We receive a lot of email a week (tips@montrealjewishnews.com). This one came in yesterday. We decided to reproduce it exactly the way we received it. On the request of the person who sent it and to protect the victim we have removed any identifying details from the letter. The image attached to the article is AI generated.
Howie
—
I didn’t go to school yesterday.
My mother said I could stay home, and I said okay, even though normally I would have argued because I hate missing stuff and having to catch up. But yesterday I didn’t want to go outside, I really didn’t want to see anyone and I definately didn’t want people looking at my face and asking me what happened. Even writing this is weird.
It happened Monday.
I was walking home from the bus stop after school and I had my backpack on and my phone was almost dead, so I wasn’t even listening to anything, I was almost home when I heard laughing behind me.
At first I didn’t think it had anything to do with me. There are always people hanging around the bus stop, usually older guys, homeless guys and randoms. But this time it was different, I heard one of them say, “Look at his little hat.”
I knew right away they meant my kippa.
I kept walking. I thought if I didn’t look back, maybe they would just keep going. That’s what my mom always tell me to do, ignore them, don’t answer. If you do, you’ll make it worse.
So, I ignored them. Funny, it got worse anyway.
One of them yelled, “Hey, Jew boy.”
I felt my stomach drop. Like actually drop. I don’t know how else to explain it. I was suddenly not just walking home anymore. I was thinking about how far I was from my house, whether there was anyone outside, whether I should run, whether running would make them chase me.
I turned a little and saw three guys. They were older than me. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Maybe older. One had his hood up tight around his face. One was laughing. The other one was just staring at me like he was waiting for something to happen.
The guy who was laughing came closer and said, “What’s that on your head?”
I said, “It’s my kippa.” I’m not sure why I answered, I think I was maybe trying to sound normal. Like maybe if I answered normally, he would feel stupid and leave.
He didn’t. He slapped it off my head. It landed on the sidewalk.
It’s weird, because that part that keeps playing in my head, not even the hitting after, just the part where my kippa is lying on the ground and he’s standing there laughing.
I bent down to pick it up, and one of them kicked it away.
Then I got shoved.
I stumbled and my backpack pulled me sideways, and then someone hit me. I don’t remember exactly where the first hit landed. My shoulder maybe. Or my face. It all happened so fast. I remember falling. I remember my hands hitting the sidewalk. I remember my glasses flying off.
Then I was on the ground.
They were yelling stuff. Jew. Go back. You don’t belong here. Other things I don’t want to write. Someone kicked me in the side. Someone grabbed my shirt and pulled me a bit, like they were trying to make me look at them. I covered my face because I thought if I didn’t, they would break my nose or my teeth or something. I could hear myself saying, “Stop,” but it didn’t sound like me. It sounded weak and stupid.
I hate that.
I hate that I didn’t yell louder. I hate that I didn’t fight back. I hate that I just covered my head and waited for it to end.
But I was scared. I was really scared.
There were cars driving by. I heard them. I’m sure someone saw. Maybe not everything, but enough. I remember thinking, why is nobody stopping? Why is nobody honking? Why is nobody getting out? I know people are scared too. I get that. But I needed help and nobody was coming to help me.
One of them bent down close to me and said, “Go back where you came from.”
That made no sense. I was born here. I wanted to say that. I wanted to tell him I was born in Montreal at the Jewish General. I wanted to tell him my father was born here too. I wanted to tell him I know this city. I know the bus routes and the stupid orange construction cones and the snowbanks and the bagel places and which sidewalks don’t get cleared properly in the winter.
But I couldn’t say anything.
Then suddenly they ran. I don’t know why. Maybe someone finally shouted. Maybe a car stopped. Maybe they just got bored.
I stayed on the ground for a few seconds because I thought they might come back and maybe if I stayed on the floor they wouldn’t hit me anymore. My whole body was shaking so badly and my hands were trembling so much I couldn’t even get my phone out of my pocket. My backpack was open and some of my papers were on the sidewalk. My mouth tasted like blood, my face hurt. My everything hurt when I breathed in too hard.
My kippa was lying near the curb. I manage to get up and got that first. I don’t know why. My glasses were missing and my phone was in my pocket and I probably should have called someone right away. But I went to get my kippa first.
It was dirty so I wiped it on my sleeve and put it back on. I didn’t care.
A woman came running over and kept asking, “Are you okay?” and I didn’t know what to say because obviously I wasn’t okay, but I also didn’t want to start crying in front of a stranger. She asked me for my phone number. I don’t know if I gave it to her, everything was a blur. She found my glasses and gave them back to me.
My mother got there in what felt like seconds, but was probably many minutes. I don’t think I will ever forget her face when she saw me. She tried to stay calm, but she couldn’t. She touched my cheek and then pulled her hand back like she was afraid she was hurting me.
My father came not long after. He was very quiet. My father is not usually quiet.
He wanted to call the police. My mother didn’t. He asked me if he should, I started crying. My mom hugged me, my dad stood there staring, not really knowing what to do.
The lady asked my dad if she should call 911. My dad said “no we’ll take care of it, thanks for helping my son.” She walked away.
We went home, my dad checked me to make sure nothing was broken and called the police. An officer came over and asked me a bunch of questions.
Yesterday people started texting me. Some people were nice. Some people were awkward. One person wrote, “That’s crazy bro,” which I guess is what you say when you don’t know what to say.
My little brother saw my face and didn’t talk for a while. He just stared. Then he asked if the bad guys were coming to our house. That was the worst part, he wasn’t even attacked and he was so scared.
My mother asked if maybe, just for a little while, I should wear a baseball cap over my kippa when I walk home. She said it like she hated saying it.
I hated hearing it, but I understood, she was scared too.
That is what really bothers me. I understood why she asked. I understood why parents say stuff like that now. I understood why people tuck in their Magen David or take off a sweatshirt with Hebrew writing before they go somewhere. I understand it, I hate that I do, but I guess my understanding was beaten into me
Today I went outside for the first time since it happened, just to the car in the driveway. My dad was with me. Someone laughed down the street and my whole body tightened up and I fell to the floor and curled up. My dad freaked, he didn’t understand. Maybe I wasn’t ready for outside yet.
I don’t like feeling scared in my own city, but I keep thinking about my kippa on the sidewalk. I keep thinking about how fast everything changed, one minute I was walking home and thinking about homework and playing basketball with my friends at the park later, the next second I was on the ground and people were yelling that I didn’t belong here.
But I do belong here. I’m Jewish, I’m from Montreal, and I’m still going to wear my kippa.
