This week, my phone buzzed incessantly with messages from worried friends. “Emma, have you seen the news? Is the preschool okay? Are they evacuating the synagogue?” My heart sank as I typed “bomb threats, Jewish Community Centers” into Google. The results flooded in—eight articles within minutes. Not again.
Just like a few weeks ago, bomb threats were sweeping across the nation, leading to evacuations at Jewish Community Centers. I envisioned elderly ladies hurriedly leaving swimming pools, wrapping themselves in those tiny gym towels. Worshippers were rushing out of their sacred moments with God. And little kids were lining up, excitedly chattering as they exited preschools, blissfully unaware of the looming danger.
My instinct? Panic. I felt the familiar tremor in my hands. Should I grab my son? Call the school? Text my friend, Anna, who always keeps her cool? I decided to reach out to her.
Then doubt crept in. Maybe I shouldn’t feel this way. It wasn’t our school getting evacuated, nor our synagogue receiving threats. The nearest incident was an hour away. I chastised myself: Don’t be dramatic, Emma. But I knew fear was winning, so I dialed Anna, the school’s director.
Her cheerful voice was like a bird, and I immediately regretted my call. “Hey, Anna, it’s Emma. Sorry to bother you, but… well, you know. There are bomb threats nearby. What’s the plan?”
“Oh sweetie, don’t apologize! We have a solid plan in place.” I listened as she outlined the extensive security measures they had developed for “such an event.” Such an event. I understood her intention to soften the blow of the words “bomb threat” or “terrorist attack,” but my mind wandered.
I recalled the warm, safe feeling I had when I first toured the preschool two years ago. I was a nervous first-time mom, unsure if my son could last four hours without me. All my worries melted away when I met Anna. She guided me through the bright hallways, filled with cheerful bulletin boards and tiny backpacks. She knew every child and their family, and the kids would run to hug her. It felt like home, despite my being a Christian in a Jewish space. So, I signed the tuition check and felt a weight lift off my shoulders.
“Emma? Are you still there?”
“Oops, sorry, Anna. Yes, I appreciate this. I feel… um, better.” The last word didn’t quite convince her. She lowered her voice, “Emma, I’d put my life on the line to protect these kids, you know that, right? No one’s getting through me.”
And just like that, I felt the tears welling up. This is the reality we live in now, and it feels incredibly unfair. I can’t fathom the hate that drives people to terrorize others, especially children. This woman, from a different faith, would lay down her life for my child—and I know she would.
But I also grappled with a sudden awareness of privilege. For the first time, I felt the encroaching fear that marginalized communities have faced for generations. I even considered pulling my son from his beloved preschool, just to feel safe. But what about the people who care for him like family? They can’t just stop being Jewish.
So I ask: when will they feel safe?
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Summary
In a time marked by unsettling bomb threats against Jewish Community Centers, the author reflects on the feelings of fear and privilege that arise when considering the safety of loved ones. The emotional turmoil highlights the shared humanity that transcends faith and community, raising the question of when everyone can feel secure in their environments.