Case Explained: Hate crime law a tentative step forward – Legal Perspective

Canada has taken a long overdue step in strengthening our ability to confront hate. The federal government’s new legislation not only creates a stand-alone hate crime offence, it also does something our courts have wrestled with for decades, it codifies a definition of “hatred” in the Criminal Code. That clarity matters, but let us be clear from the start, not all is perfect in this law.

Until now, judges and Crown Attorneys relied on Supreme Court decisions going back to Keegstra in 1990 and Whatcott in 2013 to determine what “hatred” meant in law. Those cases established that hatred was not about mere insults or offensive speech, but about “detestation” and “vilification,” the kind of speech that isolates a community, marks them as less than fully human, and places them in real danger. The new legislation takes those definitions out of the legal textbooks and places them clearly in the Criminal Code. That matters for police officers deciding whether to lay charges, for Crowns weighing evidence, and for communities who have too often felt that the law was uncertain, inconsistent, or too slow.

For Jewish Canadians, Indigenous peoples, Muslim communities, Black Canadians, LGBTQ+ people, and many others who have borne the brunt of hate crimes, the signal is welcome, Canada is saying hate is not just a social problem, it is a crime against us all.

The bill also removes one of the most frustrating procedural roadblocks, the need to secure the personal consent of the provincial Attorney General before charges could be laid in hate propaganda cases. In practice, this meant that police and Crowns, even when they had strong evidence, could be stalled at the starting line because approval from the Attorney General was rarely granted. By removing this requirement, the new law allows police and Crown attorneys to proceed more swiftly and with more confidence. For communities long told to “just report it,” this change could finally build trust that the justice system is not only listening but ready to act.

Another important element is the protection of spaces where communities gather. The law makes it a crime to intimidate or obstruct people entering synagogues, schools, community centres, or other places primarily used by identifiable groups. That means no more hiding behind masks to frighten congregants on their way to worship or children on their way to school. These protections may seem obvious, but for too long communities at risk have faced such harassment without adequate recourse.

Just as important, the government has committed $12.9 million over six years, with nearly a million annually ongoing, to support new anti-hate projects. This includes funding to improve the collection and availability of hate crime data and to expand services for victims and survivors. These investments will help communities not only seek justice but also begin healing.

So yes, this is progress.

But progress does not equal victory.

The legislation’s definition of hatred, detestation and vilification not mere offence or hurt feelings, is both precise and cautious. It tries to balance freedom of expression with the need to protect communities from real harm. That balance is crucial. Nobody wants to see a law that punishes criticism or satire, even if it makes us uncomfortable. At the same time, communities need protection from the toxic brew of rhetoric that we know can escalate into violence.

And here lies the problem, this law looks only at the traditional sphere of hate crimes and hate propaganda. What it does not yet confront is the digital ecosystem where hatred thrives, multiplies, and metastasizes.

We live in a world where conspiracy theories that once stayed in dimly lit basements now reach millions with a single click. Holocaust denial, racist caricatures, misogynist rants, antisemitic tropes, they all travel faster and hit harder online. A Facebook post, a TikTok video, or a Telegram channel can stoke the same kind of detestation and vilification the Criminal Code now defines, but at a speed and scale our laws are still catching up to.

Without integrating online harms into this new framework, Canada risks winning a legal battle while losing the societal war. A Pyrrhic victory, if you will.

Hate groups adapt quickly. They couch their language in irony or “just joking.” They migrate to platforms beyond the reach of Canadian courts. They recruit vulnerable young people not with burning crosses but with memes and livestreams. If our laws remain focused only on in-person hate crimes or printed pamphlets, we will forever be chasing yesterday’s problem.

The government has promised separate legislation on online harms. Communities targeted by hate cannot afford to wait much longer. Every month of delay is another month when young Canadians are radicalized in their bedrooms, another month when harassment campaigns go unchecked, another month when hatred festers behind a screen only to erupt into real world violence.

This new hate-crime law deserves praise. It is careful, measured, and long needed. But from the very beginning we should be honest, it is not perfect. Unless it is paired with a robust strategy for confronting online hate, one that forces platforms to act responsibly and gives law enforcement real tools to respond, it risks being remembered as a noble but incomplete gesture.

History will not judge us on the elegance of our legal definitions. It will judge us on whether we made our communities safer, whether we stood up for those targeted by hate, and whether we matched words with action.

Canada has given itself sharper legal tools. Now we must decide, will we use them to carve out a safer, more inclusive future, or will we leave them on the shelf while hate keeps spreading in the digital shadows? Because if we settle for half-measures, we may find that what looks like victory today is nothing more than defeat in slow motion.

Bernie M. Farber is the former CEO of the Canadian Jewish Congress and founding chair emeritus of the Canadian Anti-Hate Network.