Unabashed anti-Zionism and a clear conscience

In June 2025, French economist and philosopher Frédéric Lordon—who, like a significant portion of the left, has since October 7 converted to a form of anti-Zionism previously absent from his writings—put forward a strange proposition in a text entitled “Zionism and its destiny”¹: “Anti-Zionism is not the equivalent of antisemitism: it is its only bulwark.” Here, Lordon is mistaking his desires for reality. And, in the same breath, he makes a revealing slip of the tongue: grammatically, he writes that anti-Zionism is the bulwark of antisemitism – that which protects it, not that which protects us from it. This slip of the tongue, to which we will return, encapsulates everything that contemporary anti-Zionism strives not to think about. But to understand it, we must examine the kind of rhetorical frenzy that causes Lordon’s words to run away with him, making him jump to conclusions.

In “The End of Innocence”², dated April 2024, Lordon prophesied the consequences of Israel’s crimes in Gaza:

“It is a picture of moral suicide. Never before has there been such a rapid squandering of symbolic capital that was believed to be unassailable, the capital that had been built up around the Jewish signifier after the Shoah. But solidarity for the worse obliges, the hour of symbolic reckoning is about to strike for everyone, especially for that entity that calls itself the West, claiming a monopoly on civilization, and which has above all spread violence and predation wrapped up in its advantageous principles.”

This passage superimposes three levels that need to be disentangled. First, a difficult-to-contest observation: “something” that had been built up after the Shoah, with considerable moral and political effects, proved during the war in Gaza to be crumbling. Next, an encoding: Lordon, as a good Bourdieusian, grasps this “something” as ”symbolic capital built around the signifier ‘Jewish’”. Finally, and this is the most revealing: jubilation. For there is indeed a form of enthusiasm in the announcement that “the hour of symbolic reckoning is about to strike”—all the more so because, according to Lordon, this capital is not collapsing: it is committing suicide. This jubilation is the signature of anti-Zionism. It is the specific emotion that distinguishes it within contemporary political discourse.

Where does this jubilation come from? We know the mantra: Jews occupy a privileged place in the memorial hierarchy of victims, to the detriment of other sufferings, particularly postcolonial ones. Lordon, in speaking of “symbolic capital”, immediately posits the existence of a competitive field—Jews have more than others.

The first line of inquiry, then, is that the war in Gaza would finally dispel the illusion that Jews are “forever innocent” and allow us to face up to other crimes that the Shoah obscured, starting with those committed by Israel.

But Lordon goes further. This Jewish “symbolic capital” is linked to something else: the ability of the predatory West to cloak itself in virtue. The Western bourgeoisie, he explains, dreams of “indulging in domination with complete innocence”. Their “reflexive solidarity“ with Israel? An identification. Israel is the state that dominates while believing itself to be ”ontologically innocent“ – exactly what they fantasize about. The conclusion is obvious: to delegitimize Israel is to tear down the moral mask of the entire West. And tomorrow, the dominated, finally freed from their post-Shoah false consciousness, will sound the ”hour of reckoning”.

This is how Lordon justifies his own jubilation. From Gaza comes an “enormous surge of reality”, capable of shattering the illusions the West used to neutralize the demands of the people. His enthusiasm—that of anti-Zionism in general—is nothing less than enthusiasm for justice and truth.

It apparently does not matter that this “reality” boils down to some rather comfortable truths: neither the state nor domination can claim ontological innocence. Anti-Zionists are simply rejoicing that we are finally freed from the regrettable illusion that claimed the opposite. And they are announcing in advance the great redistribution of symbolic capital that will pave the way for the emancipation of all peoples.

From Gaza, Lordon tells us, comes an “enormous surge of reality”, capable of shattering the illusions that the West used to neutralize the demands of peoples.

However, a few questions need to be asked. Is this an accurate description of the “something” that was created after the Shoah? Can we really claim that the influence of the Shoah on the moral and political fabric of European societies consisted in propagating the kind of illusions that Lordon is trying to expose? And if it is an illusion, why not dispel it by pointing out that using the Shoah to establish the moral claims of the West simply reverses the meaning of this event? Why not recall what it clearly led to: a profound disillusionment with the ability of European societies to guarantee the ideal of emancipation that they had been claiming since the Enlightenment?

Neither Lordon nor any other anti-Zionist ever does this. For one simple reason: they would then have to draw conclusions for themselves—notably about what prompted European states to support the creation of Israel in 1948, which cannot be reduced to an attempt to wash away their guilt. Instead, we find a fantasy about the imminent collapse of an intrinsically guilty West, and jubilation at the idea of being freed from this “something” inherited from the Shoah. And this fantasy unfolds even as reactionary nationalisms, conjured up by the specter of the Shoah, are making a comeback in Europe.

It’s a strange position for the left to take. Let’s start with a hypothesis to understand it: The anti-Zionist enthusiasm betrays a taboo problem, which its proponents believe they can solve by reclassifying it as an illusion. Lordon himself points to this taboo: this “something” that was created after the Shoah, he says, “was believed to be unassailable”—which does not prevent him from presenting it as an illusion that can easily be dispelled.

What is a taboo, including in modernity?

To understand what a taboo is, we must begin by mistrusting the most common use of this notion, which comes to us from the modern critique of religious illusions that Lordon repeats here. According to this meaning, a taboo is a prohibition imposed by those in power—or, at a pinch, by popular superstitions—in order to prevent access to a truth that challenges the very order of society. A taboo, understood in this sense, is therefore something that must be lifted so that the search for truth and justice can continue. We could say, for example, that the scientific approach knows no taboos, and that this is what allows its investigation to expand without limits. Or, as Lordon argues, that in order to “remake politics,” we must “question the unquestionable.”³

However, this conception runs into a difficulty. Take science: is it really meant to get its hands on the truth? The day it claims to have it, its investigation would end—it would become dogma. The scientific approach is defined by its tension toward a desirable but untouchable truth. In this sense, truth is taboo for science: its movement makes it strive for it, without ever allowing it to conclude.

The same logic applies in politics. The collective search for justice certainly presupposes that nothing is “indisputable”. But this discussion is only possible on one condition: that its object remains out of reach. If someone claimed to have grasped the essence of justice and allowed themselves to speak on its behalf, they would become indisputable—and this claim would have to be denounced as dogmatic illusion. Justice therefore also functions as a taboo: it is the prohibition on seizing it that makes its pursuit possible.

Two conceptions of taboo then emerge. The first sees it as an obstacle to be overcome. The second, on the contrary, emphasizes its civilizing role: if the horizon were attainable, the work of culture would be unthinkable. Anthropology and psychoanalysis have clearly identified this fundamental “no-touch” function. In all forms of society, something is removed from direct control: an object that is desired but forbidden to possess. The taboo stems from this ambivalence—a mixture of attraction and repulsion that puts the object into orbit, causing it to revolve tirelessly around it. ”The sacred” is just another name for this function.

Faced with what once made them hesitate, faced with what triggered the feeling of guilt that Freud placed at the heart of the civilizing process, many Europeans no longer shy away.

Societies are now distinguished by what they regard as sacred, by the way they organize proximity to the taboo, and by the forms of satisfaction they allow despite fundamental prohibitions. Modern individualistic societies have several distinctive features. First, their sacred objects are highly abstract: Truth, Justice, Humanity. Second, the legitimacy of epistemic and political authorities no longer derives from a supposed proximity to the sacred, but from respect for procedures that guarantee the collective pursuit of these ideals: scientific inquiry, democratic processes. Finally, each member of the collective is required to enforce, both for others and for themselves, the taboos on which this quest depends—which implies confronting the dissatisfaction and ambivalence that arise from the demands of self-restraint, reflexivity, and responsibility. Finally, through the development of a secular sphere dominated by technology and consumption—where it is possible to enjoy “freedom” without risking encountering the taboo, from his alienation to radically de-idealized objects—whose articulation with the modern project of emancipation continues to pose problems.

If a ”taboo problem” emerges in our societies, it must therefore manifest itself as a moral disorder affecting the intentionality, reflexivity, and responsibility of individuals. The taboo establishes the social and moral space in which the structure of our actions unfolds—that abyss we must face before aiming for an unattainable horizon. A “taboo problem” is a distortion of this structure.

This problem could take several forms—a total inhibition of action, for example, as if the slightest step toward the taboo were forbidden. But what we are seeing in the current political crisis in Europe—one that includes anti-Zionism, without being limited to it—is something else entirely. Faced with what once made them hesitate, faced with what triggered the feeling of guilt that Freud placed at the heart of the civilizing process, many Europeans no longer shy away. It is as if we are witnessing a collective lifting of the taboo: political action is breaking free from what held it back.

The taboo of post-Shoah Europe

What influence has the Shoah had on the moral and political fabric of European societies? The question can be rephrased as follows: what object have post-Shoah European societies idealized to the point of making it untouchable, of sanctifying it? The question can be rephrased as follows: what object have post-Shoah European societies idealized to the point of making it untouchable, of sanctifying it? Let us first dispel a spontaneous but superficial idea: to say that European societies have sanctified the Shoah does not make much sense. Admittedly, Europeans have approached this subject with great caution, at least until recently. The specter of taboo therefore looms large. But what about the other side of the sanctified object, the side that makes it desirable? Why would anyone want to “get their hands on” the Shoah? What could that even mean?

The sacred object in post-Shoah Europe—both desirable and forbidden, i.e., taboo—is nothing more than a certain peace of mind, a state of calm consciousness.

To pinpoint the taboo that Europeans display as soon as they approach the subject of the Shoah, it is more relevant to focus on what actually provokes unanimous condemnation. It should be noted that these are primarily ways of relating to the Shoah: denying that it happened, asserting that it was a good thing. These two attitudes, which tend to merge, have one thing in common: they dispense the conscience from confronting the Shoah as something problematic. In other words, they remove any need for cultural work engaged in confronting the event. For if the Shoah did not happen, then we need only stop making it a problem. And if it was a good thing, then all that remains is to repeat it.

From these unanimous reactions of condemnation, we can deduce what is, in truth, the sacred object in post-Shoah Europe—both desirable and forbidden, that is to say, taboo. It is nothing other than a certain peace of conscience, a state of appeased consciousness. The trials of Holocaust deniers have resulted in the condemnation of dealers in peace of mind. As for the way in which states, particularly in Germany and France, have acknowledged collective responsibility for the crime, this is part of a process of appeasement – but one whose outcome remains taboo, since it involves maintaining an awareness of responsibility.

It should be noted, however, that while the European questioning of the impossibility of peace of conscience crystallizes around the Shoah, it is not limited to it. Once the image of the diligent Nazi official can be mobilized by anyone, it becomes difficult to justify one’s actions with “We must, in the name of…” without risking being accused of failing in one’s responsibility. This is evidenced by the inscription in the collective consciousness of Arendt’s analysis of Eichmann, in the form of the commonplace notion of the “banality of evil”. The lesson, however difficult to digest, is now firmly lodged in the mind of every European: those who do their duty with a clear conscience may be responsible for the most radical evil.

The political effects are clear: the argument of the duty to civilize, which was dominant in colonial Europe in the 19th and early 20th centuries, has been undermined; and the judgment passed on the crimes of the USSR by those who identified with its ideals is part of the same movement. In short, the Shoah produced a singular phenomenon of disillusionment: it has become difficult, if not impossible for a time, to claim the legitimacy of political action in the name of an ideal, however noble it may be. If peace of conscience is taboo, then the political activity of Europeans can know no other principle of regulation than its perpetual critical self-evaluation.

If, as Freud pointed out, a guilty conscience has always been the driving force behind the civilizational process, post-Shoah Europe formalized this principle at the political level. By sanctifying peace of conscience, it embarked on a process of pacification of social, political, and inter-state relations, the outcome of which was marked by taboo.

Paradoxically, it was in this very criticism that Europe regained its momentum. What it had to acknowledge after the Shoah was that its commitment to the modern project of emancipation, since the Enlightenment, had in no way protected it from the possibility of a “final solution.” The project could only be resumed at the cost of a heightened awareness of its fallibility⁴ – and thanks to it.

A recognition has taken hold: being committed to this project is no guarantee against the return of the evil that has been conjured away, and first and foremost, paradigmatically, in the form of antisemitism. The support of European nation states for the creation of Israel—as a state where Jews could find refuge from persecution against which no one could guarantee them—was the gesture by which Europeans acknowledged their renunciation of belief in their project of emancipation with a clear conscience.

In a nutshell: if, as Freud pointed out, a guilty conscience has always been the driving force behind the process of civilization, post-Shoah Europe formalized this principle at the political level. By sanctifying peace of conscience, it embarked on a process of pacification of social, political, and inter-state relations, the outcome of which was marked by taboo. In post-Shoah Europe, coming too close to peace of conscience gives rise to a guilty conscience and revives the work of culture. This is what could be called progress in civilization through the deepening of its demands.

Political figures involved in lifting the taboo

Has Europe ever lived up to this requirement? It would be absurd to claim so. At most, we can say that, for most of the second half of the 20th century, the taboo on peace of conscience was sufficiently effective to compel European societies to engage in constant reflection. The critical re-examination of their own history (which culminated in decolonization), the extraordinary intellectual emulation of the structuralist moment (with its questioning of historicism and the claim to embody a final figure of man or society), the unprecedented development of the welfare state (and thus the distancing from the messianic prospect of a great revolutionary upheaval), and the increasing consideration of the rights and demands of minorities within the majority society: all of this bears witness to the complex – and sometimes contradictory – movements shaking European societies which, having never been so aware of the unbridgeable distance separating them from the ideal, were subject to the requirement to put into practice the principles of justice that effectively permeated them. Would we say that they did not go far enough in this quest? That is the point of contention.

What we can see is that Europe is in the process of abandoning this requirement, and thus letting go of the normative horizon that regulated its politics. This is evidenced by the political crisis that has been brewing for some time now, the scale of which was revealed by the events of the early 2020s, and which will most certainly intensify in the future. This crisis can be described as a gradual lifting of the taboo on peace of conscience: across the political spectrum, and even though everyone agrees that the situation is worsening, we are witnessing a return to peace of mind. It is as if, as the unattainable horizon was crashing to the ground, it disintegrated into a multitude of debris ready to be picked up: in the current crisis in Europe, the ideal seems to be right there, within reach.

The reactionaries

The most obvious sign of this lifting of the taboo is the return to the European political scene of reactionary thinking and unapologetic nationalism. Their revival is based on a central claim: the right to pride in one’s identity, whether national, masculine, or racial.

The incredible reactionary contagion observed in recent years is based on a dual mechanism. On the one hand, a superficial adherence to the principle of recognizing Europe’s crimes, which serves only to assert that the lessons of history have been learned and that the time has come to move forward with a clear conscience. The best example in France is the success of the rhetoric of the far-right political party National Rally: in recent years, no one talks about the “work of de-demonization” anymore; the discussion now focuses on whether a party with collaborationist origins can be “a friend of the Jews”.

On the other hand, the reactionary political struggle is structured around a veritable hunt for those who cause bad conscience, with “wokism” being the instrumental category that has been in the spotlight in recent times. The figure of the “woke” serves reactionaries to rid themselves of any internal conflict within the European historical consciousness, treating the demand not to have a clear conscience as foreign and hostile. They can thus commit themselves body and soul to a struggle against what restrains their political action. The reactionary future of European individuals can be described as follows: learning to identify as “woke” what, in their own historical consciousness, persists as a guilty conscience. Under this condition, it becomes possible to proudly embrace a fetishized identity.

It is in the variations on the theme of belonging to “Western civilization”—or worse, “Judeo-Christian” civilization—that the spread of this reactionary contagion is most clearly observed. The issue is no longer simply to defend the principles of this civilization — always considered already achieved — against whatever threatens them. This conception of civilization imposes no other requirement than that of its preservation: everything is reduced to a friend/enemy distinction from which can only derive a principled claim to legitimacy to do what we are already doing.

The liberals

So much for the most obvious. The fact remains that the resurgence of reactionary thinking is a symptom of a much broader crisis. In particular, the responsibility of European liberalism cannot be underestimated. Even though we are now seeing the liberal camp sliding down the reactionary slope, we must not forget that it was there that the crisis began.

We can describe what happened by starting with an observation: Europe dreams of peace. This is where its profoundly liberal postwar dynamic is condensed. It dreams of all kinds of peace: social, political, between peoples… That this happens in the realm of dreams is understandable given its taboo on peace of conscience. For in dreams, censorship is lowered, and the most forbidden desires appear to have already been fulfilled. Of course, this has never prevented anyone from waking up in the morning to get back to their hard work; it probably even helps them to bear the demands of it.

However, it seems that one fine day, European liberalism decided to prolong its dream. It allowed itself a long lie-in that never ended. Since then, there has been confusion between engaging in a process aimed at peace and already having it, already possessing it in practice.

When war came knocking on Ukraine’s door, liberal Europe proved incapable of responding coherently. Its claim to have peace—too often, Europeans are liberals only in this respect—works against it and disarms it.

When did this happen? In the 1980s, 1990s? Did the fall of the Berlin Wall and the siren calls of the “end of history” act as a lullaby? What is certain is that at the dawn of the third millennium, European liberalism had become pompous. Nothing since then has shaken it out of the lethargy of those who rest on their laurels.

Internally, political crises and the intensification of social conflicts have been met with arrogance and repression. Dreamers do not like to be disturbed. Externally, the grip of the dream has transformed a power that, by virtue of its history, had a unique voice to be heard, into an assembly of chaplains of peace, pouring out their lessons full of good conscience on the poor of the world. When war knocked on Ukraine’s door, liberal Europe proved incapable of responding coherently. Its claim to have peace—too often, Europeans are liberals only in this respect—works against it and disarms it.

It is therefore not surprising that the liberal dream is turning into a reactionary nightmare: when the status quo on which we thought we could rely is threatened, retreat is the most obvious course of action.

The left faced with the lifting of the taboo

What then of the left? The diagnosis deserves to be nuanced. On the one hand, the left is searching for itself and is divided. On the other hand, hopes of not ending up swallowed up by the crisis can only rest on the forces it represents.

Any diagnosis of the current realignments must start from one observation: European social democracy has shown in recent decades that it has been mired in liberal complacency. At best, it has taken refuge in a losing position of defending social gains, completely losing sight of emancipation as a goal. Those who fail to recognize this are unable to understand what is driving the left today, especially its young activists.

A moral affect is proving to be overdetermining: disgust for the liberal center. This disgust is legitimate, given that it is nothing less than the transgression of a fundamental taboo. For liberal slumber is not simple passivity: it marks the settling into an incestuous dream in which the the ideal of European peace has already been achieved, making any prospect of emancipation impossible. Those who turn away from it are therefore not mistaken.

The remnants of the left today are therefore driven by an imperative to wake up. This gives rise to paradoxical situations: the “radical” left, despite its anti-capitalist slogan, often mobilizes ideals that are not very different from those of social democracy—demanding equality and justice at home, and commitment to international law and peace abroad. But we must be sensitive to one perception: the center-left has been contaminated by a fault that makes it unfit for public life.

The divide has thus been structured around a dichotomy. On the one hand, there is the institutional left, which administers the system as it is—and what is, from the modern perspective of emancipation, is necessarily the locus of injustice. On the other, the radical left, seeking to tear away the veil of the liberal dream in order to resume the quest for emancipation—which has mainly translated into a desire for intensity that must take to the streets.

A moral affect proves to be overdetermining for the contemporary left: disgust for the liberal center. A legitimate disgust, in the face of what is nothing less than the transgression of a fundamental prohibition.

In France, the protests against the 2016 Labor Law led to “Nuit Debout”⁵ (of which Lordon was an enthusiastic speaker in the early evenings). On one side was the left wing of the Socialist Party, which turned a blind eye to injustice even during the day. On the other was the radical left, which refused to sleep, even at night. The “Nuit Debout” crowd certainly included many dreamers. But it was a waking dream: the agitation served to prevent sleep and to experience a collective that embodied ideals desperately absent from the daytime present.

Is waking up and fleeing sleep the same thing? This question—which boils down to asking whether a definitive awakening is possible, whether the illusion can be shattered once and for all—is crucial. For if the Great Evening consists of eternal insomnia, then it precludes all reflexivity and condemns itself to knowing no other tomorrow than exhaustion. What is at stake here is the cyclical nature of political action, its ability to be punctuated by moments of surrender to sleep, where the lowering of censorship allows us to touch the ideal in our dreams, and moments of awakening, where we experience the unbridgeable gap that separates us from it. In this alternation, the ability to be affected by the guilt associated with approaching the taboo plays a decisive role.

“Nuit Debout” has run out of steam. Like other social movements since then, it has stumbled over the difficulty of converting what was initially a moral agitation—disgust at the injustice of the status quo—into a political goal.

And as the experience was repeated, the agitation grew, without finding any direction.

For part of the left, then, enthusiasm for justice and truth—without which the process of emancipation would be impossible—turned into frenzy. Enthusiasm, in the religious sense of the term, reflects a call from the sacred, like a permission to approach despite the taboo. As such, it is not incompatible with reflexivity—quite the contrary. But there is a difference between hearing the call of an unattainable horizon and being consumed by fervor.

We say that a machine or a mount is running wild when its pace becomes frantic and it loses sight of the horizon as the regulating principle of its activity. The same can be said of the left when it allows itself to be carried away by enthusiasm, in a movement of anticipation devoid of any feedback effect.

The ideal is radically absent, and yet only a diaphanous film separates us from it—it is already right there, we just need to get rid of what is holding us back to touch it.

In this sense, the left’s enthusiasm only reinforces Europe’s political crisis—or is merely a reflection of it, since this crisis coincides with a general lifting of the taboo that has defined post-Shoah Europe: the prohibition of a peaceful conscience.

There is something paradoxical about this solidarity between the radical left and the rest of the European political forces. It is in the name of justice and truth that the left criticizes the dreamy slumber of liberalism and the prideful identity of reactionaries—it is therefore in order to uphold the taboo weighing on these ideals that it opposes them. And yet, it too is working for the same cause: to have a clear conscience.

How does it achieve this? By fleeing into pure intensity. A frantic race, a dizzying impossibility to stop, fueled by moral emotions—disgust, horror—that continually restart the machine. We recognize this tendency toward volatility in causes, which follow one another like whims and spin endlessly. The injustice of the present ceases to be the object of a search: it becomes an eternally repeated discovery, a source of jubilation.

For each time, what drives the frenzy is reaffirmed: the present is unliveable, it is nothing but crime and deception. But it is also claimed that all we need to do is tear away the veil of illusion to bring justice and truth within reach. The ideal is radically absent, and yet only a diaphanous film separates us from it—it is already right there, we just need to get rid of what is holding us back to touch it.

The “radical” left, then, finds causes to get excited about: without them, it would feel stuck in a present with no way out. And if these causes can keep it awake at night—something that the tedious debate over internal politics is no longer capable of doing—so much the better: insomniac agitation means never having to wake up.

The anti-Zionist frenzy

The extraordinary speed with which large sections of the left rallied to the anti-Zionist cause will not have escaped anyone’s notice. Some were ready on the morning of October 7, while most did not wait for Israel’s response. This is not a matter of criticizing the criminal policies pursued by the Israeli government in Gaza or the West Bank, but rather of anti-Zionism.

Lordon’s text has provided us with a criterion for distinguishing between the two with confidence. The criterion is simple: what defines anti-Zionism is an enthusiasm for the idea that the end of Zionism will free us, here in Europe, from what has inhibited the pursuit of emancipation.

The convergence of the left’s tendency toward enthusiasm and anti-Zionism was therefore inevitable. It manifested itself during an escalation of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but it was bound to happen.

Why? Because a left that acts as if claiming emancipation is enough to have a clear conscience was bound to stumble over the question of the Shoah, antisemitism, and Israel. It is precisely here that the infallibility of the European project of universal emancipation has been most radically questioned. And on this point, there is no escaping: an ideological framework is needed to justify that the question does not arise.

In this sense, anti-Zionism is the point at which the diffuse enthusiasm of the left, in a general context of lifting the post-Shoah taboo, achieves a form of ideological consistency.

We have seen this ideological framework gradually take shape on the left as the issue of antisemitism has come to preoccupy social movements in recent decades. “Is it possible that those who rebel against injustice may stray along the way?” The question arises as soon as we recognize that the search for justice and truth is not without detours. But the architects of denial were quick to shut it down with an ideological response.

They took note of the attempts at disqualification coming from the right—which were entirely predictable—and used them as an excuse for reflexivity: the question no longer arose. When the facts could not be downplayed, they took refuge in the explanation of false consciousness: the misguidance of the dominated was the product of domination that simply needed to be lifted. Sometimes the projective truth of their position was stated: “the system wants to prevent us from thinking.”

What characterizes anti-Zionism is an enthusiasm for the idea that the end of Zionism will free us, here in Europe, from what has inhibited the pursuit of emancipation.

As this mechanism took hold, the possibility of differentiating between questioning and disqualification faded. Those on the left who dared to raise the question of emancipation again—that is, who did not take its anticipation for granted—came to be treated as political enemies. And on October 7, the dividing line that was emerging within the left became clear around the question of Zionism. On one side were the anti-Zionists. On the other were those who came to be labeled “left-wing Zionists”.

The opposition, however, did not initially revolve around the issue of Israel’s existence—since, until proven otherwise, LFI’s anti-Zionism supports the two-state solution. No, it was purely a question of reflexivity: can October 7—and here the parallel with the Holocaust comes into play for the left—be integrated into the grand narrative of emancipation while leaving it intact?

The anti-Zionist left answered yes without hesitation: nothing in this event called into question the peace of its conscience. The fact that this position—which refuses to question the pursuit of emancipation through the prism of a massacre targeting Jews—claims to be anti-Zionist is simply an expression of historical truth.

For the meaning of Zionism, from a European perspective, is irrevocably linked to the recognition that it was within this Europe, which sought the emancipation of all, that a Jewish question was formulated, which found the solution we know. Zionism is therefore linked to the awareness that no principle, no ideal, no institution can absolutely guarantee against the internal danger to the quest for emancipation that is antisemitism.

From a slip of the tongue as a political symptom

That anti-Zionism believes itself exempt from having to confront the fallibility of emancipation—and therefore the requirement of reflexivity—is sometimes stated explicitly. This is the case with Lordon, in the passage quoted at the beginning:

“And yet here is the bone of contention: the question of Zionism, the axiom that had to be preserved at all costs, whether through silencing or contrition, but which maintains the essential—the place where, during the great reversal, repression continues. Socialists and environmentalists, aligned since October 7 with the colonial camp, denying seventy-seven years of occupation, censors of all voices that tried to make the Palestinian cause heard, silent on the massacre until permission to speak was given, socialists and environmentalists voted a month ago for the infamous university censorship law that renews the equality of anti-Zionism and antisemitism—and penalizes the former in the name of the latter. And this, to add to the absurdity, even though the category of Zionism is the only way to avoid indiscriminately accusing all Jews of a crime that many of them do not recognize as their own. Thus, anti-Zionism is not equivalent to antisemitism: it is the only bulwark against it.”

This last sentence sets out a proposal for a post-post-Shoah European policy: to replace the Zionist bulwark with an anti-Zionist bulwark. What will guarantee the solidity of the latter? Nothing, except the seriousness with which Lordon proclaims that anti-Zionism holds, in principle, the right criterion for discriminating between innocent Jews and guilty Jews. What is effectively protected, as we understand, is not Jews as such – it is the peace of mind of anti-Zionists.

As for the fact that this proposal can only be expressed at the cost of a telling slip of the tongue—which, by exempting Europeans from fighting their potential antisemitism, makes anti-Zionism “the only bulwark” against it—we must simply take note of it.

After the Shoah, the revival of the European emancipation project required vigilance, to be collectively refined and individually assumed. This is what we have called here the taboo on peace of conscience. It represented a civilizational advance, which support for Israel—a refuge state reminding Europe of its fallibility—came to recall.

*

Today, the reactionary drift of this state demonstrates what we already knew: its emancipation project is also fallible. But Europe seems to be seizing the opportunity to rid itself of what, by restraining its political action, had reoriented its project. Our reactionary nationalists illustrate the possibility of support for Israel without the post-Shoah taboo. Our anti-Zionists show that we can get rid of it in another way: by purging European historical consciousness of the meaning found in Zionism, which leads to an unthinking anticipation of emancipation. As for the liberals, they are snoring.

Three figures, then, of the same lifting of the taboo. Three ways to have a clear conscience: pride in identity, dogmatic slumber, jubilant enthusiasm. Three dead ends.

Avoiding being engulfed in this crisis means admitting that the demands of a taboo are ultimately based on nothing more than the weight they impose on our consciences. No external element—no state, no institution, no narrative—can enforce them on our behalf. This means that Europe’s historical responsibility was engaged in the need for a refuge for Jews, and nothing else. But necessity does not mean infallibility—neither yesterday nor today.

From a European perspective, Zionism is therefore linked to the awareness that no principle, no ideal, no institution can absolutely guarantee against the internal danger to the quest for emancipation that is antisemitism.

One question remains, which this text has only touched upon: what would a left be that would accept this fallibility without complacency? One that would maintain the demand for emancipation without claiming to have already achieved it, or getting carried away as if it were already within reach? In other words, a left that would accept not having a clear conscience—and make this the driving force behind its actions rather than an obstacle to be overcome.

This left remains to be built. But it can only be built on the condition that it recognizes that the Jewish question is not an accident in the history of European emancipation: it is its most acute revelation. Not because Jews are ontologically innocent, but because it is on them that the fallibility of the project has crystallized in the most radical way. To act as if this crystallization could be erased—through the “moral suicide” of the Jewish signifier, through the “end of innocence”—is precisely to repeat the very act that one claims to be warding off: to believe that the issue has been settled.

Lordon’s slip of the tongue reveals this truth in spite of himself: anti-Zionism as he defends it is not a bulwark against antisemitism, but rather what reinforces it—what protects it by making it unthinkable. By relieving human beings of their feelings of guilt, we inevitably turn them into scoundrels. Freud knew this. Lordon, clearly, has chosen to forget it.

1. https://blog.mondediplo.net/le-sionisme-et-son-destin ↩︎
2. https://blog.mondediplo.net/la-fin-de-l-innocence ↩︎
3. https://blog.mondediplo.net/le-sionisme-et-son-destin ↩︎
4. See in K. : «The Jewish question in the 21st century, or the state of European political consciousness» by Julia Christ ↩︎
5. “Nuit Debout” can be translated into “Up all night”. ↩︎