Last week, a merry trio of pranksters from MIT had cause for celebration: Middlesex county prosecutors dropped serious charges against them that would have been punishable by up to 20 years in prison. The crime perpetrated by our more mathematically inclined neighbors along the Charles: an attempted “hack” on MIT’s Faculty Club. This case’s dismissal sets a heartening precedent for college students nationwide.

For those unfamiliar with MIT’s endearingly dorky cyber-lingo, the three students were not hacking in the traditional sense—utilizing advanced computing skills to maliciously invade Faculty Club hard drives and wreak havoc. Rather, the term “hack” at MIT refers to any sly, intricately planned prank committed by a group of students on campus; this particular group of students were caught after slinking around the Faculty Room and setting off an alarm. Although it is unclear exactly what the students intended to accomplish, they apparently pried off a wall panel and exposed a crawl space.

Such “hacks” have a rich history at MIT. There is even a university website, hacks.mit.edu, which documents and glorifies these pranks. Among the most notorious was the 1999 transformation of MIT’s Great Dome into a gargantuan, mock R2-D2 paying homage to the release of “Star Wars: Episode I, The Phantom Menace.”

Admittedly, when I first learned about the arrest of these three students some months ago, I was anything but distraught. I couldn’t help but see the humor in this role-reversal on the hackneyed, "Revenge of the Nerds" theme. In this case, surly, plainspoken officers of the law matter-of-factly foiled the scheming scholars’ painstakingly crafted plan. And it is initially hard to find fault in an arrest that might curtail future mass-scale "Star Wars" idolatry. I for one plan to flee this city and never return if the Beacon Hill monument is ever altered to resemble C-3PO.

But then I considered the potential repercussions of a conviction, and my initial ambivalence towards the fate of the students gave way to trepidation. While certain of MIT’s more famous “hacks” appear to have been staged by students auditioning for MTV’s “Beauty and the Geek,” the “hack” is a time-honored tradition every bit as venerated at MIT as the Harvard-Yale football game is here.

Yet if being caught committing a harmless “hack” can result in a lengthy prison sentence, few students will dare partake in such pranks in the future. This tradition deserves better than to be quashed by overzealous prosecutors and an unsympathetic judge. Even worse, by providing impetus for police at other colleges to crack down on traditions they have grown weary of, a conviction could have repercussions that extend beyond MIT.

Here at Harvard, the Lampoon, a certain semi-secret Sorrento Square social organization that used to occasionally publish a so-called humor magazine, has its own vaunted prank tradition. Although of late its pranks are rare, small in scope, and bereft of any real ingenuity, in its heyday members were responsible for a number of shrewdly cunning acts of civil disobedience.

In 1933, Lampoon members captured and held hostage the Sacred Cod that hangs in perpetuity over the House chamber in the Massachusetts State House. This wooden cod’s effigy both symbolizes the importance of fishing to the Bay State’s early economy and serves as an unofficial good-luck-charm to representatives. As a result of its disappearance, Massachusetts state police were forced into conducting a statewide cod-hunt; woebegone representatives refused to legislate without their fish.

When the cod was anonymously returned several days later, legislators and police laughed off the thievery and no one was ever charged for the crime. As a result, the Lampoon’s members obtained an outlaw reputation that they felt obligated to refresh every so often by committing new, even more fiendish pranks. By contrast, if the police had obtained search warrants to invade the Lampoon Castle, carted off evidence, and arrested Lampoon staff, future members likely would have been too fearful to commit another prank for years.

Harmless university traditions such as MIT’s “hacks” or the Harvard Lampoon’s pranks are a source of pride among students, faculty, and alumni. They imbue a university with a unique character that helps to make it distinguishable from others. Such pranks also serve to break down generational boundaries, fashioning communal, experiential bonds between those affiliated with the university young and old.

It is shameful that a criminal lawsuit brought the tradition of the “hack” at MIT so close to extinction. Thankfully, MIT administrators engaged in 11th hour negotiations with prosecutors and convinced them to drop all charges. After refusing to take sides in the case for months, these administrators finally came to their senses and realized how integral a tradition the “hack” is to the MIT community.

Hopefully in the future, other universities will follow MIT’s lead and attempt to preserve their unique and timeless traditions in the face of litigation or bad publicity—with one notable exception. I would rejoice if the police started distributing citations for public lewdness on Primal Scream night. The few times that I have had the misfortune of witnessing Harvard students expose their nether regions to the frigid elements and unabashedly tromp around the Yard like a herd of gazelles, I suffered from nightmares for months.

Stephen C. Bartenstein ’08 is a government concentrator in Lowell House. His column usually appears on alternate Mondays.