There was a second stampede, I heard some time later, in Terminal 2. I was caught up in two separate ones, genuine stampedes, both in Terminal 1. The first was in the long, narrow, low-ceilinged second-floor hallway approaching customs that was so stuffed with restless passengers that it felt like a cattle call, even before the fire alarm and the screaming and all the contradictory squeals that sent people running and yelling and barreling over each other — as well as the dropped luggage, passports, and crouched panicked women who just wanted to take shelter between their knees and hope for it, or “them,” to pass. The second was later, after security guards had just hustled hundreds of us off of the tarmac directly into passport control, when a woman in a hijab appeared at the top of a flight of stairs, yelling out for a family member, it seemed, who had been separated from her in the chaos. The crowd seemed to rise up, squealing, and rush for the two small sets of double doors.
In retrospect, this is hilarious. There was no threat at all but thousands of people entered an emotional fight or flight scenario and it was every person for themselves for hours. A complete break-down of our fragile social system and a great reminder that the balance in your bank account, credit score and the deed to your property are all made up, given to you by the economy and your fellow man and can easily be taken away when unrest and uncertainty enter into the fray. Your retirement account is a piece of paper. When things hit the fan, it will disappear.