Once again, my phone buzzed incessantly with messages from worried friends. “Emily, have you seen the news? Have you checked in on the preschool? Is the synagogue being evacuated?” My heart sank as I typed, “Bomb threats, Jewish Community Centers.” In less than an hour, I was met with eight alarming headlines. Not again.
Just weeks prior, we had faced a similar wave of threats. Jewish Community Centers across the nation were on high alert, with scenes of elderly women scrambling out of swimming pools, wrapping themselves in flimsy gym towels, and worshippers hastily leaving their sacred spaces. Children, blissfully unaware of the danger, lined up to exit their preschools, chatting excitedly.
My initial response was panic. My hands trembled, and I felt nauseous. Should I go pick up my daughter? Call the school? Maybe I should reach out to my friend, Sarah, whose child is in the same class. She is always calm; I should ask her what she’s thinking.
Then came the wave of doubt. I shouldn’t feel this way. Not yet. Our school isn’t being evacuated, and the nearest threat is an hour away. Don’t be dramatic, Emily, I scolded myself. But I knew that fear would win, so I reached out to the school director, Lisa.
When she answered, her cheerful tone made me second-guess my call. “Hey, Lisa, it’s Emily. I’m sorry to bother you, but… you know about the bomb threats in our area? I just wanted to know what I should expect if…”
“Oh, honey, there’s no need to apologize! We have a solid plan in place.”
I listened as she detailed the extensive security measures already implemented for “such an event.” “Such an event.” I processed the phrase, recognizing her attempt to soften the blow of “bomb threat” or “terrorist attack.” By avoiding those terms, she hoped to ease the anxiety they provoke. Yet, as she continued explaining each precaution, my thoughts drifted.
I recalled the comforting warmth I felt the first time I stepped into the temple preschool. Was it two years ago? It felt like yesterday when I hesitated to enroll my daughter, unsure how she would manage four hours without me. My fears evaporated as I met Lisa, who guided me through the vibrant halls adorned with colorful bulletin boards and small backpacks. She knew every child and their family. Children rushed to hug her as she passed, laughter echoing around interactive play areas. This place felt like home.
It didn’t matter that I was not Jewish; these were my people. I wrote the tuition check, leaving with a sense of relief, knowing my daughter was in good hands.
“Emily? Are you still there?”
“Sorry, Lisa. I’m here. I appreciate this. Thanks. I feel… better.” I hesitated over that last word. Lisa sensed it.
Before I could hang up and escape the discomfort of my call, she lowered her voice. “Emily, I’d do anything to protect these kids, right? No one is getting past me.” That was it. My voice trembled as I thanked her and ended the call.
And here I am, crying. Because this is the world we live in. Because it’s profoundly unfair. Because I can’t comprehend the kind of hatred that drives individuals to terrorize others—especially children. Because this woman, with a different faith, would readily risk everything to shield my child. I know she would.
But I’m also grappling with an unsettling awareness of privilege. For the first time, the specter of terror has entered my life. I have barely skimmed the surface of fear that marginalized communities have felt for generations. For a moment, I considered pulling my child from her beloved temple, away from her loving Morahs and the supportive community that has embraced her—just so I could feel safe.
But what about the people I care for? Those who nurture my child as if she were their own? They can’t stop being Jewish. So I ask, when will they finally feel safe?
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Summary:
In light of recent bomb threats targeting Jewish Community Centers, a mother reflects on her feelings of fear and privilege while grappling with the safety of her child within a supportive Jewish community. She questions when her Jewish friends will feel secure in their spaces, acknowledging the deep-rooted challenges marginalized communities face.