The Day I Understood Quebec’s Identity Politics (and What I Still Don’t Get)

Quebec has long charted its own course in balancing cultural identity with individual freedoms. Two recent laws, known as Bill 21 and Bill 96, have become flashpoints in this delicate balance. For many newcomers and observers, these laws can be bewildering – they touch on deep historical currents in Quebec society and raise passionate debates about secularism, language, and minority rights. To understand why a province in Canada would ban some public workers from wearing religious symbols, or insist that new immigrants communicate with government in French after just six months, one must first grasp Quebec’s unique history and the collective anxieties and aspirations behind these policies. What follows is an exploration of Quebec’s identity politics – a look at how history shaped the province’s fierce secularism and language protections, an honest overview of what Bills 21 and 96 do, why the provincial government says they are needed, and how people have reacted on all sides. The tone here is neutral and approachable, aiming to guide those unfamiliar with Quebec through the maze of its identity debates, without judgment, but with an honest presentation of facts, critiques, and lived experiences.

Historical Roots: Secularism and Language in Quebec – Modern Quebec was born out of struggles to preserve a distinct French-speaking, Catholic society in an English-speaking continent, and later, a struggle to free that society from church control. Religion and language are at the heart of Quebec’s identity. Under French rule and then British rule after the conquest of 1759, the Catholic Church was a pillar of life in Quebec. Well into the 20th century, the Church ran schools, hospitals, and influenced politics and morality. The turning point came during the Quiet Revolution of the 1960s. In that decade, a new generation of Quebecers pushed back against the Church’s powerful role, seeing it as a force of stagnation that had kept Quebec society “backward”. The provincial government secularized institutions by taking over education and health care from the Church, and church attendance plummeted as Quebecers embraced a more secular outlook. This revolution in values made secularism – the separation of religion from the state – a widely accepted principle in Quebec. The idea took root that the government should favor no religion and that public servants should project religious neutrality. Over time, especially after two failed referendums on Quebec independence (in 1980 and 1995), Quebec nationalism refocused away from political secession and more toward cultural survival – including a form of secularism tied to protecting Quebec’s identity. Debates about “reasonable accommodation” of religious minorities flared in the 2000s, prompting the Bouchard-Taylor Commission in 2007–08 to examine how far a secular society should go in accommodating religious practices. That commission ultimately recommended banning religious symbols only for certain authority figures (like judges, police officers, and prison guards) but not for teachers or ordinary civil servants. However, the very existence of the debate signaled a shift: secularism was moving “front and center” in Quebec’s public discourse once questions of language and sovereignty had somewhat receded. It’s against this backdrop that Bill 21 would later emerge – not from nowhere, but as the latest development in a long history of Quebec’s quest to define secular public space.

Language has been an even more prominent source of tension and policy in Quebec. French is the majority language in Quebec, but Quebecers often describe themselves as a small Francophone nation on an English-dominated continent. After British conquest, French speakers in Quebec feared assimilation into the English fold; these fears were not unfounded, as English became the language of business and power in Canada for many years. By the 1960s, alongside secularization, Quebec underwent a wave of nationalist sentiment aimed at protecting French. In 1977, the province enacted the famous Charter of the French Language, widely known as Bill 101. This law made French the official language of Quebec, requiring that commercial signs be in French (or predominantly in French) and that most immigrant and minority children attend French-language schools. Bill 101 was and still is cherished by many francophones as the guarantor of the survival of French in Quebec; at the same time, it was bitterly resented by some anglophone (English-speaking) Quebecers who suddenly faced restrictions (for example, English public schools became generally off-limits unless a parent had been educated in English in Canada). Over the decades, parts of Bill 101 were softened or struck down by courts – for example, the outright ban on English on commercial signs was deemed unconstitutional in 1988, and Quebec had to allow bilingual signage as long as French was more prominent. In that 1988 case, Quebec’s government resorted to using the notwithstanding clause – a legal tool we will discuss more later – to override Charter rights and maintain French-only signs for a time. This history is worth noting, because it shows a pattern: Quebec’s willingness to assert collective rights (here, language) even at the expense of individual rights like freedom of expression. Fast-forward to the 21st century, and concern over the vitality of French remains strong. The percentage of Quebec residents speaking primarily French has slowly declined due to immigration and the prevalence of English in North American media. In Montreal, a cosmopolitan city, one hears many languages; some young francophones happily toggle between French and English, which alarms traditionalists. A 2021 census showed the share of Quebecers who speak French at home is dropping – one statistic noted French as a mother tongue fell from about 78% in 2016 to just under 75% in 2021. The province’s language watchdog, the Office Québécois de la Langue Française (OQLF), published a report in 2024 raising red flags: among Quebecers aged 18 to 34, only 58% reported using French predominantly at work, down from 64% a decade earlier. The same report found that only 42% of Quebecers use French on digital platforms (social media, etc.). And notably, more graduates of French high schools are choosing to pursue college in English – 25% of them in 2021, compared to 18% in 2011. To Quebec’s government, and to many francophone citizens, these trends are alarming signals that without stronger measures, the French language could gradually lose its dominance even within Quebec. This sense of urgency to shore up French – to avoid what Premier François Legault often warns could be Quebec’s fate as “another Louisiana” (a place where French once thrived but is now barely spoken) – sets the stage for Bill 96. In short, Quebec’s secularism and language laws are born from specific historical experiences: mistrust of religious authority due to the Church’s past dominance, and a determination to keep French not just alive but predominant. With this context in mind, let’s delve into Bill 21 and Bill 96 – what these laws actually stipulate, why the government says they’re necessary, and how they have been received by the public, minorities, and the rest of Canada.

Bill 21: Quebec’s Secularism Law – In June 2019, Quebec’s National Assembly passed Bill 21, officially titled “An Act respecting the laicity of the State.” This law is often referred to simply as the secularism law or religious symbols ban. Its main thrust is to prohibit certain public-sector employees from wearing visible religious symbols while they are at work. Who does this apply to? The law targets public employees who are deemed to wield coercive authority or hold positions of authority – a category that includes primary and secondary school teachers, principals, police officers, prosecutors, government lawyers, judges, prison guards, and a range of other officials in the civil service. For example, a teacher in a public school classroom is not allowed to wear a hijab (Islamic headscarf), a kippah (Jewish skullcap), a turban, or even a visible crucifix necklace while teaching, under Bill 21. If they insist on wearing such a symbol, they would have to either remove it or face reassignment or dismissal. The law also requires that public service be given and received with one’s face uncovered, effectively barring niqabs or other face-covering veils in interactions with the state (this includes, notably, a ban on wearing face coverings like a niqab when working as a public servant, and even had a provision – since struck down – prohibiting elected members of the provincial legislature from covering their face). Bill 21 affirmed four foundational “principles” of Quebec’s secularism: the separation of church and state, the religious neutrality of the state, the equality of all citizens, and freedom of conscience and religion. The law’s preamble and proponents argue that it is a moderate measure designed to ensure the state’s neutrality in a pluralistic society. The idea is that by having authority figures who appear neutral (i.e. without religious symbols), citizens – whether Muslim, Christian, atheist, or otherwise – will feel the state is not implicitly favoring or endorsing any particular faith.

From the provincial government’s point of view, Bill 21 is an expression of Quebec values and a safeguard against religious influence in public institutions. The center-right Coalition Avenir Québec (CAQ) government, led by Premier François Legault, introduced and championed the law. Legault and his ministers often pointed out that France (a place whose concept of laïcité or secularism inspired many in Quebec) has similar rules barring, say, teachers from wearing religious garb in public schools. They framed Bill 21 as a reasonable compromise – it doesn’t ban anyone from practicing religion in their private life, they noted, only asks that in certain public roles people refrain from displaying their religion. “It’s a reasonable law,” Legault said, reacting to one case, adding that people who choose to wear conspicuous religious symbols simply should not hold those specific jobs. The CAQ government emphasized that the law applies to all religions equally. To supporters, this is crucial – they argue the law is not singling out any one group (even if in practice the most commonly affected symbols are the hijab or turban). “The law is for everyone,” said Pascal Bérubé, a legislator from the Parti Québécois, in support of Bill 21. Commenting on a controversy where a Muslim teacher was removed from the classroom (more on that soon), Bérubé said: “The reason this teacher doesn’t have a job is because she didn’t respect the law… She tried to make a statement wearing a hijab”. In the government’s narrative, Bill 21 is about affirming a common public identity – one where religion is a private matter and the state presents a secular face. They often point out that the law was popular among Quebec’s francophone majority. Indeed, opinion polls have consistently shown majority support for Bill 21 within Quebec. Around the time of its passage, surveys found roughly 63% of Quebecers supported the bill, and even a few years later, polls indicated solid support hovering around 64-70% in Quebec. (Support varies by demographics: one study found support was higher among older and less urban residents, and lower among younger and urban residents – a divide we’ll revisit.) Many Quebecers who back the law say they do so to preserve a neutral public sphere and avoid the kinds of religious conflicts they see elsewhere in the world. Some female supporters of Bill 21, for instance, argue that they fought to remove the Catholic crucifix from the National Assembly (which was indeed taken down in 2019 as part of the secularism push) and that no religious symbol, of any faith, belongs in state institutions. In their view, the law actually upholds equality – treating all religions the same and keeping favoritism out of governance. Simon Jolin-Barrette, the minister who oversaw the bill, repeatedly said the legislation “affirms the laicity of the state” and reflects the will of the majority. The government also knew that parts of the law would likely violate Canada’s Charter of Rights and Freedoms – specifically freedom of religion and equality rights – so they preemptively shielded Bill 21 by invoking the notwithstanding clause. This clause (Section 33 of the Canadian Charter) allows a provincial legislature to declare that a law will operate “notwithstanding” certain Charter protections. By doing so, Quebec aimed to stop courts from striking down Bill 21 on grounds of infringing fundamental freedoms. (The notwithstanding clause can only override certain sections of the Charter for a five-year period, after which it must be renewed. Quebec did renew Bill 21’s use of the clause in 2024, extending the law’s immunity from Charter challenges until at least 2029.) This legal maneuver in itself was controversial, but it underscores how serious the Quebec government was about ensuring Bill 21’s survival; they essentially said, Yes, this law limits some individual rights, but we, as a legislature, choose to do it anyway in the name of a greater good.

Despite official assurances that Bill 21 is “moderate” and fair, the law has faced fierce criticism inside and outside Quebec. Detractors argue that it unfairly targets religious minorities, especially Muslim women. In practice, the majority of Quebec’s teachers are women – roughly 74.5% of teachers are female – and of those, only a small subset wear hijabs or other religious attire. Yet those who do effectively face a glass ceiling or a career blockade. A Christian teacher can keep teaching because, for most, their faith might not require wearing anything in particular (a small cross necklace could be hidden under a sweater, for instance). But a Muslim teacher who wears a headscarf as part of her expression of faith is told by the state: remove it or you cannot work in the public school system. That, critics say, is discrimination – forcing people to choose between their religion and their job. The Canadian Civil Liberties Association (CCLA) and National Council of Canadian Muslims (NCCM) have taken the Quebec government to court over Bill 21 (a legal battle that remains ongoing and likely headed to the Supreme Court). They argue the law “unfairly targets people who express their faith through what they wear” and point out that it effectively sidelines Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, and others from whole sectors of public employment. Noa Mendelsohn Aviv of the CCLA called the ban “a horrendous law that violates human rights and harms people who are already marginalized”. Human rights advocates use strong terms: words like discriminatory, cruel, dehumanizing. In a 2021 ruling, even as Quebec’s Superior Court largely upheld Bill 21 (because of the notwithstanding clause’s shield), the judge acknowledged the law’s harsh impact. Justice Marc-André Blanchard wrote that people like Muslim women who wear hijabs have to choose between their faith and participating in certain careers, a situation that has “cruel and dehumanizing consequences” and “negatively impact[s] Muslim women first and foremost”. The judge lamented that this “dehumanizes those who are targeted”, even though he felt he had no legal avenue to overturn the law in general. This kind of language from a judge – highly unusual in upholding a law – gave weight to what community members had been saying. Take the story of Fatemeh Anvari, which became a cause célèbre in late 2021. Anvari was a Grade 3 teacher at an elementary school in Chelsea, Quebec (a small town north of Ottawa). She happened to wear a hijab. In December 2021, not long after she started teaching, she was removed from her classroom because her hijab violated Bill 21. The school board reassigned her to a non-teaching role, but the damage was done – her students lost their teacher, and she lost the job she loved simply due to her attire. When news of this broke, outrage and protests followed. Parents and students at the school tied green ribbons and put up signs in support of Ms. Anvari. Many Quebecers – even some who initially thought the law was benign – were moved by seeing an actual person, a beloved teacher, removed from a classroom. Anvari spoke out, saying “this is not about my article of clothing. This is a bigger issue… big decisions affect other lives.” She tried not to make it about herself, but her case showed exactly whose “other lives” were being affected. “It’s not fair that you can’t teach because of who you are,” one commenter lamented in a news forum. Civil rights activists said this is precisely what systemic discrimination looks like – a law that on paper applies to everyone, but in practice only hurts a minority.

Public reaction to Bill 21 has been deeply divided. While a majority of francophone Quebecers support it, the law is extremely unpopular among Quebec’s English-speaking minority and among Canadians in the rest of the country. In minority communities within Quebec – Muslims, Jews, Sikhs, and even many Christians – Bill 21 has generated fear and frustration. Some feel it sends a clear message: if you look different, you don’t belong in positions of authority here. One young Muslim Quebecer described Bill 21 bleakly: “It shut all my doors; I wanted to be a teacher, and now I can’t in my own province”. Online forums are rife with emotional debate. On Reddit, one user remarked sarcastically, “Oppressing the Muslim minority? Sounds like the Bill is working as intended.” Another commenter wrote, “So… working as designed then. Assimilate, or be left out. It’s **** disgusting.” (The profanity underscores the anger some feel.) These are raw, unfiltered voices, but they capture how alienating the law is for many. A common refrain among critics is that Quebec fought against being assimilated by English Canada (“Quebec: [says] RoC [Rest of Canada] is trying to assimilate us! … Also Quebec: let’s assimilate the minorities here.”, one Redditor quipped), yet now, they argue, Quebec is itself forcing assimilation by demanding religious minorities blend in or be excluded. It’s important to note that not everyone in Quebec’s majority is unsympathetic to these concerns. There are vocal francophone Quebecers who oppose Bill 21, including the left-wing party Québec Solidaire, which despite supporting independence and the French language, took a strong stand against this law as discriminatory. Still, polls show the idea of secularism has broad appeal – it’s ingrained as a Quebec norm due to the history discussed earlier. Even some people who aren’t particularly anti-religious support Bill 21 because they see it as drawing a firm line that religion and state shouldn’t mix at all. Supporters’ voices often emphasize that the ban applies to all religions, not just non-Christian ones. In one discussion, a self-described French-Canadian supporter of Bill 21 explained his view: “The bill prevents members of any religion whatsoever from wearing anything that represents a religious ideology. Including Christians.” To him, this was proof the law isn’t racist or Islamophobic, but a principled stand that public officials must appear neutral. Others point out that Christian symbols have also been targeted – the law led to the removal of the large crucifix that had hung in Quebec’s legislature since 1936, which was a significant symbolic move (the CAQ government did remove it, acknowledging it contradicted the spirit of Bill 21, even though initially some argued it was a “heritage” artifact). Legault and his allies also contend that Quebec’s approach to diversity is different from Canada’s multiculturalism. They advocate “interculturalism,” where different cultures coexist but with an expectation of dialogue and a common public culture. In their view, open displays of religion by state representatives impede the neutrality of that common space.

The legal battles over Bill 21 are ongoing and consequential. As mentioned, Quebec insulated the law with the notwithstanding clause to avoid most Charter-based challenges. This limited what courts could do, but challenges were brought on other grounds. In April 2021, Quebec’s Superior Court upheld most of Bill 21, striking only a few portions. It exempted English-language school boards from the law (because Section 23 of the Canadian Charter – minority language education rights – was violated by not allowing those boards to hire who they want, and that section was not covered by the notwithstanding clause). It also struck down the ban on members of the provincial legislature wearing face coverings (citing democratic rights under Section 3 of the Charter). But the core of the law – the religious symbols ban for other public employees – was upheld, with the judge pointedly noting his disapproval but saying his hands were tied legally. Both sides appealed. In 2022, the Quebec Court of Appeal heard the case, and in a decision issued in 2024, it also upheld the law. The appeals court echoed that, due to the notwithstanding clause, it could not review the law’s infringement on fundamental freedoms. It did maintain the small carve-outs (like the English schools exemption). Following that, in early 2023 the Supreme Court of Canada agreed to hear appeals, so the final word on Bill 21 may come in 2024 or 2025. However, even the Supreme Court’s hands are partly tied if the notwithstanding clause is validly used – they might only decide on issues like whether the use of the clause had limits or whether unwritten constitutional principles (like gender equality) could override it. This is somewhat uncharted territory. In the meantime, Bill 21 remains in force, altering the career trajectories of real people. For instance, young people from minority faith communities in Quebec have had to rethink their futures. A law student who wears a turban might wonder if he can ever become a prosecutor in Quebec; a Jewish woman who wears a headscarf might abandon dreams of being a school principal. Some have already left – one teacher who wears a hijab moved to Ontario to continue her career, telling reporters she felt Quebec closed the door on her. There are also those who have removed their religious attire reluctantly to keep their jobs, a personal sacrifice critics say no one should be forced to make in a free society.

The impact of Bill 21 on newcomers and minorities is profound and concrete. Immigrants who arrive in Quebec, especially from countries where secularism is not practiced in the same way, can be taken aback by the law. A Sikh engineer from India, for example, might be surprised to learn that if he wanted to work for a Quebec government agency, he’d have to take off his turban – something not required in other Canadian provinces. Religious Jews have expressed concern that their community’s youth will see fewer opportunities in Quebec’s public sector. Muslim organizations say the law fuels stigma, by effectively labeling their religious wear as unacceptable for public life. There’s also an emotional toll – a sense of not being accepted as full members of society. One Quebec-born commenter in an online forum wrote, “I was born here, yet never felt so much like a second-class citizen.” This sentiment of being relegated to second-class status is echoed by others, especially anglophones and allophones (people whose first language is neither French nor English) who feel that recent laws (Bill 21 and Bill 96 combined) send them a message that they are not quite equal in the eyes of the state. It’s important to mention that Bill 21 does have supporters among some immigrants too – not every newcomer opposes it. For instance, some immigrants from secular countries like Turkey or France may completely agree with the principle of no religious symbols at work. But the loudest immigrant voices we’ve heard publicly tend to be of concern or opposition. Their experiences often involve disillusionment: they came to Quebec drawn by its culture and opportunities, only to find a law that tells them their religious identity bars them from certain roles.

Bill 21 encapsulates a core tension in Quebec’s identity politics: individual religious freedom versus collective secular values. Now, we turn to Bill 96, which brings to the forefront another tension: individual linguistic choice versus collective language survival.

Bill 96: Quebec’s Language Law Upgrade – On June 1, 2022, Quebec’s government enacted Bill 96, officially titled “An Act respecting French, the official and common language of Québec.” As its name implies, this law is a wide-ranging reform that strengthens the Charter of the French Language (Bill 101) in numerous ways. The timing was intentional – 45 years after Bill 101 first set the rules of language in Quebec, the CAQ government decided it was time for an update to address new challenges. Bill 96’s stated purpose is unequivocal: to affirm that French is the only official language of Quebec and the common language of the Quebec nation. The law’s preamble even goes as far as symbolically inserting that principle into the Canadian Constitution (Quebec unilaterally added a clause in the Constitution Act, 1867 stating “Quebecers form a nation” and that French is the province’s sole official language, a move that was politically daring but legally allowed under the part of the constitution dealing with provincial laws).

What does Bill 96 actually do? In practical terms, it introduces a host of measures affecting government, businesses, education, and everyday life – all with the goal of cementing the predominance of French. Some of the most significant changes include:

• Restrictions on English in Government Services: Bill 96 requires provincial and municipal agencies to communicate “exemplarily” in French. In concrete terms, civil servants must use French exclusively in their work, with very few exceptions. The law specifies that government officials should not normally address colleagues or the public in English. There are notable exceptions: emergency services like 911 can still operate in English when needed, and health and social services remain accessible in English for those who need them. Additionally, certain groups of people are exempted from the French-only rule: Indigenous peoples (who have their own languages and treaty rights), historically anglophone citizens (defined as those eligible for English schooling in Quebec under longstanding criteria, or those who were already communicating with the government in English prior to Bill 96’s introduction in May 2021), and new immigrants, but crucially only for their first six months in Quebec. After six months, a newcomer is expected to transact with the government in French. If they write to a government office in English after that period, the office is now obligated to respond in French by law. Government websites that have English versions now carry warnings – for example, the City of Montreal’s English webpages greet users with a banner saying the content is only for those entitled to English services, and by using the English site you attest that you fall into an exempt category. When calling government info lines like the city’s 311 or certain provincial helplines, callers are now met with a message basically asking them to confirm they are eligible for English service before proceeding. From a newcomer’s perspective, these changes can be jarring. Imagine arriving in Quebec, still struggling with French, and after half a year finding that official emails or forms you receive are suddenly only in French, with an assumption you should be able to handle it. Critics say this timeline is unrealistic – “it takes years to learn a language. Six months… is not enough,” said one immigrant, Alena Matushina, who shared her story in the media. (We’ll return to her experience shortly.)

• Education Limits and French Requirements: Bill 96 places a firm cap on enrollment at English public colleges (CEGEPs) and English universities in Quebec. Essentially, English CEGEPs cannot expand beyond a certain number – they are capped at their 2019 levels with only a small margin for growth. This was done to prevent a drift of more students into English institutions. The law also requires students in English CEGEPs to take additional French courses. Initially, the plan was that anglophone and allophone students in English colleges would have to pass a new standardized French exam to graduate. After backlash and concerns this might unfairly hurt students who didn’t grow up in French, adjustments were made – students can take three extra French second-language courses instead of subject courses taught in French. Still, the idea is that even anglophone students will leave college with a stronger mastery of French. There is a sense among English-speaking youths that opportunities for education in their mother tongue are being squeezed. A recent flashpoint (literally days before this writing) was the case of LaSalle College, a bilingual private college in Montreal, which was fined a whopping $30 million by the Quebec government for allegedly enrolling too many students in its English-language programs in violation of new rules. This fine – an enormous sum that could threaten the institution’s viability – sent shockwaves through the English-speaking community. It was the first major punitive application of Bill 96 and a clear sign that the government intends to enforce the new rules vigorously. Protests erupted in downtown Montreal in July 2025, with English community groups denouncing the fine as “overly punitive” and calling Bill 96 an instrument to “unfairly target English-language institutions.”

• Business and Workplace Regulations: The law lowers the threshold for businesses that must comply with French language rules. Under Bill 101, only companies with 50 or more employees had to formally register with the OQLF and implement francization programs to ensure French was the working language. Bill 96 extends many obligations to smaller companies with 25 or more employees. These businesses must now register with the OQLF and commit to not just serving customers in French but also creating a French work environment. Employers are required to make sure workplace documents and software are in French or available in French, and they cannot stipulate “bilingual (French/English) required” for a job unless they can prove it’s truly necessary – they have to attempt to avoid needing English in the role. Even businesses with as few as 5 employees aren’t completely off the hook: when they register a company in Quebec, they must now report the percentage of employees who cannot speak French, and this information will be made public. It’s a way of nudging even small employers to prefer French speakers. Commercial signage rules have been tightened too, albeit building on existing laws: any public signs that include another language must ensure French is “markedly predominant”, meaning French text should have a much greater visual impact than the other language. And by 2025, even trademarks (like a brand name on a store) that contain non-French generic words must include a French translation on the signage, unless the trademark has a French version registered. Penalties for violations of language rules have increased across the board. The OQLF has also been given stronger powers of search and seizure – controversially, Bill 96 at one point proposed allowing OQLF inspectors to raid offices and seize computers without a warrant if they suspected non-compliance. This particular clause caused outrage among lawyers and civil rights advocates. (Imagine language police rifling through a law firm’s confidential files to check if contracts are in English – critics said this trampled on attorney-client privilege and basic privacy rights.) In response to criticism, the final Act still gives the OQLF significant inspection powers, but I should note that some of the most extreme measures might have been tempered by subsequent regulations or court challenges. Nonetheless, the impression among many business owners is that the “language police” now have more bite. One Montreal barber shop owner, for instance, made local news in 2025 for refusing an OQLF order to change his outdoor sign that had a slogan in English – he openly defied the office, becoming a minor hero to some who feel the rules are overreach.

• Other Provisions: The law also touches on the legal system – making French the default language of legislation and limiting when English translations of lawsuits need to be provided. Previously, anyone in Quebec could file court documents in English (since English has some constitutional status in courts). Under Bill 96, if a litigant files a document in English in a Quebec court, they now must provide a certified French translation at their own expense, unless it’s a situation covered by an exception (for example, a historically English institution involved). Lawyers like Julius Grey argue this effectively denies equal access to justice for English speakers, since it adds cost and complexity to using one of Canada’s official languages in court. Bill 96 also explicitly states that Section 133 of the Constitution (which guarantees the right to use English or French in Quebec courts and legislature) is not overridden, but by requiring translations, it indirectly burdens that right. This is one aspect already being legally challenged, with some saying the notwithstanding clause cannot be used to override constitutional provisions like Section 133 (which is outside the Charter). The law even tries to declare that corporations cannot invoke certain Charter rights to challenge the French rules, attempting to forestall lawsuits by businesses.

It’s a lot of detail, but the big picture is: Bill 96 reaches into virtually every domain to promote French. The government’s rationale for all of this has been forthright. Premier Legault often says French is in decline in Quebec, especially Montreal, and that without intervention, Quebec’s distinct society will be diluted. “We are proud to be a Francophone nation in North America, and it’s our duty to protect our common language,” Legault proclaimed when Bill 96 passed. He and Minister Simon Jolin-Barrette (who authored the bill) insist the law is a “necessary” response to ensure French remains the language of public life in Quebec. They point to statistics like those mentioned earlier – fewer young people using French at work, more gravitating to English media – as proof that action must be taken. Jolin-Barrette told the Montreal Gazette that Bill 96 was needed to “promote and protect the French language” in Quebec. Jean-François Roberge, who took over as language minister, said in late 2022, “I think Bill 96 is necessary. It’s really important to implement Bill 96 [and] it’s not my plan to delay anything”, signaling they wouldn’t shy away from enforcement. The government also stresses that it tried to make the law balanced. For example, they reassure that health care and essential services in English will remain – a promise Legault repeated: “We are committed to protecting your access to healthcare in English… and you will continue to have English-speaking hospitals, schools, and universities”. (Anglophone critics are skeptical, noting that while no English hospital has closed, access to other services has indeed narrowed.) The CAQ government likewise claims that anglophones have nothing to fear – Legault famously said “I know of no linguistic minority that is better served in its own language than the English-speaking community in Quebec”, implying that Quebec has generously supported its anglophones, far more than French minorities are treated elsewhere in Canada. There is some truth historically – English speakers in Quebec have had parallel institutions (schools, hospitals, a university) – but anglophones say Bill 96 undermines that legacy. The provincial Liberals (traditionally the party of minorities in Quebec) opposed Bill 96, calling it too extreme, while the Parti Québécois actually thought it didn’t go far enough (they wanted even stricter measures, like outright banning most immigrants from attending English CEGEPs). Interestingly, the left-wing sovereignist party Québec Solidaire voted for Bill 96, swayed by the language protection argument, despite concerns about certain elements. This shows how language preservation is a rare issue that unites a broad swath of Quebec’s political spectrum – even many progressives who fight for minority rights supported Bill 96 in the name of saving French. Indeed, polls indicate substantial public support within Quebec for Bill 96’s objectives, though not as high as support for Bill 21. One Angus Reid survey in mid-2022 found about 65% of Quebecers overall supported Bill 96. Support was highest among older Quebecers (63% of those 55+ in favor, compared to 43% among 18–34 year-olds) and among those with less education (it was actually below 50% support among university-educated Quebecers, but much higher – around 65% – among those with a high school education). Notably, even a majority of supporters of Québec Solidaire (a left nationalist party) were in favor of the law, showing it’s not just an idea from the right or from francophone nationalists – it resonated widely that French needed stronger legal protection. There were, of course, also loud voices of support from civil society urging the government to go ahead. Some prominent French-language authors and cultural figures supported Bill 96. An association of French teachers lobbied that the rules should even be stricter in the education system – for example, many French teachers wanted the government to limit English CEGEP enrollment even more aggressively. Hardline language activists held rallies advocating for “un Québec français” (a French Quebec), complete with slogans that the survival of the nation was at stake. These supporters see Bill 96 as correcting a tilt toward English they perceive when walking in parts of Montreal and hearing “Bonjour-Hi” (a bilingual greeting common in Montreal shops). In fact, a few years back, the Quebec government even attempted to ban the greeting “Bonjour-Hi” in stores – a largely symbolic effort that was widely mocked and quickly dropped. But the anecdote illustrates the zeal behind ensuring French is omnipresent. Bill 96 was a more serious and comprehensive way to pursue that goal.

On the flip side, criticism of Bill 96 has been intense, especially among Quebec’s English-speaking minority, allophone immigrants, indigenous peoples, and civil libertarians. The Quebec Community Groups Network (QCGN), an umbrella organization for English-speaking community groups, perhaps put it most bluntly: “Bill 96 is the most significant derogation of human rights in the history of Quebec and Canada.” That quote, from QCGN’s then-president Marlene Jennings, captures the alarm with which anglophone leaders view the law. Jennings said the legislation “revokes the right to access services in English” for between 300,000 and 500,000 English-speaking Quebecers. She’s referring to those English speakers who are not part of the “historic anglophone” category (for example, immigrants from other countries who speak English but didn’t go to English school in Canada – under Bill 96 they lose the right to service in English). Even many of those who are eligible for English services feel the net tightening. Community groups fear, for instance, that English-speaking seniors will face more hurdles getting information or that new English-speaking immigrants (say, a family from India who speaks English but not French yet) will be left in the lurch after six months. In Montreal, which historically has been bilingual, signs of change appeared: some government offices put up posters saying “Nous ne parlons qu’en français ici” (We only speak French here) – something that hadn’t been seen in decades. An English-speaking Montrealer, frustrated by the new atmosphere, told a reporter: “I feel like a foreigner in my own home now.” The impact on newcomers and immigrants is especially controversial. Immigrant advocacy groups say Bill 96 is setting newcomers up to fail. Learning French is certainly encouraged (and most immigrants to Quebec do enroll in government-funded French classes), but expecting functional fluency in six months is, they argue, unrealistic and even cruel. As one Montreal immigration lawyer quipped, “the government seems to think new immigrants come with a built-in French chip in their brain that activates in half a year.” Organizations that work with refugees and migrant workers have raised alarms that vulnerable newcomers will struggle to access basic services like housing support or legal aid if those services abruptly switch to French only. A CBC report highlighted that groups helping immigrants foresee scenarios where people won’t understand their rights or won’t be able to communicate vital needs under the new rules. The government responds that it will rely on “good faith” – meaning if someone can’t speak French, officials won’t turn them away at a hospital or a help desk. But the law is the law, and front-line workers might feel compelled to enforce French after six months, which could intimidate immigrants from seeking help at all. Alena Matushina’s story, which was mentioned earlier, is telling. She’s a 27-year-old immigrant who moved to Montreal in 2021 from Russia (by way of China). She speaks English but arrived with no French. When Bill 96 passed, she spoke to Maclean’s magazine and said it was making her reconsider whether she could build a future in Quebec. “It takes years to learn a language,” she said, adding that she was diligently taking French classes but six months was nowhere near enough for her to deal with officialdom in French. Her daily life was already challenging – trying to find work and do daily errands with limited French – and the prospect of losing any option for English communication with officials was daunting. People like Matushina are exactly those whom Quebec hopes to integrate through French, but critics ask: does integration by force actually work, or will it drive people away? There are indications some are indeed leaving. While there hasn’t been a mass exodus, anecdotal evidence suggests a number of anglophone or allophone Quebecers – particularly younger professionals – have decided to move to other provinces, citing Bill 96 (and sometimes Bill 21) as “the last straw” that made them feel unwelcome. On social media, one Quebecer wrote that many of his English-speaking friends had left or were planning to leave, tired of feeling like “second-class citizens”. The data on this is not clear yet, but the perception of being unwelcome can itself harm Quebec’s goal of attracting and retaining immigrants. Ironically, Quebec has substantial labor shortages in many fields, and it actively recruits immigrants (including many who initially speak English or other languages). If newcomers get the message that life will be bureaucratically difficult unless they perfect their French almost immediately, some may choose not to settle in Quebec at all, opting for more immigrant-friendly environments in Canada like Toronto or Vancouver. This outcome would be counterproductive for Quebec, which needs immigration to sustain its population and economy, but it’s a risk some see with the hardline approach of Bill 96.

English-speaking Quebecers, who make up roughly 8-10% of the population, have mounted protests and legal challenges against Bill 96. In May 2022, before the bill was passed, thousands marched in Montreal’s streets – both young and old, carrying signs like “Stop Bill 96” and “Je me souviens – I remember our rights” (a play on Quebec’s motto, which means “I remember”). These protests didn’t stop the law, but they signaled that a significant minority feels deeply aggrieved. The anglophone rights group behind one court case argues that Bill 96 violates the Canadian Constitution’s guarantees of linguistic equality in federal and some provincial matters. They specifically target provisions like the translation requirement in courts and the new limits on English education, suggesting these contradict Section 133 of the Constitution or minority language education rights in Section 23 of the Charter (some of which were not overridden by the notwithstanding clause). Meanwhile, Indigenous communities have also voiced strong opposition. The Mohawk community of Kahnawá:ke, adjacent to Montreal, declared that Bill 96 “will never apply” to them on their own territory. Indigenous leaders argue that forcing French on their people, many of whom already have to learn English and their own native languages, is an attack on their rights. The Assembly of First Nations labeled Bill 96 “a major step backwards” for reconciliation, saying it ignores the reality of First Nations languages and could restrict Indigenous individuals’ access to services if they’re not fluent in French. This is a sensitive point: in the north of Quebec, many Inuit and Cree speak their languages first, English second, and French maybe only third. Will they be denied services or forced into French under Bill 96? The government insists that in matters of health and safety, exceptions will be made and no one will be left helpless. But the law’s critics are not reassured by verbal promises; they see the text of the law as what matters. Even outside groups like the United Nations experts and international media have taken note. The Washington Post ran an opinion piece criticizing Bill 96 as squeezing immigrants out after six months. And earlier, the New York Times and others had editorialized against Bill 21’s religious symbols ban. These laws have somewhat tarnished Canada’s image abroad as a haven of multiculturalism; commentators ask how these measures square with Canada’s liberal values. The federal Canadian government, led by Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, has treaded carefully around Quebec’s identity laws. Trudeau, whose own riding is in Montreal, said regarding Bill 96 that he had “concerns” about it, but he has stopped short of any concrete action. On Bill 21, Trudeau also expressed personal opposition (even calling it “absolutely wrong” at one point) yet declined to have the federal government join the court challenges, arguing it’s for Quebecers to contest and that Ottawa intervening could backfire. Other Canadian leaders have been similarly cautious, not wanting to stir Quebec vs. Canada tensions. This hands-off approach frustrates those affected by the laws, but it reflects the political reality: Quebec’s voters largely support these laws, and any federal interference could be painted as English Canada attacking Quebec’s autonomy, which is politically perilous. (Notably, some provinces and cities outside Quebec have offered support to fight Bill 21 – e.g., Ontario, Alberta, and Saskatchewan pledged funds to assist legal challenges, and the city of Brampton in Ontario even briefly banned official travel to Quebec in protest of Bill 21 – but these were mostly symbolic gestures.)

Tying the Threads Together: Bill 21 and Bill 96 are distinct laws – one about secularism, one about language – but they spring from a common source: Quebec’s ongoing effort to preserve a certain vision of its identity. That vision is of a proudly French-speaking society, modern and secular, with its own set of values that may differ from those elsewhere in Canada. To many Quebecers, especially in the francophone majority, these laws feel like assertions of self-determination. They hear criticisms from outside (be it Toronto or Toronto-based media, or English-speaking commentators) and sometimes perceive them as misunderstandings or even attacks on Quebec. There is a historical memory in Quebec of being judged by outsiders – for example, when France banned headscarves in schools, many in English Canada barely noticed, but when Quebec does something similar it faces a firestorm, which some Quebecers see as a double standard. This feeds a defensive pride: “We will do what we need to do to protect who we are, no matter what others say.” Indeed, Premier Legault cast the fight in those terms, accusing critics of spreading “disinformation” and adding “fuel to the fire” in the lead-up to Bill 96’s adoption. He insists English speakers in Quebec are well treated and that French is the one under threat. That sentiment is widespread in Quebec: many believe that without stringent laws, the French language would inevitably erode (citing examples like Louisiana or even Montreal’s own past when English dominated many businesses). Likewise, supporters of Bill 21 argue that a neutral public service prevents division and that accommodating every religious symbol would lead to unreasonable demands and a kind of cultural incoherence. On the other hand, those against these laws – both inside Quebec’s minorities and outside observers – see them as majoritarian overreach, acts of a provincial government using its power to sideline vulnerable groups. They point out the human costs: careers ended, people made to feel unwelcome, the potential brain drain of talent leaving Quebec. They warn that such laws also set precedents – if a Canadian province can so bluntly curtail minority rights and get away with it, what does that mean for the rest of Canada’s human rights safeguards? Already, we see politicians in other provinces citing Quebec’s moves; for instance, some have suggested using the notwithstanding clause preemptively as Quebec did, which used to be politically unthinkable in most of Canada. So the ripple effects constitutionally are also a concern.

For newcomers to Quebec, navigating this landscape can be challenging. On one hand, Quebec remains a vibrant, diverse place – Montreal especially is multicultural in daily life, and immigrants continue to come in large numbers under Quebec’s own immigration programs. Most newcomers adapt by learning French (indeed, many choose Quebec precisely because they want to live in French). Quebec offers free French classes, and there are success stories of immigrants who integrate and even come to support the idea of protecting French. On the other hand, if you’re an immigrant in Quebec who is part of a visible religious minority or more comfortable in English, you might feel extra pressure or anxiety. A newcomer who wears a hijab or turban has to keep in mind that certain career paths (like public school teacher or police officer) are effectively off-limits unless they remove those items. A newcomer who speaks only English knows that after a short grace period, government agencies will expect them to function in French – so everything from a driver’s license exam to a landlord dispute at the rental board will be in French. Some immigrants rise to the challenge; others might feel discouraged. Online forums for immigrants (in places like Reddit’s r/ImmigrationQuebec or other community boards) often have threads asking questions like, “Is it true I won’t get services in English after 6 months?” or “How strict is Quebec about the language rules?” The answers tend to be mixed, with some long-time residents providing tips on learning French quickly, and others venting that “Quebec ain’t what it used to be – Bill 96 ain’t that welcoming.” One Reddit user from Montreal wrote candidly: “For all the people spreading hate in this thread, search Bill 96… it enforces colleges with English programs to impose more French. This is real – and yes, as an immigrant you basically have to turn francophone ASAP.”. Another on r/Canada said, “Quebec is tabling a bill that essentially puts immigrants on notice that we only value you if you speak French. I left [Quebec] before that, was tired of living as a second class citizen.”. Such posts reflect the frustration but also highlight a key point: Quebec wants immigrants, but on its own terms. The provincial government has even tightened its immigration criteria to favor French-speakers. In 2019, they passed a values test for new immigrants (asking questions about secularism and equality). Their immigration ministry actively prioritizes applicants who already know French. Legault has said he wants the percentage of immigrants who speak French upon arrival to be at least 90%. This is the broader context of Bill 96: it’s one pillar of a larger strategy to ensure Quebec remains francophone deep into the future, demographically and culturally.

Concrete examples abound of how these laws play out in everyday life. We’ve mentioned a few: the teacher (Fatemeh Anvari) who lost her classroom job due to a hijab; the international student frightened that failing a French test could derail his diploma; the Montreal barber facing a language inspector over an English sign; the new immigrant nervously writing her first letter to a landlord in French with Google Translate because the rental board might not accept her English email. Another small but telling story emerged in 2023: a Montreal author, originally from Hong Kong, tried to hold a public reading of her English-language novel at a Montreal public library. The event was abruptly cancelled by the library, citing the new language policy – because the reading would have been in English and not “accessible” to Francophones. “I left the library feeling like a second-class citizen,” the author said. The City later apologized and called it a misunderstanding, but for many anglophones it was a sign of the times under Bill 96.

Quebec’s efforts to preserve its identity are often described by supporters as a fight for cultural survival, and by critics as a violation of liberal norms. Both views contain truth. Quebec is indeed a unique society – the only majority French-speaking polity in North America apart from some Caribbean islands. Its people legitimately worry about being assimilated or losing their language. There’s a famous saying: “Une langue qui ne se défend pas est une langue qui se perd” (A language that doesn’t defend itself is a language that gets lost). That belief is deeply ingrained and explains why measures that seem extreme elsewhere can find popular support in Quebec. Likewise, the concept of laïcité is seen as a core principle necessary to maintain social cohesion in a plural society – many Quebecers will recall the Catholic dominance of the past and say “never again” to any religion, in their view, exerting influence. Yet the manner in which these ideals are pursued – through blunt legislation and overriding of individual rights – has led to cultural and political tensions not just between Quebec and the rest of Canada, but also within Quebec itself between the majority and minorities. It raises hard questions: Can a democracy justify significant curbs on minority rights in order to protect what the majority sees as its collective rights? At what point do protective measures cross into discrimination? Different societies answer these questions differently. France, as mentioned, has its secular laws; other European countries have language laws. In Canada, multiculturalism and bilingualism have been the official creed – making Quebec something of an outlier. This outlier status is not new; Quebec has always done things its own way to an extent. Its unique legal system (Civil law), its language, and its culture have been sources of both pride and friction in Confederation. Bill 21 and Bill 96, ultimately, are the latest chapters in that story.

For someone new to Quebec, the most important takeaway might be: understand where these laws come from, so you can navigate life here with that knowledge. Know that if you plan to settle in Quebec, learning French isn’t just a polite suggestion – it’s practically a requirement for full participation, and now even for accessing services after a short time. Be aware that public sector jobs have these secularism rules; if you wear a religious symbol, certain careers in Quebec’s public institutions will be closed unless you’re willing to remove it. Many newcomers do adapt – for example, some Muslim women have chosen to switch to private schools (which are not subject to Bill 21) or remove the hijab to work in public schools, a deeply personal decision. Others pursue careers in the private sector where Bill 21 doesn’t apply (it only affects government employees, not private companies). As for language, immerse yourself in French as much as possible – not only to comply with rules but to truly integrate, since a lot of social and professional doors in Quebec open through French. At the same time, know your rights: English may be restricted, but it isn’t illegal. You can still get healthcare in English; you can still use English in federal offices in Quebec (like immigration or passport offices, which follow federal bilingualism rules). And crucially, there are community organizations and legal aid groups that one can turn to if a situation arises (for instance, if an immigrant feels a government agency denied them service improperly, groups like the QCGN or immigrant aid societies might help mediate).

In concluding this exploration, a neutral observer might note that Quebec’s identity politics are a balancing act – an ongoing negotiation between preserving a heritage and adapting to a diverse, modern reality. Bill 21 and Bill 96 represent the majority’s attempt to set terms for that negotiation firmly in favor of heritage. The conversation is far from over: court cases will play out, election campaigns will undoubtedly revisit these themes (the 2022 provincial election saw all major parties basically endorse secularism and stronger French, differing mostly in degree). There is also the human “day-to-day” element: laws can change rules overnight, but changing hearts and minds is another matter. Will Quebec, in a generation, be a place where these laws are seen as normal and accepted, or will there be regret and reversal? It’s hard to say. For now, anyone coming to Quebec or trying to understand it must grapple with these twin pillars of secularism and language. They are keys to understanding not just the laws, but the psyche of Quebec society. A newcomer who arrives with that understanding – even if they disagree with the laws – will be better equipped to live and perhaps thrive here. One can appreciate the beauty of Quebec’s French language and secular public spaces, while also being mindful of the ongoing struggles for inclusion and equality faced by some communities.

In the end, Quebec’s story has always been about protecting a small flame in a big wind. Bill 21 and Bill 96 are like glass chimneys placed around the candle flame of Quebec’s identity – meant to shield it. Whether they ultimately keep the flame alive or inadvertently smother it by isolating the candle remains a subject of debate. But there is no doubt that these laws have become defining features of Quebec’s landscape in the 2020s. As Quebecers themselves often say, “À vous de juger” – it’s for you to judge – after learning the facts, one can form their own view on whether these measures are justified or harmful. What is certain is that they will continue to shape the lives of Quebec’s people, new and old, for years to come, and they highlight the unique path Quebec walks in trying to remain maîtres chez nous – masters of our own house – while also welcoming others into that house.

Sources:

– Quebec Secularism Law (Bill 21) text and overview; Court rulings acknowledging its impact.
– Statements from Quebec officials: Premier Legault on Bill 21 being a “reasonable law” and a victory for Quebecers; Legault on protecting French via Bill 96; Minister Jolin-Barrette on the need to promote French and Roberge on implementing Bill 96 without delay.
– Polling data on support for the laws: Angus Reid Institute survey on Bill 96 support (65% overall in Quebec) and demographic breakdown; Leger poll on Bill 21 support (~63%); commentary on majority support among Quebecers and popular sentiment.
– Quotes and reactions: QCGN’s Marlene Jennings calling Bill 96 a historic derogation of rights; Noa Mendelsohn Aviv (CCLA) on Bill 21 violating rights; Julius Grey calling Bill 96’s passage a gratuitous use of power.
– Personal stories: Fatemeh Anvari’s removal under Bill 21; Alena Matushina’s comments on Bill 96 making her rethink her future.
– Reddit and public commentary excerpts showing public sentiment.
– Details of Bill 96 provisions and their implementation: six-month rule for immigrants; new requirements for businesses and service in French; education caps and the LaSalle College fine protest.
– Historical context: Quiet Revolution secularization of Quebec; Bouchard-Taylor Commission and recommendations on religious symbols; OQLF report on French language decline (2024).
– Indigenous opposition: Kahnawake Mohawk statement against Bill 96; Assembly of First Nations on Bill 96 as a step backwards.
– Federal response and political context.