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It’s been nearly a year since the October 7th Hamas attack on Israel, a day that left Americans watching with shock and sorrow as the conflict unfolded. We hoped for the safe return of hostages, and feared the repercussions of what was to come. As protests erupted on college campuses and conversations about the crisis intensified, the divisions in America grew clearer. The reactions here at home reflect the complexity of the conflict itself, but amidst the tension, there remains a chance to listen, understand, and seek common ground.
With this spirit of engagement, I recently met with a local community when my campaign hosted a roundtable at the Fargo Mosque. The attendees were a mix of young and middle-aged men and women, natural-born citizens and immigrants, Minnesota Vikings fans, and others with ‘less refined’ tastes. A majority identified as socially conservative, and none saw themselves as Democrats. They hailed from places like Jordan, Egypt, India, Pakistan, the West Bank, and Gaza. What united them was their Muslim faith and the shared experience of losing friends and family to the ongoing violence in Gaza and the West Bank.
Going into the event, I expected distrust. What I didn’t expect was just how deep the division ran.
A local doctor from Pakistan began by saying, “I just want you to leave this meeting thinking of us as actual people in this community.” He emphasized how devastated the Fargo Muslim community was by the attack on October 7th and how none of them supported Hamas or held extremist views. His words struck me—not just because of what he said, but because he had to say it at all. I couldn’t imagine having to ask to be seen as fully human. And yet, here he was, pleading to be recognized as part of this community, as a person, not a problem. It made me realize just how often our politics overlooks the humanity in people.
For nearly three hours, we shared stories that ranged from lighthearted to deeply personal. They spoke of their journeys to Fargo, the lives they had built, and the pride of watching their children and grandchildren grow up here. They’ve carved out a sense of home in Fargo, a remarkable feat, considering the winters here can make even native North Dakotans question their life choices.
As the conversation deepened, they shared the pain of watching loved ones suffer in Gaza, powerless to help from afar. One young man from Gaza shared the anguish of being separated from his family. Each day without news brought the unbearable weight of uncertainty. He voiced his frustration at the lack of media coverage of civilian deaths and the silence around the suffering of families like his. Their frustration was palpable—both with the cycle of violence and the sense that their grief was invisible to much of the world.
Later on, I shared my experience in Iraq. I told them that when the gunfight began, every Marine in my unit was trained to check between and beyond the target before firing. No one would send a round downrange if there were noncombatants in the line of fire.
Proper soldiering demands a clear distinction between defending and destroying. Destruction requires no discipline, no courage—just a finger on a trigger. True soldiering, however, demands both every day. It’s the courage to protect, not just to pull the trigger; the discipline to show restraint, not just to react. Before I deployed to Iraq in 2003, well-meaning voices suggested that I should “shoot first and ask questions later,” or that it was “better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.” That’s the easy way. The easy way wounds the soul. The right way allows soldiers to return with honor.
When we supply an ally with weapons, we should expect them to use those weapons in a way that minimizes noncombatant death and suffering. We should expect more from ourselves and our allies. We should expect courage, restraint, and a commitment to the Law of War, even when the enemy shows none of it.
As the conversation shifted toward politics, someone asked, “Why should we support the Democratic Party?” It wasn’t just skepticism about the party—it was a broader question, a deeper cynicism: Why should we engage in a system that has so often treated us as less than human? I understood that question. It was not an attack but a reflection of disillusionment, of being ignored and overlooked for too long.
I didn’t try to sell them on a party. Instead, I told them the truth: I can’t promise that politics will always work for you, but I can promise that when you step away, it surely won’t. Change doesn’t happen when we disengage; it happens when we push the system to be better—sometimes through protest, sometimes through conversation, but always through engagement, even if it’s uncomfortable or imperfect.
Having this conversation was already a step forward. Then, a young woman, a college student, spoke up. “This is the first time I’ve felt hope,” she said with a quiet assurance. She was talking about being heard, about being seen. That moment wasn’t about party lines; it was about restoring faith in the possibility of something better. By the end, they wanted to set up a larger gathering to continue the conversation. In that room, we started building the kind of politics that should exist, a politics that listens, that represents, that strives for solutions rooted in our shared humanity rather than the separations that set us apart.
What remains crystal clear from our conversation is this: We need an immediate ceasefire and the return of all hostages. But more than that, we need leaders who are willing to engage with the real people affected by these conflicts, who can look past the political calculations and work towards lasting solutions rooted in humanity, dignity, and justice.
Notably, my opponent didn’t show up to meet the mosque community, likely fearing how it would play with her base. The extremist right thrives on fear, keeping communities like this “otherized” to fuel division. By refusing to engage, she ensures they remain easy political scapegoats, which is why this campaign is about more than flipping a seat in Congress—it’s about standing with the people most overlooked and fighting for those who special interests and politicians have sidelined.
I’m asking for your support, whether it’s a donation to fuel this fight or spreading the word to your neighbors. Together, we can rebuild trust, repair what’s broken, and create a future where everyone is seen for who they are: actual people in our communities, in our country, and around the world.
With the U.S. House seat open, the race for North Dakota’s sole congressional district has never been more competitive.
Trygve Hammer is a Navy and Marine Corps veteran, a former public school teacher, and a freight rail conductor. He was appointed to the Naval Academy from the fleet and served as a Marine helicopter pilot, forward air controller, and infantry officer.
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From bunking down in oilfield camps to engaging uninterested teenagers in the classroom, Trygve’s career has been a tour of duty in the trenches of American life. Trygve’s commitment to public service is unwavering. He lives by the ethos “Officers Eat Last” and is ready to serve as North Dakota’s next Congressman, putting the people's needs first.
Watch Trygve’s campaign launch video here.
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