My 7-year-old son and I emerged from our car on a sparkling afternoon in September. We parked across the street from Concord's Temple Beth Jacob, and as it was Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, we were dressed formally. I checked to make sure my son's shirt was tucked in and his hair looked like I'd at least attempted to comb it, but he was focused on someone else's attire.

"Mommy," he asked, staring at a navy blue-clad figure across the street, "why is there a police officer in front of the temple?"

I took a deep breath and then another as I glanced at the woman - actually a private security officer - standing with her back to the temple entrance. The time had come to give my son his first lesson in anti-Semitism and the fear of violence that comes with it - the lesson that some people in our world will think less of him or even hate him and wish him harm simply because he is Jewish.

Of course, as I was reminded last weekend by a stream of invective-filled e-mails that flowed into my inbox, Jews are not the only people who confront this reality. At first, I tried to ignore the escalating expressions of hatred against an entire people. I dismissed the initial sentiments as exceptional. But the vitriol kept coming, and I kept thinking about my son's question in September.

The e-mails stemmed from last week's mass shooting at Fort Hood. I learned of the incident while the base was still in lockdown via an e-mail from a friend who had until recently lived close to Fort Hood along with her young daughter and Army husband. Like everyone else, I was horrified. My heart goes out to the victims, their families and friends. It should go without saying that, like everyone else, I condemn without reservation the actions of the shooter, whatever his motivation may ultimately turn out to have been.

But as appalled as I was at the shooting, my heart dropped the moment I learned that the accused bore a Muslim name. I knew that regardless of the shooter's actual motivation, his heinous act would now be cited as evidence against Muslims everywhere and the religion they follow. Sure enough, mass denunciations of Muslims dropped into my inbox like virtual cluster bombs, born of anger and frustration and seeking to spread the rage they carried as widely as possible. I read express statements of prejudice made with pride, words like "subhuman" and blatant derision of those who tolerate the beliefs of others.

Fort Hood is, of course, far away from Concord, and none of the hatred-filled e-mails I received came from anyone living in New Hampshire. In my personal experience, our community is largely warm and welcoming. But we are not immune from prejudice and hatred.

I know of incidents here in the Concord area - recent ones - where children have used the phrase "dirty Jew," where a kid thought Jews just might have horns on their heads, where a child stated in a public school setting that Jews are Christ-killers who are going to hell and a teacher who heard the comment let it stand uncorrected. These words were spoken by children, but they reflect the adult attitudes of the society in which these children are growing up, words very much like the ones in the Fort Hood-related e-mails I received this weekend. 

And these words forced me to ask: If I, a Jew, don't speak out against the practice of condemning an entire people for the mere fact of their religion or the fact that some practitioners pervert that religion, if I don't stand up against condemnation of all members of a race or gender or sexual orientation, who will? If I don't use my ability to string a few words together to condemn the practice that still exists today of deeming an entire religion and all its adherents responsible for the abhorrent act of a single person or specific group of people, then how can I expect anyone to speak up for me and my children when the target of someone's hatred is Jews?

We know where collective guilt by association leads us. We have seen it over and over again in the course of world history as it has rampaged through the world's religions, races, nationalities, ethnicities and political beliefs. When fear of violence leads us to condemn entire peoples, we inevitably find ourselves in the midst of more violence, which leads to more fear.

I don't need to ask where the cycles of violence and hatred lead. They lead to Concord, New Hampshire, to the steps of a temple on a bright and warm fall afternoon, and to a son asking his mother, "Mommy, why is there a police officer in front of the temple?"

(Tracy Hahn-Burkett of Bow is a writer who focuses often on family topics. She blogs at unchartedparent.com.)