This week, my phone buzzed incessantly with messages from worried friends. “Jess, have you seen the news? Are you checking on the preschool? Is the temple evacuating?” My heart dropped as I scrambled to type a response. A quick search confirmed my worst fears: bomb threats targeting Jewish Community Centers were flooding in once more.
Once again, I was engulfed in a wave of anxiety. Jewish Community Centers across the nation were being evacuated. Seniors were hastily leaving pools, swaddled in those tiny towels, while worshippers rushed from their sacred spaces. Little ones were lined up, blissfully unaware of the danger, chatting as they exited their preschools.
My initial reaction was panic. I felt unsteady, nauseous. Should I pick up my child? Call the school? Maybe I should text my friend Sarah; her son is in the same class and she always knows how to keep calm. I decided to reach out.
But then doubt set in. I shouldn’t be feeling this way—at least not yet. It’s not our preschool being evacuated. The nearest threat is an hour away. I chastised myself, but I knew fear would win, so I dialed the school’s director, Lucy.
Her cheerful voice greeted me, and I immediately regretted my call. “Hey, Lucy, it’s Jessica. I’m sorry to bother you, but… well, you know. There are bomb threats nearby. What should I expect?”
“Oh sweetie, no need to apologize! We’ve got a solid plan in place,” she said, reassuringly.
As Lucy detailed the extensive security measures set for “such an event,” I couldn’t help but reminisce about the comforting atmosphere of the preschool. It feels like just yesterday when I first walked those welcoming halls, hesitant and nervous as a new parent, unsure how my son would manage four hours apart from me.
Meeting Lucy turned everything around. She guided me through the vibrant corridors adorned with art and laughter. She knew every child and their family, and the kids ran to her, eager for hugs and attention. It felt like home—despite my different background. I left feeling relieved; my son would be safe in her care.
“Jessica? Are you still there?” Lucy’s voice pulled me back to reality.
“Sorry, Lucy! Yes, I’m still here. Thank you for this. I feel a little…better,” I stammered, unsure if I truly meant it.
Before I could hang up, she lowered her voice, “You know I’d do anything to keep these kids safe, right? I’d protect them with my life.”
That was it. My voice wavered as I thanked her and ended the call. I found myself crying—not just for the unjust world we live in, but for the overwhelming hatred that drives people to terrorize others, especially innocent children.
Lucy, a woman from a different faith, would risk everything for my child. But my heart ached with the realization of my privilege. I was only now feeling the impact of fear that marginalized communities have known for ages. For a fleeting moment, I considered pulling my child from this loving environment—just to feel safe myself. But these are the people who care for my son as their own. They can’t stop being Jewish.
When will they finally feel safe?
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In summary, the recent bomb threats have resurfaced the painful reality of fear and hate in our world. It’s a reminder of the need for safety and community support, especially in places where love and acceptance flourish despite differences.