Boulder Attack: Reflections on Resilience
3:26 PM: A notification appears on my phone.“Boulder County, CO: Incident at Pearl and 13th in Boulder”. I glance down, shrug it off, and put it back in my pocket. When did I become so numb to incidents and crime that I don’t even click on the alert link? I look down at my 17-month-old son, chasing a balloon at a 1-year-old’s birthday party. We’re a mile away, I’m sure whatever’s going on won’t affect us.
Seven minutes later, I’m spiraling in the backseat of my car as my husband speeds to get us to safety. I’m still working my way through the article my friend sent in our group chat, “terror attack” “Israel demonstrators set on fire” “multiple victims” “war zone in downtown Boulder”. My son is looking at me with such grave concern, I have to get my body to stop shaking. Make the tears stop flowing. Stop the primal screams from exiting my mouth. My mind is spinning and eventually it does a mental scan of the emails I had been receiving for months. The invitations to the Run For Their Lives walks every Sunday that I’ve never had the courage to attend. I feel sick. I knew this would happen.
A week prior, we came home from a concert and noticed our babysitter wearing headphones decorated with Free Palestine and watermelon stickers. Thoughts raced through my head as I asked myself if I should confront her or stay quiet because she knows where we live and where our son goes to daycare. Did she notice our Judaica? I’m glad I told my mom not to light the Shabbat candles before we left the house. Did she see the mezuzah on the door? Maybe she thinks my son’s name is Spanish, not Hebrew. Maybe she’s not one of those people yelling, “Globalize intifada,” and, “From the river to the sea.” And then it hit me. I left my Jewish son in her care! FUCK! I’ll never leave him with anyone again.
Two days later, during the annual Bolder Boulder race, I looked up to see snipers on the buildings and countless Palestinian flags and signs throughout the race. Thank god I took off my Star of David necklace. My hair is straight today. They can’t know I’m Jewish right?
I had been receiving emails for weeks about the Run For Their Lives events in town to call for the release of the remaining hostages in Gaza. I felt like a fraud, always posting on social media about releasing the hostages, crying for weeks after learning the fate of Hersh and the Bibas family, but never able to bring myself to come out of the shadows and publicly stand with my Jewish community. With the escalation of gun violence in America, I’ve been scared of crowds for years, but particularly after the 4th of July parade shooting in my hometown and especially after becoming a mom. My fear can feel all consuming, tethering me to my house when I know I should be protesting in the streets and calling for justice loud and proud. On April 29th, my mom sent me a post about the Boulder Jewish Festival June 8th, I liked it and never responded. My internal monologue reminding me there’s no chance I can safely go to a festival in 2025 with “Jewish” in the title.
Which brings us back to June 1st. Fifteen members of my Boulder Jewish community, including a Holocaust survivor, were set on fire while we were down the road at a birthday party. The years of avoiding public events, specifically Jewish ones, reminded me that the eerie feeling I have carried around was not just a sixth sense. It was unfortunately a glaring, obvious, elephant in the room, of course this was going to happen situation.
Every day, I see countless antisemitic posts, hot takes, and disturbing comment sections. I only see Jews posting about the hostages, all the social media activists only caring about victims if they fit their description of who a victim can be. Only Jews condemning the destruction of a Jewish governor’s home on a Jewish holiday. Only Jews horrified by the murder of a Jewish couple in DC working to find a solution to peace in the Middle East. Only Jews publicizing their fear and sadness. Meanwhile, the rest of the world shouts lies from the streets, on podcasts, talk shows, and deep into every comment section regardless of the post content. They all chomp at the bit to demonize a Jew. We are the world’s favorite scapegoat.
It’s scary being a Jew in the world right now. To know when to tuck in my star, to question if I should pull my son’s name from the JCC preschool waitlist, to wonder if anywhere in the world is safe to be a Jew. Lies about Jews are leading to the vandalism of our synagogues and museums, community members being physically and verbally harassed, burned alive, shot at, and murdered. I’ve watched as countless friends have posted in solidarity of every cause under the sun, but defend a Jew? Condemn hate against a Jew? Condemn the murder, rape and kidnapping of hundreds of concertgoers and families on October 7th? Crickets.
Even more deafening and disheartening was going to work the day after the Boulder attack and receiving no communication about the terrorism attack from the CEO, department heads, or managers. I remind myself that Jewish victims don’t matter to the masses. Companies don’t want to offend anyone, and they think it is better to be silent. But silence is dangerous.
In the immediate aftermath of the terror attack, I felt so deeply alone. I raged silently at the groups that I had always supported and knew that they were not going to support my community. I needed to stop lamenting about the years of allyship with groups that were actually choosing the side of the terrorists and be there for the community that has ALWAYS been there for me. This is what led to me attending “Coming Together: A Community Vigil” at the Boulder JCC three days later. Texts swirled amongst my Jewish friends as we contemplated attending: “I don’t feel safe” “Idk if I’m comfortable” “I’ll livestream it”“I’ll go if you do” “Will you let me know how it is?”. As my little family circled the block at the JCC in search of parking, I immediately knew I made the right decision. I couldn’t believe my eyes, I had never seen so many people attend a JCC event. As we walked past more armed security than I could count, I couldn’t decide if I felt safe or terrified. I look down to check on my son, and he’s simply overjoyed to see the police dogs.
The following two hours I experienced an endless range of emotions. Compassion - as I saw community members embrace, faces hollow with the same sad smile wishing they were reuniting with friends and neighbors under different circumstances. Pride - as I saw countless Colorado legislators amongst the crowd. Devastation - as I was reminded that a terror attack occurred at an event bringing attention to the atrocities of October 7th - the deadliest day for Jewish people since the Holocaust. Admiration and resilience - as I heard about the Holocaust survivor that was among the list of victims. And bravery - as I heard from individuals present at the attack continuing to advocate for Jews everywhere and not allowing this horrific attack to stop them from calling for the release of the hostages every day. We sang, we prayed, we hugged, we cried. When they announced the revised itinerary for the Jewish festival set to occur that Sunday, just one week after the attack, I knew I would be there. How can I hide in my house when several of the victims would be bravely attending?
Jonathan Lev, the Executive Director of the Boulder JCC said it best “Today, we showed the world what resilience looks like. What resistance looks like. What it means to be proudly, visibly Jewish in the face of fear and hatred. We gathered not only to share our culture and our joy—but to send a clear and unwavering message: Jew hate will not win; hate will not win. What happened last week could have broken us. But instead, we came together. Stronger. Louder. More united than ever.”
That Sunday, I was once again on edge but carried this feeling that regardless of what happens, I needed to be here. It felt like I was putting myself on the front lines when I was simply attending a festival to celebrate Jewish culture, music, and cuisine. We arrived at the scene and couldn’t even tell that it was a walk because there was such an unbelievable turnout that we could barely take a step. I took in the scene. Countless signs of the hostages still held captive in Gaza. Yellow pins. Bring Them Home Now shirts. Israeli and American flags. Tears and laughter.
We slowly made our way to 13th and Pearl, the site of the attack. But instead of feeling immense sadness, I felt pure Jewish pride. 15,000 community members and allies surrounded me. Aromas from the food trucks of my favorite local Jewish spots hit my nose, and the sounds of children squealing with glee and waving Israeli flags reminded me of that unbridled Jewish joy I felt my whole childhood. I listened to the speeches of the event organizers, members and leaders of the JCC, several victims, and videos from the families and friends of the hostages thanking us for our unwavering commitment to their loved ones, even in the face of our own terror. I saw children coloring in the booths for the local synagogues and Jewish camps, flipping through the pages of PJ library books, and commenting on the deliciousness of the bagels from Fleishman’s food truck.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the resilience of the Jewish people. For centuries, we have been scapegoats and targets yet here we are. Faced with a barrage of hate on a daily basis and continuing to show up not just for ourselves, but for each other. In a time when I’m still in the habit of tucking my star beneath my clothing, I have never felt more proud to be Jewish - to be raising a kind, thoughtful Jewish boy, and to know that the resilience of every ancestor of mine allowed me to be here today.
I text my mom, “I’m very glad I went.”
Ari is a member of the Jewish Advertising Committee.
She lives in Boulder, CO with her husband, 1 year old son, and bernedoodle.