My grandmother kept a shotgun on the back porch. It was not a weapon of war, nor a tool of intimidation. It was a farmer’s tool, loaded with rock salt to drive away predators from her pigs and chickens. That old shotgun, now rusted and unsafe, sits with me today. It is more relic than firearm, a reminder of a life tied to the land and the rhythms of rural survival.

On August 5, 2025, my oldest brother died. In his house, I found ten guns. There was one shotgun and six rifles. One rifle looked like it was meant for shooting from a distance and was complete with a scope. There were also three handguns. I handled them the way you handle something both dangerous and heavy with meaning. I had my husband check each one to ensure it was unloaded. Then, I left each open so it was clear it was unloaded. After that, I drove them across the country in the trunk of our car.

After a quiet drive across the country, I laid them out on my garage floor. I considered keeping them, perhaps even melting them down into a single piece of steel I could hold as a symbolic gesture against violence. But that, I realized, would be attachment, clinging to the form of something I had already chosen to release. Instead, I made arrangements to turn them in to the Albuquerque crime lab which will destroy them and give the scrape metal to local artist to repurpose into something beautiful. “Do not chase after the past, do not seek the future. The past is gone; the future has not yet come.” —Bhaddekaratta Sutta (MN 131) in the Pali Canon

Guns have been part of my family’s story for generations. But they are not part of my identity. I do not hunt. I do not shoot. I do not find comfort or pride in owning them. For me, their presence is a reminder of a broader American story, one of a culture where firearms are more than tools; they are symbols, sometimes of independence, sometimes of fear, sometimes of dominance.

We live in a country where gun ownership is often woven into ideas of personal freedom, family tradition, and self-reliance. Yet alongside those values exists an undeniable truth: our nation’s relationship with guns feeds cycles of violence. We revere the object and avoid the harder questions about why we feel we need them, about the cost in human lives, and about the other ways safety could be achieved.

I hold my grandmother’s shotgun and my brother’s rifles not as weapons, but as artifacts. They are pieces of history, both personal and cultural. But I also hold a conviction that the worth of a life is greater than the worth of any gun. We must evaluate the values that prioritize the gun over the person. If we do not, we will keep living in a culture that quietly accepts violence as the price of tradition.

Everyone fears punishment; everyone holds their life dear. Putting oneself in another’s place, one should not beat or kill others. Him I call a brahmin who has put aside weapons and renounced violence toward all creatures. He neither kills nor helps others to kill. —Dhammapada, Chapter 10 and Chapter 26

Today the Albuquerque Journal reported, “UNM exploring why 14-year-old was on campus, says it plans to upgrade emergency alert system.” But this response barely scratches the surface of the deep safety issues facing our campus.

The problem is not just communication. It’s the pervasive lack of prevention and physical protection. Many campus buildings lack panic buttons, secure hiding spaces, and structural safety features. Many offices in newer buildings are encased in glass. Suite entrances also feature glass, leaving no place to shelter during an active shooter situation. Desks offer no concealment, and there are too few emergency call boxes to rely on. Meanwhile, the campus is poorly lit, and police presence seems minimal; I can go weeks without seeing an officer.

These issues are compounded by the reality that the campus is wide open. Almost anyone can walk into nearly any building. Ironically, the administration building requires badge access, while the rest of us remain exposed. Training resident assistants in dorms and police won’t change the fact that by the time help arrives, the harm is often already done.

The widely promoted “Run, Hide, Fight” strategy for active shooter situations assumes that individuals have access to concealed, secure areas where they can safely hide if escape is not possible. However, on much of the UNM campus, particularly in newer or renovated buildings, this guidance becomes nearly impossible to follow. Glass-fronted offices and open-layout suites provide no visual barriers or physical protection. Hiding behind a desk in a glass room offers no concealmenant. An assailant can see directly inside. Even interior office doors are often glass-paneled, and few spaces can be locked quickly. Without opaque walls, secure locks, and protected shelter areas, the “hide” piece of “Run, Hide, Fight” becomes a dangerous illusion. Occupants are left fully exposed and vulnerable while waiting for help that may arrive too late. In a recent incident, campus police were called multiple times before anyone answered. There was never an alert sent out.

Beyond campus borders, safety continues to deteriorate. Central Avenue has become a corridor of unchecked violence. Murder and crime rates are rising, and the city has failed to address them. And yet, no physical barriers, no controlled entry points, and no substantive improvements have been made to protect those who study and work here.

Consider these alarming facts:

• In 2023, UNM’s Clery Report documented 609 Clery‑reportable crimes, roughly 12.5 incidents per 1,000 students, placing UNM among the highest overall crime rates for four‑year universities in the U.S., according to Dailylobo.com and SafeHome.org. Violent crime alone at UNM occurred at a rate of 5.19 per 1,000 students, also among the highest in the nation, according to SafeHome.org.
• Bernalillo County’s violent crime rate hovered around 1,266 incidents per 100,000 residents in 2022—more than triple the national average (~381)—and while it dipped slightly from its 2021 peak, it remains persistently high KOAT+2New Mexico Legislature+2abqraw.com+2.
• In 2024, the Albuquerque metro area averaged about 11 homicides per month, with over 100 shooting deaths reported in the year abqraw.com.

Despite these statistics and the city’s well‑publicized crime emergency declaration in April 2025 and deployment of National Guard assistance, the UNM alert system remains slower than Albuquerque Police alerts. This delay leaves campus community members relying on dated systems after violence has occurred.

We deserve better than alerts. We deserve secure spaces, not glass facades.
We deserve prevention, controlled access, rapid response, and infrastructure that keeps people alive, not upgrades that arrive after tragedy.

Some suggestions for safety

1. Secure building access to all dorms and student housing, including a desk where IDs are checked, and only students have access.
2. Enhance visibility and surveillance by increasing campus police presence and installing cameras at the entrances of all buildings.
3. Install panic buttons in dorms, classrooms, and reception areas.
4. Improve campus lighting and install more call boxes.
5. Enhance the communication alert system by synchronizing it with APD, which seems to be faster and more timely.
6. Conduct realistic safety drills specific to areas of campus. There is no need to teach “hide” when that isn’t possible in glass offices.
7. Consider having APD be the first call and not campus police for violent crime.

These actions do not require new legislation or major infrastructure projects. They depend on administrative will, cross-departmental coordination, and community pressure. Immediate steps should prioritize deterrence and rapid communication, which are the core principles of physical security.

**Albuquerque Journal – a 14-year-old is not a man. He was a child.

*Views are my own as a private citizen who thinks we must address violence.

Yesterday, violence came too close to home.

Yesterday, I posted my story of gun violence, and a few hours later, I deleted it. I didn’t want to talk about myself then, but rather the people today. Now, I would like to speak as a private citizen who also happens to be a faculty member. As I read the story in the Albuquerque Journal this morning, I was not pleased with the university’s response. This is the second murder of a student on campus in the five years I’ve been here, and nothing seems to have changed. It has been 23 years since my twin brother was murdered, and nothing has changed. It is time for each of us to be the change we want to see.

Honestly, every time I think I’ve put the past behind me, something brings it back. Not every one of the 16,576 deaths by gun did, but the ones that are too close to home. The recent loss of a student to gun violence in UNM housing has stirred a deep ache in me. My heart is heavy with sadness for the student’s family, friends, and classmates. I remember the pain I felt when I lost my twin brother to gun violence, and I can only imagine the grief they are living through now. If their journey is anything like mine, this pain will linger in ways that are hard to explain and even harder to forget.

Years ago, I received a phone call at 3:00 a.m., the kind that changes everything. My twin brother was dead, shot multiple times in my parents’ living room right in front of my mother. The days that followed were filled with grief, confusion, and questions that have never fully been answered. What I remember most is the silence that followed: from systems that failed, from people who didn’t know what to say, and from a society that had no real answer for what had happened.

I don’t share this story to pass judgment or to point fingers. I share it because I know what it is to live with the aftermath of violence, and I know how deeply it can fracture families and communities. In my case, the presence of guns in the home was a fact of life. But the real danger wasn’t the tool; it was the untreated trauma, the lack of mental health care, the denial, and the silence. My family didn’t talk about the violence; they made excuses for it. And eventually, it took a life.

What happened at UNM is not just a tragic incident; it’s a call to action. If we genuinely care about safety, we have to address the root causes of violence. This includes investing in mental health support, creating environments where young people can speak openly about their experiences, and fostering a culture where seeking help is met with compassion, not shame. If we are not going to limit access to guns, then we must provide education to every young person on gun safety and why you never pick up one in anger.

To the students, staff, and faculty affected by this loss, I see you. I know the kind of pain that can take hold after something like this. If your experience is anything like mine, it will come in waves, sometimes soft, sometimes unbearable. Please know you are not alone. As a human being, a Soto Zen priest, and a faculty member, my door will always be open to you. Whether you need to talk, sit in silence, or simply be with someone who understands that healing is not a linear process, I am here.

Let us work together to create a world where safety is not something we hope for, but rather something we build together. Not by condemnation, but through compassion, courage, and care for one another.