This blog post is based on an exceptional student assignment for the course “Perspectives on Global Security” taught in the International Relations MA program at Tallinn University. Hans’ assignment was to write a reading reflection on the Introduction of the textbook “Security Studies: An Applied Introduction” by Rossie and Riemann (2024).
As a member of the armed forces, my view of security has always been rooted in practical terms: defending my country, protecting the present way of life and responding to threats if needed. But reading „Security Studies: An Applied Introduction“ challenged me to think critically about the foundations of what I do and why I do it. The core question „whose security?“ isn’t something we often ask in uniform, yet it serves as both a foundational question and a challenge to the traditional state-centric view that has dominated International Relations (IR) for decades. This question forces us to reexamine not just what security means, but also whose interests are protected and whose are marginalized in the process of practicing security.
But Rossie and Riemann’s chapter shows that this familiarity hides complexity. The idea that security is a construct, shaped by what we value and who we prioritize, made me realize that defining security is never neutral, it’s always a political act.
In my experience, security means readiness, operational effectiveness, intelligence, deterrence, and the ability to respond to both foreign and domestic threats. This aligns closely with realism, the dominant tradition in IR, which sees the world as a dangerous place where states act out of self-interest to ensure survival. Realism reflects much of the military mindset: plan for the worst, train for conflict, and expect competition, not cooperation. The idea of an anarchic world where no higher authority can guarantee peace makes sense when you’ve stood guard on duty, preparing for exercise or readying yourself for future deployment.
What struck me first was how intuitive, yet politically loaded, the term “security” is. Most of us feel like we know what it means: locking our doors at night or, in my case, protecting national interests and peace. But the chapter shows that this familiarity hides complexity. The idea that security is a construct, shaped by what we value and who we prioritize, made me realize that defining security is never neutral, it’s always a political act. The section on migration made this point hit hard. When right-leaning European leaders frame migrants as threats, they’re not just making policy decisions, they are defining who is worthy of protection. The idea that security for some must come at the expense of others shows how exclusion can be masked as safety. But the chapter also pushed me to consider alternatives: what if we centered humanity rather than citizenship? That shift could redefine rescue missions, humanitarian aid, and migration itself as forms of security, not threats to it.
That’s why I found the human security perspective so compelling. It acknowledges that people can be deeply insecure even when their state is not under threat. Poverty, racism, and domestic violence don’t register in realist or liberal frameworks, yet they are daily realities for so many people. The chapter’s emphasis on how traditional security frameworks often overlook real world inequalities, especially in cases like police brutality or immigration laws disproportionately harming blue-collar citizens, underscored the limits of traditional thinking. The critical security studies approaches illustrated the limits of traditional approaches even further. For instance, securitization theory clearly demonstrated how security is practiced by framing something as an existential threat and the implications thereof, i.e., the use of extraordinary measures to respond to this threat. Mass surveillance is a prime example of how invoking “security” can sideline democratic norms like freedom of speech or right to privacy. It made me rethink how quickly public fear can be weaponized by elites.
But the chapter also pushed me to consider alternatives: what if we centered humanity rather than citizenship? That shift could redefine rescue missions, humanitarian aid, and migration itself as forms of security, not threats to it.
The most unexpected but provoking part was the section presenting thoughts on post-human security. I’ve seen environmental destruction caused by military operations, for example, in Ukraine and how it affected local communities and ecosystems, like the destruction of Kakhovka Dam. Thinking about the security of more than human life forms feels abstract from a human-centered security thinking, but it has direct implications for human life. If we destroy forests, pollute rivers, or displace animals during conflict, we affect the long-term stability of those regions and ecosystems which eventually will lead to the demise of the quality of life of humans. As mainstream IR begins to account for climate security, this perspective may become less fringe and more central and will be taken more seriously.
Whose security?” is no longer just a theoretical question, it’s a moral one we confront in everyday actions, every policy, every decision that we make, and it is not just an academic exercise, it is real and it surrounds us all, whether we want it or not, we all are part of it.
Rossi and Riesmann’s book reminded me that security is not just a mission objective or a strategy. It is a story we tell, about who matters, what’s worth protecting, and how we justify our actions. For someone in uniform, that story usually starts with service to the nation. But now I wonder, should it not also include service to humanity, to justice, and even to the planet we all depend on? “Whose security?” is no longer just a theoretical question, it’s a moral one we confront in everyday actions, every policy, every decision that we make, and it is not just an academic exercise, it is real and it surrounds us all, whether we want it or not, we all are part of it.