MACLEANS_Fatemeh Anvari Quebec Secularism_BY REMI THIERAULT457

Quebec’s Secularism Laws Are About Control, Not Freedom

My teaching career ended because I chose to keep my hijab
By Fatemeh Anvari Photography by Rémi Thériault

The concept of the hijab—why we wear it or not and what it means to us—is unique to each Muslim woman. My own journey with it began when I was six years old and started school in Tehran. At first, I only wore a hijab because it was part of my school uniform. But because the adult women in my family also wore the hijab, it gave me a sense of maturity and growth, and so I started wearing it every day. From that early age, I embraced the hijab as something core to my identity. To me, in the context of the West, it was about visibly representing myself as a Muslim woman.

I spent my childhood in Tehran and moved to Ottawa when I was 10 years old. After some years, we returned to Iran to be closer to family. There, I earned an English literature degree and taught English to students of all ages; working with young children brought me the most joy. In 2017, when I was 23, I moved back to Canada and pursued a master’s in education at the University of Ottawa. I’d spent most of my life in Iran, where the ruling regime took away many of our basic freedoms and controlled women’s bodies by enforcing the hijab. Canada felt like a place where I could be myself, where diversity and freedom of expression were celebrated. Or so I thought.

I first heard about Quebec’s proposed Bill 21 in the second year of grad school, during a discussion with one of my university professors. The bill was part of Premier François Legault’s push for laïcité, a secular principle that emphasizes the separation of religion and state. Specifically, the bill would ban public servants in positions of authority—including teachers, police officers, doctors and judges—from wearing religious symbols. This meant no Christian crosses, no Muslim hijabs, no Sikh dastars and no Jewish kippahs. I was shocked. How could this be happening in Canada, a country that celebrates diversity? My professor reassured me that it wouldn’t happen. “Not in Canada,” she said. However, in June of the following year, it passed into law.

MACLEANS_Fatemeh Anvari Quebec Secularism_BY REMI THIERAULT455

A few months later, I moved to Gatineau, Quebec, where I planned to work as a supply teacher in English-language public schools. I applied to jobs and eventually got a call from a school asking me to come in to teach. I wondered what would happen when I showed up and they saw that I wore a hijab. I was nervous they’d turn me away. But that wasn’t the case; I got the job without any issues. The English Montreal School Board, or EMSB, the largest English-language public school board in Quebec, even argued to the Superior Court of Quebec that Bill 21 shouldn’t apply to English schools, citing the need to protect minority language rights. Although the Superior Court upheld most of Bill 21 in April of 2021, they agreed with the EMSB and made an exemption for English schools. The Quebec government wasted no time appealing that decision.

In October of that year, I was hired at an English elementary school in Chelsea, near Gatineau, teaching third-grade English Language Arts and serving as a homeroom teacher. At the time, the English school exemption was still in the appeal process, and I was optimistic that it would stand. However, less than two weeks after my contract started, the Quebec Court of Appeal rejected a request to temporarily exempt English schools from Bill 21 while the appeal was ongoing. This means that I was not allowed to wear my hijab at the school anymore.

Shortly after, my principal—who had always been incredibly supportive—called me into her office. When she mentioned it was an HR matter, I had a hunch about what was coming next. The news was still devastating. It wasn’t up to her, she said, but because of Bill 21, I couldn’t keep teaching unless I stopped wearing my hijab at work. That wasn’t an option for me. It wasn’t just about the hijab; it was about fairness and my freedom to express my identity. I told my principal I couldn’t continue. My time as a teacher was over immediately. A co-worker took over my class that same day. I drove home, sobbing uncontrollably. I felt so wronged, misunderstood and deeply lonely. I felt deprived of the chance to exist as I am. My students didn’t know what was happening yet. When I returned to my classroom to gather my belongings, they asked why I wasn’t teaching anymore. I couldn’t give them the full answer. 

Thankfully, my principal offered me a new role as a student life animator, a non-teaching position that didn’t fall under the scope of Bill 21. In this role, I visited classrooms from kindergarten to Grade 6, teaching students about diversity. We explored themes like neurodiversity and racial diversity. It was fulfilling and enjoyable in its own way, but it wasn’t the same as being a teacher.

MACLEANS_Fatemeh Anvari Quebec Secularism_BY REMI THIERAULT456

My former students were confused: I’d stopped teaching them, but I was still at the school doing something else. They knew something was off. One of them asked me, “Was it your choice to stop teaching us?” That question broke my heart. I didn’t have the words to explain the injustice I felt. Once my students learned why I couldn’t teach anymore, their love and support flooded in. I received countless handmade cards and letters, not only from kids at our school, but also from other institutions. One of my students even made a tiny book that said nice things about me. It started with “Ms. Fatemeh is…” and the last page read, “a person.” These kids understood what so many adults apparently couldn’t: that every human being deserves the same respect and opportunities as anyone else.

I received another contract as a student life animator for the next school year, but when the grant funding behind my position ended in the spring of 2023, so did my role. I said goodbye to my students, with the knowledge that I may not see them ever again. In February, the Quebec Court of Appeal overturned the Superior Court’s exemption for English schools from Bill 21, which was deeply disappointing. This law tells Quebecers—and Muslim girls who wear the hijab—that they shouldn’t pursue certain careers in Quebec because of what they wear. It’s a terrifying message, especially when we also teach them about the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

After living in both Iran and Canada, I’ve observed how the hijab has been misunderstood. Wearing it is a deeply personal choice. For every Muslim woman who wears a hijab, it can represent something different: it could be modesty, for example, or an act of worship. Wearing a hijab can also mean different things across different stages of life. For me, it’s part of who I am. I’m proud to wear it in a society where it is not easy to do so. This has become my act of worship. By the same token, I will always support a Muslim woman’s decision not to wear a hijab—it’s the freedom of choice that matters.

In Iran, women are forced to wear it. I have friends who’ve been arrested by Iran’s “morality police” for not wearing the hijab in public. The tragic case of Mahsa Amini, a young Iranian woman who died in police custody in 2022 after being detained for not wearing her hijab properly, is a stark reminder of the oppression Iranian women face. Of course, the situation in Iran is on a different scale than Bill 21. But the law is still about control—about telling people what they can and can’t wear. It revokes the basic freedom to make our own choices about our bodies. I never thought we would see such a thing happen in Canada.

Since leaving my elementary school in 2023, I haven’t returned to teaching. I won’t stop advocating for the repeal of Bill 21. This fight isn’t just for Muslim women but for everyone—Sikhs, Jews, Christians. All of us are affected by this law, and all of us deserve better. It even impacts those who don’t wear religious symbols. At the heart of this issue is our country’s commitment to freedom: the freedom to choose who you want to be, where you want to be and what dreams you pursue.

One day, I hope to walk back into a Quebec classroom, proudly wearing my hijab, ready to both teach and learn from the next generation. Whether I wear the hijab or not, it will always be my choice. I refuse to let fear make that decision for me.


—As told to Ali Amad