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University of Otago student Carys Goodwin is on exchange at Boston College. In true Otago style, she was engaging in some mid-afternoon drinking when she heard about the bombings just five miles away. She gives a first-hand account of the aftermath.

It was my mum who first informed me about the Boston bombings. At first her vague but frantic text had me confused, as I wasn’t sure my day-drinking habits warranted quite that much concern; but after loudly asking the people around me what had happened, it came to light that “oh there was an explosion at the finish line.” The flippancy with which it was said meant that most continued knocking back their afternoon PBRs, and after a few minutes there was an intense frisbee game being played outside to the croaky wailing of Adele.

Not being one for extreme sports, I took to my iPhone and began to browse news headlines. For lack of a non-clichéd expression, my stomach dropped. At that stage, the New York Post was falsely reporting that 12 people had died, and amid a flurry of Facebook messages from people checking I was still alive I expressed to my friends something along the lines of “shit guys, this is real serious.”

We halted. The music cut off, as the owner of the phone struggled to get through to his dad in Australia; a girl nearby burst into tears; and I texted everyone I knew with friends or family nearby. It’s often pointed out that people of our generation can be with a group of people and still be glued to their phones – but in a crisis, it is invaluable to be able to contact everyone instantly. I can’t imagine the fear of those who couldn’t get through to their loved ones due to network difficulties.

The party died fairly quickly, and I joined one of the last groups to wander through the eerily empty school before it was put on lockdown. Shivering from a combination of fear, sudden sobriety, and cold, we took refuge in a hall of residence and crammed too many people around the TV. It was the first footage I’d seen, and it was shocking; I had walked past the Walgreens from one of the most widely-shared videos just two days prior, happily examining a free hummus sample and thinking about where I could buy a new pair of jandals for the summer. That sort of familiarity is not something I’ve experienced in a crisis, and it’s not comfortable.

We couldn’t watch the news for long, as I think we all felt an urge to be safe in our flats, so we left, taking the least crowded way home. Although I knew my flatmates were safe, it was still a relief to see them in their normal places, all with that dizzying not-quite-drunk-but-can’t-be-sober demeanour as we discussed the events. Obama came on at 6:10pm, and while the authorities clearly had no idea what had happened, I liked knowing that the White House was thinking about us.

The evening was spent reading the news, Facebook, Twitter, and any form of social media that would provide something fresh for me to absorb. It wasn’t the end to the day I’d expected, but my flatmates quietly decided that even though it ended in tragedy, “this was the best Marathon Monday ever.” Through wide eyes and constant checking of our closed road, we gave each other a run-down of the day’s antics, having been split up after our third party.

Boston College, you see, sits on the twenty-first mile, and Marathon Monday is the biggest drinking event of the BC year. Taking place on Patriot Day, it’s a chance to excessively celebrate Freedom! with 9am shots of the world’s worst vodka in as many pieces of fluoro Nike apparel as you can acquire. It has the same anticipation as Hyde Street, and the same convergence of thousands of drunk students on one street. Imagine a Hydelanders after-party, then imagine a bomb going off on George. It’s the closest comparison I can make, and I was lucky not to know anyone injured or affected strongly by the blasts. But there were rumours and stories, warnings and conspiracies, messages and emails. I knew people who knew people, and it was enough for the atmosphere to be tense and sombre.

A few comments in particular stuck with me. There was the classmate of mine, who was scared for a friend she couldn’t get hold of, and told me, “it was really not real. I threw up a couple of times before we found out he was safe. Everything was like a movie. When he finally called, it was ‘I love you I love you I love you,’ but it wasn’t even relief, it was more like everything was so surreal still that it didn’t register until I saw him a couple of days later.”

Then there was my flatmate, who when an aerial-view map appeared on the TV, pointed to a building and said mildly, “my mom works there.” And the Irish exchange student who ran the marathon and, if it weren’t for an old knee injury, would have been in the immediate vicinity. This is the second time I’ve really realised the gravity of living in the strongest, most politically targeted country in the world; the first was when North Korea had a hissy fit. What it feels like is an almost ineffable sense of doom. It’s not quite strong enough to be fear, but more jarring than discomfort. It is not a feeling I’ve ever had back home.

The response has been interesting. Of course, this being the USA, there is the inevitable horror of racist retaliation. The story of the Saudi student tackled to the ground in the immediate aftermath of the bomb; the worrying email sent to all BC exchange students expressing support for those feeling targeted. It was a relief to find that the suspects weren’t Middle Eastern extremists, because the backlash to the wider community would have been disgusting.

However, there was an incredible amount of good to outweigh the bad. Boston College itself had a bit of limelight, as its church, St Ignatius, opened its arms in true Jesuit fashion to the runners diverted from the race. There was also a Facebook event planned called “The Last Five Miles,” during which people would walk from BC to the finish line. Unfortunately it was unable to take place, as there was concern the city would not be able to handle the 12,000 people who clicked attending.

One initiative I particularly liked was in response to the Muslim backlash – a banner hanging in the quad saying “Don’t meet hurt with hate – love Islam.” BC has undoubtedly been a tower of strength, balancing appropriate urgency with an outpouring of support for those involved; a real sense of community that represents the student solidarity I know and love at Otago.

The Watertown shootout, and the events that transpired, were almost a relief. To be fair, I was busy making my way to Coachella Music Festival in California (shameless boasting here), but I was glued to the Internet waiting for updates as we set up our tents. The sense of finality with the capture, and the lifting of another BC lockdown, left students with such a reprieve from fear that there was a massive on-campus party.

It’s those celebrations, and the huge number of Instagram #wearebc #bostonstrong pictures, that are what I wish I could end this story with. But I can’t, because the reports haven’t stopped. Despite the realisation that it’s often attention that leads psychopaths to go on killing sprees, the media is now turning its focus to the men behind the crimes. I’ve learnt more about them than I would ever wish to, heard more speculation about their motives and drive than could possibly be necessary. The media has been flooded with anecdotes and pictures, with John Kerry speaking about the younger brother’s trip to Russia and a friend claiming “he was such a good person” on a Wednesday night-time news show.

It’s over, but I wish it would be let go. Remember Martin and the other dead; remember Carlos and the double amputee Jeff. Share the anecdotes and recoveries and experiences, and share the pictures of people as they start to smile again. But don’t remember the killers, and don’t share their stories. They don’t deserve it.