The Star of David: Then and Now
Some symbols change their meaning without changing their form. The Star of David is a striking example. In less than 150 years, the six-pointed star has gone from a symbol with no widely recognized Jewish significance to an unmistakably Jewish emblem; from a mark affixed to Jewish clothing to identify, segregate, and humiliate Jews, to the symbol of a sovereign state; and, in recent years, at least in the eyes of many in the West, to a symbol associated with violent and aggressive nationalism. The history of the Star of David thus tells, in many ways, the story of Zionism itself: the distance between the original Zionist vision of a Jewish society that would be exemplary, egalitarian, and liberal, and a state increasingly perceived as a force of violence and oppression.
The flag Theodor Herzl envisioned for the state he dreamed of was different from the one ultimately adopted. Herzl did not seek to create a state that would be synonymous with Judaism, and certainly did not intend to make Judaism the state religion. On the contrary, he sought to create a political framework that would enable Jews to live as free and equal human beings. In his novel Altneuland, Herzl portrayed the Jewish state as progressive, liberal, and tolerant – a society in which Jews and non-Jews would live together, religion would not dictate the political order, and technological progress would coexist with social responsibility. The flag he proposed reflected this vision. Herzl envisioned a white flag bearing seven golden stars. White was meant to symbolize the moral purity of the new society, while the seven stars represented egalitarian social values.
After Herzl’s death, a different proposal for the Zionist flag took shape. David Wolffsohn designed the blue-and-white flag, inspired by the Jewish prayer shawl, and placed the Star of David at its center. When the Zionist flag was adopted as the flag of the State of Israel, a connection was created that had not been self-evident in Herzl’s original vision. The difference between the two flags was not merely aesthetic: Herzl’s flag was meant to signify a new beginning, whereas the flag ultimately adopted expressed continuity with Jewish history, thereby reinforcing the identification of the State of Israel with Judaism.
A few weeks after the establishment of the state, Gershom Scholem published his essay “The Star of David: The History of a Symbol,” challenging the assumption that the six-pointed star was an ancient Jewish symbol. According to Scholem, the Star of David was not originally an exclusively Jewish emblem. Similar forms had appeared in other cultures, where they were sometimes used as magical symbols. Its transformation into a specifically Jewish symbol, Scholem argued, took place in the modern period, reaching its most powerful expression during the Holocaust. It was the Nazis who turned it into a powerful emblem by forcing Jews to wear it as a mark of identification, humiliation, and persecution. In this sense, the Jewish meaning of the Star of David did not arise from an unbroken historical continuity, but from a modern historical trauma.
The Star of David, then, should have been understood not merely as a memorial to Jewish suffering but, above all, as a warning. If the state chose as its emblem a symbol whose specifically Jewish meaning had been forged in the Holocaust, then the transformation of the badge into a flag should remind Jews not only of what had been done to them, but also of how far a society can descend when it sanctifies violent nationalism. In this sense, the transformation of a symbol of persecution into a national flag was not meant to erase historical memory, but rather to turn that memory into a source of moral responsibility.
Seventy-eight years after the establishment of the state, it is difficult not to see a reversal in the meaning of the Star of David. One expression of this reversal can be found in demonstrations in the West in which the Star of David is presented not as a symbol of Jewish persecution, but as a symbol of suffering inflicted by Jews. At a demonstration in Washington, D.C., in 2010, for example, the Star of David was replaced by a Nazi swastika. Since then, the historical analogy has become increasingly common: at numerous demonstrations, Stars of David containing swastikas, comparisons between the Israeli and Nazi German flags, and slogans such as “I don’t see the difference” have appeared across Europe and the United States. The Anti-Defamation League, for example, has documented slogans such as “One Holocaust does not justify another,” as well as claims that the Nazis are “still around” and now call themselves “Zionists.”
These images are not merely expressions of political criticism directed at the policies of the State of Israel. They represent a reversal of the historical perspective itself: the Star of David no longer signifies Jewish victimhood, but responsibility for the suffering of others. The moral charge traditionally associated with the swastika is thus transferred to the Star of David. When a swastika is placed inside a Star of David, the two symbols are not merely compared; visually, they are brought almost to the point of identification.
This phenomenon cannot simply be explained by invoking a “failure to understand the complexities of life in the Middle East,” nor can antisemitism be treated as an inevitable fact of history. Antisemitism certainly exists. There are certainly people who exploit criticism of Israel as a pretext for attacking Jews. But acknowledging this cannot become an excuse for avoiding self-criticism.
The story of the Star of David does not end with a demonstration in a Western city. Sometimes the symbol encounters reality itself. During an operation in Qabatiya, in the northern West Bank, in recent days, soldiers wrote numbers on the arms of Palestinian men who were awaiting interrogation. It is difficult not to feel the chilling force of the image. Jews know all too well what it means to strip a person of his humanity by turning him into a number. Precisely because this memory is so deeply embedded in Jewish consciousness, it should provoke profound shock.
There is no need to collapse different historical contexts into one another in order to understand the moral test before us: a person standing before state power does not cease to be a human being because he is Palestinian – or Jewish. When a number replaces a name, and a human being becomes an object in the hands of a state animated by violent nationalism, we encounter the very historical mechanism from which Zionism sought to free the Jewish people.
In this sense, the transformation of the Star of David reflects the transformation of Zionism itself. A movement that once dreamed of establishing a liberal and egalitarian exemplary society has evolved into a state in which nationalism, military power, and Jewish identity have become increasingly intertwined. A possible renewal of the Zionist idea can emerge only through a return to the moral vision embodied in Herzl’s white flag – not merely as a symbol, but as a political and moral principle. A return from nationalism to humanism; from treating power as an ultimate value to treating it as a limited means; from national self-interest to recognition of the rights of the other.
The seven stars that disappeared from the flag are more important today than ever. They remind us of a Zionist vision that does not stop at ensuring that Jews have a state. It asks not only whether Jews should have a state, but what kind of state it should be – and what kind of society it should embody.
