Chaos erupted in a room of hundreds as people rushed for the exits, unsure if they would be alive in the next five minutes. Horror crept into my body as I looked around and realized I couldn’t escape without being trampled. After hiding with two friends underneath chairs, we ran out as security tackled the individual. What began as a day of celebration of FHC’s 12th-place finish at the 97th annual National Speech and Debate Tournament quickly collapsed into devastation when, at 3 p.m., a spectator bypassed security, stormed the finals stage, and reached into a bag. When the competitor’s mic carried her desperate shout of “run!”, the room descended into chaos.
Not even half an hour after the initial event, the National Speech and Debate organization released a statement painting a very different story, informing attendees that the individual was not armed, posed no threat, and there were no injuries. But people were injured; scrapes, bruises, concussions, broken limbs: injuries not caused by a “safe evacuation” but by a stampede of terrified bodies. Despite this, the NSDA decided to resume competition and claimed no harm had been done. The finalists refused to compete, forcing a rescheduling of rounds. For an organization that has encouraged the young voices of our country for over a century, its unwillingness to listen to the voices of students brings to light an underlying situation of incompetence and ignorance.
The following day, before the remaining rounds, the NSDA issued a speech. It outlined what had happened and announced new security measures. But the one thing it left out was what students needed to hear the most: an apology. After disregarding every aspect of safety, the NSDA refused to take accountability, brushing it off like it was no big deal. But what would’ve happened if he had a gun? What would’ve happened if it were someone else in the audience with a weapon? Would they have admitted fault then?
Meanwhile, the media latched onto the story and chose to disregard the reality, reporting misconceptions like calling it an ‘evacuation’. After the NSDA’s statement, headlines downgraded it to a minor disturbance rather than what it was. Just because there wasn’t a weapon doesn’t mean there wasn’t a threat; just because there wasn’t a shooter doesn’t mean we didn’t have to respond like there was one.
The implication of brushing off a traumatic experience as a minor incident is harmful in itself. News sites echoed the narrative of a calm exit in the name of safety. Words of a planned evacuation echoed among publishers, but the real truth is, you can’t evacuate from trauma. You can’t erase the memory of hiding under chairs, shaking, of screams in your ears, of running for your life. Undermining such an impactful event is an insult to everyone who endured it, including performers, spectators, parents, coaches, and online viewers whose streams were not cut.
The fear didn’t leave when the building cleared. This event has left scars that still shape the daily lives of many who experienced it. A friend in college called me months later, panicked after a crowded lecture hall triggered memories of that day. I avoid crowded auditoriums now, or sit closest to the exit just in case. Even simple things like fire alarms, sudden shouts, or the slamming of a door can send a wave of panic through me.
Competitors deserve an organization that ensures not only that students feel safe, but that tournaments are safe. They deserve to be able to compete without worrying about whether it’s safe or not just to be there. To live without fear. What happened in Iowa can happen anywhere, anytime, and to anyone, and to brush it off is to silence the people who lived it.
The trauma has followed us into our education. It interrupts learning when you’re on constant alert. The anxiety makes it harder to concentrate on work, harder to raise your hand in a crowded room, and harder to walk into a cafeteria without searching for the quickest route out. Stress lingers in my mood and drains my focus, a low battery always reminding me of how quickly safety can be ripped away. What happened in Iowa didn’t stay in Iowa-it lives with me still, like an old wound that no statement could ever erase.
