For 730 days, I’ve watched the world reach for simple answers to something that defies explanation. Two years have passed since Hamas terrorists murdered 1,195 people and took 251 more as hostages.
The October 7 attack tore open a wound that runs deep in the Jewish heart, shaped by generations who have known persecution and fear. That dark day set off a wave of loss and destruction that continues to consume lives in Israel, Gaza, and across the Middle East. To speak of the October 7 attack and of Hamas only in passing, as if they were incidental to the tragedy that followed, is to turn away from the hard truth of what began that day and the vast suffering it set in motion.
Those of us who care about peace have an obligation to speak with honesty and humility. We must engage openly with everyone’s trauma and be willing to hold complexity rather than reduce it. Our energy is better spent wrestling with that complexity — and seeking ways through it — than debating which legal definition best fits this tragedy.
In that spirit, I feel compelled to find words that open hearts rather than harden them. I hope this piece helps each reader look beyond the slogans and simple stories we’ve all been handed. For some, it might mean facing the sheer cruelty of the October 7 attack and remembering that nearly fifty hostages remain in Gaza. For others, it could mean confronting the reality that Hamas steals food and medicine, using innocent Palestinians as human shields to prolong suffering and generate international pressure on Israel. And for some, it may be acknowledging the staggering rise in antisemitism since that day. Whatever it is, I hope something here reaches you.
Earlier this year, I joined a delegation of Colorado civic leaders to Israel. We visited the site of the Nova music festival to bear witness to the massacre that took place there. I recited the Mourner’s Kaddish and felt a profound connection to those lost — including several with deep ties to Colorado. I was moved to tears when a pastor traveling with us offered a prayer for mourning and healing. His words reminded me that grief itself is not a political act. To mourn those lives is not to take a side; it is to recognize our shared humanity.
Yet too many, on both sides of this tragedy, extend that humanity to only one group of victims. Here in Colorado, on the second anniversary of the attack, rallies at the Tabor Center are “honoring our martyrs” and claiming that Hamas fighters who raped and murdered Israelis were engaged in “brave resistance.”
At CU Boulder, fliers for an event the same day declare that “decolonization is always a violent phenomenon,” then add, “glory to our martyrs and victory to the resistance.” Those words matter. Their echoes are chillingly familiar — Hamas itself marked this anniversary by celebrating October 7 as “a glorious day” and “a major turning point.”
That so many self-proclaimed pro-Palestine activists now condemn the U.S. proposal to immediately end the war–and, in some cases, even urge Hamas to reject it — raises two painful possibilities. Either they were never truly committed to peace, or they have decided that the suffering of Palestinian civilians is more useful as a weapon against Israel than as a reason to stop the fighting.
The Jewish community, despite claims to the contrary, knows that criticizing Israel is not inherently antisemitic. Israel’s own citizens protest their government daily, demanding change and accountability. But dismissing the rise in antisemitism as mere policing of speech about Israel is disingenuous and dangerous. Stabbing Jews in a synagogue in the U.K. is antisemitism. Throwing Molotov cocktails at demonstrators calling for the release of hostages in Boulder is antisemitism. The surge in this hatred is real, and we don’t need to parse “borderline” cases to see it.
We are working toward a moment of possibility. A fragile but genuine chance to build peace out of pain. My hope is that more of us will choose to come along. Because the only path forward — for Israelis, Palestinians, and all of us watching — is to remember that empathy is not a finite resource. It is the foundation on which peace must be built.
Sen. Dafna Michaelson Jenet is a state lawmaker who is Jewish.
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