From Tragic Shootings to Orwellian Surveillance: Is Brown the Next Battleground?

Paul Riverbank, 12/31/2025Brown University’s response to campus tragedy highlights a national dilemma: Can new security measures keep communities safe without eroding trust and privacy? As the university tightens its defenses, the country faces urgent questions about the true cost of feeling secure.

It wasn’t just the violence itself that unsettled the community. In the chaotic aftermath, unsettling whispers began to swirl. Had someone flagged suspicious behavior before the attack? Had the system, somewhere, failed the very students it was meant to protect? Derek Lisi, a custodian with years of routine, said he tried to alert campus security weeks earlier about a man who felt out of place. That warning, he claims, went unheeded. The campus’s trusted police chief, Rodney Chatman, was abruptly put on leave—no explanation yet from the administration—leaving interim chief Hugh T. Clements Jr. to steady the helm.

Now, under Clements, the school is fortifying its defenses: think more uniformed patrols on walkways, a surge in ID checks at building entrances, and a new generation of blue-light call boxes promising not just a siren but a real-time camera feed to responders. Some corridors will soon bristle with security cameras; doors, once stubbornly reliant on metal keys, are set to go digital by 2026. “We owe it to Ella Cook and Mukhammad Aziz Umurzokov, and to everyone still here, that what took place in December never happens again. Not here. Not anywhere,” Clements wrote in his letter to campus—a note tinged with regret and resolve.

Yet there’s a bigger storm gathering beyond Brown’s perimeter. The U.S. Department of Education is now peering into the university’s compliance with the Clery Act, a federal statute that expects nothing less than accurate, timely campus crime disclosures under threat of losing federal student aid. At the same time, consultants are sweeping through campus policies—if the system stumbled, they want to know where, and whether it can be fixed before tragedy repeats.

Conversations about safety on campus rarely stay on campus for long. As Brown beefs up its response, similar debates play out nationwide. In San Francisco, the battle is over hundreds of automated license plate readers. One retired teacher has gone so far as to file a federal lawsuit, charging that the city’s new traffic surveillance setup edges dangerously close to round-the-clock government monitoring—a “scheme,” according to the filing, that pushes well past what the Fourth Amendment allows. The tide of surveillance rises much closer to home, too. Modern smart smoke detectors, like Gentex’s latest, offer Wi-Fi, microphones, even embedded cameras. While some buyers appreciate the features, others wince at the thought of being watched by their ceiling fixture. Ease and expense often clash, leaving consumers uncertain whether they’re safer—or just watched in new ways.

At its heart, this tension isn’t new. How much security is reassuring, and how much feels suffocating? It's a question that Clements—who inherited a campus both scared and skeptical—acknowledges directly. “Safety isn’t just guards and gadgets. It comes from trust, transparency, and listening,” he tells students, promising trauma-aware training for responders and open channels for community input.

Brown’s path from here is unclear and, for many, the wounds of December remain raw. What could have been done differently? Is there any comfort in card readers, cameras, or patrols, if warnings are overlooked? For Cook and Umurzokov’s friends, those are more than policy questions—they’re part of an ongoing search for answers and accountability. As spring approaches, Brown’s review may well serve as a blueprint or cautionary tale for other colleges struggling with the same balance.

Ultimately, as campuses, cities, and even living rooms find themselves hemmed in by new layers of surveillance, one truth lingers: security may be visible, but safety—in all its complexity—comes down to trust, preparation, and whether institutions are willing to hear their communities before the next crisis unfolds.

The morning after Brown University announced a sweeping overhaul of campus security, the sidewalks near Barus and Holley still held yellowed bouquets—some left by classmates, others by strangers. The shock from the December 13 shooting, which took two lives and wounded nine more, hasn’t faded quietly into the lecture halls. Instead, it’s hung over Providence, pressing the university’s leadership to act quickly—if with no small amount of self-scrutiny.It wasn’t just the violence itself that unsettled the community. In the chaotic aftermath, unsettling whispers began to swirl. Had someone flagged suspicious behavior before the attack? Had the system, somewhere, failed the very students it was meant to protect? Derek Lisi, a custodian with years of routine, said he tried to alert campus security weeks earlier about a man who felt out of place. That warning, he claims, went unheeded. The campus’s trusted police chief, Rodney Chatman, was abruptly put on leave—no explanation yet from the administration—leaving interim chief Hugh T. Clements Jr. to steady the helm.Now, under Clements, the school is fortifying its defenses: think more uniformed patrols on walkways, a surge in ID checks at building entrances, and a new generation of blue-light call boxes promising not just a siren but a real-time camera feed to responders. Some corridors will soon bristle with security cameras; doors, once stubbornly reliant on metal keys, are set to go digital by 2026. “We owe it to Ella Cook and Mukhammad Aziz Umurzokov, and to everyone still here, that what took place in December never happens again. Not here. Not anywhere,” Clements wrote in his letter to campus—a note tinged with regret and resolve.Yet there’s a bigger storm gathering beyond Brown’s perimeter. The U.S. Department of Education is now peering into the university’s compliance with the Clery Act, a federal statute that expects nothing less than accurate, timely campus crime disclosures under threat of losing federal student aid. At the same time, consultants are sweeping through campus policies—if the system stumbled, they want to know where, and whether it can be fixed before tragedy repeats.Conversations about safety on campus rarely stay on campus for long. As Brown beefs up its response, similar debates play out nationwide. In San Francisco, the battle is over hundreds of automated license plate readers. One retired teacher has gone so far as to file a federal lawsuit, charging that the city’s new traffic surveillance setup edges dangerously close to round-the-clock government monitoring—a “scheme,” according to the filing, that pushes well past what the Fourth Amendment allows. The tide of surveillance rises much closer to home, too. Modern smart smoke detectors, like Gentex’s latest, offer Wi-Fi, microphones, even embedded cameras. While some buyers appreciate the features, others wince at the thought of being watched by their ceiling fixture. Ease and expense often clash, leaving consumers uncertain whether they’re safer—or just watched in new ways.At its heart, this tension isn’t new. How much security is reassuring, and how much feels suffocating? It's a question that Clements—who inherited a campus both scared and skeptical—acknowledges directly. “Safety isn’t just guards and gadgets. It comes from trust, transparency, and listening,” he tells students, promising trauma-aware training for responders and open channels for community input.Brown’s path from here is unclear and, for many, the wounds of December remain raw. What could have been done differently? Is there any comfort in card readers, cameras, or patrols, if warnings are overlooked? For Cook and Umurzokov’s friends, those are more than policy questions—they’re part of an ongoing search for answers and accountability. As spring approaches, Brown’s review may well serve as a blueprint or cautionary tale for other colleges struggling with the same balance.Ultimately, as campuses, cities, and even living rooms find themselves hemmed in by new layers of surveillance, one truth lingers: security may be visible, but safety—in all its complexity—comes down to trust, preparation, and whether institutions are willing to hear their communities before the next crisis unfolds.