Inside the $31.5M social assistance algorithm failing Quebec’s most vulnerable

At a Dollarama in Quebec’s Eastern Townships, Martine Decoste weighs the cost of spaghetti against a luxury she cannot afford: a pack of cookies.

For Decoste, who is deaf and unable to work due to chronic health constraints, survival is a balancing act performed on a $200 monthly budget after her rent and bills are paid.

“Yes, I’m going into debt,” she sighs, resigned. “How do you want me to feed myself? How do you want me to function in the life of every day? It’s impossible.”

Decoste is one of thousands caught in the gears of Project UNIR, a $31.5-million digital overhaul of Quebec’s social assistance system. 

Launched in 2025 by the Ministry of Employment and Social Solidarity, the project was intended to “simplify and humanize” services. 

Instead, a nine-month-long investigation by Radio-Canada’s Enquête reveals a system that  community advocates say aggravates poverty and multiplies tragedies. 

One year in, the toll is clear: systemic errors, a total breakdown in communication, and an erosion of human connection that once served as a final safeguard.

The phantom debt currently haunting Decoste is a digital relic of a past administrative error by the province, explains David Bouchard, who until recently worked at Action Plus de l’Estrie, a community group that helps welfare recipients, including those who believe they’ve been victims of errors.

Decoste’s former caseworker, Bouchard says she made it a “point of honour” to pay back the debt.

Under the province’s old social assistance model, an agent would have likely seen the notes in her file confirming the debt was settled. Under Project UNIR, the algorithm lacked that institutional memory.

“It’s as if the file hadn’t been processed and they’re reopening it to claim the same money,” says Bouchard.

The impact is more than bureaucratic; it is a source of chronic trauma. 

“I feel like a prisoner,” Decoste says. “I feel as though I am not respected. I feel like a number. I don’t sleep anymore.”

For Decoste, there is no financial margin of error. 

A single automated deduction can leave her with no way to function in everyday life.

The ministry’s digital shift was a fundamental restructuring of how the province interacts with some of its most vulnerable citizens.

The government spent $31.5 million on the initial planning, massive digitalization of files, and the deployment of the UNIR algorithm. To keep the system running, the province has budgeted an additional $3.5 million annually for maintenance.

However, the core of the reform — the elimination of the “assigned agent” — has created what people who work with the program at the Ministry of Employment and Social Solidarity describe as a “bureaucratic gridlock.”

Previously, a recipient could count on an official who knew their file from start to finish. Now, files are fractioned into distinct digital tasks and assigned to agents across different regions based on their availability.

Christian Daigle, president of the Syndicat de la fonction publique et parapublique du Québec (SFPQ) — the union that represents ministry employees who work with the UNIR program — compares the model to a factory floor.

“If I’m processing two-by-fours, if I’m processing nails, pieces of materials, there is no problem,” says Daigle. “An assembly line, that goes very well. But when it’s a matter of human beings with their complex cases, you need tailored support.”

Internal union surveys show workers are demoralized, describing a “loss of purpose” and a “lack of motivation.” They report that the “mess is at the top.”

“If we don’t press the right button at the right moment, the machine has no mercy,” Daigle explains. “It will cut you off. Thank you, goodnight, it’s over.”

Even the ministry’s own data shows that social aid recipients are having a harder time getting through and talking to an agent. 

Between February and September 2025, phone lines were overwhelmed as errors accumulated. During that eight-month window, nearly 150,000 calls were rejected by a saturated system, and another 94,000 were abandoned by callers who gave up after facing excessive wait times without an answer, according to the data. 

In total, nearly a quarter million attempts to reach a human ended in silence. To manage the overflow, the ministry spent $2 million on a contract with a private external firm to handle the phones — a move the SFPQ says risks errors and information leaks.

Further complicating matters is a new policy of anonymity. Agents are no longer required to identify themselves to recipients during interactions.

“Even if there’s a mistake, it’ll be harder to trace it back to [an agent],” notes Daigle.

What’s worse, “UNIR takes the human element out of difficult decisions,” adds Bouchard, Decoste’s former caseworker. 

“It lets an algorithm decide who gets cut off [financially] and spares a person from having to make that unpleasant decision. It removes human responsibility. It removes all emotion from the decision-making process.”

The administrative delays and document losses are “anxiety-inducing” triggers pushing people to the brink, says Bouchard, who witnessed this shift firsthand. 

“Before the arrival of UNIR, suicide distress interventions, I did maybe one or two a year,” he says. “But now, it’s become every week.”

Social workers report recipients selling furniture to survive processing delays. Others have ended up in psychiatric care, unable to manage the overwhelming anxiety of the new system, Bouchard says.

A recording obtained by Enquête from a meeting between senior government officials and community groups confirms the depth of the crisis.

During the session, a social worker from Lanaudière detailed the case of a man who took his life after a system error. The man was given incorrect information by an agent that led him to believe he was ineligible for help. Without an agent who knew his file to correct the mistake, he saw no other way out, the social worker said. 

“Every week, we hang up on calls from people who tell us they’re going to hang themselves,” the social worker can be heard saying in the recording. “People on welfare are really in a state of deep distress. As soon as there’s a glitch in their files, it triggers a lot of dark thoughts for these people.”

Bouchard describes the feeling of guiding recipients through this maze as devastating. “The distress of people, it’s someone who learns they’ll lose their housing tomorrow morning… And I have the impression of leading someone to the slaughterhouse.”

The government was warned of potential issues with this project. In 2024, the Institut national de la recherche scientifique cautioned the ministry that a digital shift carried a high risk of “hindering access” to public services for vulnerable populations.

Chantal Rouleau, Quebec’s minister responsible for social solidarity and community action who is in charge of the project, declined all interview requests. 

In a statement, a spokesperson for her office said the platform has seen “no major incidents” and “responds more appropriately to the needs of clients.” They added that it “cannot establish a link between the handling of a case and the precarious situation or psychological distress of service users.”

Bouchard, having had enough, recently resigned from his position with Action Plus de l’Estrie to preserve his mental health. 

He compares the current era to the 1980s, when Quebec government agents used intrusive surveillance to track welfare recipients. He fears the ministry will further automate decisions in the future. 

“We really have the impression that we are a training ground for what is going to happen eventually in other ministries,” he said. 

As Martine Decoste returns to her modest apartment, her phantom debt remains unresolved. She hopes that social services will recognize their error and erase her debt.

“Will I have enough money to feed or house myself?” she asks. “Will I have to live on the street like other people? You never know. It could happen.”