Melancholic Migrants > Forum Home

The Commission’s procedure normalized a hierarchy between racialized people and white Franco-Québécois largely through the structure of the citizen forums, which were a central part of its process. These forums placed Franco-Canadian Québécois in a position of implicit power, as they were seen as the ones who could decide who did or didn’t belong in Québécois society. Testimonies often followed a predictable pattern: Franco-Québécois participants expressed concerns about losing a "pure" Québécois identity, while racialized groups and immigrants were left to justify their presence and offer reassurances. This dynamic granted the majority unspoken authority, as if they alone could determine what was acceptable and who truly belonged.
The emphasis on open dialogue further complicated matters. Instead of focusing on legal rights and obligations, the Commission shifted the discussion toward tolerance and generosity from the Franco-Québécois majority. This approach once again centered the concerns and opinions of the majority, sidelining the rights and lived experiences of racialized groups and immigrants.
The debate around secularism exacerbated these dynamics. Much of the public consultations revolved around Muslim practices, particularly the hijab, framing Islam as a threat to Québécois identity. The hijabi Muslim woman became a symbol of oppression, while non-Muslim Québécois were portrayed as progressive and tolerant guardians of modern values. This framing reinforced a hierarchy where the majority positioned themselves as arbiters of cultural and societal norms, further marginalizing racialized communities.

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Alia Al-Saji explains that colonial desire plays a big role in how the hijab is represented and understood in colonial contexts. This desire is tied to the need for control and knowledge, but it’s also fueled by a sexualized “curiosity”. Because of this, Muslim women wearing the hijab are racialized and objectified. In the colonial imagination, the hijab becomes more than just a piece of clothing—it’s seen as a barrier to understanding and control, as well as a symbol of cultural backwardness that the West feels it has to “unveil.”
For colonial powers, the hijab was frustrating as it symbolized resistance to their gaze, which only made them more determined to dominate and expose it. Al-Saji builds on Fanon’s work to show how, in colonial Algeria, women wearing the hijab were treated as objects to be “unveiled”—literally and symbolically. This wasn’t just about understanding. It was also about control and power, tied to a fantasy of revealing and possessing what was hidden. The hijab became an obsession, representing colonial fears of the “other” and their frustration over not being able to control women. This justified their domination and intervention.
At the same time, the hijab’s hypervisibility in colonial discourse erased the individuality and agency of the Muslim women who wore it. Instead of being seen as people with their own perspectives and choices, they were reduced to symbols of oppression and targets for so-called “liberation.” The hijab became overloaded with meanings like backwardness, submission, and danger, which erased its complexity. This allowed Western powers to frame themselves as progressive saviors, while ignoring the lived realities and agency of Muslim women.
In the end, colonial desire for knowledge, power, and control shaped how the hijab was viewed—as something that needed to be conquered, exposed, and “fixed.” This wasn’t just a misunderstanding. Indeed, it was about maintaining colonial dominance and the West’s superiority while silencing the voices and choices of the women who wore it. The image of the hijab in colonial discourse wasn’t neutral—it was shaped by a controlling, possessive, and exploitative gaze.

Mr. Bhamra embodies the characteristics of a "melancholic migrant" through his deep attachment to his homeland and his struggle to reconcile his past with his present in the UK. Sara Ahmed describes melancholia as a condition resulting from unresolved attachment to what has been lost. Mr. Bhamra’s longing for India and his disappointment with the cultural changes around him signify his melancholic state.
Ahmed notes that melancholia can be understood as a form of attachment to loss, where the migrant's identity is entwined with memories of the homeland. Mr. Bhamra's nostalgic references to Indian culture and his discontent with his daughter Jess’s soccer aspirations illustrate this attachment. He expresses a sense of loss regarding the values and traditions he holds dear, creating a barrier between him and his daughter's desire for independence.
Moreover, his melancholic state is further exacerbated by the pressure to uphold familial and cultural expectations. Indeed, for the melancholic migrant, happiness is often tied to the fulfillment of cultural duties that may no longer resonate in a new context. Mr. Bhamra's struggle reflects the weight of these expectations, highlighting how his emotional turmoil is rooted in the complexities of migration and the longing for a past that feels increasingly distant.

I believe many immigrant parents can relate to Mr. Bhamra's experience, which is certainly true for my own parents. They grapple with their attachment to their homeland and past while navigating a new world that they are still trying to acclimate to, even over 25 years after immigrating to Canada.
Not to get too personal, but for my sister and me, many of our "challenges" with our parents stem from the contrasts between life in Tunisia and life here in Canada. For them, Tunisia is home, and they deeply miss it. As second-generation immigrants, we find ourselves navigating a reality where neither Tunisia nor Canada truly feels like home. Don’t get me wrong; we love our culture and our roots, and we take immense pride in sharing where we originally come from. However, it doesn’t change the fact that we are regarded as strangers in the West because we are not white, and as "children from the outside"—or as they say in Arabic, "أولاد / بنات الخارج"—in Tunisia, because we were born not only outside of Tunisia but outside of the East.

This week’s readings resonate deeply with me as a second-generation immigrant in Montreal. They reflect many conversations I’ve had with my parents, especially my father, about the reasons for choosing Montreal and our experiences here. Before coming to Canada, my dad travelled extensively—to France, the U.S., Mexico, Germany, and Italy —looking for a place where he could build a better future for his future family (#king). Ultimately, he chose Montreal because it seemed like a more open and accepting society, particularly for North Africans.

Mandin’s interviewees describe similar motivations: escaping the socio-economic precarity and systemic discrimination in Europe. Like my father, many viewed Montreal as a haven, especially when compared to places like France, where the colonial legacy casts a long shadow, or the U.S., with its history of slavery and segregation. For my dad, Montreal was the “least racist” choice, and he hoped it would offer his children and wife a life free from the discrimination and racism he suspected to endure elsewhere.

However, my family’s experiences show that this perception can be overly romanticized. For instance, shortly after arriving in Montreal, my dad was wrongfully (and illegally) detained by the police for 24 hours simply because he “fit the description” of an Arab man they were looking for. To this day, my family encounters racism—whether it’s my mom facing discrimination on the streets or my brother being profiled and followed by security guards. These moments remind me that while Montreal may be better than some places, it is far from free of racism, discrimination and Islamophobia.

Mandin’s interviewees also reflect this tension. They describe Montreal as a place of hope, offering a sense of "normalization" where they are not constantly reduced to their ethnic or religious identities. However, they also note that Quebec’s openness has limits. Debates like the “Charter of Values” and the growing Islamophobic rhetoric echo Europe’s struggles with religious and racial diversity. This convergence challenges the perception of Montreal as a refuge and acceptance.

Despite these contradictions, I think Montreal’s appeal for many North Africans lies in its distance—geographically and emotionally—from the colonial powers that shaped their histories. My mom, for example, could never consider living in France, a country she associates with the trauma of colonial violence and the loss of many family members. For many North Africans, choosing Montreal over France may feel like having a real chance of “making it”.

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Baldwin’s depiction of French attitudes toward Algerians in Paris highlights the deep discrimination they faced, particularly from the police. He recounts their living conditions, marked by extreme poverty and social exclusion, and observes how they were labelled "lazy" for spending time in their affordable cafés, even though French students did the same without criticism. Baldwin also notes the menacing and brutal behaviour of the police, which he links to the French loss of colonial power, such as the fall of Dien Bien Phu. He recalls watching police brutally beat an elderly Arab peanut vendor while French bystanders remained indifferent—an image that underscores the systemic violence Algerians endured, despite France's claims of generosity and their insistence that Algerians were French too, since Algeria was considered a “French département”.

Baldwin himself, as a Black American, was treated differently. He describes being praised as “très évolué” (highly civilized), in contrast to the French perception of Arabs as uncivilized and untrustworthy. This distinction reveals the contradictions in French claims of non-racism, which Baldwin critiques as rooted in colonial superiority.

What I find especially interesting is how these dynamics shift in a city like Montreal. While police brutality might disproportionately affect Black communities here, workplace discrimination seems more common for Arabs and Muslims (at least in my opinion). This layered racialization reflects the complex legacies of both colonial legacy and systemic racism.

Thus, I find myself thinking, again and again, about how Montreal’s identity as a multicultural hub carries its own contradictions. Like Baldwin’s reflections on France, it is a place where historical, systemic racism and discrimination persist beneath the surface of inclusivity and generosity. Yet, Montreal’s history—its colonial foundations, the resilience of Indigenous communities, and the strength of its diverse and interconnected communities—creates a space where heartbreak and hope coexist. For me, this paradox defines Montreal and continues to shape my understanding of belonging and identity.

In Baldwin's letter, when he describes his "countrymen" as destroying lives without knowing or wanting to know, he is critiquing their willful ignorance and denial of the suffering they perpetuate. He notes, “they have destroyed and are destroying hundreds of thousands of lives and do not know it and do not want to know it” (Baldwin, 19). Baldwin emphasizes that this ignorance is not innocent but a deliberate avoidance of reality that shields them from recognizing the consequences of their actions and, by extension, from questioning the norms they have established and from which they benefit (white privilege? ). It is the privilege to ignore the harm they are causing, directly or indirectly. It is the privilege to live their peaceful lives since they are not directly affected by the reality of Black people, or at least, they benefit from it, so why question it and risk losing what they think they are entitled to?
Moreover, Baldwin argues that facing this reality would require white people to fundamentally question their own identity. He writes, “To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger,” suggesting that acknowledging their role in the system they have established would threaten their sense of self and social status (Baldwin, 23). Their identity is built on the belief in their own superiority, and confronting this would disrupt their entire worldview. Thus, Baldwin asserts that true acceptance and change would involve a re-evaluation of their identity and the structures that support it.

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"The gift" is the chance to gain deep insight into one's identity and privilege through the perspectives of marginalized groups, especially Black individuals. Yancy likens this gift to a "Hubble telescope–like impact," offering a clearer, more profound understanding of racial dynamics and one's own place within them (Yancy, 10).
Both, Yancy and Hooks, identify several dangers associated with this gift. One risk is the danger of a superficial engagement, where white people may only engage with the gift at a surface level, using it to feel better about themselves rather than achieve a deep understanding. Yancy highlightes that recognition of privilege should lead to substantive action, not just symbolic gestures (Yancy, 10).
More importantly, they warn against white appropriation or territorialization of the gift (Yancy, 10). Indeed, White people should not use this gift to assert control or solve racial issues in isolation, as this would perpetuate a sense of superiority, and thus defeating the gift's purpose: “There is no room for white territorialization or white appropriation [...] To go it alone implies that whites themselves can solve the problems of whiteness” (Yancy, 10-11).

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By playing tennis, the band highlights the disconnect between the privileged lives of white people and the realities faced by marginalized groups. This portrayal reflects how white individuals often engage with serious issues in a detached manner, treating them as distant or irrelevant to their everyday lives—an example of white privilege.
Regarding the credits not showing their real names, I agree with Peter's point of view. On the other hand, however, it may emphasize that the message is more important than the individuals behind it, suggesting that the value of the message stands on its own, regardless of who is delivering it.