Ground Zero: Running From Danger

I don't think that I was thinking much when an eerie second of silence fell over Science Center B, about a half minute into the fourth slide of my Literature and Arts B-21, "Images of Alexander the Great" exam yesterday. I had been wrestling with the question of whether the manuscript being shown was Byzantine or Islamic, whether the title was "Alexander fighting the Persians" or "Iskandar versus Dara."

A moment earlier, I had looked up from my exam to hear frenzied shouting. A man in the front of the room had his fingers pointed like a gun and a book bag in his hand. The professor accosted the man, and the man shouted something back. He said he had a bomb, I think.

Then there was that second of silence, and I sat there. I think that most people in the room were coming to the realization that this man posed a serious threat. I, too, might have thought something about how this man was dangerous.

I never made a decision to run, either consciously or unconsciously. The man claiming to have a bomb was yelling at us to stay put, but somebody started running, so we all started running. I couldn't have made the decision to run, because even as an after-the-fact hypothetical--what would you do if a man with a bomb appeared in your classroom?--I can't make a decision.

Do I stay and risk a long hostage situation or take the risk and run? I've seen people run before--aerial shots of students pouring out of Columbine High School come to mind--but if the guy really has a bomb, is running the safest policy?

The noise of hundreds of padded seats flying up in unison broke the second of silence. I don't remember hearing any voices as we bounded up the stairs. I turned back and saw Professor Mitten still seated at the front of the classroom.

My first recollection of conscious thought came when I saw a girl stumble in front of me. Slow down, I said unassertively, but we were soon out of the auditorium anyway.

Once the door closed, separating me from the man with the bag, the danger he presented made no impression on me. I jogged for a second and even turned to a classmate next to me and cracked a smile.

"I was nailing that test, why'd that psycho have to do that?" I joked.

I think my classmate smiled back, and now there was definite chatter. Some kids who had never slackened their pace were by now rounding the corner towards the Science Center's exit. I felt a little guilty about the break of levity--it was probably better to be safe than sorry--so I sped up again.

Going by the Greenhouse I caught a glimpse of what I must have looked like during my blank-minded second of silence. A middle aged, slightly graying man had just picked up a cup of coffee. He stood staring at the crowd running by for a moment. No one had told the onlookers why we were running. Then the man started to run, acting, I imagine, without thought, a natural reaction to the crowd.

In another second we were out of the building. Surprisingly, I don't recall any logjam in front of the revolving doors.

Outside the lecture hall, everything seemed normal again. We milled about. Students bunched together in shifting groups, as an increasing number poured out of the building. There were the first-handers, those Alexander scholars with names A to P, and there were the rest soaking up the hurried story.

I milled around, now the new Crimson editor unsure how to deal with the unfolding situation. The fact that it appeared that I had survived the incident may have emboldened me, as I cockily walked up to police officers still shouting at me to get back. I managed to antagonize a security guard, and I was grateful when Crimson backup arrived.

Over the next few hours I told the story of my day countless times, giddy with the dual excitement of the scare and the reporting. I didn't really think about what had happened inside until just after noon when the building had been reopened and I stopped by the Science Center again to retrieve my coat.

Walking into the empty hall, it reminded me of a modern-day Pompeii. Nearly everything was the same as it had been when we had left. Sodas sat half drunk, a full bottle of aspirin lay across one mini-desk. An unordinary moment in my life had been preserved.

--Staff writer David H. Gellis can be reached at gellis@fas.harvard.edu.