Africville and the Master Plan: How Halifax Planned a Community Out of Existence

In the years following World War II, cities across Canada rushed to modernize, reshape their urban landscapes, and improve infrastructure. Halifax joined this movement with the creation of a Master Plan in 1945, aimed at guiding the city’s future growth. Promising progress and better living conditions, the Plan also carried a darker consequence: the systematic displacement of Africville, a historic Black community on Halifax’s northwestern edge.

Residents of Africville had long noticed survey crews marking land without any clear explanation. Eventually, their suspicions were confirmed—plans were underway to remove the community. The city’s justification came cloaked in technical language about redevelopment, public health, and housing standards. But the reality was more troubling: decisions were being made about Africville without the involvement of its residents, and with little regard for the meaning of the community to those who lived there.

The 1945 Master Plan designated several areas of Halifax as “slums” or “blighted districts,” targeted for demolition and redevelopment. Africville was included in these assessments. The Plan defined slums as places where buildings were in poor condition, sanitation was inadequate, and overcrowding affected residents’ physical and moral well-being. City officials argued that these conditions harmed not only those living in the affected areas, but the city as a whole.

What the Plan failed to acknowledge, however, was that the poor conditions in Africville were the direct result of decades of municipal neglect. Halifax had systematically denied Africville basic public services—running water, sewer systems, waste removal—services provided to other neighbourhoods as a matter of course. Despite these deprivations, Africville remained a resilient and close-knit community.

When officials spoke of offering “decent minimum standard housing elsewhere,” they spoke as though physical housing could replace the sense of belonging, kinship, and identity that Africville provided. The relocation proposals failed to understand—or willfully ignored—that Africville was not just a collection of homes; it was a community with a shared history, culture, and life rooted in mutual support.

Urban redevelopment plans of the time prioritized dense housing developments, commercial corridors, and efficient city services. These priorities left little room for neighbourhoods that didn’t fit neatly into those categories. Rather than investing in Africville and integrating it into the broader fabric of the city with equal infrastructure, the city chose erasure.

Economic arguments were also used to justify this displacement. City documents pointed out that providing services to certain neighbourhoods cost more than others, and that tax revenues from these areas were low. But this reasoning ignored the structural inequalities that had created those conditions. Instead of addressing the root causes, the city presented relocation as the most practical solution—while disregarding the human cost.

Africville was dismantled not just by bulldozers, but by a vision of urban planning that failed to value the community as it was. It was a vision that placed economic and technical efficiency above social justice and human dignity.

Today, the story of Africville remains a powerful reminder of how city planning can serve some communities while marginalizing others. Recognizing this history is essential to building cities that are truly inclusive and equitable.