Should we take our kids out in public?

At the Jewish school in Melbourne where I teach, we had been excitedly preparing to take our junior students on an offsite excursion.

Excursions are always a highlight for our students, a rare chance to leave the confines of the school gates and explore the outside world. It was set to be a day of hands-on learning, connection to the natural world, and shared joy – everything an excursion should be.

Then we arrived at school the next morning.

Huddled together in the staffroom, my colleagues and I read the news. Grade five students from Mount Scopus College were racially abused by secondary school students. They were visiting the Melbourne Museum on a class excursion. They were called “dirty Jews”. They were taunted for who they are.

Further away from home, we read about Jewish children on their way to a summer camp in Europe who were removed from a plane for singing Jewish and Hebrew songs. 

Many of our students are visibly Jewish. Suddenly, the idea of a public excursion no longer felt safe.

The conversation among the staff quickly shifted.

“I’ve been thinking about our trip,” one teacher said, her voice heavy with concern. “After what happened at the Melbourne Museum, I’m not comfortable taking our students.”

“Me neither,” another replied. “I’m scared. What if our students are identified and targeted? How would we protect them?”

We considered contacting CSG, the Jewish Community Security Group. But could they realistically provide support for an offsite excursion? Did they even have the capacity?

We were torn.

Of course safety was our top priority. None of us would ever knowingly put our students in harm's way. But at the same time, cancelling the excursion felt like giving in. It felt like we were shrinking ourselves and our students — purely out of fear.

Fear of being visibly Jewish in public. Fear of drawing attention by speaking Hebrew or singing a Jewish song or wearing a Magen David. Fear of celebrating our identity.

We wrestled with this all morning. In the end, we chose to cancel our excursion. 

Instead, we decided, we’ll bring the excursion to us — an incursion — carefully controlled, safely within school grounds. The same connection to the natural world, just inside the school gates.

It was the right decision. And yet, it also felt deeply wrong.

I grew up in Melbourne. I attended a Jewish day school here in the early 2000s. Back then, I couldn’t have imagined a day when my teachers would sit around debating whether taking Jewish children to a public museum was too dangerous.

But here we are. In 2025. In Melbourne — a city that prides itself on diversity and tolerance — Jewish educators are rethinking school excursions because of real threats of antisemitism.

This is not the Australia we want our children to grow up in.

It’s absurd that we even have to ask ourselves, Can we take our students out in public?

And yet, we must ask it. Because this is the reality right now for many Jewish schools and families.

We must also think about what is inevitably lost when our Jewish youth are not engaging with the wider community. They are missing out on cultural interactions. On chances of learning and growing from meeting other communities. On engaging with and better understanding the wider world that we live in.

So, what can be done?

As educators, we cannot remain silent. We must share these stories — not just within our own communities, but with the broader public and the entire teaching profession. Our leaders, both political and educational, must speak out. They must take a firm stance against antisemitism and all forms of racism.

There must be clear, enforceable consequences for those who vilify others, especially when children are the targets.

And more than anything, we must work together to create a society where no child, Jewish or otherwise, is made to feel afraid or ashamed of who they are.

Because our children deserve to learn. They deserve to explore the world beyond their classroom. They deserve to feel safe — not just within school gates, but everywhere.

Until that’s possible, we will continue doing what educators have always done: protect, nurture, and advocate for our students.

Even when it breaks our hearts.