Imagine standing at the edge of a cliff, staring at a chasm you didn’t know existed until it was too late. That’s the reality for hundreds of international students in Montreal right now. Their dreams of completing degrees, securing visas, and building futures in Canada have been upended by a bureaucratic sledgehammer—four private colleges shut down overnight, leaving them stranded in a system that offers no lifeline. This isn’t just a policy failure; it’s a human crisis wrapped in red tape. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it exposes the fragile underbelly of Canada’s international education model, one that’s built on promises of opportunity but often delivers only uncertainty.
The sudden closure of Collège supérieur de Montréal and others isn’t just a logistical nightmare—it’s a moral reckoning. Students like Silia Imehraz, who moved from Algeria to pursue medical secretarial studies, now face the absurdity of being told their hard-earned credits are worthless. Three years of effort, thousands of dollars, and the emotional toll of displacement, all erased by a government decision that felt like a betrayal. Personally, I think this highlights a deeper flaw: the lack of contingency planning for students who invest their lives in institutions that can vanish without warning. Why should students bear the brunt of institutional failures? It’s a question that screams for answers, yet the response from authorities has been maddeningly inadequate.
The bureaucratic maze students now navigate is a masterclass in inefficiency. They’re told to find alternatives, but the list of public colleges provided by the province is a cruel joke. Babacar Mar’s frustration is emblematic of the collective despair: schools are on vacation, courses are in English when he studied in French, and admissions are a revolving door of rejections. This isn’t just a language barrier—it’s a systemic disregard for the diverse needs of international students. What many people don’t realize is that these students aren’t just chasing degrees; they’re building identities, relationships, and livelihoods in a foreign land. When the system collapses under them, it’s not just academic credentials that crumble—it’s their sense of security and belonging.
The financial requirements imposed by Quebec since January 2026—$24,617 in savings, up nearly $10,000 from last year—only deepen the crisis. Students like Ansoumane Camara, who works as a delivery driver to afford tuition, are now trapped in a Catch-22: they can’t work full-time without enrollment, but enrollment is impossible without a functioning college. This raises a deeper question: how can a government claim to welcome international students while simultaneously creating barriers that make survival nearly impossible? It’s a paradox that screams of misaligned priorities, where policy decisions prioritize administrative convenience over human dignity.
The legal battles unfolding in administrative tribunals are a glimmer of hope, but they’re also a reminder of how slow justice can be. While Collège supérieur de Montréal fights to overturn the closure, students are left in limbo, their futures hanging by a thread. Immigration lawyer Yves Martineau’s observation that even transferring credits is uncertain underscores the chaos. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about four colleges—it’s about the entire ecosystem of international education in Quebec. What this really suggests is that the system is built on a house of cards, where a single policy shift can collapse years of effort.
The scandal surrounding fake internships at CSM adds another layer of complexity. When students are forced to complete internships at fictitious hospitals, it’s not just a violation of academic integrity—it’s a symptom of a broken system that prioritizes quantity over quality. Immigration lawyer Isabelle Dongier’s argument that students deserve a transitional period to work and re-enroll is not just practical; it’s humane. Why should students be punished for the mistakes of institutions? The government’s refusal to grant flexibility speaks volumes about its priorities: it’s easier to let students fall through the cracks than to admit the system is flawed.
In the end, this crisis is a microcosm of a larger trend: the global commodification of education, where students are treated as transactional assets rather than people. Quebec’s reputation as a destination for international students is at stake, not just because of this specific incident, but because it reveals a pattern of neglect. The response from the Immigration Ministry—allowing students to resume studies once they submit applications—feels like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. It’s a gesture, but it’s not a solution. As François Bonnardel steps away from politics, the question remains: who will champion the voices of these students, whose dreams are now collateral damage in a bureaucratic war?
What I find most disheartening is the lack of empathy in this narrative. These students didn’t choose this crisis—they were promised opportunities, only to be left with empty promises. The real tragedy isn’t the closure of colleges; it’s the erosion of trust in a system that should protect the most vulnerable. If Quebec wants to remain a beacon for international education, it needs to stop treating students as problems to be solved and start seeing them as the future it claims to value.
