Everyone has moments in life that come crashing down without warning. I had always been aware of the troubling rise in threats against places of worship, especially Jewish Community Centers. Still, I never expected to receive that call.
Working at a synagogue, I often collaborate with organizations like the Anti-Defamation League and have seen the notifications sent out to local Jewish institutions concerning threats. I understood the measures in place and the actions we were expected to take if faced with such a situation. Despite this knowledge, nothing could prepare me for the moment when the phone rang.
Earlier that day, I had attended a security briefing at our local JCC, where my 2-year-old son, Max, is enrolled in preschool. I left feeling reassured about the precautions taken and the training provided to the staff. They were ready, or so I thought.
When the phone call came, it was from a concerned friend. “Are both kids with you?” she asked. I had taken the day off to enjoy time with my daughter and sent Max to school. In that moment, I felt a wave of guilt wash over me, recalling the decision to drop him off. What if something happened? I couldn’t shake the thought.
“No, just Emma. Max is at school,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. But her next words shattered my tranquility: “There’s been a bomb threat at the JCC. Everything is okay for now, but I wanted to let you know.”
My heart sank. Time stood still. I quickly told Emma I’d be right back and turned to my friend, voice trembling, “I have to get Max. There’s been a bomb threat.”
The rain poured as I sped down the road, my mind racing. I drove like a parent who just heard their child’s safety was at risk. That drive felt like an eternity, but I made it in just over ten minutes.
This was real. I was heading to a place where children were at risk simply because of their faith. How did we come to accept such a reality?
The email we received was unnervingly brief. It stated there had been a threat, the building was evacuated, and the kids were safe. “Don’t come pick up your child,” it read.
How could they say that? I knew the reasoning behind it—safety protocols—but at that moment, all I could think about was getting to my son. I was willing to risk my own safety to hold him close.
As I approached the school, I prepared myself to rush through the gate if necessary. Luckily, it was open. Inside, a staff member directed me to where the kids had been moved. My heart raced as I dashed towards my car, waving my security badge in a frantic attempt to reach Max.
When I finally saw him, the relief flooded over me. His teacher’s worried expression was etched in my memory. “Is this real? Do you know what’s going on?” she asked, searching for assurance. I could only respond, “I have no idea, but I need to be with my son.”
As we left, I glanced back at the building filled with children, blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding around them. They had been told it was just a field trip, leaving it up to parents to decide how much to reveal.
Once safely in the car with Max, I felt a surge of gratitude that he wouldn’t remember this day. But I will never forget the fear and realization that came with that call. This was part of a larger pattern of threats targeting Jewish institutions across the country, but in that moment, it was personal.
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In summary, no one can truly prepare for the moment when a threat becomes real. The experience is filled with fear, guilt, and a desperate need to protect what matters most.