Zionism blends Jewish trauma with settler-colonial power, creating a narcissistic identity that justifies supremacy and erases Palestinian existence
Zionism is often framed as a political movement, a response to centuries of antisemitism culminating in the Holocaust, one that sought Jewish self-determination. But this narrative obscures deeper psychological undercurrents. Beyond claims of security and survival, Zionism functions as an identity system built on a form of narcissism. Beyond claims of security and survival, Zionism functions as an identity system built on a form of narcissism that is not mere egoism but the pathological kind described in depth psychology. This is the study of the psyche that explores the interplay between conscious and unconscious processes and their underlying dynamics.
At its core, Zionism nurtures a psyche of “chosenness”: a fusion of moral exceptionalism, historical grievance, and supremacy, insulated from critique by its claim to unique suffering. Zionism emerged in late 19th-century Europe, where Jews were both integrated and excluded, welcomed into modernity yet denied full belonging. Faced with rising antisemitism and nationalism, figures like Theodor Herzl argued that Jewish safety required a nation-state modelled on European ethnonationalism.
But in adopting this framework, Zionism absorbed its colonial logic. European Zionists viewed Palestine as “a land without a people”, echoing the terra nullius myth used to justify settler violence in the Americas and Australia. Indigenous Palestinians were rendered invisible or inferior. In a tragic irony, Zionism internalised the racial hierarchies that had oppressed Jews, then redirected them outward.
Crucially, the project relied on imperial patronage, first from Britain through the Balfour Declaration and later from the United States. The West endorsed Zionism not as atonement for antisemitism but as a strategic outpost in the Middle East. Jewish trauma thus merged with imperial power, producing a political entity that could simultaneously project vulnerability and domination. This colonial foundation created the perfect conditions for what psychoanalysts would recognise as a collective narcissistic pathology to take root. Indeed, Heinz Kohut described pathological narcissism as a defence mechanism: when trauma or unmet needs are not integrated, they are masked by grandiose self-ideals.
Zionism exemplifies this dynamic perfectly. The very imperial backing that made the project viable also reinforced its psychological underpinnings. The wound of Jewish persecution became the ground for a messianic identity: we were victims, therefore we are sacred; we are sacred, therefore we are beyond reproach. This reflects what historian and social critic Christopher Lasch called a “culture of narcissism”, where victimhood serves as a moral shield against self-examination. Zionism is not merely nationalism — it is nationalism sanctified by a theology of uniqueness: the belief in a people “chosen” by history or God, whose suffering is seen as transcendent and incomparable.
The consequences are stark. Palestinians are erased and dehumanised. Criticism is dismissed as antisemitism. Victimhood becomes justification for dominance. Zionism undeniably arises from a real trauma grounded in pogroms, exile and genocide. But unprocessed trauma can morph into trauma narcissism: the belief that suffering grants special rights, exemption from moral norms, and even license for retribution. Consider the slogan “Never again for us”. Rather than fostering solidarity with other oppressed peoples, Zionist ideology often isolates Jewish suffering as incomparable, even morally superior. Yet history shows trauma does not inherently ennoble. Post-World War I Germany’s humiliation birthed fascism. Indigenous peoples across the Americas endured genocide without being granted statehood, nuclear arsenals, or global impunity.
What distinguishes Zionism is that its trauma has been endlessly validated and rewarded by Western powers, especially by the United States. The result is a potent fusion of victimhood and supremacy, in which Palestinians are cast simultaneously as threat and scapegoat. This dynamic reflects what philosopher and psychoanalyst Julia Kristeva described as the projection of the abject onto the other: their very existence becomes an affront to Zionist identity.
Zionism might have remained a marginal ideology were it not for its strategic alliance with the US empire, with billions in annual military aid, United Nations vetoes, and unchecked settlement expansion. Zionism thus became “chosenness” backed by overwhelming Western support.
This ultimately creates a duality, which American psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton termed as doubling: a self-image that is both morally endangered and ruthlessly pragmatic. We are the Middle East’s only democracy, says the state that detains children without trial. We face existential threats, says the nation with a top-tier military. We seek peace, says the government, bulldozing homes while bombing refugee camps. This is not mere hypocrisy. It is mass-scale psychological denial, sustained by geopolitical power.
Taken together, Zionism follows the settler-colonial script: indigenous erasure, settler supremacy, and conquest rebranded as destiny. But unlike America or Australia, it claims not just historical necessity but divine mandate. This creates a perverse inversion. The coloniser sees himself as a survivor. The occupier sees himself as the target. The powerful see themselves as the persecuted. As Edward Said observed, Zionism, like all colonial projects, depends on the native’s erasure to sustain the settler’s self-image. But it adds a theological twist: Palestinians are not just displaced; they are also cast as obstacles to redemption. Their resistance is framed as an existential threat, and their very presence a challenge to Zionist identity.
No trauma, no matter how horrific, justifies eternal exemption from ethical scrutiny. To shield Zionism from critique by invoking Jewish suffering is to weaponise pain, not honour it. True healing, for individuals or nations, demands mourning, humility, and the recognition that one can be both victim and perpetrator. Today, Zionism is not about Jewish survival; it is the institutionalisation of militarised narcissism disguised as liberation. If the world truly cares about Jewish safety, it must disentangle that goal from the machinery of domination. The greater danger is not just the occupation of land but the occupation of moral imagination, where some traumas matter more than others and some lives are deemed less worthy.
This article was first printed in The Friday Times Farooq Malik is a California-based psychotherapist. His work explores the intersections of trauma, identity, politics and spiritual transformation.