Mr. Speaker, Bill C-9 is coming back from the Senate today, and I want to take as much time as necessary to talk about what it really means for Black communities in Canada. I will focus more on the fine detail than on the broad strokes because this bill contains two elements that deserve to be understood for what they really are.
The first element is a provision that has been central to the bill from the time it was introduced: a stand-alone hate crime offence. The second element is an amendment from the Senate: the explicit inclusion of the noose as a symbol used to promote hatred. These two elements do not do the same thing, but they reinforce each other. Together, they offer a serious and concrete response to anti-Black hatred in Canada.
I want to start with the noose because it is the symbol that crystallizes something important about what this bill seeks to do. This symbol has a history—a long and specific history—that Canadians are less familiar with than they might think.
For centuries in the United States, hanging was used as an instrument of mass terror against Black communities. There were thousands of documented lynchings between the end of the Civil War and the middle of the 20th century. These acts were not committed in secret; they were public. They were sometimes announced in advance. Entire families travelled to watch them. Photos were taken and sold as souvenirs.
This was not run-of-the-mill violence. It was staged violence whose specific purpose was to send a message to all members of a community that they were not protected, that they had no recourse and that their lives did not matter.
The noose, on its own, became the bearer of that message. No words were needed. It was enough. It was enough to instill terror. It was enough to remind people of what had been done to people like them and what could still be done. It was enough to make them believe they had no place in society.
Unfortunately, this story did not stop at the border. It crossed over. It lives on in the memories of many Black families in Canada. Many of them come from communities that experienced this terror first-hand or inherited it over generations. The symbol continues to circulate. Nooses are left at workplaces. They are left in factory locker rooms, on construction sites and in police stations. They are found on doors, on desks and on social media.
Black Canadians are showing up to work in the morning, doing their job and trying to live normal lives, but then they see one. When that happens, there can be no confusion about the message. It is not a blunder. It is not a joke in poor taste. It is a deliberate statement to tell them that they are not safe there.
For too long, our criminal law did not have a clear response to this specific act. There was ambiguity. Could it fall under existing provisions? It might, depending on the context and the facts. Black communities do not have the luxury of navigating ambiguity. They are living with the real consequences of this symbol, and they deserve better than maybes.
The Senate amendment fixes that. By explicitly naming the noose, the law states that this symbol, which is used to promote hate or to intimidate, is a clear violation of Canadian law, unambiguously and without room for doubt.
For Black communities in Canada, this matters. The law does not erase history, but it does bear witness. When the law remains silent on something so specific, so loaded, that silence speaks for itself. It says it is not serious enough to call it by name.
Our government refuses to send that message. Confronting anti-Black hate starts with naming it. It starts with recognizing the specific symbols it uses, including the oldest ones, the most documented ones, the ones most unequivocal in meaning.
The noose is not the only symbol of anti-Black hate. The second aspect of this bill that I want to address is the stand-alone hate crime offence. It is the foundation of Bill C-9 and its importance is far from merely symbolic.
Today, under the existing system, hate is considered an aggravating factor for sentencing purposes. Someone is convicted of assault, mischief or threats. Then, at sentencing, the court considers the fact that hate played a role and adjusts the sentence accordingly. Hate is recognized, but recognized late, like a footnote, like one item among many in a list of circumstances.
That is out of line with what victims of hate crime go through. When someone is attacked because of who they are, because of the colour of their skin, their religion or their identity, that crime does not just target one individual. It targets an entire community. It sends a message to everyone who shares that identity and tells them that they are not safe there. The collective dimension of the crime, the intent to intimidate others besides the immediate victim, is exactly what distinguishes a hate crime from an ordinary crime.
Our laws must reflect this from the get-go. It must not be just an afterthought. That is what the stand-alone offence does. It makes hatred the focus of the charge. It tells victims that we see what this was really about. We see the hate for what it is, not an afterthought but the very essence of what happened.
This is particularly meaningful for Black communities. Anti-Black hatred takes many forms, including threats, physical violence and repeated acts of intimidation that are exhausting and take their toll. When taken individually, these actions may seem difficult to pin down legally, but they fit into a pattern that is easy to recognize for those who experience them.
The stand-alone offence gives prosecutors, police and judges the tools they need to address the whole scope of this situation. It sends a message. The clarity of the legislation sends a message. When hate crimes are identified and prosecuted as a separate category of crime with distinct consequences, that speaks volumes about what we, as a society, refuse to tolerate.
These two provisions are not going to solve racism. They are not going to erase centuries of history. No one here is claiming that, but they are doing what the law can and must do. They name, they acknowledge and they protect all Canadians.
Black Canadians deserve to know that their government sees their reality, not in speeches, but in legislation, in practical tools available to the people responsible for protecting them, and in the proposed Bill C-9. That is why I urge all of my colleagues to support it.