Nov 2, 2018 By Samantha Karam 3 min read

What happened in Pittsburgh on Saturday at the Tree of Life Congregation has deeply affected me.

I see the faces of those who were killed, listen to the details of the attack and struggle finding the right words to express how deeply my heart aches.

Because of the brutal attack the day before, this past Sunday, I sat in church on edge.

I couldn’t help but plan an escape route or visualize what I would have to do to get to the back stairwell, one of only two exits. I kept glancing behind me at the main entrance, wondering if an assailant would push through and unleash his hate on the predominately Middle Eastern congregation.

As the priest gave his homily, in my family’s native language, I felt like a sitting duck. My eyes wandered over the faces I’ve known my whole life, questioning if there is someone out there who hates the way we look, talk or worship enough to kill us.

I try to not live my life in fear, but in that moment, I was scared.

That building, a gem amidst gas stations and walls with missing bricks, has always been a place of peace and reflection for me.

I love the warm smell of incense, the soft comforting glow of the alter lights and how the wooden wall panels have aged along with me. I often stare at the stained-glass, which tells tales of my ancestors, a sacred history I love relearning every time I come back to the church.

But this past Sunday, I kept thinking about how the people of Tree of Life felt safe once, too. And how some stranger came in and shattered the peace they had built.

That shooter took more than lives. He took innocence, history and security.

He destroyed a community, simply because he didn’t like “different.” And now, because of a senseless act of hate, that congregation is left to rebuild a devastation they don’t deserve.

I can’t imagine hating others as much as that man does. I’m sure you can’t either, yet here we are recovering from another heinous, hateful crime.

As I sat in the church where I was baptized, I mourned for those who died, and those who loved them. But I also know that now, more than ever, we need to stand up and prove we support and celebrate “different.” We need to show that we see the beauty in variety and express the pain we feel in losing it.

I know love is how we will survive, and that love is how we destroy the hate embedded in so many.

Yet, Sunday, sitting in my pew, I admit that I did feel a little hate. That, for at least one day, someone’s act of hatred made me uncomfortable in a place that has always been a sanctuary to me.