"Playing it Safer," rang the headline on the feature in yesterday's Crimson. The message of the article was clear: play it safer, because the reality is that things aren't so safe. As Molly Hennessy-Fiske reported, Cambridge was the site of more than 30 violent attacks in the last eight months. What was particularly interesting about the article, though, was the feeling of fear that permeated people's statements. People are scared of that amorphous "what's out there," so much so that Harvard's safety policy, according to Dean of Students Archie C. Epps III, is to have "two locked doors between students and the street"--two degrees of separation from the dangerous outdoors, and I'm not talking about lions, tigers and bears. "Even on well-lit paths and at appropriate times," Assistant Dean of the College Virginia Mackay-Smith '78 is quoted as saying, "all we can do is take steps to reduce the odds" of crime. Violence exists, common sentiment seems to dictate, and the most we can do is be informed and try to hedge our bets.

There is a feeling of exasperated powerlessness that tinges our thinking about these issues. No one feels truly safe--in fact, we are told repeatedly that an unfounded sense of security is the primary ingredient for danger. As a result, some of us are more careful; the rest of us do the same things we would have done, but with a sense of fear for ourselves and guilt for our stupidity. We make those calculations--reminiscent of some devil's arithmetic--that weigh time and ease against personal safety and a feeling of independence. Either way, we feel like something has been lost.

I am generally careful and aware of my surroundings, but I hate feeling like I have to look over my back when I walk the path behind Leverett to Mather. It makes me sad to think that I am not supposed to plan any late night ice cream breaks without making sure that there is someone to walk home with me. Sometimes, just to defy this pervasive ethos of fear, I consider taking a late night stroll along the river. Before I even get my shoes on, though, I hear some voice of authority reminding me of that annoying story of the boy who cuts off his nose...and I sit back down in my room, feeling powerless and frustrated at a world in which I can't take a walk past eight(seven during daylight savings time) or leave my door unlocked, even during the day. (The door issue is actually only a theoretical problem for us Matherites, whose doors lock automatically upon being closed; Mather was built in the '70s--by that time, people were already too frightened to design a dorm where community would be valued over safety).

There is no doubt that real danger exists in the world. A little less than one year ago, a woman was raped while jogging along the Charles in the middle of a busy afternoon. Granted, she was alone, but according to most standards, she was acting quite cautiously. And this is not only a women's issue. In fact, young men place in the highest risk group for violent crime, both as its perpetrators and as its victims.

When I am safe in my room or walking with a number of friends, I will occasionally indulge in a little social criticism that goes along these lines: Our society isn't nearly as dangerous as it's made out to be. The threatening undertones that pulse through the media and recent political rhetoric are useful tools for boosting readership or scaring voters into civic submission, but they aren't reflective of any greater truth. We are a culture with a violence fixation; even as we bemoan the increased brutality of our cities, we turn the volume of the TV up to make sure we hear the final glory details.

But for all of my theoretical confidence, I am not willing to walk alone as some testimony to our society's lack of faith and dismal community spirit. So I remain indeterminate, hoping that somewhere in the interstices of the real danger that exists both out there and in here, and the culture of fear and mistrust that pervades our society, we can find a way to be both aware and relaxed, cautious of the dangers and at ease with our surroundings. And then maybe we'll stroll together some late evening along the river.

Talia Milgrom-Elcott's column appears on alternate Saturdays.