Josh Imhof | features editor

After working in public safety for over 40 years, Alan Hausman, received a notification on his pager he had never seen before.

The words “active shooter” flashed across the screen.

The location was the Tree of Life Congregation.

It was a Saturday, and Hausman, who is the president of the congregation, was picking pumpkins in Strasburg, Pennsylvania, about four hours east of Pittsburgh. He immediately got into his car and set course to come back home.

“[It was a] very, very tough drive across the turnpike,” he said.

Oct. 27 will mark seven years since the shooting at Tree of Life, the deadliest antisemitic attack in United States history. It was one of 144 instances of homicide in the United States on the property of a house of worship from 2018-2024, and accounted for 11 of the 166 deaths during that time, according to the Violence Prevention Project.

While data is not yet available for 2025, religious violence has continued. In September, a gunman rammed his car through the door and opened fire on a Mormon church in Grand Blanc, Michigan. In August, two children were killed at a Catholic church in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Hausman said with each new attack, the trauma from the shooting resurfaces.

“It just eats at you again, and sometimes, you almost want to crawl up and go like ‘It’s just too much. I can’t deal with it,’” he said. “You need to figure out where that place is for you to go and clear your mind. You got to talk to somebody.”

Acts of violence can also traumatize those who have not been directly affected in a condition known as vicarious trauma, said Maggie Feinstein, executive-director of the 10.27 Healing Partnership. The organization was started in response to the synagogue shooting and offers resources to those coping with religious violence.

“We often would think about proximity, people who were close to the building would feel the impacts. But then, we realized that proximity isn’t just physical proximity. It’s emotional proximity as well,” she said. “It’s people who can picture themselves in that space because of an emotional connection to that space, even if they weren’t close by.”

Like Hausman, Feinstein said the best way for people to work through it is to find a place to talk about it.

However, this can be difficult for some since their house of worship is that place.

Imam Chris Caras of the Islamic Center of Pittsburgh (ICP) said that some people have voiced their concerns about living in the West and coming to a mosque due to religious violence. On rare occasions, some Muslims who have immigrated from other countries have gone back.

“Obviously that’s not the first choice of any of them, because of the opportunities here, education and so forth,” he said. “But nonetheless, I have heard of people doing that to primarily, more than anything, protect the fate of themselves and their dependents.”

While Caras said that he has never received a threat to the ICP, which he partially credits to the discrete nature of the building, he still takes security seriously. The ICP has applied for security grants and maintains a security committee.

Synagogues in the Pittsburgh area have stepped up their own security efforts as well, according to Hausman.

Rodef Shalom Congregation in Shady Side, where the Tree of Life Congregation currently meets, employs armed security guards to patrol the premises. Some guests may also be asked to undergo a bag check if they are suspected of suspicious or unusual activity.

Hausman calls this “overt but covert.”

“They’re there if something happens, but it’s not in your face,” he said.

For other events, like high holidays and the annual Commemoration Ceremony for victims of the Oct. 27 shooting, Hausman, who helps organize security, takes extra precautions. Security teams will conduct sweeps with K-9 units and in some cases, hidden SWAT teams are stationed in the surrounding area in case of an emergency.

“Most Jewish congregations had basically no security before Oct. 27, 2018,” he said. “Now, when I go to a religious service without security, I am almost nervous beyond comfort.”

University Chaplain Bill Christy said that he has done training offered by the Department of Homeland Security that educates religious leaders on how to maintain a secure space.

While these measures increase the ability to respond to threats, they do not address the root cause of religious violence, which religious leaders said stem from a mix of divisive political rhetoric, the spread of hateful ideologies and lingering social effects of the COVID-19 pandemic.

“It really doesn’t get more hateful or fear mongering than some of the things that people say. It just seems like only a matter of time before things like that could be more mainstream and eventually be on someone’s political platform,” Caras said.

Incidents and complaints of both Islamophobia and anti-semitism in the U.S. have been on the rise, according to reports published by the Anti-Defamation League and the Council on American-Islamic Relations this year.

Feinstein acknowledged that no situation is ever completely safe, but that in order for people to recover from trauma and continue living, they cannot isolate themselves from others.

“We all have to feel some level of ownership and agency in our lives, including knowing when we’re taking risks that we think are worth it,” she said. “But we also will do everything we can to feel the important parts of living, of joy, gratification [and] relationships.”

Figures like Caras and Hausman have taken it upon themselves to foster these relationships with leaders of other religions, creating a bridge between the different faiths.

Caras said he utilizes the Islamic concept of Adab, the principle that guides social etiquette, good manners and politeness, in order to drive productive conversations.

“When you get down to the basic message, it truly is always the same. It’s about being good to each other, being good people,” Hausman said.

Josh Imhof can be reached at imhofj@duq.edu