This piece is part of Yellow Scene Magazine’s Opinion section. The views expressed here are those of the author in their role as Publisher, and do not represent a reported news position. At Yellow Scene, opinion pieces speak freely, challenge assumptions, and say the quiet parts out loud. 8/7/25 Updated to reflect that Ryan Schuchard and Nicole Speers’ op-ed was in response to a meme.

The June 1 firebombing on Pearl Street shocked the city. Mohamed Sabry Soliman hurled a makeshift Molotov cocktail into a crowd rallying for the release of Israeli hostages and POWs in Gaza. One person was killed; several others were hospitalized. In the immediate aftermath, Yellow Scene called it, “an act of horror that will take a long time to heal from.”

But in the weeks since, the tragedy has taken on a life of its own. It has become a political litmus test and a flashpoint for how Boulder speaks (or doesn’t) about Gaza, Zionism, and dissent. 

That tension recalls a moment from not so long ago. In the aftermath of September 11, national grief quickly hardened into dogma. Muslims were scapegoated. Civil liberties were stripped. The Bush administration launched wars in the name of security, killing hundreds of thousands. In Boulder, Boulder Weekly published Pamela White’s now-famous cover story, “Why Are We So Hated?” just two days after the attacks. It asked the question few dared to at the time: what motivates our enemies, and what do their grievances say about us?

In that piece, CU professor Ira Chernus cautioned against moral absolutism: “The general assumption is that if you listen to what they say, that endorses [the attack].” But listening, he argued, was essential to preventing future violence. Other voices have echoed the same sentiment. David Barsamian called terrorism “the poor man’s B-52,” highlighting the power imbalance between nations and those who resort to desperate, brutal tactics. Joel Edelstein added, “Americans would not sit quietly if they were treated like the Palestinians are treated by the Israelis,” pointing to the double standards in how suffering and resistance are framed depending on who experiences them.

The parallels in today’s discourse are hard to miss. After 9/11, anyone seen as “disloyal” or critical of U.S. policy was branded un-American, even treasonous. The Dixie Chicks were blacklisted. Journalists were sidelined. Protesters were smeared. Yellow Scene received hate mail and calls for speaking out against invading Iraq. Similarly, in Boulder today, the space to ask uncomfortable questions—about Gaza, about power, about complicity—is rapidly closing.

And just as post-9/11 narratives erased decades of U.S. interventionism to cast America as a blameless victim, today’s narrative risks painting over 74 years of occupation and apartheid that set the stage for October 7th.

Within hours of the Pearl Street attack, leaders across Colorado denounced it as an act of antisemitism. Governor Jared Polis issued a statement. A pledge was circulated among the members of the Boulder City Council. “It was important to stand with our Jewish community,” one council member said. Six members signed immediately.

One didn’t: Councilwoman Taishya Adams. Instead, she released her own statement mourning the tragedy while also addressing the broader political context, particularly with regards to Gaza.

Her refusal sparked outrage, and social media erupted. A petition to remove her from office began circulating. A few days later, councilmembers Mark Wallach and Matt Benjamin published an op-ed accusing Gaza solidarity activists of “abandoning all standards of decency” and engaging in “juvenile, performative politics.” The piece focused on a “Wanted” poster circulating online that criticized council members for refusing to pass a ceasefire resolution or divest city investments from weapons manufacturers.

Wallach and Benjamin claimed the poster implied council members were criminals: “Dead or alive?” they wrote. “This is on the very edge of incitement to violence… This antisemitic characterization of the Council, some members of which are Jewish, is abhorrent, and perhaps the most offensive thing that can be said to a person of the Jewish faith.”

The accusation feels disingenuous. Every council member who opposed a ceasefire resolution, Jewish or not, was included on the poster. The message was clear: refusing to act on Gaza has political consequences. To frame that criticism as antisemitic because some targeted officials are Jewish confuses identity with ideology and erases the fact that many Jews in Boulder are also calling for a ceasefire.

Adams made her position clear. “My decision to withhold my signature from the June 2 city statement did not reflect any lack of empathy or support for Jewish community members – or an attempt to somehow justify the horrific act committed by this individual. Whatever his motivation, violence and terror are NEVER the answer.”

She condemned the attack unequivocally. She met with Jewish constituents to offer support. But she also questioned the framing of the pledge, which she claimed ignored the attacker’s stated motives: both antisemitic and anti-Zionist. 

“If we are to prevent future violence and additional attacks in our community, I believe we need to be real about the possible motivations for this heinous act.” Adams continued, “Denying our community the full truth about the attack denies us the ability to fully protect ourselves and each other.”

That distinction matters. Not because it makes the attack less horrific, but because severing the attack from its political context ensures it will happen again. It is possible to mourn a violent act and still ask what produced it. It is possible to condemn antisemitism and still interrogate Zionism. But in Boulder, attempts to do both are being cast as heresy.

The backlash continued. A second opinion piece—this time from council members Nicole Speer and Ryan Schuchard—accused Adams of posting “antisemitic content” that “minimized and unnecessarily appropriated the Holocaust.” Their response was directed at a meme she shared about the genocide of Native Americans by the United States, which led to the Indigenous population dropping from an estimated 15 million to just 250,000 by 1900.

Yet her official statement made no mention of the Holocaust. Her focus was squarely on Gaza and city investments. The accusation underscores a deeper problem this moment has revealed: the collapse of any distinction between principled criticism of a government and hatred of an entire people. 

That’s the pattern now. Every attempt to analyze this tragedy in its full context, every mention of Gaza, apartheid, or U.S. complicity, is met with accusations of antisemitism. No matter how many disclaimers Adams includes, no matter how clearly she condemns the violence, the label sticks. It is a pervasive black and white way of thinking that justifies erasure.

 CU professor Nathan Schneider, who lost relatives in the Holocaust, called this narrowing of discourse “the unspeakable.” In a widely shared reflection on the Pearl Street attack, he wrote:

“The word antisemitism has shifted from a cry against genocide into a way to excuse it. … Locally, the explanation of antisemitism doesn’t compute. Another group of demonstrators—many of them Jewish, calling for a Gaza ceasefire—rallies downtown regularly. They weren’t attacked. Why one group and not the other?”

For Schneider, Adams’ refusal wasn’t a betrayal; it was, as he put it, “a raid on the unspeakable.” A rare moment of honesty. An acknowledgment that the firebombing on Pearl Street cannot be divorced from the firebombing of Gaza.

Yellow Scene warned of this. In the days after the firebombing, we wrote that grief would be weaponized to silence people. Since October 7th, accusations of antisemitism have become the bluntest tool to shut down criticism of Israeli policy. That national pattern is now playing out in Boulder.

None of this excuses violence. But it demands we ask: If the language of antisemitism becomes a shield for a state committing genocide, what happens to those trying to stop it? And what happens to a city that confuses condemning an attack with condemning a movement?

Adams’ refusal to sign the pledge drew swift backlash, but her posts made her reasoning clear: Boulder can’t claim to stand against hate while continuing to invest in corporations profiting from the siege on Gaza. Her critics are entitled to push back. But reducing her dissent to antisemitism sets a dangerous precedent.

That is the line Boulder is standing on now. Grief on one side. Fear on the other. And in between, a reckoning over whether this city will choose accountability or protection of power. 

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The post Boulder’s Breaking Point: Grief, Gaza, and the Language of Power appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.