Senior Dana Al-Qadi lived in Blacksburg, Va., for 15 years before moving to Champaign. The events at Virginia Tech on Monday were more than headlines to her.

DANA AL-QADI
Gargoyle senior editor
Posted Wednesday, April 18, 2007
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IN OCTOBER 2004, a vivacious redheaded girl approached me with slight hesitation and said, “My counselor told me you used to live in Blacksburg. I'm gonna move there next year, and he said you could tell me some about it.”

After moving to Champaign only a few months prior, I was elated to share my love for the 40,000-person cozy town.

I had lived in Blacksburg, Va., for 15 years and could not help thinking that the odds were incredibly slim that such a “swap” would take place between such ordinary and random locales.

We compared the two places and even wore matching Virginia Tech T-shirts to school one day. Our Champaign-Blacksburg connection tied us together on many levels.

Only an hour ago, I saw her name on the list of victims gunned down on the Virginia Tech campus.

Somehow, my legs carried me downstairs where I collapsed into my mother's arms and cried. It was my first cry since I had heard the news of the shooting. All of the emotions I had tried so very hard to repress were now pushing their way to the forefront and I felt so out of control.

I ran outside into the cold wind and sat on my driveway. I wanted air. Pure air. Air that was far away from the 24-hour media coverage blaring from televisions that has left me with a disgusting aftertaste in my mouth.

I wish CNN would stop blaring god-awful music before weaving a banner advertising their exclusive interview with the shooter's roommates. I wish Larry King had more sense than to invite Dr. Phil onto his show to discuss the incidents. I wish reporters would stop trying to dehumanize the shooter by referring to him as “the man who called himself ‘?'” — I mean he did have a name.

But more than all of that, I wish this had never happened.

Blacksburg is my nest. Even after moving 627 miles away, it is still the place I feel most at home and safe.

And now, as one of my friends despairs, “We are going to be remembered as the latest Columbine … except times three.”

But Blacksburg is not Columbine. I don't want it to be known as the town that was ravaged by a crazy man with his gun.

Blacksburg is a proud little town. We are so proud to be the town that hosts Virginia Tech. When the summers and university breaks come, we miss those college students and lament on the emptiness of the area.

Blacksburg is a cozy little town. The most popular locations are family-owned restaurants, coffee shops, and little knick-knack stores. No, we don't have a Wal-Mart.

Blacksburg is a closely-knit town. There is an intense sentiment of watching out for one another and a sense of community. People have watched me grow out of my kindergarten flub and into my middle school insecurities.

But on April 16, 2007, Blacksburg was a frightened town. In the schools, students were on lockdown; they crouched in the dark and under their desks with no word from their families. On the campus, people were fighting for their lives. From Champaign, I could not contact a few people whom I called.

None of this is headlines to me; it is all personal. Norris Hall, which is only a building on a map to most, is the building with the disgusting restrooms and pink powdery soap to me. The hospital the wounded were taken to is where I've had my blood drawn and my brother was born. The people being interviewed are people I know well.

The names of the victims are family friends, old lacrosse coaches, and casual acquaintances that I have met. Professor G.V. Loganathan and his family lived in my neighborhood. Their daughter could never get onto the bus without her mother standing on the driveway and waving good-bye.

The past two nights have been difficult to sleep for my friends and me. We all picture the frightened faces of the people we know. Did they realize it was their end?

There is no eloquent way to say this, but it hurts.

And now I am looking toward that community for the support and strength to recover from such a blow. While much of the outside world seems to be complaining about police responses and the disturbing writing of the killer, the mind of Blacksburg has one question: What now? How can we better support each other? What can we do?

As Nikki Giovanni, a famous poet from Blacksburg who was also mentioned in Kanye West's song “Hey Mama,” said in a speech at the Virginia Tech Convocation: “We do not understand this tragedy. We know we did nothing to deserve it, but neither did a child in Africa dying of AIDS.”

Although the pain is intense and the 24-hour media coverage would like to make viewers think otherwise, the issues of the world do not stop in Blacksburg on that one fateful day. And neither can we. We must press forward and create good out of this evil.

I am not done crying and I am not done mourning the loss of those I knew and the innocence of my town, but those emotions will now have to serve the dual purpose of being my inspiration to act.

I would like to commit myself to furthering anti-gun legislation. No student should ever feel the need to jump out of a window because someone irresponsible is toting a gun in their face.

The well wishes have been greatly appreciated, and the support I have personally received and Blacksburg has seen has been phenomenal.

Virginia Tech will prevail. It's what Hokies do.