Journal articles on the topic 'Lesotho Mounted Police Service'

This article intervenes in the debate about whether and how the ‘Frontier Wars’ should be represented in Australia’s military heritage. If they were to be represented, those who resisted British colonial occupation would figure as Aboriginal patriots in a renovated heritage of Australian service to country. We point out, however, that certain historical actors have been, so far (and perhaps forever), excluded from such a revised Indigenous military heritage: those Aboriginal peoples who ‘served’ in the Native Mounted Police. While the archival record is patchy, scholarship tells us that, in their pacification of frontiers, the Native Mounted Police killed many Aboriginal peoples. Interrogating the meaning of war heritage in Australia, we discuss the politics of forgetting against the obligations of historiography to collective memory and ask: must scholarship always interrogate identity-sustaining myth, in service to the truth? To explore this question, we adopt Sharon Macdonald’s concept of ‘difficult heritage’.

This article is an overview of the development of policing in the Maritime provinces and a commentary on the potential of such research to augment our understanding of the urban past. Police records, it is argued, are important social indicators which can reveal more than crime or fear of crime in a community. The article discusses police records and statistics; 19th century urban policing; early 20th century themes such as technology and Prohibition; the role of the Provincial police and Royal Canadian Mounted Police in the region; police and labour and police organizations. It concludes that researchers should be sensitive to both 'hard' and 'soft' police policies and pay special attention to the police service role.

An operational stress injury (OSI) is a term used most often to describe mental disorders which result from, or are exacerbated by, military or police service. In the Canadian context, this most often refers to active or former members of the Canadian Armed Forces (CAF) or the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP). The most common diagnoses within this term include post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety disorders, depression, and substance use disorders.

The fact that the police and other security officers are authorised to carry firearms in the performance of their duties does not mean that they can lawfully use them at their whim or caprice. This is especially so if it be said that the objects of the police service are, inter alia, to protect the safety of its members and safeguard the public from harm. Although the primary duty of the police officer is to arrest and bring suspects to justice, however, the question of the wrongful use of their official firearms often comes up for determination. For instance, it is the law that the police can use reasonable force to arrest a suspect who resists arrest or who is violent. The question whether the force used was excessive in the circumstances a police officer finds him/herself is determinative as to whether the state will be held liable for the force used. In determining liability as well as the quantum of damages in these circumstances, one finds that all police shooting cases are not always connected with arrests. Sometimes a police officer shoots at a so-called suspect for no apparent reason, and even where the officer suspects that an offence has been committed, such suspicion may not be reasonable, or sufficient to justify the shooting. This enquiry examines the quantum of damages that have been awarded in South Africa in comparative perspective with the experiences of Lesotho, Malawi, Namibia and Swaziland/Eswatini in instances of unlawful shooting by police officers and further comparative awards made in respect of shootings by other security personnel. It is clear from this study that, owing essentially to the seriousness of the bodily injuries resulting from such shootings, the courts tend to make heavier awards in the circumstances of such shootings than in the normal or straight-forward wrongful arrest and detention cases.

Abstract Much of the history of Royal Canadian Mounted Police's (RCMP) security intelligence role has ignored domestic counter-subversion work in favour of more glamorous counter-espionage operations. “Intelligence at the Learneds: The RCMP, the Learneds, and the Canadian Historical Association” examines one small part of that neglected counter-subversion past. For nearly twenty-five years, from 1960 to 1983, members of the RCMP secretly covered and reported upon various meetings of the Learned Societies. Initially attracted by the presence of communists, by the 1970s the RCMP had changed its focus to members of the so-called New Left. Hounded by criticism in the aftermath of the McDonald Commission's final report in 1981, Mounties returned to monitoring communists. Mounted Police coverage ended in 1984, when the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) replaced the Security Service. The paper concludes with a suggestion that CSIS may not be as free from its RCMP ancestor as some would suggest.

Drawing on analysis of government records obtained using Access to Information Act requests, the author examines the securitization of Canada’s aid program to Haiti between 2004 and 2009. The author discusses how Canadian agencies, including the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), Correctional Service of Canada (CSC), and the Canadian International Development Agency, were involved in capacity-building initiatives that focused on police reform, border surveillance, and prison construction/refurbishment across Haiti in the aftermath of a coup that ousted the democratically elected President Jean-Bertrand Aristide. The author demonstrates how these efforts at securitization resulted in what officials referred to as the “Haitian Paradox,” whereby reorganization of the Haitian National Police force led to higher arrest rates and jail bloat, creating conditions that violated rather than ameliorated human rights. While the securitization project may have been based on the rule of law and human rights in Canadian policy makers’ official discourse, in practice these securitization efforts exacerbated jail overcrowding, distrust of police, and persecution of political opposition. The author therefore demonstrates one way that international development, aid, and criminal justice intersect, with emphasis on the transnational aspects of RCMP and CSC activities.

The gay purges from the late 1950s to the late 1970s were the only large-scale dismissals from the public service of Canada in its history. As this article demonstrates, this arbitrary action was taken without regard to individual circumstances and without due process or appeal, simply because of the sexuality of those targeted. Presumptions were made - and acted upon - about a supposed link between homosexuality and disloyalty, with a consequently imagined threat to national security. Although the implementation of the purges by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Security Service (RCMPSS) was undoubtedly zealous and harsh, that conduct took place within a framework that was constructed by policy-makers in the Privy Council Office, overseen by senior public servants and ultimately sanctioned by successive Canadian cabinets. As this examination shows, the RCMPSS acted, however severely, with authority granted to it by others who would later try to distance themselves from responsibility and pose as sympathetic to those purged. In fact, this was not the drastic misapplication of a measured policy, as sometimes contended, but a deliberate, malevolent, and ultimately mistaken attempt to deal with an imagined threat.

AbstractConcerned to assert sovereignty over northern territories, Canada in 1922 began an annual patrol to the eastern Arctic to establish and maintain police posts. The experienced Captain Bernier and the Arctic made four trips; then from 1926 to 1931 the government chartered Beothic, a larger sealing ship. The patrol was led by a civil servant and transported doctors, scientists, court officials and representatives of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. As part of depression economies in the 1930s, space was rented on the Hudson's Bay Company's Nascopie under Capt Smellie and many more Inuit were visited, but fur trading interests took precedence. Major McKeand, the patrol leader, had many roles and useful research continued, but Nascopie sank in July 1947. With postwar concern for a heightened government presence in the Arctic, and after some interim arrangements, the patrol was resumed in 1950 in CD. Howe. The new expedition was especially designed for an expanded medical team eager to test all Inuit for tuberculosis, as a result of which many were evacuated to southern hospitals. In 1959 Northern Affairs turned over command of the slow-moving patrol to the senior doctor, and in 1968 National Health and Welfare belatedly decided that the movement of Inuit into settlements with nursing stations and airstrips made the C. D. Howe service redundant, so the patrol was discontinued.

Abstract Background Social support may be a protective factor for the mental health of public safety personnel (PSP), who are frequently exposed to potentially psychologically traumatic events and report substantial post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and major depressive disorder (MDD) symptoms. Research examining perceived social support and its association with PTSD and MDD in different PSP categories (e.g. firefighters, paramedics) is limited. Aims To examine differences in perceived social support across PSP and determine whether perceived social support is associated with differences in rates of MDD and PTSD. Methods We asked Canadian PSP, including correctional workers and officers, public safety communications officials, firefighters, paramedics, municipal and provincial police officers, and Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) officers, to complete an online anonymous survey that assessed socio-demographic information (e.g. occupation, sex, marital status, service years), social supports and symptoms of mental disorders, including PTSD and MDD. Analyses included ANOVA and logistic regression models. Results Perceived social support differed by PSP occupation. RCMP officers reported lower social support than all other PSP except paramedics. For most PSP categories, PSP who reported greater social support were less likely to screen positive for PTSD (adjusted odds ratios [AORs]: 0.90–0.93). Across all PSP categories, greater perceived social support was associated with a decreased likelihood of screening positive for MDD (AORs: 0.85–0.91). Conclusions Perceived social support differs across some PSP categories and predicts PTSD and MDD diagnostic status. Studies involving diagnostic clinical interviews, longitudinal designs and social support interventions are needed to replicate and extend our results.

PurposeThe purpose of this study is to present evidence for a new model of change management designed to create a continuous integrated alignment between ongoing external organizational change and the proven internal environmental factors related to employee emotional wellness and workplace engagement that in turn directly impact organizational performance relationships within society and the human condition.Design/methodology/approachThis research uses a quantitative approach based on both primary and secondary data. The secondary data includes an analysis of the 2018 Public Service Employee Survey of Canada (N = 163,121) conducted by the Government of Canada while the primary data involves a 2018 employee survey conducted by the author of both civilian and sworn police officer employees with the British Columbia division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (N = 2,129) as well as a 2019 survey by the author of Corrections Officers at the Kent Maximum Security Institution in Agassiz, British Columbia (N = 174).FindingsThe key findings presented in this paper provide new evidence that correlations between key organizational workplace factors and employee wellness and performance are directly linked to the ability to address rapidly evolving external environmental factors; that traditional change management approaches are often insufficient to create a positive nexus between the results of environmental scanning and internal workplace environments; and that a new holistic model described in this paper can serve as a powerful diagnostic tool for change managers to identify how internal organizational structures, systems and climates can harmonize with external climates including societal expectations, economic and technological change and public policy.Research limitations/implicationsThe research findings pertain to about 100,000 employees of the Canadian public service and their readiness to manage well-established external environmental factors based on their rating of key internal environmental factors rated to workplace wellness and employee emotional health. Further research on the topic of external/internal organizational change adaptability is required specific to private sector organizations.Practical implicationsThe practical implications of the change management matrix diagnostic model have been proven in earlier beta testing with a group of organizational executives. The presentation of the data in the matrix format resulted in quick and clear identification of major areas of required change. Those changes resulted in improved service delivery, public safety and public trust. A second test was conducted by MBA students successfully applying the matrix model to identify key areas requiring change in various case studies.Social implicationsSociety at present has many new expectations of organizational behavior and citizenship as rapid changes in external environments occur including changes to technology, corporate governance, communications, economic conditions, social values, demographics and public policy. A failure by organizations to ensure that their internal environments of corporate culture, structure, systems and the workplace climate are in sync with external change presents major threats to employee and social well-being and organizational success.Originality/valueA unique model of organizational change management is presented that allows for successfully adapting internal organizational environments to the challenges of meeting rapidly advancing integrated external environmental forces. The result becomes an integrated ecosystem of external and internal environmental forces that offer adaptability to complex and evolving challenges ranging from social, economic, technological and climate change.

Background The optimal educational approach for preparing health professionals with the knowledge and skills to effectively recognize and respond to family violence, including child maltreatment and intimate partner violence, remains unclear. The Violence, Evidence, Guidance, and Action (VEGA) Family Violence Education Resources is a novel intervention that can be completed via self-directed learning or in a workshop format; both approaches focus on improving health professional preparedness to address family violence. Objective Our studies aim to determine the acceptability and feasibility of conducting a randomized controlled trial to evaluate the effectiveness of the self-directed (experimental intervention) and workshop (active control) modalities of VEGA, as an adjunct to standard education, to improve learner (Researching the Impact of Service provider Education [RISE] with Residents) and independent practice (RISE with Veterans) health professional preparedness, knowledge, and skills related to recognizing family violence in their health care encounters. Methods The RISE with Residents and RISE with Veterans research studies use embedded experimental mixed methods research designs. The quantitative strand for each study follows the principles of a pilot randomized controlled trial. For RISE with Residents, we aimed to recruit 80 postgraduate medical trainees; for RISE with Veterans, we intended to recruit 80 health professionals who work or have worked with Veterans (or their family members) of the Canadian military or the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in a direct service capacity. Participants complete quantitative assessments at baseline, after intervention, and at 3-month follow-up. A subset of participants from each arm also undergoes a qualitative semistructured interview with the aim of describing participants’ perceptions of the value and impact of each VEGA modality, as well as research burden. Scores on potential outcome measures will be mapped to excerpts of qualitative data via a mixed methods joint display to aid in the interpretation of findings. Results We consented 71 individuals to participate in the RISE with Residents study. Data collection was completed on August 31, 2023, and data are currently being cleaned and prepared for analysis. As of January 15, 2024, we consented 34 individuals in the RISE with Veterans study; data collection will be completed in March 2024. For both studies, no data analysis had taken place at the time of manuscript submission. Results will be disseminated through peer-reviewed publications; academic conferences; and posting and sharing of study summaries and infographics on social media, the project website, and via professional network listserves. Conclusions Reducing the impacts of family violence remains a pressing public health challenge. Both research studies will provide a valuable methodological contribution about the feasibility of trial methods in health professions education focused on family violence. They will also contribute to education science about the differences in the effectiveness of self-directed versus facilitator-led learning strategies. Trial Registration ClinicalTrials.gov NCT05490121, https://clinicaltrials.gov/study/NCT05490121; ClinicalTrials.gov NCT05490004, https://clinicaltrials.gov/study/NCT05490004 International Registered Report Identifier (IRRID) DERR1-10.2196/50864

As Canada's federal police service celebrates its 150th anniversary, the past and future of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police/Gendarmerie royale du Canada (RCMP/GRC) is coming under intense scrutiny. Dogged by historical legacies and endemic external and internal controversies, this national police service with military characteristics serves the Canadian state loyally and professionally. The anachronistic connection with horses in the English name has long outlived its usefulness and it is time that Canada's federal police service embraced more French, greater inclusivity in the ranks, better accountability and a functional approach to provision of national security policing at higher levels. A new refresh requires rebranding into a truly effective gendarmerie adequately manned, trained and equipped for the task, already anticipated in the French name. Refocusing on federal roles at the national level without the distraction of contract policing would give the RCMP/GRC greater purpose and coherence. The aligned symmetry of a Royal Canadian Gendarmerie/Gendarmerie royale du Canada (RCG/GRC) provides a basis for necessary change to happen and reconciliation to begin.

BackgroundRoyal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) officers experience an elevated risk for mental health disorders due to inherent work-related exposures to potentially psychologically traumatic events and occupational stressors. RCMP officers also report high levels of stigma and low levels of intentions to seek mental health services. In contrast, very little is known about the levels of mental health knowledge and stigma of RCMP cadets starting the Cadet Training Program (CTP). The current study was designed to: (1) obtain baseline levels of mental health knowledge, stigma against peers in the workplace, and service use intentions in RCMP cadets; (2) determine the relationship among mental health knowledge, stigma against peers in the workplace, and service use intentions among RCMP cadets; (3) examine differences across sociodemographic characteristics; and (4) compare cadets to a sample of previously surveyed serving RCMP.MethodsParticipants were RCMP cadets (n = 772) starting the 26-week CTP. Cadets completed questionnaires assessing mental health knowledge, stigma against coworkers with mental health challenges, and mental health service use intentions.ResultsRCMP cadets reported statistically significantly lower levels of mental health knowledge (d = 0.233) and stigma (d = 0.127), and higher service use intentions (d = 0.148) than serving RCMP (all ps < 0.001). Female cadets reported statistically significantly higher scores on mental health knowledge and service use and lower scores on stigma compared to male cadets. Mental health knowledge and service use intentions were statistically significantly positively associated. For the total sample, stigma was inversely statistically significantly associated with mental health knowledge and service use intentions.ConclusionThe current results indicate that higher levels of mental health knowledge were associated with lower stigma and higher intention to use professional mental health services. Differences between cadets and serving RCMP highlight the need for regular ongoing training starting from the CTP, designed to reduce stigma and increase mental health knowledge. Differences between male and female cadets suggest differential barriers to help-seeking behaviors. The current results provide a baseline to monitor cadet mental health knowledge and service use intentions and stigma as they progress throughout their careers.

IntroductionCertain populations, such as public safety personnel (PSP), experience frequent exposures to potentially psychologically traumatic events and other occupational stressors, increasing their risk for mental health challenges. Social support has been evidenced as a protective factor for mental health. However, research examining perceived social support and its associations with symptoms related to mental disorders among PSP recruits is limited.MethodsRCMP cadets (n = 765, 72% male) completed self-report surveys assessing: sociodemographic information, social support, and symptoms related to posttraumatic stress disorder, major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, social anxiety disorder, panic disorder, and alcohol use disorder.ResultsThe results indicated statistically significant associations between higher social support and decreased odds of positive screens for generalized anxiety disorder, social anxiety disorder, and panic disorder (i.e., significant Adjusted Odds Ratios = 0.90 to 0.95).DiscussionCadets’ perceived levels of social support are comparable to the Canadian general population and higher than serving RCMP. Social support appears to offer a protective element against anxiety-related disorders among participating cadets. Reductions in perceived levels of social support may be a function of RCMP service. Factors contributing to decreased levels of perceived social support should be considered.

Lay Summary This literature review summarizes the available information about women Veterans of the Canadian Armed Forces and Royal Canadian Mounted Police, points out gaps in the literature, and suggests ways to improve research about this population. The literature reviewed mainly addressed demographics, women Veterans’ physical and mental health issues, income, and financial security, being a woman in the workplace, Veterans Affairs Canada program and service use, and military-to-civilian transition. Even though this review of 83 articles uncovered many issues faced by women Veterans in Canada, much more information is available about men compared with women Veterans, and more research on women Veterans is needed. With the research that is available, it is still difficult to understand the experiences of Canadian women Veterans, know whether their needs are being met, and figure out which issues are specific to them.

Objective Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) report extremely frequent and varied exposures to potentially psychologically traumatic events (PPTEs). While occupational exposures to PPTEs may be one explanation for the symptoms of mental disorders prevalent among serving RCMP, exposures occurring prior to service may also play a role. The objective of the current study was to provide estimates of lifetime PPTE exposures among RCMP cadets in training and assess for associations with mental disorders or sociodemographic variables. Methods RCMP cadets ( n = 772; 72.0% male) beginning the Cadet Training Program (CTP) completed a survey assessing self-reported PPTE exposures as measured by the Life Events Checklist for the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders Fifth Edition-Extended. Binomial tests were conducted to compare the current results to previously collected data from the general population, a diverse sample of public safety personnel (PSP) and serving RCMP. Results Cadets reported statistically significantly fewer PPTE exposures for all PPTE types than serving RCMP (all p’s < 0.001) and PSP (all p’s < 0.001) but more PPTE exposures for all PPTE types than the general population (all p’s < 0.001). Cadets also endorsed fewer PPTE types (6.00 ± 4.47) than serving RCMP (11.64 ± 3.40; p < 0.001) and other PSP (11.08 ± 3.23) but more types than the general population (2.31 ± 2.33; p < 0.001). Participants who reported being exposed to any PPTE type reported the exposures occurred 1–5 times (29.1% of participants), 6–10 times (18.3%) or 10 + times (43.1%) before starting the CTP. Several PPTE types were associated with positive screens for one or more mental disorders. There were associations between PPTE types and increased odds of screening positive for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), major depressive disorder (MDD), generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) and social anxiety disorder (SAD) (all p’s < 0.05). Serious transport accident (11.1%), physical assault (9.5%) and sudden accidental death (8.4%) were the PPTEs most identified as the worst event, and all were associated with positive screens for one or more mental disorders. Conclusion The current results provide the first information describing PPTE histories of cadets, evidencing exposure frequencies and types much higher than the general population. PPTE exposures may have contributed to the cadet's vocational choices. The current results support the growing evidence that PPTEs can be associated with diverse mental disorders; however, the results also suggest cadets may be uncommonly resilient, based on how few screened positive for mental disorders, despite reporting higher frequencies of PPTE exposures prior to CTP than the general population.

IntroductionPrevious research comparing veteran and civilian mental health (MH) outcomes often assumes stable rates of MH service use over time and relies on standardisation or restriction to adjust for differences in baseline characteristics. We aimed to explore the stability of MH service use in the first 5 years following release from the Canadian Armed Forces and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and to demonstrate the impact of using increasingly stringent matching criteria on effect estimates when comparing veterans with civilians, using incident outpatient MH encounters as an example.MethodsWe used administrative healthcare data from veterans and civilians residing in Ontario, Canada to create three hard-matched civilian cohorts: (1) age and sex; (2) age, sex and region of residence; and (3) age, sex, region of residence and median neighbourhood income quintile, while excluding civilians with a history of long-term care or rehabilitation stay or receipt of disability/income support payments. Extended Cox models were used to estimate time-dependent HRs.ResultsAcross all cohorts, time-dependent analyses suggested that veterans had a significantly higher hazard of an outpatient MH encounter within the first 3 years of follow-up than civilians, but differences were attenuated in years 4–5. More stringent matching decreased baseline differences in unmatched variables and shifted the effect estimates, while sex-stratified analyses revealed stronger effects among women compared with men.ConclusionsThis methods-focused study demonstrates the implications of several study design decisions that should be considered when conducting comparative veteran and civilian health research.

Background Intimate partner violence (IPV) persists as a serious challenge, globally, with regions in Central and Northern Canada reporting the highest rates of shelter use to escape abuse, of sexual assault, and of IPV in the country. Despite research into IPV, barriers and gaps exist in understanding what an effective response to IPV in rural and northern communities should look like. Methods To enhance this understanding, qualitative interviews and focus groups with a total of 55 participants were conducted with service providers, including shelter services, victims services, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, counselors, and others (e.g., psychologists). A grounded theory approach was used to analyze data, with findings illustrated in a schematic that conceptualize the challenges service providers experience. Results The findings reveal how an IPV environment, characterized by oppression, abuse, and illness, requires transformation into an IPV-free environment, characterized by empowerment, positive social connections, and wellness. As service providers work to influence this transition, they become experts in understanding the sociocultural context, formal services, and informal supports accessible or not for women experiencing IPV. Service providers encourage social media use into service delivery to improve communication; lobby for rural-specific IPV specialists; and recognize isolation as a barrier to seeking out safe shelter and housing, transportation, and economic assistance. Conclusion In order to reduce rates of IPV, the results suggest we must support service providers, document service gaps, and maximize policy change and community action based on IPV as it is experienced in rural and northern regions of Canada.

Objectives Emergency departments (EDs) are a vital part of healthcare systems, at times acting as a gateway to community-based mental health (MH) services. This may be particularly true for veterans of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who were released prior to 2013 and the Canadian Armed Forces, as these individuals transition from federal to provincial healthcare coverage on release and may use EDs because of delays in obtaining a primary care provider. We aimed to estimate the hazard ratio (HR) of MH-related ED visits between veterans and non-veterans residing in Ontario, Canada: (1) overall; and by (2) sex; and (3) length of service. Methods This retrospective cohort study used administrative healthcare data from 18,837 veterans and 75,348 age-, sex-, geography-, and income-matched non-veterans residing in Ontario, Canada between April 1, 2002, and March 31, 2020. Anderson–Gill regression models were used to estimate the HR of recurrent MH-related ED visits during the period of follow-up. Sex and length of service were used as stratification variables in the models. Results Veterans had a higher adjusted HR (aHR) of MH-related ED visits than non-veterans (aHR, 1.97, 95% CI, 1.70 to 2.29). A stronger effect was observed among females (aHR, 3.29; 95% CI, 1.96 to 5.53) than males (aHR, 1.78; 95% CI, 1.57 to 2.01). Veterans who served for 5–9 years had a higher rate of use than non-veterans (aHR, 3.76; 95% CI, 2.34 to 6.02) while veterans who served for 30+ years had a lower rate compared to non-veterans (aHR, 0.60; 95% CI, 0.42 à 0.84). Conclusions Rates of MH-related ED visits are higher among veterans overall compared to members of the Ontario general population, but usage is influenced by sex and length of service. These findings indicate that certain subpopulations of veterans, including females and those with fewer years of service, may have greater acute mental healthcare needs and/or reduced access to primary mental healthcare.

In November 2005 Fidelity Homestead, a savings bank in Louisiana, began noticing suspicious charges from Mexico and southern California on its customers' credit cards. More than a year later, an audit revealed peculiarities in the credit card data in the computer systems of TJX Companies, the parent company of more than 2,600 discount fashion and home accessories retail stores in the United States, Canada, and Europe.The U.S. Secret Service, the U.S. Justice Department, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police found that hackers had penetrated TJX's systems in mid-2005, accessing information that dated as far back as 2003. TJX had violated industry security standards by failing to update its in-store wireless networks and by storing credit card numbers and expiration dates without adequate encryption. When TJX announced the intrusion in January 2007, it admitted that hackers had compromised nearly 46 million debit and credit card numbers, the largest-ever data breach in the United States.After analyzing and discussing the case, students should be able to: Understand imbedded operational risks Analyze how operational risk decisions are made in a firm Understand the challenges in the electronic payment transmission process, which relies on each participant in the process to operate best-in-class safety systems to ensure the safety of the entire process Recognize the sophistication of IT security threats

This chapter examines some of the key issues and challenges of the intelligence to evidence (I2E) process, mainly regarding the exchange of information between the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP). For historical perspective, the authors cite findings from the 1981 McDonald Commission Report, concluding that subsequent events proved McDonald over-optimistic in terms of the expected level of cooperation and sharing of information between the new CSIS and the RCMP. The intervening years between the creation of CSIS in 1984 and the Toronto 18 case saw marginal progress towards improving inter-agency cooperation. Landmark judicial rulings, such as R v. Stinchcombe, only served to dampen any incentive to freely share information between the agencies and build an effective I2E operational model. The authors argue that the current I2E model, known as One Vision 2.0, developed in the years following the Toronto 18 case, while representing a notable improvement in the process, nevertheless falls short of achieving a robust framework. More recent improvements stemming from the joint CSIS/RCMP initiative “Midnight Horizon” are helpful but unlikely to move the needle substantially closer to the ideal. Pre-empting terrorist/hate-related attacks requires a more aggressive response than at present, one focused more on eliminating the threat through arrest and prosecution rather than lesser measures aimed at “threat reduction” or “threat containment.” To that end, this chapter offers some recommendations. The authors conclude that while CSIS and the RCMP have accomplished much towards improving the I2E process, there are clear limits to what they can achieve on their own in the absence of broader government action. Parliament can and must do more to champion needed legislative and policy changes to provide intelligence and law enforcement officials with the additional tools and resources they need to achieve a maximum level of security against terrorist and hate-inspired attacks.

It’s a cool autumn morning and I am grateful for the sun as it warms the wet concrete. I have been told we will be spending some time outside later, so I am hopeful it will remain sunny. When everyone arrives, we go directly to the principal’s office. Once inside, someone points at the PA system. People pull out their cameras and take a quick photo—we were told the PA system in each school can be different so information about the broadcasting mechanism could be helpful in an emergency. I decide to take a photo as well. Figure 1: PA system inside the principal's office (Photo by Michelle Stewart) The principal joins us and we begin the task of moving through the school: a principal, two plain clothes police officers, two uniformed police officers, two police volunteers and an anthropologist researcher. Our goal is to document the entire school for a police program called School Action For Emergencies (SAFE) that seeks to create emergency plans for each school on a national Canadian police database. It is a massive undertaking to collect the data necessary to create the interactive maps of each school. We were told that potential hiding spaces were one focus alongside the general layout of the school; the other focus is thinking about potential response routes and staging for emergency responders. We snap photos based on our morning training. Broom closets and cubbyholes are now potential hiding spots that must be documented with a photo and narrated with a strategy. Misplaced items present their own challenges. A large gym mattress stored under the stairs. The principal comments that the mattress needs to be returned to the gym; a volunteer crouches down and takes a picture in the event that it remains permanently and creates a potential hiding spot. Figure 2: Documenting gym mat in hallway/potential hiding spot (Photo by Michelle Stewart) We emerge from the school, take a photo of the door, and enter the schoolyard. We move along the fence line: some individuals take notes about the physical characteristics of the property, others jot down the height of the retaining wall, still others take photos of the neighboring properties. Everyone is taking notes, taking photos, or comparing notes and photos. Soon we will be back at the police station for the larger project of harmonizing all the data into a massive mapping database. Locating the State in Its Objects Focusing on a Canadian police program called School Action for Emergency (SAFE), this article discusses the material labour practices required to create a virtual object—an augmented map. This mapping program provides a venue through which to consider the ways augmented objects come into the world. In this article, I discuss the labour practices necessary to create this map and then illustrate how labour practices are erased as part of this production and consumption of an augmented technology meant to facilitate an effective emergency response. In so doing, I will also discuss the production of authority and expertise through deployment of these police aids. As someone concerned with the ways in which the state instantiates itself into the lives of its subjects, I look at the particular enrollment practices of citizen and state agents as part of statecraft (Stewart). From Weber we are told about the role of police as they relate to state power, “state is a human community that (successfully) claims the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force within a given territory. Note that 'territory' is one of the characteristics of the state. Specifically, at the present time, the right to use physical force is ascribed to other institutions or to individuals only to the extent to which the state permits it” (Weber, 34 my emphasis). I would argue that part of this monopoly involves cultivating citizen consent; that the subordination of citizens is equally important to police power as is the state’s permission to act. One way citizen consent is cultivated is through the performance of expertise such that subjects agree to give police power because police appear to be experts. Seen this way, police aids can be critical in cultivating this type of consent through the appearance of police as experts when they appear all knowing; what is often forgotten are the workers and aids that support that appearance (think here of dispatchers and databases). Becoming SAFE The SAFE project is an initiative of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), the national police force in Canada. The goal of the program is to “certify” every school in the country, meaning each school will have documentation of the school that has been uploaded into the SAFE computer program. As illustrated in the introduction, this is a time-consuming process requiring not only photos and other data be collected but also all of this data and material be uploaded into the RCMP’s centralized computer program. The desired effect is that each school will have a SAFE program so police and dispatchers can access this massive collection of the data in the event of an emergency. During my time conducting research with the RCMP, I attended training sessions with John, a young corporal in the national police force. One of John’s duties was to coordinate the certification of the SAFE program that included training sessions. The program was initiated in 2007, and within one year, the province we were working in began the process of certifying approximately 850 of its 1700 schools; it had completed over 170 schools and identified 180 local SAFE coordinators. In that first year alone over 23,000 photos had been uploaded and 2,800 school layouts were available. In short, SAFE was a data heavy, labour-intensive process and one of John’s jobs was to visit police stations to get them started certifying local schools. Certification requires that at least one police officer be involved in the documentation of the school (photos and notes). After all the data is collected it must be articulated into the computer program through prompts that allow for photos and narratives to be uploaded. In the session described in the introduction, John worked with a group of local police and police auxiliaries (volunteers). The session started with a short Power Point presentation that included information about recent school tragedies, an audio clip from Columbine that detailed the final moments of a victim as she hid from killers, and then a practical, hands-on engagement with the computer software. Prior to leaving for on-site data collection, John had the trainees open the computer program to become familiar with the screens and prompts. He highlighted the program was user-friendly, and that any mistake made could be corrected. He focused on instilling interest before leaving for the school to collect data. During this on-site visit, as I trailed behind the participants, I was fascinated by one particularly diligent volunteer. He bent, climbed, and stretched to take photos and then made careful notations. Back at the police station he was just as committed to detail when he was paired up with his partner in front of the computer. They poured over their combined notes and photos; making routes and then correcting them; demanding different types of maps to compare their handwritten notes to the apparent errors in the computer map; demanding a street map for one further clarification of the proposed route. His commitment to the process, I started to think, was quite substantial. Because of his commitment, he had to engage in quite a bit of labour. But it was in this process of refining his data that I started to see the erasure of labour. I want to take some time now to discuss the process of erasure by turning attention to feminist and labour theory emerging from science and technology studies as means to articulate what was, and was not, taking place during the data entry. Maria Puig de la Bellacasa highlights the role of care as it relates to labour. In so doing, she joins a literature that draws attention to the ways in which labour is erased through specific social and material practices (see for example works in Gibson-Graham, Resnick and Wolf). More specifically, Puig de la Bellacasa investigates care in labour as it effects what she calls “knowledge politics” (85). In her work, Puig de la Bellaca discusses Suchman’s research on software design programs that produce virtual “office assistants” to assist the user. Suchman’s work reveals the ways in which this type of “assistant” must be visible enough to assist the user but not visible enough to require recognition. In so doing, Suchman illustrates how these programs replicate the office (and domestic servant) dynamics. Seen this way, labour becomes undervalued (think for example interns, assistants, etc.) and labour that is critical to many offices (and homes). Suchman’s work in this area is helpful when thinking about the role of augmented objects such as the augmented police map because in many ways it is a type of office assistant for police officers, handing over virtual notes and information about a location that police would otherwise not necessarily know thereby replicating the office dynamic of the boss that appears all knowing because, in part, s/he has a team that supports every aspect of their work. This devalued work (the lower paid intern or assistant) facilitates the authority—and ultimately the higher wage of the boss—who appears to earn this status. Let me layer this analysis of the “office assistant” with the similar phenomena in scientific knowledge production. Steven Shapin, a sociologist of science, discusses Robert Boyle’s 17th century laboratory and the various technicians in the background that assisted in experiments but remained ignored. Shapin argues contemporary scientific practice has changed little in this regard as technicians remain unaccounted for in the scientific record. He points out “science could not be made if this technician’s work were not done, but it is thought that anyone can do it” (Shapin, 557). Without these workers and their labour, scientific knowledge would not be possible, and yet they are ignored and their labour contribution erased (for example not included in formal discussion about the research, or more recently not included as authors in articles). Of course many technicians are/were paid, but nevertheless their role in the experiment erased. One figure emerged as the expert, the scientist, whose work appeared to be solely configured and created. Programs such as the SAFE project illustrate ways in which the police officer can emerge as an authority figure; but the authority rests on labour practices that move around in the background and go unacknowledged. Much like the lab, there are many ignored figures that produce the necessary objects of police work. In the case of the SAFE program, the ideal is that a police officer will respond to a call for service and with the click of a computer screen will be immersed in this augmented map. One click reveals data about the PA system, another click offers a full layout of the school, instructions about the design of the exits, notes about potential hiding spots inside, the list goes on. Each click is a product of labourer(s) that compiled the data. But these individuals, much like Boyle’s laboratory technicians, fade into the background and are erased as the police officer emerges as an authority. The map, an augmented object, may be credited with the data it holds, but the data collectors are long forgotten as the police officer stands alone as the subject of authority because of the smooth effects of the augmented map. Smooth Effects In an era of big data and data-intensive experiences, augmented objects are increasingly present in our daily lives—with expanded tolerance and appetite. When engaging an augmented object, there is a built-in expectation that the object will "work;" meaning it will run smoothly and effectively. Take Google Maps as an example: one expects the program will run on different scales, offer the capacity to map directions, and perhaps most importantly to be accurate. When these augmented objects run smoothly they appear to be a self-contained and organized object in and of themselves. This paper intervenes on these assumptions to illustrate that this “smooth effect” can serve to erase the labour necessary to produce the effect. Thinking here of the commodity fetish, one can recall Karl Marx’s intervention that illustrated how objects, commodities, permeate our social worlds in such ways that we can see the object—that we only see the object. This concept, commodity fetishism, argues that we erase the labour and social relations involved in the production of the objects, that we forget all that was required to create the object, and we don’t see all that was destroyed in its making. An example is to think of a cup of coffee. As you sip and consume it, do you think of the commodity chain? Do you think of the worker, the working conditions necessary to plant, harvest, roast and distribute the beans; do you think about the production of the bag the beans were transported in; do you think of the warehouse or coffeehouse from which the bag of beans came from? You more likely think about how it tastes—as an object in and of itself, how it is, rather than how it came into being in the world. Similarly, I want to think about this augmented map and how attention turns to it, not how it came into the world. Thinking about labour as it relates to computer programs and computer worlds, social scientists have investigated the necessary work of computer programmers and other labourers (see for example Kelty). Tiziana Terranova discusses the immaterial and affective labour that makes online communities thrive as individuals lend their labour (often unpaid) to create an online “world” that appears to organically come together—she argues these online communities are a product of free labour. Although the police are not working for “free” the volunteers are and the valorization of labour, if erased, still results in the similar outcome. Terranova is concerned about online communities that don’t simply come into being, but rather are the product of free labour. In the case of the SAFE program, labour practices are rendered invisible when augmented objects appear to be running smoothly —when in fact this appearance of smoothness necessarily requires labour and the commodity being exchanged is the claim to authority. Figure 3: Cross referencing hardcopy map (Photo by Michelle Stewart) Figure 4: Using a hand-drawn map to assist data entry (Photo by Michelle Stewart) Moving in a different direction, but still thinking about labour, I want to turn to the work of Chris Kortright. In his work about agricultural scientists, Kortright carefully details the physical practices associated with growing an experimental crop of sorghum. From the counting and washing of the seeds, to the planting and harvesting of the seeds, he delivers rich ethnographic stories from experimental fields and labs. He closes with the story of one researcher as she enters all the data into the computer to generate one powerpoint. He explains her frustration: “You can’t see all the time we spent. The nights we slept here. All the seeds and plants. The flooding and time at the greenhouse. All the people and the labour.” I nodded, these things had disappeared. In the table, only numbers existed. (Kortright, 20) Kortright argues for the need to recognize the social relations carved out in the field that are erased through the process of producing scientific knowledge—the young researcher ultimately knowing her labour did have a place on the slide.In much the same way, the police and volunteers engaged in a practice of removing themselves from the map. There was not enough space for long sentences explaining the debate about the best route to take; longer sentences were replace with short-phrased instructions. Conjuring the image of the police officer looking for fast, quick information, quick data was what they would deliver. The focus of the program was to place emergency icons (police cars, ambulance, fire engines and helicopters) onto the map, outline response routes, and offer photos as the evidence. Their role as individuals and their labour and creativity (itself a form of labour) was erased as the desired outcome was ease and access to data—a smooth effect. I was often told that many of the police cars don’t yet have a computer inside but in an idealized future world, police cars would be equipped with a computer console. In this world, officers could receive the call for service, access the program and start to move through layers of data rapidly while receiving the details of the call. This officer would arrive informed, and prepared to effectively respond to the emergency. Thinking back to labour required to create the SAFE map for each school (photographing, mapping, writing instructions, comparing details, etc.) and then the processes of hiding that labour (limited photos and short instructions) so that the program would appear to run smoothly and be user-friendly, the SAFE program, as an object, serves to abstract and erase labour. Indeed, the desired result was a smooth running program that operated much like Suchman’s office assistant who should be just visible enough to provide the needed help but otherwise remain invisible; similar in many ways to Shapin/Boyle’s scientific technician who is critical to knowledge production and yet remains formally unrecognized. Conclusion This article investigated a map as an entry point to understand the ways in which labour can be erased in augmented objects and, concurrently, how authority figures or experts instead emerge. My goal was to discuss the labour necessary to make one augmented map while also describing the process by which the labour necessary for the map was concurrently erased. Central to this article are the ways in which labour is erased as one clicks between these layers of data and, in the process, thinks the smoothly operating computer program is a measure of the strength of program itself, and not the labour required therein. By focusing on this augmented object, I am pointing out the collective labour needed to co-produce the map but how that map then helps to produce the police officer as authority figure. My intention is to look at the map as an unexpected entry point through which to understand how consent and authority is cultivated. Accordingly, I am concerned with the labour that is erased as this police figure emerges and authority is cultivated on the ground. I focus on the labour that necessarily to produce the police officer as expert because when that labour is erased we are left only with the authority figure that appears to be self-evident—not co-constructed. To understand state practices, as practices and not magical phenomena, we must look for the ways in which the state comes into being through particular practices, such as policing and to identify the necessary labour involvedReferencesGibson-Graham, J.K., Stephen Resnick, and Richard Wolff, eds. Re/Presenting Class: Essays in Postmodern Marxism. Durham: Duke University Press, 2000. Kelty, Chris. Two Bits: The Cultural Significance of Free Software. Durham: Duke University Press, 2008. Kortright, Chris. “On Labour and Creative Transformations in the Experimental Fields of the Philippines.” East Asian Science, Technology and Society: An International Journal 7.4 (2013). Marx, Karl. Capital: A Critique of Political Econony Vol. 1. New York: Penguin Books, 2004. Puig de la Bellacasa, Maria. “Matters of Care in Technoscience: Assembling Neglected Things.” Social Studies of Science 41.1 (2011): 85-106. Shapin, Stephen. “The Invisible Technician.” Scientific American 77 (1989): 554-563. Stewart, Michelle. “The Space between the Steps: Reckoning in an Era of Reconciliation.” Contemporary Justice Review 14.1 (2011): 43-63. Suchman, Lucy. Human-Machine Reconfigurations. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Terranova, Tiziana. “Free Labour: Producing Culture for the Digital Economy.” Social Text 63 (2000): 33-58. Weber, Max. The Vocation Lectures: "Science as a Vocation", "Politics as a Vocation." Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2004.

Our thesis is that the city’s ambience is now an unstable dialectic in which we are watchers and watched, mirrored and refracted in a landscape of iPhone auteurs, eTags, CCTV and sousveillance. Embrace ambience! Invoking Benjamin’s spirit, this article does not seek to limit understanding through restriction to a particular theme or theoretical construct (Buck-Morss 253). Instead, it offers snapshots of interactions at the dawn of the postmodern city. That bricolage also engages how people appropriate, manipulate, disrupt and divert urban spaces and strategies of power in their everyday life. Ambient information can both liberate and disenfranchise the individual. This article asks whether our era’s dialectics result in a new personhood or merely restate the traditional spectacle of ‘bright lights, big city’. Does the virtualized city result in ambient anomie and satiation or in surprise, autonomy and serendipity? (Gumpert 36) Since the steam age, ambience has been characterised in terms of urban sound, particularly the alienation attributable to the individual’s experience as a passive receptor of a cacophony of sounds – now soft, now loud, random and recurrent–from the hubbub of crowds, the crash and grind of traffic, the noise of industrial processes and domestic activity, factory whistles, fire alarms, radio, television and gramophones (Merchant 111; Thompson 6). In the age of the internet, personal devices such as digital cameras and iPhones, and urban informatics such as CCTV networks and e-Tags, ambience is interactivity, monitoring and signalling across multiple media, rather than just sound. It is an interactivity in which watchers observe the watched observing them and the watched reshape the fabric of virtualized cities merely by traversing urban precincts (Hillier 295; De Certeau 163). It is also about pervasive although unevenly distributed monitoring of individuals, using sensors that are remote to the individual (for example cameras or tag-readers mounted above highways) or are borne by the individual (for example mobile phones or badges that systematically report the location to a parent, employer or sex offender register) (Holmes 176; Savitch 130). That monitoring reflects what Doel and Clark characterized as a pervasive sense of ambient fear in the postmodern city, albeit fear that like much contemporary anxiety is misplaced–you are more at risk from intimates than from strangers, from car accidents than terrorists or stalkers–and that is ahistorical (Doel 13; Scheingold 33). Finally, it is about cooption, with individuals signalling their identity through ambient advertising: wearing tshirts, sweatshirts, caps and other apparel that display iconic faces such as Obama and Monroe or that embody corporate imagery such as the Nike ‘Swoosh’, Coca-Cola ‘Ribbon’, Linux Penguin and Hello Kitty feline (Sayre 82; Maynard 97). In the postmodern global village much advertising is ambient, rather than merely delivered to a device or fixed on a billboard. Australian cities are now seas of information, phantasmagoric environments in which the ambient noise encountered by residents and visitors comprises corporate signage, intelligent traffic signs, displays at public transport nodes, shop-window video screens displaying us watching them, and a plethora of personal devices showing everything from the weather to snaps of people in the street or neighborhood satellite maps. They are environments through which people traverse both as persons and abstractions, virtual presences on volatile digital maps and in online social networks. Spectacle, Anomie or Personhood The spectacular city of modernity is a meme of communication, cultural and urban development theory. It is spectacular in the sense that of large, artificial, even sublime. It is also spectacular because it is built around the gaze, whether the vistas of Hausmann’s boulevards, the towers of Manhattan and Chicago, the shopfront ‘sea of light’ and advertising pillars noted by visitors to Weimar Berlin or the neon ‘neo-baroque’ of Las Vegas (Schivelbusch 114; Fritzsche 164; Ndalianis 535). In the year 2010 it aspires to 2020 vision, a panoptic and panspectric gaze on the part of governors and governed alike (Kullenberg 38). In contrast to the timelessness of Heidegger’s hut and the ‘fixity’ of rural backwaters, spectacular cities are volatile domains where all that is solid continues to melt into air with the aid of jackhammers and the latest ‘new media’ potentially result in a hypereality that make it difficult to determine what is real and what is not (Wark 22; Berman 19). The spectacular city embodies a dialectic. It is anomic because it induces an alienation in the spectator, a fatigue attributable to media satiation and to a sense of being a mere cog in a wheel, a disempowered and readily-replaceable entity that is denied personhood–recognition as an autonomous individual–through subjection to a Fordist and post-Fordist industrial discipline or the more insidious imprisonment of being ‘a housewife’, one ant in a very large ant hill (Dyer-Witheford 58). People, however, are not automatons: they experience media, modernity and urbanism in different ways. The same attributes that erode the selfhood of some people enhance the autonomy and personhood of others. The spectacular city, now a matrix of digits, information flows and opportunities, is a realm in which people can subvert expectations and find scope for self-fulfillment, whether by wearing a hoodie that defeats CCTV or by using digital technologies to find and associate with other members of stigmatized affinity groups. One person’s anomie is another’s opportunity. Ambience and Virtualisation Eighty years after Fritz Lang’s Metropolis forecast a cyber-sociality, digital technologies are resulting in a ‘virtualisation’ of social interactions and cities. In post-modern cityscapes, the space of flows comprises an increasing number of electronic exchanges through physically disjointed places (Castells 2002). Virtualisation involves supplementation or replacement of face-to-face contact with hypersocial communication via new media, including SMS, email, blogging and Facebook. In 2010 your friends (or your boss or a bully) may always be just a few keystrokes away, irrespective of whether it is raining outside, there is a public transport strike or the car is in for repairs (Hassan 69; Baron 215). Virtualisation also involves an abstraction of bodies and physical movements, with the information that represents individual identities or vehicles traversing the virtual spaces comprised of CCTV networks (where viewers never encounter the person or crowd face to face), rail ticketing systems and road management systems (x e-Tag passed by this tag reader, y camera logged a specific vehicle onto a database using automated number-plate recognition software) (Wood 93; Lyon 253). Surveillant Cities Pervasive anxiety is a permanent and recurrent feature of urban experience. Often navigated by an urgency to control perceived disorder, both physically and through cultivated dominant theory (early twentieth century gendered discourses to push women back into the private sphere; ethno-racial closure and control in the Black Metropolis of 1940s Chicago), history is punctuated by attempts to dissolve public debate and infringe minority freedoms (Wilson 1991). In the Post-modern city unprecedented technological capacity generates a totalizing media vector whose plausible by-product is the perception of an ambient menace (Wark 3). Concurrent faith in technology as a cost-effective mechanism for public management (policing, traffic, planning, revenue generation) has resulted in emergence of the surveillant city. It is both a social and architectural fabric whose infrastructure is dotted with sensors and whose people assume that they will be monitored by private/public sector entities and directed by interactive traffic management systems – from electronic speed signs and congestion indicators through to rail schedule displays –leveraging data collected through those sensors. The fabric embodies tensions between governance (at its crudest, enforcement of law by police and their surrogates in private security services) and the soft cage of digital governmentality, with people being disciplined through knowledge that they are being watched and that the observation may be shared with others in an official or non-official shaming (Parenti 51; Staples 41). Encounters with a railway station CCTV might thus result in exhibition of the individual in court or on broadcast television, whether in nightly news or in a ‘reality tv’ crime expose built around ‘most wanted’ footage (Jermyn 109). Misbehaviour by a partner might merely result in scrutiny of mobile phone bills or web browser histories (which illicit content has the partner consumed, which parts of cyberspace has been visited), followed by a visit to the family court. It might instead result in digital viligilantism, with private offences being named and shamed on electronic walls across the global village, such as Facebook. iPhone Auteurism Activists have responded to pervasive surveillance by turning the cameras on ‘the watchers’ in an exercise of ‘sousveillance’ (Bennett 13; Huey 158). That mirroring might involve the meticulous documentation, often using the same geospatial tools deployed by public/private security agents, of the location of closed circuit television cameras and other surveillance devices. One outcome is the production of maps identifying who is watching and where that watching is taking place. As a corollary, people with anxieties about being surveilled, with a taste for street theatre or a receptiveness to a new form of urban adventure have used those maps to traverse cities via routes along which they cannot be identified by cameras, tags and other tools of the panoptic sort, or to simply adopt masks at particular locations. In 2020 can anyone aspire to be a protagonist in V for Vendetta? (iSee) Mirroring might take more visceral forms, with protestors for example increasingly making a practice of capturing images of police and private security services dealing with marches, riots and pickets. The advent of 3G mobile phones with a still/video image capability and ongoing ‘dematerialisation’ of traditional video cameras (ie progressively cheaper, lighter, more robust, less visible) means that those engaged in political action can document interaction with authority. So can passers-by. That ambient imaging, turning the public gaze on power and thereby potentially redefining the ‘public’ (given that in Australia the community has been embodied by the state and discourse has been mediated by state-sanctioned media), poses challenges for media scholars and exponents of an invigorated civil society in which we are looking together – and looking at each other – rather than bowling alone. One challenge for consumers in construing ambient media is trust. Can we believe what we see, particularly when few audiences have forensic skills and intermediaries such as commercial broadcasters may privilege immediacy (the ‘breaking news’ snippet from participants) over context and verification. Social critics such as Baudelaire and Benjamin exalt the flaneur, the free spirit who gazed on the street, a street that was as much a spectacle as the theatre and as vibrant as the circus. In 2010 the same technologies that empower citizen journalism and foster a succession of velvet revolutions feed flaneurs whose streetwalking doesn’t extend beyond a keyboard and a modem. The US and UK have thus seen emergence of gawker services, with new media entrepreneurs attempting to build sustainable businesses by encouraging fans to report the location of celebrities (and ideally provide images of those encounters) for the delectation of people who are web surfing or receiving a tweet (Burns 24). In the age of ambient cameras, where the media are everywhere and nowhere (and micro-stock photoservices challenge agencies such as Magnum), everyone can join the paparazzi. Anyone can deploy that ambient surveillance to become a stalker. The enthusiasm with which fans publish sightings of celebrities will presumably facilitate attacks on bodies rather than images. Information may want to be free but so, inconveniently, do iconoclasts and practitioners of participatory panopticism (Dodge 431; Dennis 348). Rhetoric about ‘citizen journalism’ has been co-opted by ‘old media’, with national broadcasters and commercial enterprises soliciting still images and video from non-professionals, whether for free or on a commercial basis. It is a world where ‘journalists’ are everywhere and where responsibility resides uncertainly at the editorial desk, able to reject or accept offerings from people with cameras but without the industrial discipline formerly exercised through professional training and adherence to formal codes of practice. It is thus unsurprising that South Australia’s Government, echoed by some peers, has mooted anti-gawker legislation aimed at would-be auteurs who impede emergency services by stopping their cars to take photos of bushfires, road accidents or other disasters. The flipside of that iPhone auteurism is anxiety about the public gaze, expressed through moral panics regarding street photography and sexting. Apart from a handful of exceptions (notably photography in the Sydney Opera House precinct, in the immediate vicinity of defence facilities and in some national parks), Australian law does not prohibit ‘street photography’ which includes photographs or videos of streetscapes or public places. Despite periodic assertions that it is a criminal offence to take photographs of people–particularly minors–without permission from an official, parent/guardian or individual there is no general restriction on ambient photography in public spaces. Moral panics about photographs of children (or adults) on beaches or in the street reflect an ambient anxiety in which danger is associated with strangers and strangers are everywhere (Marr 7; Bauman 93). That conceptualisation is one that would delight people who are wholly innocent of Judith Butler or Andrea Dworkin, in which the gaze (ever pervasive, ever powerful) is tantamount to a violation. The reality is more prosaic: most child sex offences involve intimates, rather than the ‘monstrous other’ with the telephoto lens or collection of nastiness on his iPod (Cossins 435; Ingebretsen 190). Recognition of that reality is important in considering moves that would egregiously restrict legitimate photography in public spaces or happy snaps made by doting relatives. An ambient image–unposed, unpremeditated, uncoerced–of an intimate may empower both authors and subjects when little is solid and memory is fleeting. The same caution might usefully be applied in considering alarms about sexting, ie creation using mobile phones (and access by phone or computer monitor) of intimate images of teenagers by teenagers. Australian governments have moved to emulate their US peers, treating such photography as a criminal offence that can be conceptualized as child pornography and addressed through permanent inclusion in sex offender registers. Lifelong stigmatisation is inappropriate in dealing with naïve or brash 12 and 16 year olds who have been exchanging intimate images without an awareness of legal frameworks or an understanding of consequences (Shafron-Perez 432). Cameras may be everywhere among the e-generation but legal knowledge, like the future, is unevenly distributed. Digital Handcuffs Generations prior to 2008 lost themselves in the streets, gaining individuality or personhood by escaping the surveillance inherent in living at home, being observed by neighbours or simply surrounded by colleagues. Streets offered anonymity and autonomy (Simmel 1903), one reason why heterodox sexuality has traditionally been negotiated in parks and other beats and on kerbs where sex workers ply their trade (Dalton 375). Recent decades have seen a privatisation of those public spaces, with urban planning and digital technologies imposing a new governmentality on hitherto ambient ‘deviance’ and on voyeuristic-exhibitionist practice such as heterosexual ‘dogging’ (Bell 387). That governmentality has been enforced through mechanisms such as replacement of traditional public toilets with ‘pods’ that are conveniently maintained by global service providers such as Veolia (the unromantic but profitable rump of former media & sewers conglomerate Vivendi) and function as billboards for advertising groups such as JC Decaux. Faces encountered in the vicinity of the twenty-first century pissoir are thus likely to be those of supermodels selling yoghurt, low interest loans or sportsgear – the same faces sighted at other venues across the nation and across the globe. Visiting ‘the mens’ gives new meaning to the word ambience when you are more likely to encounter Louis Vuitton and a CCTV camera than George Michael. George’s face, or that of Madonna, Barack Obama, Kevin 07 or Homer Simpson, might instead be sighted on the tshirts or hoodies mentioned above. George’s music might also be borne on the bodies of people you see in the park, on the street, or in the bus. This is the age of ambient performance, taken out of concert halls and virtualised on iPods, Walkmen and other personal devices, music at the demand of the consumer rather than as rationed by concert managers (Bull 85). The cost of that ambience, liberation of performance from time and space constraints, may be a Weberian disenchantment (Steiner 434). Technology has also removed anonymity by offering digital handcuffs to employees, partners, friends and children. The same mobile phones used in the past to offer excuses or otherwise disguise the bearer’s movement may now be tied to an observer through location services that plot the person’s movement across Google Maps or the geospatial information of similar services. That tracking is an extension into the private realm of the identification we now take for granted when using taxis or logistics services, with corporate Australia for example investing in systems that allow accurate determination of where a shipment is located (on Sydney Harbour Bridge? the loading dock? accompanying the truck driver on unauthorized visits to the pub?) and a forecast of when it will arrive (Monmonier 76). Such technologies are being used on a smaller scale to enforce digital Fordism among the binary proletariat in corporate buildings and campuses, with ‘smart badges’ and biometric gateways logging an individual’s movement across institutional terrain (so many minutes in the conference room, so many minutes in the bathroom or lingering among the faux rainforest near the Vice Chancellery) (Bolt). Bright Lights, Blog City It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least by right-thinking Foucauldians, that modernity is a matter of coercion and anomie as all that is solid melts into air. If we are living in an age of hypersocialisation and hypercapitalism – movies and friends on tap, along with the panoptic sorting by marketers and pervasive scrutiny by both the ‘information state’ and public audiences (the million people or one person reading your blog) that is an inevitable accompaniment of the digital cornucopia–we might ask whether everyone is or should be unhappy. This article began by highlighting traditional responses to the bright lights, brashness and excitement of the big city. One conclusion might be that in 2010 not much has changed. Some people experience ambient information as liberating; others as threatening, productive of physical danger or of a more insidious anomie in which personal identity is blurred by an ineluctable electro-smog. There is disagreement about the professionalism (for which read ethics and inhibitions) of ‘citizen media’ and about a culture in which, as in the 1920s, audiences believe that they ‘own the image’ embodying the celebrity or public malefactor. Digital technologies allow you to navigate through the urban maze and allow officials, marketers or the hostile to track you. Those same technologies allow you to subvert both the governmentality and governance. You are free: Be ambient! References Baron, Naomi. Always On: Language in an Online and Mobile World. New York: Oxford UP, 2008. Bauman, Zygmunt. 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When historian Graeme Davison famously declared that “Australia was born urban and quickly grew suburban” (98), he was clearly referring to Melbourne or Sydney, but certainly not Brisbane. Although the Brisbane of 2011 might resemble a contemporary, thriving metropolis, its genealogy is not an urban one. For most of its history, as Gillian Whitlock has noted, Brisbane was “a place where urban industrial society is kept at bay” (80). What distinguishes Brisbane from Australia’s larger southern capital cities is its rapid morphology into a city from a provincial, suburban, town. Indeed it is Brisbane’s distinctive regionalism, with its sub-tropical climate, offering a steamy, fecund backdrop to narratives of the city that has produced a plethora of writing in literary accounts of the city, from author David Malouf through to contemporary writers such as Andrew McGahan, John Birmingham, Venero Armanno, Susan Johnson, and Nick Earls. Brisbane’s lack of urban tradition makes its transformation unique among Australian cities. Its rapid population growth and urban development have changed the way that many people now live in the city. Unlike the larger cities of Sydney or Melbourne, whose inner cities were established on the Victorian model of terrace-row housing on small lots, Brisbane’s early planners eschewed this approach. So, one of the features that gives the city its distinction is the languorous suburban quality of its inner-city areas, where many house blocks are the size of the suburban quarter-acre block, all within coo-ee of the city centre. Other allotments are medium to small in size, and, until recently, housed single dwellings of varying sizes and grandeur. Add to this a sub-tropical climate in which ‘green and growth’ is abundant and the pretty but flimsy timber vernacular housing, and it’s easy to imagine that you might be many kilometres from a major metropolitan centre as you walk around Brisbane’s inner city areas. It is partly this feature that prompted demographer Bernard Salt to declare Brisbane “Australia’s most suburban city” (Salt 5). Prior to urban renewal in the early 1990s, Brisbane was a low-density town with very few apartment blocks; most people lived in standalone houses.From the inception of the first Urban Renewal program in 1992, a joint initiative of the Federal government’s Building Better Cities Program and managed by the Brisbane City Council (BCC), Brisbane’s urban development has undergone significant change. In particular, the city’s Central Business District (CBD) and inner city have experienced intense development and densification with a sharp rise in medium- to high-density apartment dwellings to accommodate the city’s swelling population. Population growth has added to the demand for increased density, and from the period 1995–2006 Brisbane was Australia’s fastest growing city (ABS).Today, parts of Brisbane’s inner city resembles the density of the larger cities of Melbourne and Sydney. Apartment blocks have mushroomed along the riverfront and throughout inner and middle ring suburbs. Brisbane’s population has enthusiastically embraced apartment living, with “empty nesters” leaving their suburban family homes for the city, and apartments have become the affordable option for renters and first home purchasers. A significant increase in urban amenities such as large-scale parklands and river side boardwalks, and a growth in service industries such as cafes, restaurants and bars—a feature of cities the world over—have contributed to the appeal of the city and the changing way that people live in Brisbane.Urbanism demands specific techniques of living—life is different in medium- to high-density dwellings, in populous places, where people live in close proximity to one another. In many ways it’s the antithesis to suburban life, a way of living that, as Davison notes, was established around an ethos of privacy, health, and seclusion and is exemplified in the gated communities seen in the suburbs today. The suburbs are characterised by generosity of space and land, and developed as a refuge and escape from the city, a legacy of the nineteenth-century industrial city’s connection with overcrowding, disease, and disorder. Suburban living flourished in Australia from the eighteenth century and Davison notes how, when Governor Phillip drew up the first town plan for Sydney in 1789, it embodied the aspirations of “decency, good order, health and domestic privacy,” which lie at the heart of suburban ideals (100).The health and moral impetus underpinning the establishment of suburban life—that is, to remove people from overcrowding and the unhygienic conditions of slums—for Davison meant that the suburban ethos was based on a “logic of avoidance” (110). Attempting to banish anything deemed dangerous and offensive, the suburbs were seen to offer a more natural, orderly, and healthy environment. A virtuous and happy life required plenty of room—thus, a garden and the expectation of privacy was paramount.The suburbs as a site of lived experience and cultural meaning is significant for understanding the shift from suburban living to the adoption of medium- to high-density inner-city living in Brisbane. I suggest that the ways in which this shift is captured discursively, particularly in promotional material, are indicative of the suburbs' stronghold on the collective imagination. Reinforcing this perception of Brisbane as a suburban city is a history of literary narratives that have cast Brisbane in ways that set it apart from other Australian cities, and that are to do with its non-urban characteristics. Imaginative and symbolic discourses of place have real and material consequences (Lefebvre), as advertisers are only too well aware. Discursively, city life has been imagined oppositionally from life in the suburbs: the two sites embody different cultural meanings and values. In Australia, the suburbs are frequently a site of derision and satire, characterized as bastions of conformity and materialism (Horne), offering little of value in contrast to the city’s many enchantments and diverse pleasures. In the well-established tradition of satire, “suburban bashing is replete in literature, film and popular culture” (Felton et al xx). From Barry Humphries’s characterisation of Dame Edna Everage, housewife superstar, who first appeared in the 1960s, to the recent television comedy series Kath and Kim, suburbia and its inhabitants are represented as dull-witted, obsessed with trivia, and unworldly. This article does not intend to rehearse the tradition of suburban lampooning; rather, it seeks to illustrate how ideas about suburban living are hard held and how the suburban ethos maintains its grip, particularly in relation to notions of privacy and peace, despite the celebratory discourse around the emerging forms of urbanism in Brisbane.As Brisbane morphed rapidly from a provincial, suburban town to a metropolis throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, a set of metropolitan discourses developed in the local media that presented new ways of inhabiting and imagining the city and offered new affiliations and identifications with the city. In establishing Brisbane’s distinction as a city, marketing material relied heavily on the opposition between the city and the suburbs, implying that urban vitality and diversity rules triumphant over the suburbs’ apparent dullness and homogeneity. In a billboard advertisement for apartments in the urban renewal area of Newstead (2004), images of architectural renderings of the apartments were anchored by the words—“Urban living NOT suburban”—leaving little room for doubt. It is not the design qualities of the apartments or the building itself being promoted here, but a way of life that alludes to utopian ideas of urban life, of enchantment with the city, and implies, with the heavy emphasis of “NOT suburban,” the inferiority of suburban living.The cultural commodification of the late twentieth- and twenty-first-century city has been well documented (Evans; Dear; Zukin; Harvey) and its symbolic value as a commodity is expressed in marketing literature via familiar metropolitan tropes that are frequently amorphous and international. The malleability of such images makes them easily transportable and transposable, and they provided a useful stockpile for promoting a city such as Brisbane that lacked its own urban resources with which to construct a new identity. In the early days of urban renewal, the iconic images and references to powerhouse cities such as New York, London, and even Venice were heavily relied upon. In the latter example, an advertisement promoting Brisbane appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald colour magazine (May 2005). This advertisement represented Brisbane as an antipodean Venice, showing a large reach of the Brisbane river replete with gondolas flanked by the city’s only nineteenth-century riverside building, the Custom’s House. The allusion to traditional European culture is a departure from the usual tropes of “fun and sun” associated with promotions of Queensland, including Brisbane, while the new approach to promoting Brisbane is cognizant of the value of culture in the symbolic and economic hierarchy of the contemporary city. Perhaps equally, the advertisement could be read as ironic, a postmodern self-parodying statement about the city in general. In a nod to the centrality of the spectacle, the advertisement might be a salute to idea of the city as theme park, a pleasure playground and a collective fantasy of escape. Nonetheless, either interpretation presents Brisbane as somewhere else.In other promotional literature for apartment dwellings, suburban living maintains its imaginative grip, evident in a brochure advertising Petrie Point apartments in Brisbane’s urban renewal area of inner-city New Farm (2000). In the brochure, the promise of peace and calm—ideals that have their basis in suburban living—are imposed and promoted as a feature of inner-city living. Paradoxically, while suggesting that a wholesale evacuation and rejection of suburban life is occurring presumably because it is dull, the brochure simultaneously upholds the values of suburbia:Discerning baby boomers and generation X’ers who prefer lounging over latte rather than mowing the quarter acre block, are abandoning suburban living in droves. Instead, hankering after a more cosmopolitan lifestyle without the mind numbing drive to work, they are retreating to the residential mecca, the inner city, for chic shops and a lively dining, arts and theatre culture. (my italics)In the above extract, the rhetoric used to promote and uphold the virtues of a cosmopolitan inner-city life is sabotaged by a language that in many respects capitulates to the ideals of suburban living, and evokes the health and retreat ethos of suburbia. “Lounging” over lattes and “retreating to a residential mecca”[i] allude to precisely the type of suburban living the brochure purports to eschew. Privacy, relaxation, and health is a discourse and, more importantly, a way of living that is in many ways anathema to life in the city. It is a dream-wish that those features most valued about suburban life, can and should somehow be transplanted to the city. In its promotion of urban amenity, the brochure draws upon a somewhat bourgeois collection of cultural amenities and activities such as a (presumably traditional) arts and theatre culture, “lively dining,” and “chic” shops. The appeal to “discerning baby boomers and generation X’ers” has more than a whiff of status and class, an appeal that disavows the contemporary city’s attention to diversity and inclusivity, and frequently the source of promotion of many international cities. In contrast to the suburban sub-text of exclusivity and seclusion in the Petrie Point Apartment’s brochure, is a promotion of Sydney’s inner-city Newtown as a tourist site and spectacle, which makes an appeal to suburban antipathy clear from the outset. The brochure, distributed by NSW Tourism (2000) displays a strong emphasis on Newtown’s cultural and ethnic diversity, and the various forms of cultural consumption on offer. The inner-city suburb’s appeal is based on its re-framing as a site of tourist consumption of diversity and difference in which diversity is central to its performance as a tourist site. It relies on the distinction between “ordinary” suburbs and “cosmopolitan” places:Some cities are cursed with suburbs, but Sydney’s blessed with Newtown — a cosmopolitan neighbourhood of more than 600 stores, 70 restaurants, 42 cafes, theatres, pubs, and entertainment venues, all trading in two streets whose origins lie in the nineteenth century … Newtown is the Catwalk for those with more style than money … a parade where Yves St Laurent meets Saint Vincent de Paul, where Milano meets post-punk bohemia, where Max Mara meets Doc Marten, a stage where a petticoat is more likely to be your grandma’s than a Colette Dinnigan designer original (From Sydney Marketing brochure)Its opening oppositional gambit—“some cities are cursed with suburbs”—conveniently elides the fact that like all Australian cities, Sydney is largely suburban and many of Sydney’s suburbs are more ethnically diverse than its inner-city areas. Cabramatta, Fairfield, and most other suburbs have characteristically high numbers of ethnic groups such as Vietnamese, Korean, Lebanese, and so forth. Recent events, however, have helped to reframe these places as problem areas, rather than epicentres of diversity.The mingling of social groups invites the tourist-flâneur to a performance of difference, “a parade where Yves St Laurent meets Saint Vincent de Paul (my italics), where Milano meets post-punk bohemia,” and where “the upwardly mobile and down at heel” appear in what is presented as something of a theatrical extravaganza. Newtown is a product, its diversity a commodity. Consumed visually and corporeally via its divergent sights, sounds, smells and tastes (the brochure goes on to state that 70 restaurants offer cuisine from all over the globe), Newtown is a “successful neighbourhood experiment in the new globalism.” The area’s social inequities—which are implicit in the text, referred to as the “down at heel”—are vanquished and celebrated, incorporated into the rhetoric of difference.Brisbane’s lack of urban tradition and culture, as well as its lack of diversity in comparison to Sydney, reveals itself in the first brochure while the Newtown brochure appeals to the idea of a consumer-based cosmopolitanism. As a sociological concept, cosmopolitanism refers to a set of "subjective attitudes, outlooks and practices" broadly characterized as “disposition of openness towards others, people, things and experiences whose origin is non local” (Skrbis and Woodward 1). Clearly cosmopolitan attitudes do not have to be geographically located, but frequently the city is promoted as the site of these values, with the suburbs, apparently, forever looking inward.In the realm of marketing, appeals to the imagination are ubiquitous, but discursive practices can become embedded in everyday life. Despite the growth of urbanism, the increasing take up of metropolitan life and the enduring disdain among some for the suburbs, the hard-held suburban values of peace and privacy have pragmatic implications for the ways in which those values are embedded in people’s expectations of life in the inner city.The exponential growth in apartment living in Brisbane offers different ways of living to the suburban house. For a sub-tropical city where "life on the verandah" is a significant feature of the Queenslander house with its front and exterior verandahs, in the suburbs, a reasonable degree of privacy is assured. Much of Brisbane’s vernacular and contemporary housing is sensitive to this indoor-outdoor style of living, a distinct feature and appeal of everyday life in many suburbs. When "life on the verandah" is adapted to inner-city apartment buildings, expectations that indoor-outdoor living can be maintained in the same way can be problematic. In the inner city, life on the verandah may challenge expectations about privacy, noise and visual elements. While the Brisbane City Plan 2000 attempts to deal with privacy issues by mandating privacy screenings on verandahs, and the side screening of windows to prevent overlooking neighbours, there is ample evidence that attitudinal change is difficult. The exchange of a suburban lifestyle for an urban one, with the exposure to urbanity’s complexity, potential chaos and noise, can be confronting. In the Urban Renewal area and entertainment precinct of Fortitude Valley, during the late 1990s, several newly arrived residents mounted a vigorous campaign to the Brisbane City Council (BCC) and State government to have noise levels reduced from local nightclubs and bars. Fortitude Valley—the Valley, as it is known locally—had long been Brisbane’s main area for nightclubs, bars and brothels. A small precinct bounded by two major one-way roads, it was the locus of the infamous ABC 4 Corners “Moonlight State” report, which exposed the lines of corruption between politicians, police, and the judiciary of the former Bjelke-Petersen government (1974–1987) and who met in the Valley’s bars and brothels. The Valley was notorious for Brisbanites as the only place in a provincial, suburban town that resembled the seedy side of life associated with big cities. The BCC’s Urban Renewal Task Force and associated developers initially had a tough task convincing people that the area had been transformed. But as more amenity was established, and old buildings were converted to warehouse-style living in the pattern of gentrification the world over, people started moving in to the area from the suburbs and interstate (Felton). One of the resident campaigners against noise had purchased an apartment in the Sun Building, a former newspaper house and in which one of the apartment walls directly abutted the adjoining and popular nightclub, The Press Club. The Valley’s location as a music venue was supported by the BCC, who initially responded to residents’ noise complaints with its “loud and proud” campaign (Valley Metro). The focus of the campaign was to alert people moving into the newly converted apartments in the Valley to the existing use of the neighbourhood by musicians and music clubs. In another iteration of this campaign, the BCC worked with owners of music venues to ensure the area remains a viable music precinct while implementing restrictions on noise levels. Residents who objected to nightclub noise clearly failed to consider the impact of moving into an area that was already well known, even a decade ago, as the city’s premier precinct for music and entertainment venues. Since that time, the Valley has become Australia’s only regulated and promoted music precinct.The shift from suburban to urban living requires people to live in very different ways. Thrust into close proximity with strangers amongst a diverse population, residents can be confronted with a myriad of sensory inputs—to a cacophony of noise, sights, smells (Allon and Anderson). Expectations of order, retreat, and privacy inevitably come into conflict with urbanism’s inherent messiness. The contested nature of urban space is expressed in neighbour disputes, complaints about noise and visual amenity, and sometimes in eruptions of street violence. There is no shortage of examples in the Brisbane’s Urban Renewal areas such as Fortitude Valley, where acts of homophobia, racism, and other less destructive conflicts continue to be a frequent occurrence. While the refashioned discursive Brisbane is re-presented as cool, cultured, and creative, the tensions of urbanism and tests to civility remain in a process of constant negotiation. This is the way the city’s past disrupts and resists its cool new surface.[i] The use of the word mecca in the brochure occurred prior to 11 September 2001.ReferencesAllon, Fiona, and Kay Anderson. "Sentient Sydney." In Passionate City: An International Symposium. Melbourne: RMIT, School of Media Communication, 2004. 89–97.Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS). Regional Population Growth, Australia, 1996-2006.Birmingham, John. 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