Last summer, my family and I traveled to Rome. In three short days, we hurried through cobblestone streets to see ancient ruins, gaining a deeper understanding of Italian history. One of the most striking landmarks was the Colosseum, a testament to the sophistication of ancient Roman engineering and the central role that entertainment and power played.
Upon entering the ancient stadium, we met our tour guide. With an overflowing passion and strong Italian accent, she excitedly shared, “This is an incredibly important part of Roma!”
Then suddenly her enthusiastic smile turned apologetic. She paused, assuring us not to be alarmed by the guards carrying guns. She explained the armed security was a recent addition to the arena, meant to deter crime.
I instinctively scanned the area, searching for the “intense security” described. To my surprise, I counted five guards scattered loosely near the entrance. They stood casually, blending into the background of tourists and gelato stands.
I glanced at my mom, also surveying the scene. We shared the same expression… confusion as to how this mere handful of guards would protect the Colosseum against violence.
The tour guide’s face developed its own expression of confusion, wondering why my family wasn’t afraid of the Italian military forces.
My mom explained to our tour guide that my siblings and I see more security on a daily basis walking into Jewish schools than stationed outside one of the oldest, most iconic structures in the world.
The more I reflect on that comparison, the less assured I feel. That unsettled feeling has lingered with me long after leaving the Colosseum.
That feeling has become harder to ignore after the attack in West Bloomfield, Michigan, where a man drove a vehicle into Temple Israel, not only a place of prayer, but also a preschool. The building caught fire, and authorities found heaps of explosives planted inside the vehicle. A security guard was injured, and responding officers were hospitalized. The suspect died at the scene after security defended the synagogue and community by openly firing.
This antisemitic attack wasn’t a distant tragedy or an abstract fear, but a direct attack on a Jewish space filled with classrooms, families, and routines that similarly define my own community.
In Rome, the presence of guards felt precautionary. For Jewish institutions, however, security is not a passing measure; it’s a constant reality. Armed guards, locked doors, and surveillance cameras are not surprising or noteworthy, but rather are expected and have become increasingly necessary.
While historic landmarks are protected because of their past, Jewish institutions are protected because of the threats they face in the present. The contrast is unsettling.
At de Toledo, a Jewish community high school in West Hills, CA, there are 10 security guards – double the number I saw at the Colosseum. Alejandro Z., a security guard at de Toledo, explained, “We try to stay vigilant and hyper-aware of all of the surroundings, without standing out too much.”
Every morning, the guards are the first people that students and parents see when driving into the school and the last people they see when exiting the parking lot. They greet people entering the school with a warm smile, and despite the weight of their responsibility, they have become a familiar and comforting presence. Their job is not only to protect, but to make sure that students, teachers, and families feel safe enough to focus on learning, praying, and simply being kids.
For students at Jewish schools, armed guards, security gates, and ID checks are now woven into the rhythm of daily life. What might feel shocking to an outsider is routine for these communities. But normal doesn’t mean acceptable.
However, awareness is not enough. While armed guards are necessary, they address the symptoms of antisemitism not the etiology of it. Security at Jewish schools should be a call to action—not acceptance of the hatred that makes it necessary.
It will take years to untangle the convergence of dangerous factors: wars will have to end; the climate of hate and partisanship needs to subside; the spread of misinformation must be curtailed. History is what gives the Colosseum its value, but the Jewish community’s power lies in protecting Jewish life today.
Shelby Lebovitz is an 11th grader at de Toledo High School, who spends her time playing volleyball, guitar, and advocating for Israel.
