On One Campus: Shock, Anger ... and Resilience

The midday sky is empty when a lone military jet streaks from the south, chalking its wake on the horizon.

In Terrorism's Wake: a series of photographs taken at a memorial service held at the U. of Maryland News developments related to the terrorist attacks and academe continue to break and will be covered on The Chronicle's Web site. All of this news, which will be updated as events dictate, may be found at http://chronicle.com/indepth/attacks/

As the plane passes over the University of Maryland campus here, the distant thunder of its engines prompts more than a few of some 8,000 people -- students, professors, and staff members -- on the main green to turn their heads skyward.

Many here have anxiously scanned the firmament since yesterday morning, when four hijacked passenger jets crashed, destroying New York's World Trade Center and severely damaging the Pentagon, which is just 10 miles southwest of here. In the hours after the terrorist attacks, the sounds of approaching planes sent some students running for cover. A day later, a handful appear momentarily startled, but their expressions soon change to looks of curiosity, as if the plane's fading contrail holds a lesson, an inscrutable text on a mile-high blackboard.

The burst of noise at this hastily planned interfaith mourning service momentarily drowns out the words of C.D. Mote Jr., the university's president. As he speaks, the thousands gathered here maintain a silence punctuated only by the squish of shoes in the wet grass.

Because many of the students grew up in the Washington area, or in New York or New Jersey, administrators believe that quite a few know someone injured or killed in the attacks. More than 24 hours after the crashes, at least eight students either have lost an immediate family member or are still waiting to hear from close relatives who are missing, including one student whose mother and father worked at the World Trade Center.

Faculty members here, too, have suffered loss: A former graduate student in economics, a former professor of physics, and a former professor of agricultural economics were on board one of the doomed flights.

Others, like Chhandasi Pandya, a journalism and economics major from Queens, N.Y., are relieved but still rattled after a day of uncertainty. Yesterday, Ms. Pandya tried for nearly eight hours to reach her mother and sister-in-law, both of whom work on the same block as the World Trade Center. Finally, around six o'clock last night, she learned they were safe.

"The last thing on people's minds is classes, so it's good that people can grieve together like this," says Ms. Pandya, a senior.

Urging his listeners to acknowledge the community's "shared values," Mr. Mote says, "this is a time to be in touch with each other."

Although many students say the tragedy has brought them closer together, all is not lightness and unity here.

"An event like this can divide a community even more," says Ms. Pandya, a Hindu who emigrated from India with her family when she was 3. "Especially as a brown-skinned person, I can't help but see this issue playing out along racial lines."

Today's ceremony reflects the delicate balance required on this large, diverse campus, where members of numerous cultures live and work together. One by one, four students take the stage to recite the Peace Prayer, in English ("May peace prevail on Earth"), Arabic, Hindi, and Spanish.

As the words crackle from two walls of speakers, volunteers filter through the crowd to hand out bunches of cut flowers. The grade-school refrain of "Take one and pass it on" travels in whispers through the throng, until nearly everyone is holding a rose, a chrysanthemum, or a carnation.

Today was supposed to have been a celebratory occasion called First Look Fair, an all-day orientation event where, in the company of Moon Bounces and boomboxes, dozens of student organizations traditionally set up information tables. Instead, classes are canceled and many students are getting their first look at grief on a large scale.

W hen the prayers are over, people walk slowly across the green. They place the flowers on the ledges of fountains at the center of the quad, and they write messages on rows and rows of white sheets, which will be hung as banners on the campus.

Many wipe their eyes as they hunch over the sheets, and few speak. A lone saxophonist strikes up Duke Ellington's "In a Sentimental Mood." One woman writes out Psalm 23 beneath an intricate peace symbol that someone else has drawn. Another sheet says, "There are no words." Yet another bears the angry admonition: "Terrorists, Go Home."

All over campus, students and faculty members, administrators and staffers, are struggling to channel their emotions appropriately, to find equilibrium in the wake of tragedy. In an office that looks like it has been hit by a hurricane, George H. Quester, a professor of government and politics and an expert on terrorism, cautions against using "pent-up emotions to rap about" the attacks in foreign-policy classes, all the while juggling calls from reporters seeking instant analysis.

In a nearby building, Margaret Bridwell, director of the University Health Center, is visibly exhausted by the hours she has spent working with the half-dozen student groups that are trying to organize blood drives at a time when the Red Cross, inundated with good intentions, is telling people to wait.

"These students are wonderful when the going gets tough," she tells a reporter with a sigh, "but I'm sure glad you're not here to talk about blood."

Back on the quad, two dozen Muslim students have gathered on the grass in front of Francis Scott Key Hall. Raef Haggag, a sophomore majoring in computer engineering, is worried that fellow students will lash out at Arabs.

"We're seeing a lot more looks from people, and that is frightening because there is already a lot of misunderstanding about who we are," says Mr. Haggag. "We're trying to help others understand that we feel this tragedy as Americans."

A moment later, Mr. Haggag and the others kneel to pray. Facing them across the quad is an American flag that has been attached to the end of a fire-engine ladder and hoisted several stories in the air.

A few paces away, Erin Galloway, a sophomore majoring in government and politics, has just written her own message on one of the sheets: "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do."

She feels energized by the surge of concern that students have shown for one another in the last 24 hours, but she worries that, after the shock fades, many students will retreat into apathy.

"Our generation, we've had everything we've wanted," says Ms. Galloway, standing with other students on the steps of her dormitory. "I mean, we're getting an education, living in this dorm, and we've never had a war, or a depression. We're unprepared for dealing with something like this, but we're going to have to be prepared."

By the end of the day, the campus begins to show signs of normalcy, of life returned. Thirty-one hours after the attacks, a handful of students descend a slope to the green, throw down their backpacks, kick off their shoes, and fan out in all directions. The sky is pure blue and still empty when one of them hurls a Frisbee, high and wobbly, into the breeze.