March 23, 2026 — Houston
The following column appeared in the Houston Chronicle.
I live in Houston, but for me, Temple Israel in West Bloomfield, Mich., is not just another synagogue. It is part of the story of my life.
It is where my parents were married, where I went to preschool and religious school, and celebrated becoming a bat mitzvah. The rabbi and cantor there officiated at my wedding.
My childhood memories are woven through its hallways. Temple Israel is where my community lives. Earlier this month, that community was shaken.
On March 12, a man rammed an explosive-laden vehicle into the synagogue and engaged in a gunfire with Temple Israel’s security team, in what authorities are treating as a targeted attack on a Jewish institution. Thankfully, no one was killed. The assailant died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound following a gun fight with security officers, according to the FBI.
The relief I feel knowing that a potentially greater tragedy was averted is paired with a sobering reminder, one we have come to know all too well in recent years, that the places that shape our lives are now potential targets.
As I reflect on what happened, I think about the classrooms inside that building, especially those filled with the 140 preschoolers who were inside when the attack began. I think of the teachers and synagogue staff who flawlessly executed their active-shooter training and safely evacuated the children.
I think about the parents whose worst nightmare came true and were thankfully able to reunite with their children. And I think about the families who gather at Temple Israel every week to worship and come together as a community to experience Jewish joy. Sadly, that joy has been harder to come by in recent years.
According to American Jewish Committee’s State of Antisemitism in America 2025 Report, 28% of American Jews affiliated with a Jewish institution said those institutions had been targeted by graffiti, threats or other attacks in the last five years.
The AJC report also found that 86% of American Jews say antisemitism has increased in the U.S. since the Hamas attacks on Israel, and 55% reported changing their behavior out of fear of antisemitism in the last year.
Ponder that for a moment. American Jews are making daily calculations about being visibly Jewish. A Star of David necklace may now be tucked inside of clothing. Others refrain from posting content online that would identify them as Jewish or avoid certain places or events out of concern for their safety.
The fear Jewish communities experience today is not abstract. It is also borne out by the estimated $765 million Jewish institutions spend annually on security measures, including armed guards, reinforced entrances, surveillance systems, active-shooter trainings and close coordination with law enforcement.
Anyone who walks into a synagogue is entitled to the sense of safety that a sacred space is supposed to provide. When a synagogue is attacked, the ripple effects extend to Jewish families everywhere who see themselves reflected in those headlines.
That includes Houston, where my son will grow up learning what it means to be Jewish. Having sent him to Jewish preschool, I watched him walk through the doors of a synagogue and celebrate holidays with his classmates — just as I once did for religious school. I want those experiences to be defined by joy and belonging, not fear.
What gives me hope is something I learned at Temple Israel many years ago: Jewish communities are resilient. We gather, we support each other, and we continue to show up — for prayer, for education, and for celebration of life’s milestones.
Hatred may try to intimidate us. But we will always refuse to let it define us.
Still, we should all pause and reflect on what it means now that synagogues require such extraordinary protection. It is not just a Jewish problem when children need armed guards to attend preschool. It is one that we must all work to solve.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminded us, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”
In this moment, we should recommit ourselves, across communities and across faiths, to building a society where every child can walk into a house of worship safely, and every community can gather without fear.
Rachel Schneider is Director of AJC Houston.
