We were taking a coffee break shortly after 10 a.m. Tuesday when one of the Saudi journalists came up with the news. Something about an airplane hijacking. We headed for the television in the student union to learn more.

Until then, we'd all been out of the loop. When disaster descended on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, we were in a computer lab at a local college, getting acquainted at the start of a two-day writing workshop: seven journalists from Saudi Arabia, in the United States for training, and myself.

We'd begun by trading professional and personal histories, sharing details about newsroom jobs and families. Khalid, a page designer, has two boys, two girls. Abdullah, who works on the paper's Internet edition, was pining for his wife and their month-old daughter. Saeed, a professor turned editor, at 47 "the uncle" of the group, beamed over his grandchildren.

Like journalists everywhere, they wanted to improve their skills--interviewing, headline writing, storytelling, the challenges of reporting and writing in the 21st century. We set an agenda and broke for coffee.

On the big screen TV, the World Trade Center looked like an immense burnt match. In silence, we watched the replays of the second jetliner crashing into Tower 2 and its collapse, and then gasped at the terrible live shots of Tower 1 dropping to earth in a mushroom cloud of smoke and debris.

All I could think was that it looked like the movie Independence Day.

"It's like a movie," one of the Saudis said, putting my confusion into words.

Watching the disaster unfold, we all had the same reaction: find our families. Putting the workshop on hold, we headed for payphones. I fed change to one while next to me, Saeed punched in digits from a phone card. It took several tries but eventually, he reached his son and told him he was safe. Even local lines were jammed, but eventually I reached my wife on her cell phone. Saeed and I breathed again.

Faheem, the managing editor, asked what I thought we should do. He said he understood completely if I didn't want to continue, if I wanted to be with my family, or return to Poynter. Then in a soft voice, he asked if I thought he and his colleagues would be safe.

His fears about being an Arab in America on Sept. 11, 2001 were understandable. News reports almost immediately identified terrorist leader Osama bin Laden, a Saudi billionaire, as a likely suspect.

After the Oklahoma City bombing, initial reports-- and many Americans--assumed it was the work of Arab terrorists only to learn it was one of their own, Timothy McVeigh. I told Faheem that since then, I thought that we had learned to be more cautious about drawing hasty conclusions. I hoped I was right, but didn't know if I was correct in making that attempt at reassurance.

By now, their colleagues had gathered again in the student union. Phone lines to their homeland were jammed. Those who hadn't reached their families were worried, distracted, and understandably reluctant to continue with the workshop. They wanted to go back to their hotel and keep trying.

We agreed to meet the next morning.

Saeed and I headed for the classroom to lock up.

"This is not an attack against America," he said. "This is a crime against humanity."