.jpg)
For two years, Montréal’s Pierre Elliott Trudeau Airport was the place where Magaly Cornejo built hope while mopping floors, preparing pizzas, and serving coffee through the night as the city slept. Ironically, that same airport became her exit door. This Mexican woman did not leave by choice, but because her profile no longer “fit” the immigration needs defined by the Quebec government.
Her story mirrors that of María Caballero, a Franco-Spanish artist who fled Kyiv with her Ukrainian husband and arrived in Montréal intending to rebuild her life. Nearly three years later, she discovered that her “host land” had turned into an impenetrable bureaucratic wall.
These two women sit at opposite ends of the temporary-migration spectrum: one is a low-wage essential worker; the other, a French-speaking artist with international experience. But they share the same fate and the same feeling: the frustration of being pushed out by an immigration system that appears increasingly restrictive.
Leaving Ageism Behind
Magaly arrived in Quebec with a temporary work permit. Born in Veracruz, she was seeking opportunities denied to her in Mexico because of her age. Firm-minded, always smiling, and contagiously optimistic, she dreamed of staying in Montréal despite longing for her México lindo y querido.
“My country is beautiful, but after 45 years old, doors close,” she says.
Before obtaining her temporary worker status, she spent six months in Montréal as a tourist—long enough to begin the process, return to Mexico, and wait for approval from the Canadian government. A job awaited her in a 24-hour airport restaurant. She began with cleaning and kitchen tasks, but her dedication quickly earned her more responsibilities: making pizzas, brewing coffee, serving customers.
Her shift—from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m.—was a challenge few people accept. Despite this, she pushed forward and enrolled in French classes. Her routine was intense: after her night shift, she went home, showered, ate a little, and headed to her francization centre in LaSalle, where she studied until noon. She slept barely two or three hours. “At 6 p.m., I was already up, full of energy,” she laughs.
The pace took a toll, and she injured her back, but she received medical care and physiotherapy. Her boss, Mohamed, also supported her, noting “the work ethic of Latinos.” But neither her efforts nor her integration were enough. Her work permit was not renewed. Her profile was among those cut by Quebec in September 2024 for low-wage temporary foreign workers.
Magaly is frustrated but grateful to have a home to return to. Her fear lies in re-entering the Mexican job market and the salaries she will face there. Still, she holds onto hope: she plans to learn a trade and try again—perhaps in Alberta. “It’s better to come back and re-enter legally,” she says.
Nation-Building That Closes Doors
Magaly’s case is not unique. According to Alejandro Hernández, sociologist and professor at Concordia University, Quebec’s political decisions fit within a historical ideology shaped by a sense of identity vulnerability. In this context, the CAQ government has reinforced a discourse centred on “protection” and on building a nation perceived as threatened.
“One of the central axes of these immigration changes responds to what politicians present as the cornerstone of identity,” Hernández explains. In this narrative, immigrants—particularly those who do not match the ideal of the white francophone—are viewed as “others,” potential consumers of public resources, he adds.
Yet this ideology contrasts with economic reality. Employers have repeated for years that they struggle to recruit enough workers for essential positions—especially night shifts, manufacturing, service jobs, and agriculture.
Despite this, Premier François Legault announced a gradual reduction in permanent-residency admissions: from about 60,000 new residents this year to around 45,000 in 2026. Immigration Minister Jean-François Roberge justifies the measure by citing pressure on public services, the situation at the southern border, and certain federal decisions.
Since September 2024, employers can no longer hire more than 10% of their workforce through the Temporary Foreign Worker Program (TFWP) under its low-wage stream (for employees paid less than $32.96/hour), except in three areas where labour shortages persist—health care, construction, and food processing—where the 20% cap still applies.
For thousands of workers like Magaly, this rule shut Quebec’s door without warning.
From Kyiv to Montréal, but…
Assuming that these policies impact only low-skilled workers would be a mistake. The cuts have made the system so rigid that it expels even the very talent the province claims to seek. While Magaly was excluded as a low-wage temporary worker, María Caballero learned that neither her native French, nor her education, nor her artistic experience were enough.
A dancer and choreographer with an international career, she arrived in Montréal in August 2022 with her Ukrainian husband under the AVUCU program, which granted her an open work permit for three years. Her spouse integrated quickly into the job market. She did not.
Despite her fluency in French, English, and Spanish, landing stable employment proved nearly impossible. She sent out countless résumés without success. She tried to continue her artistic work by teaching flamenco, but the cultural sector offered no stability.
“I don’t even know how many emails I’ve sent… I looked for work everywhere… It makes me laugh when people say: ‘Oh, you speak French, you won’t have trouble in Montréal.’ Well, I don’t think it’s that simple. I speak French, English, all the languages you need in Canada, but I struggled and found nothing,” she says.
A Move to Nova Scotia
The breaking point was not the lack of employment—her husband, a film-animation director, was well integrated—but the announcement that temporary residents would no longer have access to permanent residency. “Quebec no longer grants permanent residency to temporary residents. That’s what made us understand we had to leave,” María explains.
After nearly three years of effort, the couple understood Montréal would not offer them a future. “We stayed almost three years in Montréal for nothing… It didn’t serve us at all, everything we did,” she says.
Following legal advice, they moved to Halifax, Nova Scotia. There, María quickly found work as a French and English instructor at Université Sainte-Anne. Her French was immediately valued.
But stability has a price: she must now accumulate a full year of work experience to apply for permanent residency under the provincial program. To meet the requirement, she sometimes works up to 12 hours a day—pushing herself to exhaustion.
The disillusionment runs deep. “For me, Canada is hard. People are hard. In Montréal, people are not kind. It’s very hard.”
The Human Impact
The stories of Magaly and María highlight the human and psychological cost of immigration policies, says Hernández, who notes that this dimension is almost absent from political debate.
“I think in the situations we’re seeing now, the human side comes second, especially because people are directly affected: job loss, increasingly expensive rents, rising insecurity… Issues of homelessness, violence, and mental health are everywhere. It seems that people are beginning to see these situations,” he adds.
For immigrants, it’s important to remember that many sold their homes, fled conflict, or invested their savings into a life project—only to find themselves trapped in a system that changes the rules without warning.
Official justifications—housing pressures, strain on health care—hold up poorly against research showing that immigrants often arrive healthier than the local population (Hospitalization Rates Study, Statistics Canada), and that the housing crisis stems from multiple factors, not immigration alone, Hernández adds.
While the Quebec government debates how far to open or close its doors, thousands remain in limbo—reminding us that immigration policy is not just about numbers but reflects the society itself.
.jpeg)
.png)
.jpg)