It had to be pointed out to the FBI that a gunman taking a rabbi and four other Jews praying during a Sabbath service at a synagogue constitutes an attack “related to the Jewish community.”
I suppose the bar has been set higher for a synagogue attack. If someone were targeting Jews in their house of worship, they would just go in shooting, right?
But since the perpetrator of the synagogue hostage taking in Colleyville, Texas thankfully never discharged his weapon, the FBI thought, that while terrorism, the incident was not inherently antisemitic.
Who knows, after coming all the way from England through New York to Fort Worth, it might have been easier to find a CVS or Starbucks, but no, it just happened to be a synagogue where he decided to take hostages. Got it.
To his credit, the FBI director later admitted the initial categorization was wrong. In the aftermath, top officials at the country’s law enforcement agencies have called the Colleyville incident what it was: an antisemitic act of terror.
Because in addition to holding Jews hostage at gunpoint in a synagogue, the perpetrator believed antisemitic tropes of the all-powerful, world-controlling Jew.
He thought a rabbi in Fort Worth could call a rabbi in New York and get a federal prisoner held on terrorism charges released. What’s next, Jewish space lasers?
As the ordeal was unfolding, the FBI flew agents from Quantico to Colleyville to help the situation. Thankfully it was resolved without any innocents being physically harmed.
The stoic, calm, thoughtful, aware, heroic rabbi of Beth Israel Congregation, Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker, later described his and the other hostages’ escape.
And it was an escape, not a release or rescue. Who needs pews when you’ve got throwable chairs? Synagogue interior design committees now have another thing to consider.
It makes me wonder. The FBI flew down to Texas, and spoke to the hostage taker by phone, but did they do anything else? The rabbi rescued his congregants and himself on his own. Which basically means the FBI flew a bunch of agents halfway across the country just to turn a long-distance call into a local one.
Many, including Rabbi Cytron-Walker, were effusive in their praise of law enforcement — and expressed significant gratitude. And I agree that Jews should appreciate just how lucky we are to be in a country where law enforcement aims to protect us and aid us, and to help prevent such scary events in the future. That’s nothing to take for granted.
But the moral of the story is, Jews can’t count on the world knowing and recognizing the enduring strength and tendrils of antisemitism in the world — including America. And at the end of the day, when it comes to saving and protecting our lives, it’s up to us.
In the days after the Colleyville horror, I struggled to encapsulate a mix of thoughts and emotions.
My base instinct turned to wanting to watch “Inglorious Basterds.” I felt that level of rage and desire for vengeance.
But I also wanted to watch “Raid on Entebbe.”
I wanted to see what it was like for people from far away flying many hours and putting their lives on the line to rescue Jews. They used to show us that movie on rainy days at Jewish summer camp. It was proof that Jews could and would go anywhere in the world to save Jews in trouble.
“If I am not for myself,” asks the ancient rabbi Hillel, “who will be?” Good question.
And that’s how we wound up with a rabbi in Texas confronting a foreign gun-toting villain with a chair.
Exactly How Secure Are We?
I began my nonprofit career at United Jewish Communities (now known as Jewish Federations of North America). After 9/11, the building in which our offices were then located installed an entry system requiring an electronic ID badge to enter. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard it was because our organization posed too much of a security risk.
Which my organization wouldn’t necessarily deny, since it already had guys in suits monitoring the two-door, buzzed-in only bullet-proof glass entry system.
Safeguarding Jewish institutions, in other words, is not new. But 9/11 was the wake-up call that terrorism had reached America.
The organization, along with others, took on the task of forming and building a security apparatus for Jewish communities and institutions in North America. If overseas terrorists could target the World Trade Center, just imagine what might happen to a small-town shul in Texas.
So the Secure Community Network was formed. Their first office was a converted conference room just down the hall from mine.
It had so many TVs on the wall it reminded me of a sportsbook. I wanted to hang out in there during the NCAA Tournament.
(In the pre-smart phone, pre-social media era, the fastest way to get news was cable TV.)
I frequently wondered what those guys (also dressed in suits) did all day.
Now I know.
They laid the groundwork, along with the Anti-Defamation League and others, for a security implementation philosophy and network that honestly, forthrightly acknowledged that in the majority of life-threatening situations, it would be the actions and responses of those already there (not those arriving on the scene, from near or far) that would determine the outcome.
It also urged Jewish institutions to take security seriously — and to establish relationships with local law enforcement.
They sat in on conference calls and attended meetings while security committees were formed. They developed, presented and distributed best practices.
They heightened awareness of situational techniques (such as, however slowly but surely, orienting yourself and finding your way towards an exit) that wound up proving instrumental and life-saving in Colleyville.
In America today, it’s not enough for rabbis to be learned in the Talmud. They must also know basic survival skills for violent scenarios.
But like Judaism itself, it doesn’t and shouldn’t always fall on the rabbi alone. We all must be prepared and equipped.
Which is why on Facebook last week, in a local Jewish community group, professional training lessons in K’rav Maga were being promoted.
K’rav Maga: for when the FBI just talks on the phone.
This Time Just Feels Different
As an American Jew, it is difficult not to see the current day as the most fraught and dangerous of my lifetime.
The worst antisemitism I witnessed growing up was a defacing of my synagogue.
But now, after Pittsburgh, Poway and Colleyville, the threat is no longer just to the building, but to those inside.
I started going to synagogue on a regular basis at a very young age. My parents took me weekly (and sometimes more) all the way through high school. I don’t go as much anymore, but I still occasionally go (in non-pandemic times).
What should go without saying sometimes must be said: I have not nor will never see going to synagogue as an act of bravery or resistance. I and my fellow Jews have a right to attend our house of worship and practice our religious beliefs and customs safely and securely as much as anyone else.
But I admit, even beyond pandemic concerns, walking into a synagogue today would make me a little nervous.
I used to hate seeing off-duty cops with guns guarding the entrance at shul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, major holidays where the crowds are at their largest. Is that really necessary? I asked myself. I was so naïve.
They synagogue was literally across the street from a police station — yet they still hired security for the High Holidays.
But what about the other days of the year? What about that random Sabbath in October or January when it’s easy and tempting not to think about it?
We don’t have that luxury anymore.
Two years into a pandemic and we’re all tired of synagogue by Zoom. But gathering in person again means something different than it did before Colleyville.
Individually and collectively, we’ll have to overcome that fear and anxiety. It’s a task, a skill, a necessity as old as Judaism itself.
Our Pursuit of Justice Is Now…Complicated
But as much as the Jewish community must take security seriously, that’s not our purpose, religiously or communally. We don’t help repair the world just by making it safer to attend prayer services.
The second line of the ancient rabbi Hillel’s famous teaching is, “if I am just for myself, who am I?” We aren’t here just to survive and protect ourselves.
What a place of privilege that sentiment comes from. How many Jews in the generations before mine have looked at securing survival for the next generation as the most Jewish thing they could do? Alas, it is the shattering of that privilege that has shaken so many American Jews today.
Nonetheless, a rich life full of meaning consists of loving and helping others, of pursuing justice, of protecting our planet and tending to those in need, of learning and teaching, of celebrating happy occasions and mourning sad ones.
Yet even here Jews can’t escape the scourge of being held at bay, of being seen as the other, of not being pure enough to be joined into other causes.
There is a reality that Jews are being judged — then punished and excluded, frequently from progressive spaces — because of a litmus test of Jews’ relationship to Israel and Zionism.
This is how you get a well-respected marketing firm (one already working with Jewish clients and organizations) initially refusing to work with an Israeli organization that is an educational and research institute promoting pluralistic Jewish thought.
This follows high-profile antisemitism at Women’s March, leading to a change in leadership.
And Jews being asked not to participate in a gay pride parade because…they were Jewish.
There was the Sunrise DC chapter pulling out of a rally for voting rights because Jewish organizations were involved. They apologized, but still denounced Zionism.
Jews are being punished because some progressives see being Jewish as being affiliated with Israel, the very idea of which to many is abhorrent.
If you are a Zionist, and advocate for Israel, its existence and its security, you are not welcome.
My intent here is not to explicate the dynamics of viewing Israel and Zionism through a lens of racism and white supremacy, and the impacts that has on Jews and Jewish groups engaging, with allies, in social justice.
Nor am I here to debate the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which is as painful as it is enduring, because anti-Semitism pre-dates Israel.
If history has taught Jews anything, it’s that you never know — and that no matter where you are, it can happen here.
Rather, I am trying to put down what it feels like to be Jewish in America right now. The attack in Colleyville and other local incidents of antisemitism come on top of what already feels like a moment of exclusion at best and castigation at worst, or rather, at worse in a non-violent sense. After Colleyville we have to make that distinction.
There is a scale here, and being held hostage in a synagogue is worse than being made unwelcome at a rally or parade.
Still.
It’s a tough time for progressive Jews. I feel accepted…up to a point. I feel welcome…with caveats. It’s enough, frankly, for you to keep an eye over your shoulder, for you to wonder, deep down, if your colleagues are really with you.
If history has taught Jews anything, it’s that you never know — and that no matter where you are, it can happen here.
As much as being Jewish and caring even just a little bit for Israel, simply believing it has a right to exist, are intertwined, Israel is not nor has ever been the driver or cause of antisemitism. (No one believes that if Israel did not exist, antisemitism would disappear. See: the Spanish Inquisition.)
For the Pittsburgh shooter, it was a false perception that Jews were driving a wave of immigration over the American border.
That’s partially what the neo-Nazis with tiki torches marching in Charlottesville meant when they screamed “Jews will not replace us.” Or did they mean Jews themselves and not immigrants? Who can tell? Either way, the former president of the United States said those marchers were very fine people.
So it’s not just a tough time for liberal Jews. It’s a tough time for all Jews.
For Jews in America, one could argue it’s never been worse. We’re at the top of the list of targets of religious-based hate crimes.
The Silence is Heard and Seen
Last week I watched an online gathering of community and spiritual leaders from Colleyville and the surrounding area.
There was thanks for the way the Colleyville incident unfolded, and messages of support to the Jewish community from those of other faiths.
I saw similar kinds of messages on Twitter, but none from anyone I follow.
A total of one of my non-Jewish friends on Facebook expressed solidarity there. More people reached out to congratulate me on my favorite football team winning a playoff game than asked me how I was doing after Colleyville, the latest of a string of antisemitic events in Texas.
During the service, one of the non-Jewish speakers recalled how Rabbi Cytron-Walker had invited her to participate in a security training, one run by the aforementioned ADL and Security Community Network in conjunction with law enforcement.
She declined, not seeing the relevance of it, realizing only now the sense of privilege that nonchalance carries with it. (Of course, all houses of worship are ultimately at risk, as the 2017 Sutherland Springs shooting attests.)
On the one hand, that the hostages were able to save themselves is a small miracle, a success, a hoped-for outcome from years of training and investment.
On the other, it’s a massive wake-up call to the size of the threat against Jews, synagogues and Jewish institutions. It’s especially worrisome in communities like Colleyville that are smaller and may not have the resources of a larger congregation to hire regular security.
But those resources are not the issue. Even had an armed guard been at the door of Beth Israel, would we have desired the guard turn someone away who claimed to be in need?
That the rabbi welcomed him in, even making him tea, sits at the stress point of Jewish identity, expression, values and self-protection.
Should synagogues and Jewish Community Centers require proof of membership upon entry, each and every time? Shouldn’t we strive for our houses of worship to always be open and welcoming to all?
“Let all who are hungry come and eat,” Jews say at the Passover seder. It’s a recognition that we were once (and still and forever will be) strangers in a strange land. It is not for us to turn away those in need, because we have been there.
But we also read during the Passover seder the line, “for in every generation they have risen up to destroy us.”
I’ve always viewed lines like that in the Jewish liturgy as being hyperbolic. At the same time, one of the founders of Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville is the daughter of Holocaust survivors.
So, maybe not so hyperbolic after all.
Are we willing, are we able to welcome all who are hungry to come to eat in our homes? Should we install a metal detector at the door just in case?
Unlike the non-Jewish pastor who admitted to not having to worry about security at her church, this not a hypothetical question. The pandemic had already put the future of in-person communal prayer gatherings in question. After Colleyville, that debate is even more complicated.
What do we teach our children about being Jewish in America today, about Jewish prayer and existence and community, yet also the honest, hard-truth about the realistic threats we face to our bodies simply by being and expressing being Jewish?
This Times May Feel Different…Historically, It Isn’t
The third line of Hillel’s famous teaching is, “if not now, when?” I get the impetus behind it: it’s human nature to at times fall into complacency, so a reminder to not put off acts of loving kindness and the work of repairing the world is never a bad thing,
But in times like these, I find that line unnecessary.
An e-mail I received last week from the ADL references resiliency in the wake of Colleyville. I’m not criticizing ADL; if anything, the last few years have made the need for an organization such as ADL apparent.
But Jews have been displaying resiliency since biblical times. In addition to the rituals and customs and teachings and values of Judaism, what gets passed down from generation to generation is a long-learned ability to carry on.
We can acknowledge and recognize how frightening and disheartening it is for antisemitism to exist as a constant companion through our people’s existence.
We can strive to explain it and understand it and get at the roots of why antisemitism is not just bad for Jews, but for everyone. That kind of understanding and awareness is important.
We also must call it out whenever we see it.
But let’s be honest and realistic. Antisemitism is an endemic virus.
Before the shooting spree at Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh, there was the JCC shooting in Kansas City.
Before Kansas City, there was the Jewish federation shooting in Seattle.
Jews, however successful, however incorporated into society, however comfortable, will always be seen by some as an outsider, a threat, a scapegoat for hate and bigotry.
I see it in my own community, with a synagogue set ablaze and Nazi paraphernalia hung from highway overpasses.
I feel it in the silence from social justice organizations clamoring and agitating for a more just, equal society, but not even acknowledging Colleyville.
Yet not all is lost, nor is the only path of antisemitism a linear one leading to an intolerable reality for Jews. When events like Colleyville happen, people do pay attention — at last, for now.
A local city council will realize after 18 years that protesting outside a synagogue on the Sabbath is indeed antisemitic. There is reassurance that the leaders in this country do in fact see what happened in Colleyville as an act of antisemitic terror.
But about that endemicity…
My first year in college, more than a few years ago, I protested my college newspaper editorial board as it deliberated printing a paid ad in the student paper promoting Holocaust denial. The ad ran under the guise of free speech.
Last week, the United Nations, for the second time, condemned Holocaust denial.
It’s not enough that the Holocaust happened. We also have to fight back to sustain its memory against those who deny it, who in attempting to erase the tragedies of our past aim to control and threaten our present and future.
And so it goes. Jewish Americans will continue on, trying to teach and learn, trying to blend in and contribute and make the world a better place, trying to be left alone to pray and live in peace, or to rise to be local or national leaders.
As for everyone else, some will sympathize with us, some will see us as privileged and acquiescent to and a cause of a brutal occupation half a world away. Some will see us as controlling and manipulative. Others will stand by our side.
None of that is new. We will stand up for ourselves and others, even if others will judge us and perhaps never fully accept us.
Our place here is tenuous, less firm and comfortable than we perceived it to be.
It has us sitting on the edge of our chairs, just in case we need them.
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Previously Published on Medium
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on Flickr with CC 2.0 license