As gun violence continues to ravage communities across the country, another, lesser-discussed epidemic sweeps through schools: false threats of violence, which often cause confusion, panic and very real responses from both the public and school officials. Earlier this month, we got a small taste of that here on campus.
On Sept. 13, officials sent a GW Alert to community members warning of “Urgent: Police Activity” at Thurston Hall. Without any information, I started to worry. Maybe a dangerous figure broke into the residence hall or there was a medical emergency. Without concrete information to go off of, anything could be happening.
Back in my junior year of high school, a student thought they saw a firearm on campus in the days following the high-profile Oxford High shooting in 2021. Despite the questionable validity of the source and having already lost a school day to a fake threat earlier that week, the ultimately false report ended up triggering a multi-hourlong lockdown as armed police conducted a room-by-room sweep of the building. I spent four hours huddled with six or so other students in a dark technology closet near the library, frantically trying to figure out what was going on.
Experts say that upward of 100,000 K-12 schools experience at least one false threat report per year, putting the roughly 150 shooting incidents in the same time frame — already a gut-wrenching and terrifyingly high number in its own right — to shame.
It’s better to be safe than sorry, but the incident left a mark on many. I remember getting frantic texts as kids tried to piece together a cohesive narrative of what was happening, hearing at least half a dozen rumors ranging from bombs to shooters. With officials failing to disseminate information to the student body, we did what teenagers do best: We made up our own story, born out of panic and a need to feel on top of the situation.
In the modern era of frequent mass shootings, protecting students is of utmost importance. But assuming you’re in active danger when a potential risk arises can be traumatizing, regardless of whether a perceived threat actualizes into violence.
Without access to the information needed to evaluate a situation, students have no way to calculate whether fear is justified. “I saw something that looked vaguely like a gun” isn’t the same as a clear and present threat, but without knowing the circumstances behind an emergency scenario students can’t make a judgment call on how to handle it.
Despite good intentions, GW alerts have a history of suffering from poor communication and struggles with conveying the level of risk associated with a particular scenario. In four days, I received six texts about Thurston Hall — while living over a mile off campus — from GW’s emergency alert system. The weapon search and a laundry room fire were deemed as “urgent activity,” a report of smoke in the building was considered “critical” and the remaining three messages were follow-ups announcing the return to an “all clear” status. Despite conveying important information, the alerts have lost any semblance of meaning due to their overabundant use.
Repeated exposure to the messaging risks desensitizing students and heightening the danger for real emergencies. As anyone who’s survived GW’s first-year residence halls can tell you, many stop bothering to get out of bed after the third or fourth fire alarm of the semester has gone off. Students stop listening to warnings when all are treated as the same regardless of severity, leaving the University stuck as the boy who cried wolf.
The next text that pings students’ phones could be someone burning their dinner again — cooking spray is cheap, people — some smoke in the building, or an active shooter. If history is any indication, the three scenarios will be handled in roughly the same way.
I urge school officials to be more transparent in their communications. If there’s a contained fire, say it’s a contained fire, not just “URGENT.” If they’re investigating an unconfirmed report of a weapon, tell us that they’re investigating an unconfirmed report. We live in a generation where threats loom large. Seventeen-year-old RJ in the technology closet of his high school would have greatly appreciated knowing the extent of the risk to himself and his friends, and would’ve loved for the rumor mill to stop amplifying the perceived danger tenfold.
I don’t blame schools for hesitation. I don’t want to be the one making the life-or-death decision on whether to call a bluff, and I don’t know where the line should be drawn on what should be treated as credible. If I was in their position, I’d lean on the safe side as well. Nevertheless, something about the current system isn’t working right, and there has to be a way to convey important messages without causing panic or diluting the meaning.
RJ Doroshewitz a sophomore majoring in political science and public policy, is an opinions writer.
