It felt like my typical Monday morning. I had just left my suite and was heading to my 10:35 Lit class when I heard high-pitched shrills from the subway exit on 116th.
The female voice screamed louder and with more urgency as if she was involved in a serious struggle, as if she was being raped.
Milliseconds later, a tall, blonde-haired man emerged from the subway with a woman’s bag. He ran up the stairs nearly brushing by me.
With my fight-flight instincts activated, I immediately called Columbia Public Safety. Panic-stricken, I began describing the incident–one which was still unfolding before my eyes.
As I was on the phone, I saw the man run across through Columbia’s gates. I explained the situation as calmly as I could despite how extremely riled up and frightened I was. When on the phone with the officer, I could hear him contacting others with the intention of catching the suspect. Moments later, there was good news–they had caught him.
I couldn’t believe it. I was incredulous about the whole incident, but even more shocked that something major had materialized out of my little phone-call. The officer asked me to come verify the suspect. Trying to hold back a smile, I walked confidently across the street and was met by another officer. I knew something was a little off. While I wasn’t expecting a hip-hip- hooray, I thought the officer would at least be happy to greet his “good samaritan.”
I later realized that his cold reaction had nothing to do with me. With his eyes planted on College Walk, he said “It was for theatre.” Now even more startled and confused I exclaimed, “WHAT?! For THEATRE ? I cannot believe this.”
I could tell the officer understood my frustration. But it was more than frustration, it was genuine pain. Tears swelled in my eyes at the mere thought that a woman’s intense screams, her being robbed and possibly raped could all have been a hoax. After all, I had become invested in her “suffering” in such an uncanny way.
As I walked over to the scene of the “investigation,” I came face to face with both the “victim” and her “abuser.” These two individuals were not alone of course, these actors had an audience of fifty people. I felt sick to my stomach. But then it got worse. Their followers began clap and cheer on the actors. They spotted me–the fool, the witness who had fallen for their theatrical performance. It was simply too much for me to handle and I had to walk away. Campus Security did thank me for reporting the incident, but as a result of feeling like this had been an unethical psych experiment–I wasn’t able to say a proper “you’re welcome.”
Looking back on this, I am extremely proud that I acted, and acted fast for that matter. Who could have predicted that this would have been the outcome? With that being said, I strongly recommend that people follow their gut instinct and report strange sightings or sounds. As the MTA mantra goes, “If you see something, say something.” We have this unspoken obligation not only as members of the Columbia University community, but also as women to think about each other’s well-being, especially in precarious situations. So add one more number to that cell-phone overbrimming with numbers. It might come in handy: (212) 854-2797.