Once called “27 square miles surrounded by reality,” this Colorado college town is a microcosm of the anti-Israel radicalism sweeping the US

Photos: AP Images

I had come to Boulder, Colorado, with a question. After a firebomb attack in broad daylight, has Boulder become a microcosm of a story now playing out across America, where the radicalized left has created a permissible environment for violence? In this liberal Colorado enclave, the local council has been hijacked, having become a forum for anti-Israel agitating rather than the boring business of keeping the streets clean

There’s bold. Then there’s Boulder.

Bold means hosting a Jewish festival one week after a terror attack. Bolder still means doing it right on the very grass where Molotov cocktails flew just the week before, when an illegal Egyptian national shouting “Free Palestine” hurled Molotov cocktails and aimed a flamethrower at a crowd of Jewish families on a solidarity walk for the hostages still being held in captivity in Gaza. Later, Mohamed Sabry Soliman, who has been charged in state court with 118 counts, including attempted murder, assault, and illegal use of explosives, told police that he was driven by a desire “to kill all Zionist people.”

In the center of the Boulder Jewish Festival, where music was meant to echo and children were meant to dance, a simple barricade curves inward like a wound still open on the spot where the grass still remembers. Just days ago, this was the scene of the firebomb attack on a peaceful march for Israeli hostages, a solidarity walk organized by the local Boulder chapter of Run for Their Lives, a national group that’s been sponsoring weekly events since October 7, 2023, in support of the hostages held in Gaza. Just a week ago, this gentle slope became the site of another in a string of anti-Semitic terror attacks. Fifteen injured. One elderly woman nearly killed.

Now it’s a quiet, reverent island in the middle of an otherwise boisterous rally celebrating 30 years of Jewish life in Boulder. Bouquets of flowers, all as fresh as the scars etched in the minds of the onlookers, lean against the cold metal barricade. A handwritten sign at the far end reads, “Reject hate in all its forms.” Passersby instinctively slow their pace.

At the 30th annual Jewish Festival, attendees said to number in the thousands delivered a message that was loud, public and unmistakable: We won’t be intimidated.

Walk a few steps further, and grief sharpens into urgency.

Here stands the Colorado version of Tel Aviv’s “Hostage Square,” a grassroots installation of red milk cartons, oversized and sobering, each one bearing the face of a missing soul. Ziv and Gali Berman. Omri Miran. Alon Ohel. Brothers. Sons. Children. Friends. Some of those faces smile. Some stare. All of them screaming in silence: KIDNAPPED. STILL MISSING.

A ring of white folding chairs stretches across the lawn, each one bearing a hostage’s image. Above them flutter tiny Israeli flags, strung from tent poles like whispered tefillos caught in the wind. In a festival built around celebration, it is the absence that draws the most attention. This was supposed to be a 30th-anniversary festivity of Jewish life in Boulder. But Jewish life can’t be separated from Jewish pain. And in Boulder — bold, bruised, and utterly unbowed — they’re holding both in the same trembling hands.

I had come to Boulder with a question. After a firebomb attack in broad daylight, would the Jewish community show up in defiance, or keep their heads down and hope no one notices?

Boulder seems to be a microcosm of a story now playing out across America, in which a radicalized left wing that has spent years demonizing Israel has created a permissive environment for violence: A few weeks ago, it was the gunning down of Israeli embassy workers in Washington; before that was an arson attack on the home of Jewish Pennsylvania governor Josh Shapiro.

Even the State Department and the FBI have warned of an elevated threat level to Jewish and Israeli targets following the string of attacks. The primary concern is that the killings would inspire so-called copycat attacks. Jewish security groups have also urged vigilance and heightened security in the wake of the violence.

In this liberal Colorado enclave, the local council has been hijacked. Rather than deal with the boring business of keeping the streets clean, the council is a forum for constant anti-Israel agitating.

It makes Boulder a poster child for what’s happening everywhere, as Jews become the first casualties of a radicalized progressive movement. In Boulder, and across America, Jews are feeling unsafe, betrayed.

That sense of a world tumbling down around them was expressed by Hollie Rogin, the Jewish mayor of the neighboring town of Lyons.

“The intifada is here,” she told me. “They’ve globalized it. Congratulations. It’s so awful.”

U

pon entering the mall, I spot a woman draped in a kaffiyeh weaving briskly through the crowd, head down, eyes forward. She slips out of the festival and heads toward a small counter-protest gathering half a block away. No one seems to notice her presence or departure. I detect neither fear nor interest. I can’t help but wonder what kind of reception I’d receive if I took a casual stroll through her pitiful cluster of comrades. Something tells me it wouldn’t go unnoticed.

Not a minute has passed when a gentleman approaches, outstretched arms and an invitation for food.

“We have a kosher barbecue here,” he says, pointing out a food tent off in a distance. “It’s run by the Boulder Chabad.”

I thank him for the heads-up and tell him I’d like to earn my meal first. He introduces himself as Professor Mike Stutzer, a professor of finance at the University of Colorado at Boulder. He describes the Jewish population of Boulder as “large and affluent,” adding proudly, “Boulder itself is about 15 percent Jewish, way higher than the national average, it’s not even close.”

While colleges around America have spent the last year and half aligning with the pro-Palestinian cause, some might assume that the atmosphere at the University of Colorado helped foment the atmosphere for the attack. Yet protests at the university have actually been quite tame in comparison.

I ask him how his university compares with some of the infamously anti-Semitic ones on either coast.

“The parents knew how good this place has been to the Jewish students, even since the war. They’re getting their kids out of those other schools and are sending them here. For instance, we have an outdoor Hanukkah celebration every year. There’s Israeli music blaring, there are speeches, and not even one protester came by to shout an insult, nothing. They didn’t like it, but nobody bothers you. We’ve had some incidents here and there, but nothing compared to what’s happening all over the country.

A young man waits patiently on the sidelines. As soon as the professor steps away he approaches, introducing himself as Yaakov Moseson. He tells me he’s from Denver, and he’s brought his wife and child with him — three of at least a dozen others to make the 40-minute trip.

“Denver and Boulder are like one big home,” he says, “and when something happens here, it’s like something is happening right by your house.”

He doesn’t seem comfortable with pro-Palestinian protestors encroaching on his home turf. “It’s really sad that after such an attack, people can still come here and support that.”

I ask if he feels threatened by their presence.

“Somebody asked me, when I came here, if I’m afraid of walking with my yarmulke,” Yaakov relates. “I said no. He told me that since October 7, he took off his Magen David necklace. It’s definitely sad, but I don’t think there’s any room for fear.”

A local reporter approaches and we strike up a conversation. Last week he’d been on his way to a barbecue when the call came in about a firebombing incident and he came rushing over.

His father is Muslim, his mother is Jewish, and he seems to be doing his utmost not to upset the fragile dynamic and their “complex views” on the ongoing war. For the most part, he tells me, they still believe in the two-state solution. Apparently, they’ve agreed to hate both Hamas and the Israeli government equally.

I ask if October 7 has had any kind of religious impact on his parents.

“My mom, yeah. My dad, no. Still, my mom doesn’t see eye-to-eye with some of her friends who are more supportive of Israel.”

Security is on high alert, with half a dozen snipers perched on the old courthouse roof, their scopes sweeping the crowd from a vantage point that has left no inch of Pearl Street unseen. Below, a heavy police presence lines the festival perimeter with armored vehicles at strategic spots, a stark contrast to the total absence of law enforcement during last week’s attack.

Finally, I make my way over to the kosher tent, but before I can consult the menu, my attention is grabbed by an artistically dressed individual who goes by the name “Seventeen,” or “Zibitzin” — he’s not particular about the language. Mr. Seventeen, an identity he’s maintained for the past three years, wants to know what brings me to Boulder.

I tell him, “I’m here to find out what brings everyone else here, and I guess I’m up to you now.”

He’s from New York, an artist, who’s been making his way across the country, living off the land. “I’m into art,” he says, “mostly a musician, but my bus is a piece of art, too.”

Spoiler alert: He lives in a minibus. He’s here with a few friends from Denver, where his minibus has stayed behind. “If you’re ever in Denver and need a place to crash…” he lets me know with all sincerity.

Roughly 30 miles northwest of Denver, Boulder thrived as a center of counterculture in the 1960s and ’70s, and the city of 105,000 residents has maintained its easygoing reputation. Its pedestrian-friendly downtown has shops offering psychic readings, crystals, and hiking sandals. And in that spirit, one of the unexpectedly charming things I come across at the festival is a DIY snow-cone booth — powered entirely by kids driving a giant wooden hamster wheel.

Run by a local outfit called Big Wheel Beverages, the setup is both brilliantly low-tech and unmistakably Boulder. A sign proudly advertises “Human-Powered Frozen Drinks,” and another, in hand-drawn letters, urges: “Be the Hamster. Run the Wheel.” And that’s exactly what kids are doing. Stepping inside the oversized contraption and walking it forward to generate the force needed to crush the ice. As the wheel spins, an adult scoops the shaved ice into cups and adds syrup on top.

It’s goofy, wholesome, and oddly satisfying — and it fits right in with the bountiful “green” liberal themes that seem to permeate every inch of this city. Of course, should you be in search of a way to reduce the carbon footprint of dessert, you’ll find the solution in Boulder.

En route to Hostage Square, I come across another group of young men from Denver: Adam, Alex, and Tzvi Aryeh.

“How could I not be here?” Tzvi Aryeh, the most yeshivish-looking of the trio, asks rhetorically. “When any attack happens, the way to fight back is by being proud of the fact that you’re Jewish, and that’s what I’m feeling right now. I’m feeling connected to everybody here.”

I ask why it is that the more visibly Jewish someone looks, the less afraid they seem.

“My identity is a Jew, I never think twice about it,” he says. “It’s who I am. If I have the option of being Jewish, then I might think every time if I want to identify as a Jew or not, maybe consider, ‘Hey, people got firebombed here last week.’ But I don’t have that option. It’s who I am. I’m a Jew, and that’s the whole me.”

I meet Moshe Lavi, a brother-in-law of Omri Miran, one of the hostages still yearning for his freedom. I tell him the truth, that I find it personally challenging to interview hostages or their family members. He shows me photos of Omri’s daughters, four-year-old Roni and two-year-old Alma. Alma doesn’t have any memories of her father, but Roni does. “She remembers what happened that day. ‘Bad people took my father, bad people with guns.’ ”

I start sweating. I have a pair of girls close in age to Roni and Alma.

“J

ake? Is that you?” I turn around. It’s the Scheiners, who’ve been running Chabad of Boulder for decades. Rebbetzin Scheiner asks if I’d eaten anything from their grill, and as if on cue, the individual manning the grill approaches and informs her that due to higher-than-expected demand, they’re out of everything. The Rebbetzin insists he double-check and he returns with a couple of hotdogs, sans buns. They’re delicious.

Rebbetzin Scheiner tells me about the previous week. “People who were there were texting and calling me,” she says, “but I was busy preparing for Shavuos, with the cheesecakes, and I wasn’t looking at my phone. Then when I did check my phone, I couldn’t understand. It was just crazy.”

I meet Hollie Rogin, the Jewish mayor from the nearby town of Lyons, who’s no stranger to vitriol and death threats. She was supposed to be at the walk the previous Sunday but was forced to change her plans due to a scheduling conflict. I ask her how the news was broken to her.

“I got a phone call from a city council member in Edgewater, Colorado, who’s also Jewish, who said, ‘Did you hear?’ and I said, ‘Hear what?’ and so she told me, ‘Someone threw a Molotov cocktail at the walkers.’ For hours, no one knew what was happening.

“I’ve lived in this area for almost 30 years,” the mayor continues, “either in Boulder or in Lyons. For a long time, I never thought that anything like this could possibly occur. It makes me afraid for my Jewish constituents. We have a small Jewish community in Lyons, and the vitriol online and the things people think it’s okay to feel and say to Jews today is insane.

“You know, I just talked to an old colleague last night who’s now working in Abu Dhabi,” says the mayor, “and she told me that she’s more comfortable in Abu Dhabi than in the US. It’s like the surprise factor. You think you know people, you think people are your allies and friends, and then they just say horrible things.”

A few days prior, the Boulder City Council had put out a statement of condemning the attack, yet one council member, Taishya Adams, not only refused to condemn the attack, but she draped herself in the colors of the Palestinian flag.

“I don’t know her deal,” Mayor Rogin says, “I don’t know her mind or her heart. But what I do know, and I feel very strongly about this as a public servant, is that if we can’t put aside our deeply held beliefs for what is good for our community, we should resign. Look, it’s not my place, it’s not my government, it’s not my council, and we typically stay out of the business of other governing bodies, but I’ve called on her to resign. This is beyond the pale.”

In Boulder’s city council, where meetings have been turning into sites of disruptive pro-Palestinian protests, Tara Winer, a Jewish city council member, has been called a “Jewish supremacist.” But really, how much the city council’s business is supposed to deal with the geopolitics of the Middle East?

“None. Zero,” Winer tells me. “Our handbook specifically states that the council should not engage in international affairs. We even voted 7–2 to uphold that. Still, the super-left agitators blame me and Mark Wallach, the two Jewish council members, for everything. It doesn’t matter what we say or how we vote.”

Last week’s attack, she says, was awful, “and it came right after the incident with the Israeli embassy staffers in D.C. We’ve had our share of drama. And I’ve had mine, too, between the firebombing and a year and a half of escalating tension on the city council.”

While Boulder isn’t exactly New York when it comes to the Jewish population, the city council has quite a Jewish presence.

“On the council, I’m Jewish. Mark is Jewish. Matt is half-Jewish. Tina is married to someone Jewish — and then there’s Taishya, who I’m not on speaking terms with right now,” she says. “I don’t hold grudges, but I also don’t engage when someone crosses certain lines. You should watch the last city council meeting. Not long, but very telling. You’ll get a good sense of what’s been happening here. And you’ll hear the kinds of names they’ve called me and Mark: Zionist, Nazi, Zio-Nazi, Jewish supremacist, white supremacist, baby killer. It’s insane. But during public comment time, it’s protected as free speech.

“You know, even our state’s attorney general is Jewish, and I’ve talked to him about this. But all he could say was, ‘People are allowed to make hate speeches during open comment. It’s not against the law.’ ”

So, is there some point where rhetoric turns into a threat?

“Well, that’s exactly what I’ve been saying for over a year: Violent rhetoric leads to violent action. And if you know anything about Jewish history, this has happened again and again. Long before Israel was ever a state. I’ve warned that something like this could happen. And now it has.”

Winer says the response time to the attack was fast, five minutes or less. But sometimes trauma distorts perception and seconds feel like eternity — for the woman on fire, it surely felt like forever. She says that some people were upset that the police chief didn’t immediately label it terrorism, but he had to wait for the FBI. Once you use the word terrorism, you can’t walk it back. They had to confirm the motive.

Winer says that most of these walks never had a police escort.

“It’s always just felt like a peaceful, low-key stroll down Pearl Street. Sometimes you get a few hecklers, but nothing serious,” she says. “And you know, there’s a strong sense of unity here. A lot of people here are culturally Jewish, or half-Jewish, or rediscovering their identity since October 7. We’ve had people who were part of the far left but got kicked out of the club or treated poorly. I’ve been trying to build something I call ‘practical progressivism’ — bringing moderates and progressives together who still care about fighting anti-Semitism.”

Is she surprised by how much Jew-hatred she’s encountered from the left?

“Not at all. Zero surprise,” she says. “I’ve read Lord of the Flies too many times to be surprised by human nature. But I surround myself with allies, Jewish and non-Jewish, and we have grassroots orgs like ‘Stop Antisemitism Colorado.’ And while I try to be the better person, I’m being tested constantly. And still, I try to be there for everyone — I’m like the grandmother of the city. I’ve got three kids, three sons-in-law, three grandkids, two more on the way. People just want to be seen and cared for, so I do what I can.”

T

he event is winding down, the tents are being taken apart and I meet up with Rachel Cohen, a regular on the solidarity march who, along with two of her children — ages 14 and seven — survived last week’s attack.

“Sometimes on the walk people call us Nazis, sometimes people come and scream at us. Last week was actually the first time we weren’t heckled. So we walked quietly with our signs, and as we were coming up to the courthouse, the terrorist was there. We saw him. He was posed as a gardener. It was weird for someone to be working on a Sunday, on the grass, but it’s not totally unusual. We thought he was spraying the grass or something.

“He had a sprayer, he had a thing with flowers, he had an orange vest. He camouflaged himself, hiding in plain sight, waiting for us. We lined up, and just as our leader was talking about being safe and calling 911 if anything seemed off, there was a crash, like a window shattering. Then came the smell of petrol, and suddenly I see fire, just fire. So I pushed my son who was in a wheelchair, and I grabbed my daughter. I was within twenty feet.

“There was another guy who seemed to be cheering on the terrorist and was blocking people from going near him, but EMS, swats, police, everyone came immediately, and the good news is that we had a former army doctor with us. Everyone in our group, we come from different religious backgrounds. We have different religious practices. We’re all very different in many ways, but everyone came to each other’s aid.

“There were a few people I didn’t think would survive, but everyone survived, and G-d-willing, everyone will be okay. We’re very lucky because there were another sixteen Molotov cocktails sitting there waiting to be ignited. If he used everything he had, I wouldn’t be here with two of my children.”

There was no indication that Soliman had any connection to this particular group. According to law enforcement officials, he chose his target through an online search for Colorado groups that he believed were supportive of Israel. But the attack rattled a city that was already feeling consumed by tensions over a war thousands of miles away.

Still, Mrs. Cohen is counting down the days for the next walk, and so are her children.

“We have a duty to stand for the hostages,” she says. “There are 55 more people who either need to be buried or need to be freed. That’s why I bring my kids. It’s my duty as a parent to teach them to do what’s right.”

There’s this interesting dichotomy, I’m beginning to realize, between us and anti-Semites. While we are so painfully aware of our history — we still have grievances against the Pharaoh 4,000 years later — in every generation these anti-Semites wake up as if they’ve had this novel idea for the first time in history, “Hey, let’s get rid of these pesky Jews.”

“Well, the haters are loud, but at the end of the day, they’re a tiny minority,” Winer says. “They show up every two weeks, sure, but they don’t represent this city. Boulder is still a beautiful place. And we’re not going anywhere.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1065)