An incident of violence between children at a playground made me think about bullying, parents’ fears, and the troubling question: what happens when the child is the one who becomes violent—even toward their own parents?—
I assume that most of us experienced violence in one form or another during childhood—whether as the one throwing the punch, the one receiving it, or simply the one watching from the sidelines. Most reasonable people disliked it and looked forward to growing up, believing that once they entered the adult world, violence would become nothing more than a distant childhood memory. In reality, that assumption is mostly correct. Adults usually prefer to resolve conflicts peacefully. But what happens when we ourselves become parents?
At that stage, the fear of violence returns with renewed intensity—this time with the terrifying possibility that it might be directed at what is most precious to us. That is why we care so much about the social circles our children move in, who studies with them in school, and whether they will know how to defend themselves if they are attacked by other children—bullies. But what happens if the child is not the one suffering the violence, but the one carrying it out—and not against other children, but against their own parents?
An Incident at the Playground
This week I witnessed something that deeply shook me. It was a phenomenon I knew existed, but seeing it unfold just a few feet away from me was a disturbing experience.
The incident took place at the neighborhood playground in the afternoon. I had returned from work exhausted, but the moment I saw Sara almost leaping toward me from her grandmother’s arms—smiling from ear to ear—I felt life flowing back into my veins, restoring energy to my tired body.
The weather was pleasant enough, so after a light meal I placed Sara in her stroller and took her down to the playground near my parents’ house. That’s where we’ve been staying lately because they have a safe room, at least until the war with Iran and its proxies reaches some kind of resolution.
As usual, Sara was excited the moment we headed toward the playground. Luckily, the large round swing with the sturdy mesh base was available. I sat on the wide circular platform with Sara in my arms, her back leaning against me. The slow, gentle swaying has recently become something that connects us in a special way. Without saying a word, we enjoy the gentle motion as the swing moves back and forth, quietly observing the lively world around us.
But the peaceful moment did not last long. Nearby, two girls around eight years old began arguing about who would get to use the swing first. Very quickly, the loud argument escalated into real violence—hair pulling, pushing, punches, and even spitting.
I watched the scene almost in a trance. From their words it was clear that they were actually good friends who studied in the same class and often met after school. How on earth could they be dragged into violence over something so trivial as who gets to swing first—especially when, just a few feet away, there was an identical swing standing empty, almost as if calling out to them: stop fighting, there’s enough for everyone.
Sara, only six months old, was also witnessing the scene unfold, though of course she had no idea what was happening. I, on the other hand, was deeply shaken. It was pure, unnecessary violence between two girls not much older than my own daughter.
An Old Memory and a New Fear
The incident suddenly took me decades back in time, to when I myself was about their age. Back then I was a daily victim of bullying in the South Tel Aviv neighborhood where I grew up. Those were unbearable days. Whenever I left the house or returned home, I had to do it quietly and cautiously, hoping not to enter the line of sight of a group of kids who had chosen me as their convenient target.
Watching the fierce blows exchanged between the two girls, a dark and frightening cloud quickly took hold of my heart: what if Sara also experiences violence one day? Statistics in Israel show that about thirty percent of children experience violence from other children. What can I do to make sure Sara doesn’t become part of that statistic?
I kept watching the girls hitting each other. Because the area of the playground where we were sitting was relatively secluded, almost no one noticed what was happening. I silently prayed that the incident would end quickly, never imagining that the worst part was still ahead.
Eventually, the mothers of the two girls noticed the fight and rushed to separate them. It wasn’t easy. Even as the mothers tried to pull each girl away from her opponent, the girls continued to swing their fists wildly, inevitably landing blows on their mothers as well.
After a stubborn struggle, the mothers finally managed to separate them and tried to pull them away from the swing they had been fighting over. But one of the girls refused to give up the swinging experience—specifically on that particular swing. She tried to break free from her mother’s grip, demanding to be released immediately and pushed on the swing.
When her mother refused, the girl turned her anger toward her and began punching her in the face. Although I was shocked by the disturbing sight, something else surprised me even more: the mother’s face showed no surprise at all. She absorbed the punches almost calmly, as if this were a familiar and routine occurrence in the relationship between her and her daughter.
A Father’s Fear
If earlier I had been horrified by the thought that Sara might one day become a victim of violence from other children, now an entirely different thought troubled my mind: what if she becomes the one who is violent? How do you deal with a child who is violent—one who doesn’t hesitate to hit their own parents?
We are used to hearing that in cases of domestic violence, children are usually the ones who suffer. But what happens in the opposite situation?
I admit that after witnessing this incident, I feel somewhat anxious about the future. Is my fate to become a battered parent, just as I was once a child who absorbed more than a few blows?
Sara is not an easy baby to care for. She is stubborn, uncompromising, and used to getting what she wants one way or another. Sometimes, when things don’t happen according to her wishes, she doesn’t hesitate to push her vocal cords to the limit and scream. Could that be a sign of something about our future together?
How sad and troubling it is that violence has always been an inseparable part of the genetic makeup of the human species—part of our DNA. How is it possible that in the year 2026 we still treat violence as an almost inevitable component of our society?
Has anyone here ever experienced violence from their own child? I would appreciate hearing your thoughts—even anonymously.
In any case, take care of yourselves.
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