I buckle my toddler into her car seat and drive her to our local Jewish Community Center in Denver. We wave to the security guard. I put away her backpack, hug her, and leave her in a building filled with the laughter of preschoolers, warmth of Jewish ritual, and constant awareness that Jewish spaces need armed guards.
That awareness got louder on June 1.
Thirty miles away in Boulder, a man threw Molotov cocktails at a peaceful group of Jews, many elderly, families, and children, on the Pearl Street Mall where I’ve spent countless hours. They were in a public space, holding signs to raise awareness about the hostages still in Gaza.
The demonstrators were quiet, the hallmark of this weekly gathering. They were showing up in grief, in the aching hope that someone is still listening.
Instead, they were met with fire.
Twelve people were burned. By some miracle, no one died. One of them was my favorite professor from the University of Colorado.
These weren’t strangers. Jews are interconnected. We show up for each other across cities, generations and denominations. We bring food, raise money and pray in spirals of text threads and synagogue bulletins. Would people question this if any other group were targeted?
We are exhausted from wondering how close the next attack will land. And on June 1, the psychological toll hit again with full force. This was a hate crime against Jews.
In a necessary moment of condemnation from many, but not enough, civic leaders here in Colorado, the Boulder City Council issued a statement: “We … acknowledge in the strongest possible terms that this was a targeted, antisemitic attack.”
That line made me stop — not because it was radical, because it was the bare minimum, and it felt groundbreaking.
That’s how low the bar is for Jewish safety in America: Simply naming an attack as harmful to Jews is a bold political stand.
And it’s a real shame that one lone council member, Taishya Adams, refused to sign the statement. She claimed she couldn’t support it unless it said the attack targeted Zionists.
But it wasn’t about the Israeli government or the participants’ diverse views on Israel. It was a plea for humanity. Fifty-three people, possibly 20 still alive, held underground for 20 months. This vigil was about them.
To demand even this be framed through the lens of Zionism is not just misguided, it’s dangerous. It frames Jewish safety as optional, depending on one’s views, and minimizes our pain as political liability.
Israel isn’t going anywhere, nor is the world’s Jewish population who call it home. Jews are being burned and worse in the streets. Whether or not you agree with Israeli policy, withholding empathy is dehumanizing.
As a queer woman — who marched, donated, organized in progressive spaces — the silence is painful. Friends and collaborators disappear. Not out of malice, I think, but fear: of saying the wrong thing, of being misunderstood. I get it. Dialogue is hard.
But as Jonathan Lev, CEO of the Boulder JCC, reminded us at the rally with Gov. Jared Polis: “Silence is not neutral. It’s permission.”
There’s no such thing as a perfect ally, only the power of people showing up imperfectly.
And so I’m asking for coalition in word and action:
To elected officials, bar associations, universities: Be like the Boulder City Council majority. Name Jewish hatred, not just generalities about all hate. Work with us to track and address this. When others in your ranks politicize Jewish pain, call them in — or out.
To progressive allies and organizations: Treat antisemitism as real and worth addressing. We are queer, people of color, immigrants, rooted in justice work. Yet too many Jews like me feel pushed out, dismissed as untrustworthy and expendable. If your condemnation depends on whether we fit a convenient narrative, that’s not moral clarity, it’s opportunism.
To the broader public: Talk to your Jewish neighbors, even if you don’t have the perfect words. Stay in the room when we ask to be seen. Understand that Jewish grief doesn’t negate anyone else’s. The Middle East shouldn’t affect your ability to be outraged that someone set Jews on fire for existing. Mourn with us. No caveats.
I want my two children to grow up owning their Jewishness with joy, just as much as having two moms. I want them to keep drawing the Star of David at public school with pride, not caution. So I’ll drop my daughter off at the JCC. And I’ll keep one eye on the headlines, one hand on my phone and one part of my heart in my throat — because that’s the trade-off we’re told to accept.
What happened in Boulder wasn’t an isolated act. It was another warning flare in a long-burning fire we can’t put out alone.
Let’s demand better — together.
Sarah Morris, of Denver, is an attorney and Jewish Community Relations Council board member.
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