I settled into a weathered Adirondack chair on the front porch of Maison Alphonse-Desjardins in Lévis, Quebec, watching 22-year-old Émilie Bouchard set up her phone on a small tripod. The historic home, once belonging to the founder of North America’s first credit union, seemed an unlikely backdrop for TikTok content creation. Yet Émilie adjusted her traditional Québécois sash—a colorful ceinture fléchée—with practiced precision before pressing record.
“Most of my friends thought our cultural traditions were just boring museum stuff,” Émilie told me after finishing her 60-second video explaining the significance of the arrow sash in Quebec’s cultural history. “Now I get messages from teenagers asking where they can learn traditional weaving techniques.”
Émilie is part of a growing movement of young Quebec creators using TikTok to breathe new life into the province’s cultural traditions. With over 147,000 followers, her account “QuébécoisePourToujours” has become a digital gathering place where centuries-old customs meet contemporary expression.
This digital renaissance comes at a critical time. According to a 2024 survey by the Institut de la statistique du Québec, participation in traditional cultural celebrations had declined by 37% among Quebecers under 30 in the past decade. Yet paradoxically, interest in cultural identity has surged, with 82% of young Quebecers expressing desire to connect with their heritage in new ways.
“These platforms provide what traditional cultural institutions often can’t—relevance and accessibility,” explains Dr. Sophie Tremblay-Beauséjour, professor of digital communications at Université de Montréal. “Young people are no longer passive recipients of culture but active participants in its evolution.”
In Montréal’s Mile End neighborhood, I met Alexandre Côté, a 26-year-old chef whose “TradFood Remixed” videos have garnered millions of views. Inside his tiny apartment kitchen, Alexandre prepared tourtière—the traditional meat pie—but with his signature twist: plant-based ingredients and global spice influences.
“My grandmother was horrified when I first made vegan tourtière,” Alexandre laughed, sliding the golden-crusted pie from his oven. “Now she asks for my recipe to serve her friends at the community center.”
What Alexandre and creators like him understand instinctively is that cultural preservation requires adaptation. His comment section brims with intergenerational conversations—grandparents thanking him for keeping traditions alive, young followers appreciating how he makes heritage recipes fit contemporary lifestyles.
The impact extends beyond food and crafts. Last February, I attended the Carnaval de Québec, where attendance had steadily declined for years. This winter, however, the festival grounds teemed with young people, many citing TikTok as their introduction to the celebration.
“We saw a 43% increase in attendance among the 16-25 demographic,” confirmed Carnaval director Jeanette Moreau. “When we analyzed what drove them here, social media content created by their peers was the primary factor.”
The Quebec Ministry of Culture and Communications has taken notice. In March 2025, they launched a $3.2 million initiative supporting young digital creators who promote Quebec’s cultural heritage, providing grants, equipment, and mentorship opportunities to help amplify these voices.
Not everyone welcomes this digital transformation of tradition. At Maison du Patrimoine in Quebec City, I spoke with cultural preservationist Georges Lafontaine, who expressed concern about the “TikTokification” of Quebec’s heritage.
“These platforms encourage superficial engagement,” Lafontaine argued. “Our traditions deserve more than 60-second videos with trending sounds.”
His perspective highlights a tension that many cultural institutions face worldwide: how to balance preservation with evolution, depth with accessibility. Yet creators like Marilou Desrosiers, who documents traditional Québécois music through her TikTok account, see no contradiction.
“I started learning violin from my grandfather when I was seven,” Marilou told me when I visited her home studio in Saguenay. “Now I teach traditional tunes to students across the province through video calls that began with TikTok connections.”
Marilou demonstrates how digital platforms can serve as entryways rather than endpoints. Her short videos featuring traditional reels and call-and-response songs have led many followers to sign up for her virtual lessons, attend in-person workshops, or join community music groups.
The phenomenon extends to Quebec’s Indigenous communities as well. In Wendake, just outside Quebec City, I met with Huron-Wendat creator Théo Sioui, whose videos exploring Indigenous perspectives on Quebec’s cultural celebrations have sparked important conversations about inclusion and recognition.
“I’m not just preserving culture—I’m reclaiming space within it,” Théo explained as we walked through his community. “When I show how St-Jean-Baptiste celebrations look from an Indigenous perspective, it creates dialogue that wouldn’t happen otherwise.”
The reach of these creators extends far beyond Quebec’s borders. Analytics shared by several creators show significant viewership from French-speaking communities worldwide, as well as language learners and cultural enthusiasts with no direct connection to Quebec.
“I get messages from French learners in Singapore and Australia,” Émilie said, scrolling through her phone to show me comments in multiple languages. “They say my videos help them understand not just the language but the cultural context behind it.”
This international engagement represents a form of soft power that Quebec cultural institutions have long sought to cultivate. What government initiatives couldn’t fully achieve, individual creators with authentic voices have accomplished organically.
As we finished our conversation on that historic porch in Lévis, Émilie packed away her phone and traditional sash. A notification pinged—another thousand views on her latest video.
“My great-grandmother kept journals about our family traditions,” she said, pausing before stepping off the porch. “I’m doing the same thing, just for a much bigger family.”
In that moment, the distance between handwritten journals and digital content seemed remarkably small—both acts of cultural continuity, separated only by the tools of their time.
