For parents of disabled children, the struggle for transparency often feels like fishing in murky waters, straining for glimpses of the truth beneath a bureaucratic surface designed to obscure, rather than reveal.
It was this feeling that drove me to file a Freedom of Information (FOI) request for records pertaining to my children at their school/district, a process that began as a frustrated impulse and evolved into a sobering lesson in the labyrinthine structure of educational administration.
I made a request seeking any written communications, emails, texts, reports, or phone message transcripts that mentioned my children over a three-year period. I had no clear evidence that anything was being actively hidden, but I had asked to see physical records and been handed a slim folder with mostly documentation that I created and provided to the school. This was deeply concerning.
“I had asked to see physical records and been handed a slim folder with mostly documentation that I created and provided to the school.”
There had been too many incidents to count where someone had gotten hurt and requests to pick up my child and the emails home were frustratingly vague. Don’t they have to do WCB incident reports? Where is the archive of the events that transpired as a result of the deny, delay tactics that left my children unsupported?
Delayed and disappointing
The Vancouver School Board (VSB) acknowledged my request, but almost immediately extended the timeline for response, citing the unmanageable volume of records and the potential disruption to their operations if they tried to meet the statutory deadlines. I later modified my request to cover only two years, which should have reduced the volume of archived data they needed to retrieve, but still received another extension notice. This raised a broader question about the timeliness of FOI responses: if a narrowed request, focusing on a limited set of keywords over a reduced timeframe, still requires months to process, under what circumstances would an FOI request be delivered on time? Are these delays genuinely the result of overwhelmed systems, or is this simply the reality of a process that institutions can easily manipulate to avoid scrutiny?
When the records finally arrived, the picture they painted was troublingly incomplete. Many of the documents were duplicates, some were clearly irrelevant, and the few that touched directly on my children’s experiences were startlingly vague. For example, ambiguous emails that hinted at voice conversations or meetings, but provided no substantive details.
Yet, the most troubling revelation was not the documents themselves, but the absence of the expected ones. My children had been involved in dozens of situations that should have generated reporting, but these were nowhere to be found. The emails I had received from the principal – so vague I could barely piece together what had happened – were apparently the full extent of the record-keeping.
Why incident recording matters
A good system of incident reporting would offer transparency, with records categorised by incident type, student designation, and staff education level, detailing each step taken to prevent and address the issue. This kind of structured documentation would provide a foundation for systemic improvement, but such a system would also create a significant paper trail, potentially revealing gaps in support and failures to intervene. It is this very clarity that seems to be lacking in the current system – an absence that feels intentional, a kind of bureaucratic self-preservation at the expense of accountability.
As a solution architect, I work with data on a daily basis, designing systems that illuminate patterns, surface inefficiencies, and drive improvement. I know that by avoiding robust incident tracking and documentation, institutions protect themselves from liability, but they also cripple their ability to identify systemic problems, assess resource gaps, and measure the true impact of underfunding and inadequate training. It is a short-sighted approach, one that prioritises institutional self-preservation over the safety and support of the children they serve.
I have conducted FOI requests in other sectors, where the documentation is often abundant, revealing every nuance of the decision-making process. It is disheartening to realise that safeguarding our children is treated as a lower priority, with far fewer records, little transparency, and minimal accountability.
Thousands of pages, but few answers
Ultimately, there was nothing particularly useful in those records. They were delayed well past any reasonable timeline that could have helped with the appeal that I was undertaking at the time. I read them with growing horror, recognising what a terrible saga the past two years had been, how many times I had to advocate and ask for such basic things. And it was mostly my own writing I was reading. Long replies to short emails from staff, documenting everything, usually without much reply.
In the end, I am left with a thicker file of largely useless VSB records and a sharper awareness of the structural barriers. While my FOI request yielded few clear answers, it confirmed one suspicion: the system is designed not to illuminate, but to protect from liability, shifting the burden of proof onto the very families it claims to support.
I remain committed to pursuing transparency, but I know now that the fight will not be won through polite requests alone. It will require a fundamental shift in how we demand accountability from our public institutions. Document everything, because probably no one else is doing it!
Have you done an FOI request?
What was your experience and was it useful?
