[Pictured: The Israeli and U.S. flags are projected on the walls of Jerusalem's Old City in celebration of the two countries’ close ties on Feb. 11, 2020. Photo credit: AHMAD GHARABLI/AFP via Getty Images]
By Yalda Slivo
Western imperial culture has always had the remarkable ability to romanticize and justify its violence as a form of virtue, where occupation becomes self-defense, former U.S. presidents become pop culture icons, and Israeli settlers are mythologized as liberators.
It would be easy to frame this as propaganda and move on, but the dialectic between representation, culture, and politics has enabled imperialism to suppress, or even prevent, the development of a coherent material critique within dominant Western liberal discourse – in many ways erasing its own violence. This happens when different political actors adapt their language and behaviour to align with the hegemonic cultural norms of the West, sometimes even abandoning their anti-imperialist or anti-colonial principles in the process.
The palestinian marxist, Ghassan Kanafani, was among the first to formulate the idea how the Zionist entity enforced its occupation via Zionist literature and culture in his 1967 text, On Zionist Literature. He laid out a detailed description of how Zionism worked culturally in order to justify its occupation via “Jewish heroes,” using literature as a way of mythologizing and constructing heroic settlers that served colonial expansion - but also enforcing the Hebrew language by institutionalizing it as an artificial way of kickstarting an oppressive culture, playing a huge role in the occupation of Palestine.
One of the questions Kanafani asked early in his text is, “Why does the Western reader accept the same racist and fascist positions in Zionist novels that are deemed to be contemptible when taken by non-Jews?” – to which his answer can be somewhat summarized by him paraphrasing historian Arnold J. Toynbee, who thought that the autonomy of the Jewish population in the form of a state would have to come at the expense of the West and not the Arabs, something for which he was laughed at.
Kanafani pointed to this as an example of Zionist propaganda having succeeded, with the ever-recurring argument that Hitler’s massacres were a good enough reason to build a fascist state in the already otherized Middle East. Toynbee, according to Kanafani, was met with “cries of laughter,” as Toynbee himself put it. This wasn’t just because the idea sounded absurd, even though it came from a place of sympathy and understanding. It was because, by 1961, the West had already entrenched itself in the logic of justifying political Zionism as a response to Hitler’s massacres and European antisemitism.
As influential as Edward Said was in providing the framework of Orientalism, Kanafani’s detailed analysis must be recognized as historically significant in its own right – particularly for how it exposed the cultural logic underpinning Zionist colonialism. Zionism had to be approved by Westerners through an adaptation of its colonial language, way of life and production of culture. However, this isn’t just history. Kanafani’s analysis of the ideological alliance between Israel and the United States is just as relevant today – if not more blatant. Since the genocide began in October 2023, the U.S. has used its veto power at the UN five times to block demands for an immediate ceasefire, even in the face of massacres in places like Rafah. The repetition of this pattern even after the deaths of thousands of civilians, reveals how deeply entrenched this alliance is. When Kanafani described it in the 1960s, it still operated through quiet complicity; today it’s an open diplomatic position. How many times have we heard that “Israel has the right to defend itself,” as if the genocide in Gaza were an act of self-defense?
Meanwhile, violent settlers continue to rampage across the West Bank with direct support from the Israeli state – a concrete example of Kanafani’s core point: the occupation is not only military – It is ideological, normalized and protected by political silence.
This is how Israel’s genocide is allowed to continue without consequence, under the cover of narratives we’ve heard throughout the Gaza onslaught: that “Israel is defending the West,” that “if Israel falls, the West falls,” that this is really “a war between civilizations.” These aren’t just fringe statements, they’re structural expressions of a deeply rooted worldview. When Israeli president Isaac Herzog claimed in December 2023 that “the war in Gaza is about saving Western civilization,” and Dutch politician Geert Wilders declared in the Israeli parliament that “if Israel falls, the West falls,” they weren’t just posturing, they were articulating a normalized and rarely questioned narrative in which Israel functions as an extension of the West. A narrative used again and again to justify brutal repression.
This oppressive nature of Western culture seems to have no effect on its population engaging with it in terms of producing material and valuable criticisms on a mass scale. A few examples of this are how U.S. presidents who have committed countless war crimes and acted against international law seem to have little to no negative moral effect or bearing on the reproduction of Western culture at all. Instead, former U.S. presidents like George W. Bush and Barack Obama are thrown into the limelight and become pop culture icons. Now, is there something inherently rotten embedded within Western culture? Why are people, artists, and other cultural practitioners within the West so openly embracing figures that are viewed as war criminals in the Middle East by their equivalents? There seems to be a resemblance in the way Zionist literature glorified its “heroic settlers” and how the U.S. glorifies war criminals like Bush and Obama. These questions tie into my next example, which will veer off into realpolitik, ideology, and culture, further dialectically complicating the issue.
This logic of cultural adaptation to Western norms is not limited to Zionism. Historically, anti-imperialist movements have, at times, engaged with Western powers in ways that blur the line between resistance and accommodation. One of the most striking examples of this can be seen in the actions of Mao Zedong during the Sino-Soviet split. Despite having built a revolutionary ideology grounded in anti-colonial struggle and a fierce critique of Western bourgeois culture, Mao chose in 1971 to meet secretly with Henry Kissinger – one of the chief architects of U.S. imperialism.
Mao had up until that point organized the masses and developed a type of Marxism-Leninism that was deeply anti-imperialist and anti-colonial in its nature, ending what was known as the “century of humiliation” – specifically caused by the imperialists. He had earlier in his revolutionary days pointed to Western culture and bourgeois liberalism as something not only inherently rotten and parasitical but also inherently tied to imperialism, which was one of many reasons why China was filled with drug and opioid addicts.
Within Marxist tradition, the idea of how the superstructure works in practice had been further developed by communists like Antonio Gramsci, and before that, Karl Marx himself mentioned it in his critique of political economy. Mao himself viewed bourgeois ideology as a tool for imperialism, and Western culture therefore aimed to uphold capitalist hegemony – thus being oppressive and exploitative in its very nature and tied to capitalism. He would later in his life even kickstart the Cultural Revolution to finally phase out what he considered the Western bourgeois elements in the superstructure that had begun embedding and developing within Chinese society, making it revisionist, as he put it.
However, only one year after the first Kissinger visit, president Richard Nixon also visited China, which would later give the country a stronger international position until this day. The public at the time had little to no knowledge of the first meeting, and by the time the second meeting took place, the Chinese government had already embedded Kissinger in the Chinese public's eyes. This seems to have worked since from that point onward, Kissinger was widely regarded as a “friend of China” and continually traveled there right up until his death. So, in the same way as in Western societies, Chinese society seemed to have little to no problem from the bottom up with figures like Kissinger and Nixon.
It is worth mentioning that Kissinger made some concessions in this relationship with Communist China, in his true realpolitik nature - in order to isolate the USSR. This strategy seems to have worked, as the USSR would later collapse, further fueling Western imperial arrogance and enabling the rapid imposition of a neoliberal world order not only economically and militarily but also culturally.
Seeing how the West is willing to resort to what Kanafani referred to as “racist and fascist positions” whenever it seems fit, it’s no surprise that a culture built on justifying violence can compel even its former opponents to abandon anti-imperial commitments in favour of realpolitik. Kanafani noted that Zionist propaganda succeeded in embedding its logic in the Western reader’s mind, overriding even the simplest and most humane alternatives, a point echoed by Toynbee and dismissed with laughter.
This is not surprising for a civilization that didn’t need to look elsewhere to learn how to dominate, exploit or annihilate because it developed those capacities internally and enshrined them in its cultural identity. Mao’s shift toward diplomatic engagement with Kissinger wasn’t just geopolitical manoeuvring – it was a reflection of how deeply Western cultural hegemony operates, even among those who once opposed it. By legitimizing figures like Kissinger, China mirrored the same logic that allowed Zionist literature to mythologize settlers or American culture to sanitize war criminals like Bush and Obama.
In each case, whether it’s the glorification of Israeli settlers, the sanitization of U.S. war criminals or the rehabilitation of imperial figures like Kissinger – the same logic prevails: imperial violence becomes morally defensible, at times desirable, when embedded in the cultural forms of power. Through Kanafani’s critique of Zionist literature, Mao’s strategic shift toward the U.S. and the West’s mythologizing of its own brutality, we see how imperialism is not only exercised through tanks and treaties, but through stories, symbols and selective memory.
Imperial violence is not simply justified. It is aestheticized, ritualized and loved. And that love is reproduced. If imperialism has become easy to love, then the real question is: are we willing to unlearn it?
