As the autumn leaves begin to scatter across Vancouver Island University’s campus, a different kind of change is taking hold. Beneath the towering arbutus trees and between modern glass buildings, small groups of students gather around information booths where peer educators demonstrate how to use naloxone kits.
“We’re not here to judge anyone’s choices,” says Mira Singh, a third-year nursing student and peer educator with the university’s new harm reduction program. “We’re here to keep people alive.”
The scene represents a significant shift in how post-secondary institutions are responding to British Columbia’s ongoing toxic drug crisis. Since 2016, the province has lost over 13,000 people to drug toxicity—a number that continues to climb despite public health emergency declarations.
Last week, Vancouver Island University (VIU) launched its comprehensive harm reduction education initiative, developed in partnership with Island Health and the Nanaimo Community Action Team. The program aims to equip students with practical knowledge and tools to prevent overdoses and reduce harms associated with substance use.
Walking through campus on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, I notice the subtle but significant changes. Posters in bathroom stalls explain the signs of an overdose. Small purple cards with information about drug checking services sit on coffee shop counters. And perhaps most notably, naloxone kits are now openly available at multiple locations across campus.
“Five years ago, this would have been unthinkable,” admits Dr. Eleanor Wachtel, VIU’s Director of Student Wellness. “There was concern that offering harm reduction services might somehow encourage drug use. But the evidence is clear—harm reduction saves lives without increasing use.”
The evidence Dr. Wachtel references comes from numerous studies, including research from the BC Centre for Disease Control showing that harm reduction approaches significantly reduce overdose deaths, disease transmission, and emergency department visits without increasing substance use rates.
For VIU, the decision to embrace harm reduction education was ultimately driven by tragic necessity. The university lost three students to accidental overdoses in the past two years alone.
“These weren’t stereotypical ‘drug users,'” explains Constable James Chen, who serves as VIU’s campus liaison officer. “One was an engineering student who tried what he thought was cocaine at a party. Another was a young woman who occasionally used prescription opioids for chronic pain and unknowingly took something containing fentanyl.”
What makes British Columbia’s drug crisis particularly lethal is the unpredictability of the supply. According to data from the BC Coroners Service, fentanyl was detected in 86% of overdose deaths in 2023. Benzodiazepines, carfentanil, and other toxic additives frequently appear in substances sold as something else entirely.
This reality has pushed harm reduction from the margins into mainstream campus life. The VIU program includes free naloxone training sessions, anonymous drug checking services, and peer-led workshops about safer substance use.
“We’re meeting students where they’re at,” says Kyle Martin, one of the program coordinators and a member of the Snuneymuxw First Nation, whose traditional territory includes much of the VIU campus. “Some students may choose not to use substances at all, and that’s great. But for those who do, we want them to have the information they need to make safer choices.”
Martin emphasizes the importance of culturally relevant approaches to harm reduction, particularly for Indigenous students who may be navigating intergenerational trauma.
“Colonial systems have often approached substance use with criminalization and judgment,” Martin tells me as we sit in the university’s Indigenous gathering space. “Our approach is grounded in compassion and cultural understanding. We talk about harm reduction as an expression of community care.”
The program has not been without controversy. A small but vocal group of parents and community members expressed concerns when the initiative was first announced, arguing that universities should focus on abstinence messaging rather than harm reduction.
Dr. Jessica Matthews, a public health researcher at the University of British Columbia who specializes in substance use policies, explains why such criticisms miss the mark.
“The evidence is overwhelming that abstinence-only approaches don’t work,” she says. “They push substance use underground, making it more dangerous. Harm reduction, on the other hand, keeps people alive and connected to services that can help when they’re ready to make changes.”
Matthews points to research published in the Canadian Medical Association Journal showing that regions with comprehensive harm reduction services have lower rates of fatal overdoses compared to those without such services.
Back on campus, I observe a naloxone training session with about 15 students. The atmosphere is serious but supportive as they practice assembling the kits and simulating injections on oranges.
“I lost my cousin last year,” shares one participant, a young woman who asks to remain anonymous. “He was only 22. If someone around him had known what to look for and had naloxone available, he might still be here.”
Another student, Eric Chen, tells me he doesn’t use drugs but wanted to take the training because his roommate occasionally does.
“It’s just like learning first aid,” he says. “I hope I never need to use it, but I’d rather know how than wish I did.”
This pragmatic approach seems to resonate with most students I speak with. They describe harm reduction not as encouraging drug use, but as acknowledging reality and responding with compassion rather than judgment.
As the afternoon winds down, I speak with Dr. Wachtel again about what success looks like for this program.
“Obviously, we hope to prevent overdoses,” she says. “But success also means creating a campus where students feel safe asking for help, where they know they won’t be shamed for their struggles, and where they have access to evidence-based information about substances they might encounter.”
The university plans to track various metrics, including naloxone kit distribution, participation in educational workshops, and eventually, whether there’s a reduction in campus medical emergencies related to substance use.
As rain begins to fall more heavily, students pack up their information booths for the day. A young man pauses to pick up a naloxone kit before heading toward the library. This small action—now an unremarkable part of campus life—represents a profound shift in how universities are approaching student wellbeing in the midst of a continuing crisis.
In a province where six people die every day from toxic drugs, Vancouver Island University’s harm reduction initiative offers something essential: not just practical tools to prevent death, but a community approach grounded in compassion rather than fear.
