Ah, the peculiar phenomenon of Western antizionism—less an intellectual critique, more a psychological sleight of hand, rooted in what one might term the “guilt economy.” Picture it: the faded grandeur of colonial empires, their gilded histories tarnished by the all-too-real exploitation and oppression they wrought. Now, add to that a hefty dose of modern moral panic. What you get is a kind of collective reckoning, a writhing need to make amends, albeit without the discomfort of self-examination. And into this quagmire steps Israel, a plucky, tenacious little state, somehow cast as the scapegoat for all that guilt.
The essence of this guilt economy lies in displacement. Western nations, still haunted by the shadows of imperialism, find it far easier to project their historical sins onto Israel than to confront their own messy pasts. Israel, with its complex history and vibrant political life, is reimagined as the perfect villain—a colonial usurper, an oppressor, an imperialist power. It is, of course, nonsense on stilts. Zionism, far from being a colonial enterprise, is a story of a people reclaiming their ancestral homeland—a home they’d been exiled from long before the notion of an empire even tickled the Roman imagination.
Western colonial guilt is an unwieldy thing—sprawling, pervasive, and often uncomfortable to confront. For centuries, European empires swept across the globe, reshaping it in their image. They divided continents with arbitrary borders, subjugated indigenous populations, and exploited natural resources with impunity. The consequences of this imperial zeal are still etched into the fabric of former colonies: entrenched inequalities, cultural erasures, and scars of exploitation that have never fully healed.
Today, the weight of this imperial legacy looms large over Western societies. Institutions and individuals alike feel compelled to reckon with the sins of their ancestors, to grapple with histories of exploitation and to make amends for past wrongs. Yet this reckoning often stops short of genuine accountability. To truly confront colonial guilt would require a degree of humility, a willingness to acknowledge complicity, and a readiness to undertake meaningful action—redistribution of wealth, systemic reforms, and a sincere engagement with the nations and peoples affected. In other words, it demands effort, commitment, and discomfort.
For many, this is a bridge too far. And so, colonial guilt finds itself outsourced, projected onto a target that is easier to criticise than one’s own national or cultural identity. Enter Israel, stage left.
Here, critics find a nation that can be easily slotted into the well-worn narrative of coloniser versus colonised, oppressor versus oppressed. The story is ready-made, requiring no real examination or nuance. Zionism is cast as a colonial endeavour, Israelis as settlers, and Palestinians as indigenous victims. The script practically writes itself, and the critic can step into their role as moral arbiter with ease. The fact that this narrative collapses under even the slightest scrutiny does not seem to matter.
To view Israel through the lens of colonialism is to fundamentally misunderstand its origins. Zionism is not a story of conquest but of survival, a response to centuries of persecution, expulsion, and genocide. Jewish ties to the land of Israel are not a modern invention but an ancient reality, rooted in millennia of history, culture, and religious tradition. When Jews began returning to their ancestral homeland in significant numbers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it was not as agents of imperial ambition but as refugees seeking safety and self-determination.
Moreover, the comparison to colonial powers ignores key distinctions. Colonialism involves the exploitation of foreign territories for the benefit of a distant metropole. Zionism, by contrast, was a movement of a people seeking to reclaim and rebuild a homeland, often on land legally purchased and cultivated with tremendous hardship. The very notion of a “colonial metropole” is absent; there is no distant empire pulling the strings, no profiteering overlords exploiting the labour of subjugated peoples.
But these inconvenient truths are swept aside in favour of the simpler, more emotionally charged narrative. Why? Because Israel offers critics a proxy, a canvas onto which they can project their unresolved guilt without having to look inward. It is far easier to accuse Israel of colonialism than to confront the vestiges of one’s own nation’s imperial history.
The choice of Israel as a target for this displaced guilt is no accident. Unlike former colonies in Africa, Asia, or the Americas, Israel is a modern state with the means to defend itself and the temerity to reject its demonisation. Criticising Israel carries none of the uncomfortable implications of criticising one’s own history or ongoing complicity in global inequality. It allows critics to align themselves with a cause that appears noble and just while sidestepping the messier business of self-reckoning.
This convenient morality also explains the selective outrage that characterises much of contemporary antizionism. Countries with far more clear-cut cases of colonial or imperial domination—such as China in Tibet or Turkey in northern Cyprus—are rarely met with the same intensity of condemnation. The moral energy expended on vilifying Israel is disproportionate not because Israel is uniquely culpable but because it is uniquely useful as a lightning rod for colonial guilt.
What makes this projection particularly hypocritical is that it perpetuates the very dynamics it claims to oppose. By framing Israel as a colonial power, critics erase Jewish indigeneity and rewrite a history of dispossession and persecution. The same voices that demand the recognition of indigenous rights elsewhere are complicit in denying the Jewish people their historical and cultural connection to the land of Israel. In this sense, antizionism replicates the patterns of erasure that were hallmarks of Western colonialism, even as it claims to reject them.
Moreover, by focusing disproportionately on Israel, critics divert attention from their own nations’ responsibilities. The West’s colonial legacies are not Israel’s to bear, and the act of transferring guilt to Israel does nothing to address the lingering effects of imperialism in Africa, South America, or South Asia. The guilt economy serves no one but those who participate in it, allowing them to bask in the glow of performative virtue while doing nothing to redress the wrongs they claim to deplore.
To break free of this cycle, Western societies must confront their colonial pasts directly. This means acknowledging complicity in historical injustices, engaging in reparative actions, and resisting the temptation to outsource guilt onto convenient scapegoats. Israel’s story deserves to be understood on its own terms, not through the distorting lens of a guilt economy that does more harm than good.
A true reckoning with colonial history cannot afford to misplace blame or distort narratives for the sake of convenience. It requires honesty, humility, and the courage to face the past without deflecting onto others. Only then can the West move beyond the shadow of its imperial history and engage with Israel—and the world—with fairness and integrity.
If the West is to truly reckon with its imperial past and move beyond the mire of the guilt economy, it must stop seeking convenient proxies for its atonement. The fixation on Israel as a stand-in for Western colonial sins is not only unfair but fundamentally counterproductive. The West must confront its colonial legacy head-on, with the courage to acknowledge its historical wrongs and a commitment to addressing their lingering consequences—not through shallow performances of virtue, but through tangible, reparative actions.
This means turning the lens inward. Western societies need to grapple with the systems of inequality and exploitation that their empires left in their wake—systems that persist in shaping the global economic order, the distribution of wealth, and the balance of power. Addressing these realities is far more difficult than pointing fingers at Israel, but it is also far more honest. Colonial guilt should not be an exercise in self-absolution achieved by demonising others; it should be a process of introspection, humility, and accountability.
At the heart of this shift must be a willingness to see Israel as it is, not as it has been distorted by the guilt economy. Israel’s story is not one of imperial conquest but of resilience, survival, and self-determination. It is the story of a people who, after centuries of persecution, exile, and genocide, returned to their ancestral homeland to build a nation under extraordinary circumstances.
Understanding Israel on its own terms requires abandoning the simplistic binaries of oppressor and oppressed that the guilt economy imposes. Israel is a nation facing real and ongoing challenges: existential threats from its neighbours, the complexities of a protracted conflict with the Palestinians, and the internal struggles of a vibrant but diverse democracy. These realities cannot be shoehorned into the colonial narrative without doing violence to the truth. To view Israel solely through the lens of Western guilt is to reduce its history to a caricature, erasing the richness and complexity of its existence.
The guilt economy is seductive because it offers an easy way out. It allows critics to bask in the glow of moral superiority without engaging with the messy realities of history or geopolitics. By condemning Israel, they can position themselves as champions of justice and human rights while avoiding the discomfort of addressing their own complicity in past and present injustices. It is a psychological dodge masquerading as principle, and its impact on the discourse is corrosive.
When critics frame Israel as the ultimate symbol of colonialism, they distort not only Israel’s story but also the broader conversation about justice and reconciliation. They create an environment in which outrage substitutes for understanding, and condemnation replaces dialogue. This dynamic cheapens the discourse, reducing it to a series of performative gestures that do little to advance peace or justice for anyone involved.
Breaking free of the guilt economy demands more than just intellectual honesty; it requires moral courage. It means rejecting the impulse to project blame onto others and embracing the hard work of self-examination. It means recognising that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is not a morality play but a deeply complex issue requiring empathy, nuance, and a willingness to listen to all sides.
For the West, this might mean channelling its energies into addressing the systemic inequalities that persist in its own societies, from the legacies of slavery to the enduring effects of colonial resource extraction. It might mean engaging with former colonies not as penance but as partners in a shared future, built on mutual respect and cooperation. And it might mean resisting the temptation to use Israel as a moral scapegoat, instead supporting constructive efforts to promote peace and security in the region.
For Israel’s critics, it means recognising that true advocacy for justice cannot be built on a foundation of distortion and selective outrage. It means holding all nations to the same standards of accountability and fairness, without singling Israel out for unique condemnation. And it means acknowledging that the path to peace lies not in demonising one side but in fostering dialogue, understanding, and compromise.
By recognising the guilt economy for what it is—a misguided attempt at atonement that obscures more than it illuminates—we can begin to shift the focus of the conversation. Away from performative outrage and towards genuine understanding. Away from simplistic narratives and towards a recognition of complexity. Away from the projection of guilt and towards the pursuit of real justice, both for Israel and for the broader world.
It is not an easy path, but it is a necessary one. Only by confronting the reality of our histories and the intricacies of our present can we hope to build a future grounded in truth, fairness, and mutual respect. And in doing so, we might finally lay the burden of the guilt economy to rest. What a novel idea that would be.