Is Zionism Colonialism? Myth, Memory, and Reconciliation

In discussions of the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, one question often surfaces with polemical weight: Is Zionism a form of colonialism or settler-colonialism? On its face, this question seems to carry a moral judgment, suggesting that if Zionism is indeed colonial, then the State of Israel is illegitimate. But that line of reasoning falters upon closer inspection. After all, much of the modern world is shaped by the legacies of colonialism. No one today denies the right of Australia, Canada, or the United States to exist, even though they all emerged through colonial expansion.

But if the goal is not accusation but reconciliation, the question takes on a different purpose. Understanding how Palestinians view Zionism as a colonial project is essential—not because it must be accepted as a final judgment, but because it reveals the depth of the wound and the obstacles to healing. At the same time, we must understand how Zionism views itself not as colonialism, but as a Reconquista—a redemptive return to a homeland lost to exile and history. And even on the Palestinian side, a similar narrative emerges: the idea of defending the holy land from foreign invaders, rooted in the memory of Saladin, ʿAyn Jālūt, and the Islamic victories over Crusaders, Mongols, and empires.

From Patron-Seeking to Power-Building

Zionism began in the late 19th century not as a colonial movement in the traditional sense but as a national liberation movement born in response to European antisemitism and pogroms. Leaders like Theodor Herzl and Leo Pinsker saw the Jews as a stateless people needing a homeland, and they sought imperial patrons to support their cause. Herzl approached the Ottoman Sultan, the German Kaiser, and later British officials, offering loyalty and financial incentives in exchange for a chartered Jewish homeland. This was advocacy, not colonization—at least initially.

However, during World War I, after the failure of Ottoman-Jewish cooperation and in light of the Armenian genocide, many Zionists, including the underground NILI network, concluded that the Ottoman Empire was no longer a viable partner. They turned instead to Britain and with the help of figures like Chaim Weizmann, secured the Balfour Declaration in 1917. This began a new phase: Zionism as a project tied to imperial power, which looked increasingly like colonialism to the local Arab population.

Some Zionists rejected the colonial model altogether. The cultural Zionism of Ahad Ha’am envisioned a Jewish spiritual center, not a state. Others, like Martin Buber and Judah Magnes in Brit Shalom, advocated for a binational solution—a shared homeland for Jews and Arabs, not a Jewish-majority state. These voices, however, became marginalized, especially after the 1929 riots, when Arab violence against Jewish communities shattered many Jews’ belief in coexistence. (This I find is clearly being mirrored in our own times post-October the 7th and after now a year and a half of war.)

The Rise of Palestinian Nationalism

Palestinian nationalism also evolved during this period. Initially rooted in anti-colonial sentiment and shaped by the broader Arab Awakening, it was not driven primarily by religion but by territorial and political concerns. Newspapers, congresses, and political parties voiced growing alarm over British favoritism toward Zionist institutions. Figures like Khalil al-Sakakini, George Antonius, and even the religiously affiliated Haj Amin al-Husseini framed their resistance in national rather than purely Islamic terms. It was only later—particularly after the trauma of 1948—that Palestinian resistance began to take on a more overtly religious character.

By the late 1920s, both movements were becoming hardened. Zionists, after the violence of 1929, began to see Arab resistance not as protest but as existential rejection. Many came to adopt Ze’ev Jabotinsky’s vision of the “Iron Wall”—the idea that only a strong Jewish military and political presence could compel Arab acceptance. Palestinian leaders, meanwhile, invoked historical memory to rally resistance. Saladin became a symbol of rightful Islamic sovereignty, a liberator of Jerusalem from Crusaders, while the battle of ʿAyn Jālūt was remembered as proof that invaders, however powerful, could be defeated.

Haj Amin al-Husseini used Saladin’s image in the 1930s, including in rhetoric during the Arab Revolt (1936–1939), and in propaganda during WWII (including in Nazi broadcasts from Berlin).

Slogans included: “As Saladin expelled the Crusaders, so shall we expel the Zionists.”

Colonialism or Reconquista?

The uniqueness of Zionism lies in this paradox: it has colonial features, but it is also anchored in a deep historical and emotional connection to the land. Unlike European colonialism, which involved settling lands with no ancestral link, Zionists saw themselves as returning home. They built a Hebrew-speaking society on the very soil of their ancestors, often naming towns and organizations after biblical heroes like Judah the Maccabee, Bar Kokhba, and King David.

Early Zionist militias adopted names like Bar Giora (named after Simon Bar Giora, a leader of the Jewish revolt against Rome in 66–70 CE) and Hashomer (The Watchman) These were intentional invocations of ancient Jewish warriors and defenders of the homeland.

Bar Giora’s oath (early 1900s): “In blood and fire Judea fell; in blood and fire Judea shall rise.”

The Maccabean revolt was widely celebrated in Zionist education, literature, and symbolism. Hanukkah was reimagined as a national holiday of resistance, not just religious triumph. David Ben-Gurion referenced the Maccabees frequently as proof that Jews once fought and ruled on this land, and could do so again.

Ben-Gurion (1930s): “We are not strangers to this land… Our roots are here, in Judea and in Zion, with David and with the Maccabees.”

Zionism was a national revival movement—but one that acquired colonial dimensions through its partnership with British imperialism and the marginalization of the native Arab population. Palestinians, in turn, came to see Zionists as foreign settlers backed by empire, repeating the patterns of Crusader rule. They framed their resistance through the lens of anti-colonialism and sacred defense, seeing themselves as the successors of Saladin, guardians of a land under threat.

Thus emerged the symbolic dualism that still haunts the conflict: the Children of Judah the Maccabee versus the Children of Saladin. Both peoples see themselves as indigenous, as defenders of sacred land, and as heirs to a moral legacy of struggle. Each side views the other through a lens of historical irony: invader, colonizer, denier of rights. And yet both sides are also sustained by profound love for the same land, and fierce determination to protect it.

If reconciliation is to be possible, we must begin by acknowledging this shared depth of feeling and history. It is not enough to declare one side right and the other wrong. We must ask: Can two peoples, both convinced of their justice, find a way to live together with mutual respect? Can they recognize each other’s pain, and respect each other’s connection to the same hills, cities, and sacred sites?

Perhaps the only way forward is not through erasing myth, but through reinterpreting it. To shift from myth as a call to arms, to myth as a call to healing. Imagine not an intractable conflict, but a shared project. Not the end of one narrative, but the weaving of two.

Imagine fifteen million people—Jews and Palestinians—who love the same land with their whole being, not working against each other, but for a shared future. Imagine all that fierce determination, all that historical memory, redirected not toward conquest or resistance but toward coexistence and co-creation. The road is hard, but the roots are deep. Perhaps, that is where hope lies.