Grappling with the aftermath of spring arrests, in Uris.
By Sona Wink
I remember the feeling I got when I first visited Columbia and looked out upon the central plaza of campus from Low Steps: the gallant sweep of the open lawns; the dazzling façade of Butler; the pink brick and mint-green copper details of Hamilton and Pulitzer. It was a feeling that tipped the scales in my decision to apply here. The buildings were beautiful, yes, but more importantly they represented values that I was inspired by: a commitment to learning for its own sake, to an intellectual tradition dating back centuries, and to the pursuit of living ethically and truthfully. In the Neoclassical architecture, I saw an institution that sought to transform young people into upright, thoughtful adults.
Contrary to my expectations, my collegiate fate lay largely in Uris. Last semester, I had back-to-back classes in the building twice a week; between classes, I wandered its Escher-esque abutting stairwells in an over-caffeinated haze. People mock Uris’ brutalist façade, but I focused my ire on its interior: It has the ambiance of an airport and a layout rivaling the Labyrinth of Knossos (Uris’ equivalent of the Minotaur is a sophomore in a suit who wants to tell you about his crypto startup).
The admiration I felt for Columbia and its campus naturally waned, but did not wholly falter, as I got to know the place. I learned that the student body was, by and large, frustrated with the administration; I learned that they had good reason for feeling this way. I learned that the architectural grandeur that stirred such excitement in me was, in large part, a well-constructed illusion: The buildings are designed to look centuries old, but the oldest (save for Buell Hall) were built in the 1890s. Still, I felt awe when the sprawling plaza opened before me at night, twinkling with light from the Great Hall.
This spring, something broke. Perhaps it was always broken and I was naïve not to notice it. On April 19, I received a text that President Shafik had allowed the police onto campus. I rushed towards the lawns from North Campus. Low Plaza sprawled open before me; that day, it resembled the Roman Colosseum: What must have been thousands of onlookers swarmed the perimeter of the East Lawn and formed several thick rings, all facing the unfolding scene. At first, the plaza was quiet—the communal sense of shock was palpable. The silence erupted into din as police officers began methodically arresting student protesters.
I used to believe that University leadership was fundamentally committed to a project of molding students into adults who actualize theory in practice and allowing room for us to experiment and make mistakes along the way. This changed in April, when I saw my peers dragged off of campus in zip ties, punished for acting upon their values via peaceful protest. I felt that something fundamental had been breached: an unspoken bond of trust between the student body and the University's leadership.
Months later, the breach is still palpable; it sits thick in the air. The administration keeps track of us via card scanners, security guards, and hundreds of new cameras. My chest tightens whenever I enter the quad; it has the claustrophobic feel of a pressure cooker. Being constantly watched does not cultivate an atmosphere conducive to learning.
The central plaza looks cheap and false to me now, like the Italian Renaissance pavilion of Disney’s Epcot: an over-the-top spectacle designed to distract us from the brutal underlying churn of the University’s financial interests. The frequent installations of bouncy castles, donut giveaways, and mini golf on the lawns this fall—attempts to win back our trust, perhaps—only heighten the resemblance of campus to an amusement park.
I still do not like Uris, don’t get me wrong, but I have come to appreciate its honesty. Like Columbia, it is impersonal, massive, and unabashedly preprofessional. It is a factory for accruing knowledge: Thousands of students churn in and out of its walls by the hour, absorbing information and leaving. Uris’ façade proclaims no values; it moves no one. It has gray carpets, white walls, and industrial bones. Its library houses no books. It is a far more accurate representation of Columbia than Hamilton or Butler.
And yet, within its brutalist walls, I have watched world-class philosophy, comparative literature, and history professors give mind-blowing lectures. In Uris, of all places, I have been moved to tears by a lecture about Tolstoy, spent hours learning about Marx, and sat next to curious, passionate friends. Uris is a microcosm of the University itself: a massive, profit-oriented structure, riddled with contradictory aims, that nonetheless contains inlets where curiosity flourishes.
I feel bitterness following the events of the spring, but I would be remiss to let it color my entire student experience. I have found the curiosity, academic rigor, and uprightness that I originally sought not in a certain type of building, nor in University leadership, but in professors and peers. Somehow, despite the draconian landscape of campus, there still exist pockets of atmosphere conducive to learning; they are created by dedicated professors and appreciated dearly by students.
Illustration by Fin Sterner