By: Tejas Saini, SFU Student and Sofia Chassomeris, Opinions Editor
On a cold evening in my first year, I was studying in the School of Criminology, exhausted after a late tutorial, when a man with an oversized jacket joined me at the table. I didn’t think much of him as he opened up a newspaper and quietly began to read. It was then that I couldn’t help but notice two Campus Public Safety (CPS) officers standing guard six feet from me. Instantly, my stomach fell. I knew CPS thought they were here for me, for my protection, but I was scared. I was scared for the quiet man who sat in front of me. It was clear to me he was unhoused. I was not scared by his lack of residential address but the treatment he might receive from security; so ready to secure me from this peaceful and respectful stranger.
CPS is one of three divisions of the Safety and Risk Services along with Environmental Health & Safety, and Enterprise Risk & Resilience. The mandate under which CPS operates states that CPS is to interact with any events, behaviours and circumstances that “may pose an immediate or reasonably foreseeable threat” to people or property. This section of the mandate is purposely broad, applying to anywhere there is a gathering of numerous people, which includes gatherings of peaceful protest. I would find this out in a later interaction with campus security.
The man grumbled under his breath about how he’d better leave so I could continue to study. I wished him a good night and glared at the guards. The security guards escorted him out, mumbling to him. Many would argue that the security guards were just doing their job, but I couldn’t help but wonder, does their job require treating certain individuals as less than human? The houseless person here is seen as a threat to the institution because they’re not paying tuition or working at SFU. Therefore, they don’t have a legal right to access its resources (like shelter and a newspaper). However, the assumption that he is abusing these resources is only made because he is poor.
In sociology, I learned about Max Weber’s conflict theory. It argues that surveilling institutions like the police, both public and private, are tools of the elite ruling class to maintain order and to continue the oppression of people. What remains in question is why the university, a place of community where people of all ages and backgrounds come together for the pursuit of knowledge, prioritizes dominance and authority over the growth and well-being of their students — could the money spent on security protocols be put toward better services to help students on campus with housing precarity, for example?
“What remains in question is why the university, a place of community where people of all ages and backgrounds come together for the noble pursuit of knowledge, prioritizes dominance and authority over the growth and community of their students.”
While the campus security did not share this sentiment with words, it was their actions that reflected to me their disdain for this part of their job. The man was not a security threat, he was not inebriated, he was not dangerous. He was just a man trying to get out of the cold and read his newspaper. This ordeal was just 15 minutes of my life, 15 minutes within the rush-addled weeks before my first final exams at university. This was not a particularly eventful experience but it was my first interaction with CPS.
My second interaction with CPS came when I attended a protest against the university’s investments in arms companies funding Israeli atrocities in Palestine, which was organized by the SFU Student Strike for Palestine. On a cold day in September after class, I joined the protesters congregating in the convocation mall. The tension was palpable in both the protesters and passersby as we joined to discuss the humanitarian cause for which we had all gathered. Security guards hovered on the periphery, their presence a stark contrast to the peaceful demonstration, collective mourning, and the very principles of the university as a space for the production of knowledge. In classrooms students learned of the systems of oppression while outside, employees of the university practiced the very oppression which is condemned and studied in lecture halls.
There has been due criticism of CPS following the continued harassment of students on campus, which according to those involved, has not been intervened or stopped by the presence of security guards. In cases where students are actually being harmed, other “safety” protocols like locking entrances to the school and washrooms don’t seem like they would help someone get to safety, but make it more difficult. In a previous article, The Peak spoke with a student who had been harassed on campus who shared that she felt “there was no sense of communication” with security after the incident despite turning to them for help.
Current campus security does not necessarily enhance feelings of safety for students, but rather the institution. It’s clear they are not here for the sake of students, but are used to control and maintain order of a society that cares more about private property than it does unhoused individuals or protests for humanitarian causes. As students it is our compliance which allows for control via campus security under the pretext of safety, however, it would be our prerogative that allows us to transform our university into a space of genuine safety that does not rely on oppression, but prioritises justice and freedom.