LAST WEEK, Amsterdam found itself in the global spotlight, grappling with a headline that painted the city in shades of “antisemitism.” Ten Israeli football fans, injured in a street brawl, prompted King Willem-Alexander and a chorus of Dutch officials to swiftly denounce the incident as a hate crime against Jews, echoing “dark and grim times.” For Malaysians observing this narrative, there’s something missing—a context lost between the words and the worldview, a crucial distinction we rarely see: the difference between Zionism and Judaism.
For those less familiar, Zionism is a political movement, founded on the idea of creating a Jewish state in historic Palestine. Judaism, on the other hand, is a faith, a culture, and a diverse community with roots stretching back thousands of years. Not every Jew is a Zionist, just as not every Zionist is Jewish. It’s a difference often misunderstood, particularly in the west, where solidarity with Israel is frequently packaged as an endorsement of the Jewish people as a whole.
In Amsterdam, the scene was set by a match between an Israeli and a Dutch team. Israeli fans arrived, not to cheer their team in friendly competition, but armed with chants that could chill the heart of any observer. One of the loudest: “Why is there no school in Gaza? There are no children left there.” These were words not of sport but of hate—a bold, public celebration of Palestinian suffering. And yet, when Dutch citizens confronted these fans over their pro-genocide rhetoric, the narrative swiftly shifted. Suddenly, it wasn’t about their chants, their violence, or their provocations; it became a story of “antisemitism.” In that moment, the Dutch officials missed the point—or perhaps, chose to.
Why would the Dutch establishment, from King Willem-Alexander down, rush to defend those who incited violence and mocked the deaths of Palestinian children? And why label their own people as antisemitic for opposing those hateful chants? Here in Malaysia, we can recognise this dynamic. We’ve seen how certain labels are wielded to silence criticism, how questioning the actions of a political state—especially one with powerful allies—can be twisted into a condemnation of an entire people or faith.
Perhaps, for the Dutch, it’s a deep-rooted reluctance to examine their own colonial legacy, one entwined with a history of profiting off the oppressed. Centuries as one of Europe’s most notorious colonial powers can do that—can make leaders quick to defend others with similar legacies, quick to uphold an alliance with a nation like Israel, even when its actions demand scrutiny. Malaysia, with its multicultural fabric and awareness of historical struggles, is no stranger to this kind of selective outrage.
What the Netherlands may not see—or may not want to see—is that condemning the violence of Israeli football hooligans isn’t a condemnation of Jews or Judaism. It’s a condemnation of those who choose to endorse violence and hatred, of those who revel in the suffering of others. In Malaysia, where understanding the distinction between political movements and personal beliefs is vital in our diverse society, we could offer the Dutch a lesson or two. – November 13, 2024
Che Ran is a reader of Scoop