Category Archives: Anti-Zionism

False Comrades: Unmasking Labour Zionism’s Abuse of Socialist Symbols

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by Andrej Ivanovic

One of the most persistent myths about Zionism is the illusion that it once embodied genuine socialist ideals. Labour Zionism, falsely labeled “progressive” or “socialist,” was, in reality, fundamentally colonialist, imperialist, and racist. Its appropriation of socialist symbolism and rhetoric served only to conceal its reactionary and oppressive core, directly contradicting the essence of socialism: international solidarity with all oppressed peoples.

Socialism and Anti-Colonial Solidarity vs. Zionist Colonialism

Socialism, from its origins in Marxist thought, stands firmly against colonialism, imperialism, and all forms of racial oppression. Lenin explicitly argued for the unconditional right to self-determination, sharply condemning annexation and colonial exploitation. Genuine socialist movements, whether the Bolsheviks or anarchists in revolutionary Spain, supported oppressed nations against imperial powers.

Labour Zionism, from its inception, violated these fundamental socialist principles. Under leaders like David Ben-Gurion and Golda Meir, Labour Zionism actively collaborated with imperial powers—initially the British, then the Americans—to facilitate the settler-colonial project in Palestine. The Zionist narrative of “Hebrew Labour” explicitly promoted Jewish racial exclusivity, systematically excluding Palestinian Arabs to maintain colonial control, reflecting Lenin’s condemnation of imperial annexation.

Pseudo-Socialist Symbolism: Zionism’s Commonality with Fascism

Labour Zionism’s misuse of socialist iconography was not unique; it shared this trait with classic fascist movements. Mussolini’s Italy and Nazi Germany both cynically appropriated socialist symbolism to gain popular legitimacy, all while perpetuating racist and nationalist policies. Similarly, Zionist leaders employed socialist imagery—kibbutzim, red flags, and collective farming—to mask ethnic cleansing, apartheid, and racist hierarchies.

This pseudo-socialism did not genuinely empower workers but reinforced racial stratification and colonial privilege. The Histadrut, promoted as a progressive labour union, excluded Palestinian workers from its founding and deliberately undermined solidarity across ethnic lines. Its primary goal was to solidify colonial dominance rather than dismantle capitalist oppression.

Systemic Racism within Labour Zionism

Labour Zionism was explicitly racist—not only toward Palestinians but also toward non-white Jewish communities. Mizrahi Jews from Middle Eastern, North African, and Central Asian backgrounds were subjected to severe discrimination and marginalization by the Ashkenazi-dominated Labour establishment. Forced into impoverished “ma’abarot” camps and stigmatized as inferior, Mizrahi Jews’ struggles against systemic racism culminated in movements like the Israeli Black Panthers, which Labour Zionist governments violently suppressed.

Similarly, Ethiopian Jews faced harsh racism upon migration to Israel. Labour Zionist institutions manipulated their immigration for propaganda purposes but systematically excluded them socially and economically, even resorting to forced sterilization policies—a brutal expression of racist eugenics.

Leninist Perspectives on Zionist Colonialism

Lenin’s explicit condemnation of Zionism as reactionary, combined with his emphasis on supporting unconditional self-determination and anti-imperialist struggles, offers a clear socialist critique. Lenin argued that socialism must stand unequivocally against colonial oppression, clearly positioning Zionism as an enemy of genuine socialist ideals. According to Lenin, Zionist settlements were fundamentally imperialist annexations, incompatible with socialism’s core internationalist commitments.

Conclusion: Labour Zionism—A Betrayal of Socialism

Labour Zionism, far from a socialist movement, was fundamentally colonial, imperialist, and deeply racist. Its distorted socialist rhetoric only served to legitimize settler colonialism, racial hierarchy, and class exploitation. Genuine socialism, grounded in internationalist solidarity, stands in unconditional opposition to Zionism. Today, recognizing the anti-socialist and reactionary essence of Labour Zionism means reaffirming solidarity with Palestinian liberation and all struggles against imperialist oppression.

RECLAIM PURIM! CELEBRATE THE RESISTANCE!

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(Gershop Pesach Teitelbaum, 14 Adar 5785)

PURIM CELEBRATES RESISTANCE AGAINST GENOCIDE

Purim is a festival of resistance. It commemorates the struggle of an oppressed people against the genocidal plans of an occupying colonial regime. It is the story of a people who, under the shadow of empire, organized, fought back, and ensured their survival against the forces of annihilation.

It is a mistake to read Purim as a mere celebration of survival, as if history moves forward without the actions of those who resist. The Megillah itself tells us otherwise: Esther risks her life by revealing her identity, Mordechai refuses to bow to a tyrant, and the Jewish people, rather than waiting for imperial mercy, take matters into their own hands.

But what happens when the lessons of Purim are twisted? What happens when those who were oppressed become the oppressors?

HAMAN IN SHUSHAN, HAMAN IN TEL AVIV

Zionism, which so often imagines itself in the role of Esther or Mordechai, is, in reality, the Haman of today. Like the Persian vizier who sought to exterminate a people because they refused to bow to the empire, the Zionist regime seeks to erase, subjugate, and dispossess the indigenous people of Palestine. Today, as Palestinians face massacres, sieges, and brutal military occupation, Purim demands of us not revelry but resistance.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that everything in the world contains a spark of holiness, even in exile. But exile is not merely a geographical condition; it is also moral. The worst exile is when the people forget who they are, when they become what they once resisted. The Lubavitcher Rebbe once said that Amalek is not just a nation but a force in the world—the force that seeks to destroy the dignity and divine image of the oppressed.

Who is Amalek today? Who is the Haman of our time?

Is it the child throwing stones at the tank, or the one commanding the tank to crush his home?
Is it the woman waiting at a checkpoint for hours, or the soldier denying her passage?
Is it the refugee, or the one who makes him a refugee?

The Zionist state, armed with nuclear weapons and backed by the strongest imperialist forces on earth, claims to be the vulnerable Esther, the righteous Mordechai. But in truth, it is the empire. It is the force of oppression, the one issuing decrees of destruction, forcing an entire people into ghettos, demolishing homes, and committing unspeakable massacres.

PURIM: A FESTIVAL OF ANTI-COLONIAL STRUGGLE

The story of Purim is not about ethnic vengeance; it is about liberation. It is a story of how power can be subverted, how an empire’s own decrees can be turned against it. In the Talmud (Megillah 12a), the sages debate why the Jewish people deserved Haman’s decree in the first place. One answer given is that they had become too comfortable with the rule of Ahasuerus, that they forgot their struggle.

Today, Zionism is a doctrine that teaches Jews to trust in empire, to align themselves with power rather than challenge it. It is a distortion of everything Purim teaches us.

Just as Mordechai refused to bow to Haman, so too must we refuse to bow to modern Hamans—those who justify apartheid, who enforce occupation, who massacre in the name of false security.

To celebrate Purim authentically today is to stand with the oppressed, not the oppressor.

FROM SHUSHAN TO GAZA: THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES

A Chassidic tale is told about Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev. One Purim, he saw a man in rags, sitting alone, drinking from a broken cup. Reb Levi Yitzchak approached him and said, “Brother, why do you not rejoice with us?” The man replied, “Rebbe, how can I rejoice when my people are still in exile?” The Rebbe wept and said, “You are wiser than us all.”

Purim is not a time for empty celebration. It is a time to remember that no empire lasts forever. The lesson of Esther and Mordechai is not to align with imperial power but to subvert it, to use every means available to undermine its oppressive rule.

On Purim, we do not feast in forgetfulness. We celebrate in defiance. We remember the martyrs, the resistance fighters, the revolutionaries, the people who, like those in the story of Purim, refuse to bow. We celebrate those who organize, those who speak out, those who struggle for a world free from empire and oppression.

RECLAIM PURIM. CELEBRATE THE RESISTANCE. STAND WITH THE OPPRESSED.

Burning Sukkot in Gaza and Beyond

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(Gershom Pesach Teitelbaum)

Sholem aleichem, teyere chaverim. It is with great pain in my heart that I want to speak to you today, on this yontiv of Sukkot. Sukkot is supposed to be a festival, an occasion to celebrate our shared fragility and dependence on Hashem’s protection. But over the last few weeks, we have witnessed some of the worst atrocities of our age, and this festival feels far from celebratory. Across the world, sukkot—symbols of vulnerability, shelter, and solidarity—are being violently torn down. From university campuses in the U.S. to hospital courtyards in Gaza, the physical destruction of sukkot mirrors the systematic destruction of human lives and communities.

Just days ago, at UC Berkeley, pro-Palestinian Jewish students built a sukkah in solidarity with the people of Palestine. They hoped to create a sacred space that would speak to their opposition to the genocide in Gaza and Lebanon. Their sukkah was destroyed by university officials in the early hours of the morning, a chilling echo of the Zionist regime’s violence against the people of Gaza. The students—aligned with Jewish Voice for Peace—chose to use their sukkah as a protest, a declaration of their refusal to remain silent in the face of genocide. And yet, their sukkah was demolished, twice, by those who could not tolerate even this modest symbol of resistance.

Meanwhile, in Gaza, the Zionist colonial army has been burning down real sukkot—makeshift shelters that are not symbols but desperate refuges for people displaced by the bombings. In Jabalia Refugee Camp, a 19-year-old boy and his mother were burned alive in their sukkah after seeking shelter outside the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, which had already been devastated by airstrikes. Their sukkah was not part of a ritual; it was the only shelter they had left.

As we find ourselves in the midst of Sukkot, a festival that should remind us of our shared vulnerability, how can we not think of those for whom displacement is not a brief, symbolic reminder, but a crushing, ongoing reality? The festival of Sukkot teaches us to remember the journey of our ancestors through the wilderness, wandering without a permanent home, dependent on the grace of Hashem and the hospitality of others. “Ki basukkot hoshavti et b’nei Yisrael” (Lev. 23:43)—“I made the children of Israel dwell in sukkot”—Hashem reminds us.

The fragility of the sukkah reflects the human condition itself: none of us are permanent, and none of us can claim more right to shelter than another. We are obligated to recall that our people were once gerim—strangers, refugees—wandering through hostile lands. “Ve’ahavtem et hager, ki gerim heyitem b’eretz mitzrayim” (Deut. 10:19)—“You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

But what we see today is not a symbolic reminder of that ancient wandering. It is genocide—a genocide within a genocide. In Gaza, over 42,000 people have been killed since the bombardment began, most of them women and children. The assault on Jabalia, a refugee camp dating back to the Nakba of 1948, is part of an ongoing campaign to erase entire communities. And no food has entered northern Gaza for more than 15 days. Meanwhile, Jewish students in the U.S. are having their sukkot torn down in the early hours of the morning by university officials, silencing their peaceful protest against this violence. The destruction of these sukkot—both in Gaza and at Berkeley—mirrors the destruction of life and dignity.

How far have we fallen from the Torah’s commands? The Torah instructs us to care for the ger, the stranger, and the anawim—the poor, the oppressed, the vulnerable. “Lo toneh et hager ve’lo tilchatzenu” (Ex. 22:20)—“You shall not wrong the stranger or oppress him.” Yet today, the Zionist regime violates these sacred principles. The people of Gaza are not abstract figures in a political debate. They are living, breathing tselem Elokim—people made in the image of God—whose suffering cries out from the earth like the blood of Abel.

The destruction of both literal and symbolic sukkot reminds us of the dire moral catastrophe before us. “Tzedek, tzedek tirdof”—”Justice, justice shall you pursue” (Deut. 16:20)—demands action, and yet we see only destruction. What is happening now is not only a violation of human rights but a violation of the Torah’s deepest values.

As we sit in our sukkot, reflecting on the impermanence of our dwellings, how can we ignore the permanent displacement of millions of Palestinians? The tents and makeshift shelters in Gaza are not part of a temporary ritual—they are desperate cries for survival. Families who have lost their homes live in real sukkot, and yet they are denied even the most basic sustenance as the siege continues.

The Zionist regime has trampled on the Torah’s vision of justice and peace. Its relentless assault on the people of Gaza, its bombing of hospitals, schools, and homes, is nothing less than a desecration of everything we hold sacred. How can we, as Jews, remain silent when tselem Elokim is being desecrated?

Chaverim, we cannot remain silent. Sukkot calls us to action. Our festival is incomplete while others suffer. Jewish students at UC Berkeley, who stood in solidarity with the people of Palestine, refused to remain silent. Even when their sukkah was destroyed, they continued to stand for justice. We must join them. Whether through protest, through aid, or through raising our voices, we must stand with the people of Gaza. Their liberation is tied to our own.

Until every person has shelter, until no one is displaced by violence, our sukkot remain broken. “V’haya ma’aseh ha’tzedakah shalom”—“The effect of righteousness will be peace” (Isaiah 32:17). May this Sukkot not only be a time of reflection but also a time of action. May we recommit ourselves to tzedek, to justice, so that one day soon, no person will have to dwell in fear, no tent will be burned, and no child will be forced to live through the horrors of war.

May we be worthy to see that day, speedily and in our time.

Tzedek, tzedek tirdof.

Chag Sameach and Gut Yontif.