From the very first days of 1969, the mood on the Harvard campus had taken a turn towards activism. The mountain of anxieties built up over the previous year had become a crushing burden, which needed to be shaken off. The only way to do so was to react, in however futile or mindless a manner -- better that than to remain passive and get steamrollered anyway. The Vietnam war was raging, with American soldiers being killed and wounded in large numbers; every returning body bag was a reminder that no-one was immune from being conscripted. Injustice and anger made for a potent mix.
The first action was a sit-in by hundreds of students which disrupted a discussion that the faculty were about to hold on the merits of ROTC(Reserve Officers Training Corps). The professors were themselves divided on the question, falling into distinct camps. Liberal leaders, among them Hilary Putnam and George Wald, were confronted by Cold-Warriors like Samuel Huntington and Henry Kissinger. But faculty members had never had one of their own meetings physically broken up by students. This level of defiance shook them all. The deans tried to take disciplinary action but the move fizzled out when it became apparent that students who were expelled would become subject to the draft. No one wanted to have fresh body bags on their conscience.
The faculty ended up voting to deny academic credit to ROTC activities at Harvard. But there was a huge backlash from the Harvard President Nathan Pusey and from the Harvard Corporation, the legal body which owned the university. They feared losing the US government’s support and funding. Many conservative alumni were also outraged but they had no inkling of the strength of anti-war feeling on campus. Even the science faculties, normally heavily dependent on the federal government’s research funding, made an official call in March for an end to the Vietnam War, a solid indicator of which way the momentum was shifting.
The Harvard campus in April 1969 was in a state of becoming. We had all returned from a few days of Spring Break, feeling refreshed. Sights and sounds of Harvard Yard, the yo’s of passing friends and the happy screeching of gamboling birds in the trees, were hard to resist as we trooped into the classrooms. Who wanted to mess with reality now that the frosts were gone and life had become a wispy fabric? But the War, the War and its black shadow, was over everything and the contrast with heavenly spring was too much to bear.
Overflowing with rebellious impulses the student community went into overdrive. SDS(Students for a Democratic Society) held a long meeting on April 8 and the mood was volatile. Speaker after speaker took aim at Nathan Pusey, who had spent months watering down the faculty decision to ban ROTC till there was little left for him to implement. Fury built up towards him, which was faintly amusing too because Pusey resembled nothing so much as a marshmallow man with an abstracted look.
As a foreign citizen, and beneficiary of a generous Harvard scholarship, I was afraid that I did not have the standing to defy US laws. For me, the prospect of expulsion from the university to return in disgrace to face my parents, was too drastic a risk to take
This set the stage for an unheard-of denouement. Even though it was late at night, students streamed out from the SDS meeting in an unruly group. They marched to Pusey’s residence and stormed the gates shouting and yelling. The menace of this I-know-where-you-live crossing of the line was palpable. After a harrowing stand-off with the university cops, it was agreed that, in a final bit of political theatre, a document bearing the SDS demands would be hammered into Pusey’s front door! This dramatic act, echoing the effrontery of the ages, was the spark which ignited the events of the week.
The very next afternoon about a hundred SDS-led students bashed their way into the administration building, known as University Hall, a handsome, shining-white, three-story building located in Harvard Yard. The deans were ejected from their offices with varying degrees of firmness. Archie C Epps III, the epitome of courteousness, was physically carried out when he refused to accept student authority. And that was the crux of the matter, the young men and women of Harvard had symbolically seized authority in the face of their elders’ failure to exercise it with sufficient integrity.
Throughout the day news about the takeover flashed across the whole campus. Everyone headed for the Yard. More and more students skipped up the steps of University Hall to join the occupation, despite stern loudspeaker warnings from the Dean of the College that severe disciplinary measures would be taken against them. Ultimately there were about 500 people inside the building and more than 3000 milling in the Yard, most supporting the occupation but also a few smaller groups who were against it.
I have to admit that I was one of those who stayed outside. While sorely tempted to take part in this momentous event I managed for once to rein in my more extreme leanings. As a foreign citizen, and beneficiary of a generous Harvard scholarship, I was afraid that I did not have the standing to defy US laws. For me, the prospect of expulsion from the university to return in disgrace to face my parents was too drastic a risk to take. Mike Prokosch was perched with his leg dangling from a first floor window of University Hall when he spotted me. “Come on in,” he shouted, pointing invitingly towards the entrance, “it’s a gas.” I was shamefaced as I waved back that I was sorry. The surprise on his face was evident. I had created a persona for myself. I dressed in bell-bottomed trousers and had taken up fringe habits. Especially after my writings on radicalism I stood for daring thoughts. It could fairly have been thought that this crisis was tailor-made for those such as me. And yet here I was, backing out like a coward. Having promoted bold concepts and courageous action in print I had left my presumed followers in the lurch when it counted.
My inner struggle continued, specially because I felt left out as the occupation began to take on aspects of a giant picnic cum manifestation. Nick Gagarin wrote later about the “euphoria” of the occupation which inspired him to propose ending the “inhumanity, competitiveness, and alienation” of the current university system in favour of a new institution which would be called “Harvard New College,” to be rebuilt from scratch on alternative principles.
Frequent gatherings were held in a large room on the second floor, at which the main issues which had propelled the occupation were debated at length. Many decisions were taken, by consensus, such as that no resistance should be offered to the police if it came to a bust. However a little of the festive atmosphere always remained, helped by the booming music floating in from the freshman dorm nearby, with an inspired DJ choosing songs like “Fixing to Die,” “Revolution,” “Street Fighting Man”.
I remained in the Yard with Larry (my roommate at Harvard) as night fell. University Hall was brightly lit and we could see through large windows on every floor that the students inside were cheerful, but determined. Meanwhile the university administrators were meeting in panic mode. President Pusey insisted that the occupation had to be ended quickly whatever the cost. He argued that it had been a serious mistake to have allowed the Columbia University takeover the previous year to have gone on as long as it had. Very concerned that secret university files were being handled by outsiders he personally took the decision at 10pm to apply maximum force. Which meant not relying on the university police, who were basically gentle father figures, but to summon the specialized marshals of the Massachusetts State Police. Pusey then retired for the night and went to sleep.
The loudspeaker messages started to take on an even more insistent and threatening tone, demanding that students vacate the premises. Rumours, probably spread by the authorities, circulated that a no-holds-barred approach was imminent, meaning police action to clear the administration building. The mood turned grim. Ignoring these demands the students hunkered down for the worst. The entrances on the Widener side were chained from inside. The students in University Hall mobilized themselves. All of the 400 or so occupiers assembled behind the doors in a solid mass in order to bar entry to the cops.
For those of us standing numb outside it felt eerie, unnatural that such violations were taking place unseen, but not unheard. We were being made to understand that we were utterly powerless
The people who had been showing support from outside decided to gather at all the approaches to the building and form human barriers there as well. Finally I had found a role which I could play. Larry and I picked a spot on the right hand front side of the building’s steps as we passed the night in the open, feeling uneasy, plagued by uncertainty about whether there was really going to be a bust. We relayed messages through the windows to the students inside that there didn’t seem to be any threatening activity.
Then, at 4am, just as we were feeling relieved that the crisis may have passed, a number of long buses drove noisily into Harvard Yard. With a lot of careful maneuvering they parked right in front of Memorial Church, depositing soft mud on the hallowed area where graduation ceremonies were normally held. As we watched, both fascinated and apprehensive, the buses disgorged large numbers of smartly-uniformed State Police troopers. They had helmets on, were wearing tall black boots and carried thick batons in their hands. The deans seemed to have disappeared and the only Harvard presence was that of a group of University police on the fringes. It seemed as if we had been turned over totally to the attentions of an alien organization, which cared not a whit about us. I felt the first serious pangs of fear. A few people left the scene. There were a lot of us crammed together on the steps with arms linked and it seemed like it would be hard for the cops to get through us. Everyone waited in silence and mutual solidarity.
The troopers, about 50 in number, drew themselves up in lines facing us 200 feet away. By now the news of a possible attack had spread as there was a station of Harvard radio WHRB inside University Hall which was broadcasting live. Freshmen emerged from their dorms in the Yard, half-asleep and half-dressed. They began to boo and shout. The policemen remained impassive, uncaring. Dawn broke and in its shafts of faint light we could see the troopers more clearly. Were they fiends emerging out of the gloom? The gorgeously clean chill of the early morning filled the Yard.
Without warning the shine of black boots shimmered. The police began to approach slowly, heavily and then broke into a fast trot. They tapped rhythmically with batons on their shields as they ran towards us. This drumming of ugly intent drained my resolve. I wondered what it would feel like to have my head crushed and ringing with pain, but before I could think any more they were upon us, big bodies tightly together. Like a wall of water they burst massively through. I fell forward, scrambling on my knees. Larry had been next to me but he too was thrust aside with ease. We stood around shaken but unhurt. We were lucky. The troopers had swept us aside as not worthy of greater effort. They now concentrated on breaking down the doors of University Hall with a battering ram and deploying heavy metal scissors to cut through the chains.
Once they had got inside screams of pain and outrage, in sharp women’s voices, started to tear through the Yard. We listened in horror as the sound carried through the thinness of the morning air, bouncing off the stately trees that normally guarded the sanctity of this place. For those of us standing numb outside it felt eerie, unnatural that such violations were taking place unseen, but not unheard. We were being made to understand that we were utterly powerless.
“Somebody will have to be made to pay,” I thought with redoubled anger. As more and more shocked onlookers filled the Yard the policemen shoved and pulled students out of University Hall and loaded them into buses to be taken away. On some of them I spotted telltale splashes of red colour. RED. On shirts and foreheads. Staining skirts and blouses. Friends and mates branded with blood. No one had expected to see the contrast thrown up by BLOOD RED against the green sward criss-crossed by paths, in the zone of mythology that was our Harvard Yard.
The buses had left by 6:30am and the scars of battle lay littered on the ground. Despite the early hour, there were already demonstrations and meetings taking place around University Hall. The word on every lip was “Strike.” There was to be no business as usual at Harvard. Deep revulsion for the violent scenes of the morning had turned a sectional dispute into a general cause. A three-day shutdown was soon announced for the College and one by one the Graduate Schools, Law, Education, Divinity, Design, Business signed on too.
