This week, my phone buzzed incessantly with messages from worried friends. “Emily, have you seen the news? Have you checked on the preschool? Is the synagogue being evacuated?” My heart sank as I typed “bomb threats” into Google. Eight alarming headlines popped up within minutes. Not again.
Once more, Jewish Community Centers across the nation were on high alert, evacuating patrons. Elderly women hurriedly left swimming pools, clutching flimsy gym towels. Worshippers were abruptly pulled from their sacred moments of prayer, while young children exited their preschools in orderly lines, blissfully unaware of the looming danger.
My initial response was panic. I felt a wave of nausea. Should I rush to pick up my son? Call the school? Maybe text my calm friend Sarah, whose child is in the same class. She always has a level head. I should reach out to her.
Then came the creeping doubt. Why should I feel this way? It’s not our school or synagogue under threat. The closest incident is an hour away. Stop being dramatic, I told myself. Yet, I knew fear would win, so I called the preschool director, Karen.
“Hi, Karen, it’s Emily. I’m sorry to bother you, but there are bomb threats nearby. What should I expect if…?”
“Oh, dear, don’t apologize! We have protocols in place for situations like this.”
I listened as she explained the extensive safety measures they had implemented for “such events.” I pondered her choice of words, recognizing her attempt to soften the harsh reality of “bomb threat” or “attack.” As she detailed the plans, my mind drifted back to my first day at the preschool two years ago, feeling both excited and terrified about leaving my son there.
Walking those cheerful halls, I was met with vibrant bulletin boards and tiny backpacks on hooks. Karen knew every child and their family, greeted by hugs from the little ones as she walked by. Laughter filled the air as kids engaged in play, and tears were met with comforting words and gentle hugs.
It felt like home. My Christian background didn’t matter in that environment; these were my people. I paid the tuition and left feeling lighter, secure in the knowledge that my son was in caring hands.
“Emily, are you still there?”
“Sorry, Karen, I’m here. I appreciate you sharing this. I feel… better.” I hesitated.
Before I could hang up, she lowered her voice, “You know I would do anything to protect these kids, right? No one would get past me.”
That broke me. I thanked her, then hung up, tears streaming down my face. This is the world we live in, and it feels so unfair. How can anyone harbor such hate to terrorize others? To target children?
Karen, who comes from a different faith, would protect my child at all costs, and I know she would. But I also realized my privilege. For the first time, the threat of terror had breached my previously untouched world. I considered pulling my son out of his beloved preschool, away from his Morahs and the loving community, simply to feel safe. But what about those I love? They can’t just stop being Jewish. When will they feel safe?
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In summary, the recent surge in bomb threats against Jewish Community Centers has left many parents feeling anxious for their children’s safety, prompting reflections on privilege and community support. It’s a stark reminder of the real fears faced by marginalized communities and the collective hope for a day when everyone can feel secure.