humane way to work with these families.

“What I would do is say, ‘OK, I'm the real landlord…. ‘Let's make a deal.’ [I’d] put them on a plan and give them an opportunity,” he said.

Lately, Amatore has started noticing there are more migrants sleeping on the streets and in tents.

“At first, I didn't see a lot, but I do see a lot more migrants under the Canalport bridge and by 18th and Halsted over there, and other areas,” he said.

As rents rise, aid has run out, and housing options dwindle, he thinks he’ll see more migrants out on the streets and in tents.

Daniela and her family hope that doesn’t happen to them.

Shortly after they fled the South Shore apartment they found a new, more expensive one on the West Side for $1,400 a month. But the move once again uprooted the family. It took weeks to enroll the children in their new school. And while more adults in the family are employed now, they still scramble to come up with rent each month.

Meanwhile, back in South Shore, the apartment Daniela and her family were living in has been repainted and the kitchen remodeled. As of early April, Atlas Asset Management had listed the unit for $1,525.

The listing read: “Welcome to your new home in the heart of Chicago, IL! This two-bedroom, one-bathroom unit is available now and ready to impress.”