You say that Fëanor's art awoke us. Yet we were the light of the Trees, a luminous whole, silver and gold and alive, until he tore us away and imprisoned us, tiny fragments of that liquid light, in his terrible jewels. Then he locked the jewels, too, in iron and it was dark.
When Melkor snatched the Silmarils it was but from one captivity into another, from iron tomb to iron crown. And though in Angband there was light, it was not like our light, but dim and foul and strangling.
So we hated Fëanor, though we hated Melkor more.