As Irish nationalists and loyalists project their own histories onto the Israel-Palestine conflict, a tangled web of revolutionary inspiration, imperial policing, military service and working-class solidarity reveals a past far more complicated than either side often admits.

By Tim Flynn

Irish people have a deeply ingrained habit of seeing themselves in other people's conflicts. For Irish nationalists, the Palestinians often appear as the latest chapter in a familiar story of occupation, dispossession and resistance. For many loyalists, Israel is viewed as a kindred society: a small democracy surrounded by enemies and forced to defend itself against terrorism. Both narratives contain elements of truth. Yet neither survives entirely intact when confronted by the historical record.

The problem is not sympathy itself. People are entitled to support Israel or Palestine for whatever reasons they choose. The difficulty begins when modern political loyalties are projected backwards onto history and transformed into supposedly natural alliances. Once that happens, complexity gives way to mythology. The historical relationship between Ireland, Zionism, Israel and Palestine is far more tangled than either side usually admits. Irish nationalists helped build Israel. Irish soldiers fought for it. Zionist militants drew inspiration from Irish revolutionaries. Former Black and Tans served in Palestine. Jewish communities sheltered Irish nationalists, while Irish workers defended Jewish neighbours against fascism. The closer one looks, the less convincing the tidy analogies become.

One of the most striking examples concerns Michael Collins. Today, Irish republicans often invoke Palestine through the language of anti-colonial resistance, presenting Ireland and Palestine as participants in a shared historical tradition. Yet some of the Jewish underground organisations that fought the British in Mandatory Palestine saw themselves in similar terms. Many Zionist leaders studied anti-imperial movements across the world, including Ireland's struggle against Britain. The Irish War of Independence offered a compelling example of how a relatively small insurgent movement could challenge one of the world's most powerful empires through intelligence gathering, political organisation and guerrilla tactics. Collins's methods attracted attention far beyond Ireland and became part of a broader international conversation about irregular warfare.

The connection was not merely theoretical. Yitzhak Shamir, the future Prime Minister of Israel and a leader of the militant Lehi organisation, adopted the underground codename "Michael" in honour of Michael Collins. In later years Shamir acknowledged the influence Collins had exerted on his thinking. British officials also frequently drew comparisons between Ireland and Palestine, seeing in both places a similar combination of intelligence warfare, political violence and contested sovereignty. None of this means Irish republicanism and Zionism were identical movements, nor does it mean they pursued the same political goals. It does, however, challenge the assumption that Irish history and Zionist history occupied entirely separate worlds.

That historical overlap creates an uncomfortable irony for both sides of contemporary Irish politics. Irish republicans often emphasise the similarities between Ireland and Palestine while overlooking the extent to which some Zionist militants viewed Irish revolutionaries as role models. Loyalists, meanwhile, frequently identify with the modern State of Israel but often pay less attention to the fact that some of the men who helped create that state spent years fighting the British Crown. The histories overlap in ways that neither narrative entirely accommodates.

The loyalist relationship with Israel is itself worth examining. In many loyalist districts across Northern Ireland, Israeli flags are displayed as symbols of solidarity. The connection usually rests on contemporary concerns rather than historical ones. Israel is seen as a democratic society confronting terrorism and defending itself against hostile armed groups. For many loyalists, that experience resonates with their own understanding of the Troubles. The symbolism is easy to understand. The history is rather more complicated.

The organisations that played decisive roles in the creation of Israel were not defenders of British authority. On the contrary, groups such as the Irgun and Lehi spent years conducting a violent campaign against the British administration in Palestine. Their leaders regarded themselves as insurgents fighting imperial rule. Shamir's admiration for Collins was no historical accident. He recognised in Irish revolutionaries a model of anti-British resistance that he believed relevant to Palestine. Whatever judgement one makes about those movements, their existence complicates the notion of a straightforward historical affinity between Zionism and loyalism. Irish republicans often overlook the Zionists' debt to anti-colonial insurgency. Loyalists often overlook the anti-British origins of parts of the Zionist movement. Both traditions tend to select those elements of history that best reinforce their contemporary political identities.

The connections between Irish and Jewish history were not confined to revolutionary movements and military campaigns. They were also forged in working-class neighbourhoods. On 4 October 1936, Sir Oswald Mosley attempted to march thousands of supporters of the British Union of Fascists through the heavily Jewish districts of London's East End. Whitechapel and Stepney contained substantial Irish and Jewish populations living side by side under difficult economic conditions. Competition for work and housing sometimes created tensions between the communities. Yet when fascism arrived on their streets, those divisions mattered less than solidarity.

Irish dockers, labourers, trade unionists and local families joined Jewish residents in constructing barricades and blocking Mosley's route. Together they resisted police attempts to clear a path and ultimately forced the abandonment of the march. The Battle of Cable Street became one of the defining anti-fascist moments in British history. Irish participation was so significant that it entered the collective memory of both communities. The event demonstrated that Irish and Jewish histories intersected in ways far richer than modern political slogans suggest.

Many participants later remembered Cable Street as more than a fight against fascism. Within the Irish community of the East End there existed a widespread belief that a "debt of honour" was owed to their Jewish neighbours. According to local memory, that debt stretched back to the great London Dock Strike of 1912. During that dispute, when many Irish dockworkers and their families faced severe hardship, Jewish families were remembered for helping to feed and care for Irish children. Whether every detail can now be conclusively verified matters less than the fact that the story became part of community memory. Twenty-four years later, when Mosley's Blackshirts attempted to intimidate Jewish residents, many Irish workers regarded their participation in the resistance as the repayment of an old obligation.

The image of Irish dockers and Jewish residents standing shoulder-to-shoulder at Cable Street sits uneasily beside modern attempts to portray Irish and Jewish experiences as naturally opposed. The history points towards cooperation rather than antagonism. It suggests that relationships between communities are shaped over generations through shared experiences, mutual aid and common struggles. Such realities are often forgotten when foreign conflicts become vehicles for local political identities.

Another popular analogy concerns the Black and Tans. Among some Irish nationalists it is frequently claimed that, having left Ireland, the Black and Tans simply reappeared in Palestine to continue their methods against another colonised people. As with many political myths, there is enough truth in the story to sustain it. Former members of the Royal Irish Constabulary and its Auxiliary Division did indeed find employment in Palestine after the creation of the Irish Free State. Hundreds joined the Palestine Gendarmerie and later the Palestine Police. Their experience in Ireland made them attractive recruits for a British administration confronting security challenges elsewhere in the empire.

Yet the reality was more complicated than the popular story suggests. The Black and Tans were not transferred as an institution from Ireland to Palestine. The organisation had been disbanded. Many former members simply sought employment where employment was available. Palestine offered salaries, accommodation and career opportunities that were increasingly difficult to find elsewhere in a shrinking empire. This observation does not excuse the conduct of any individual officer nor deny the continuity between British security practices in Ireland and Palestine. It does, however, challenge the simplistic image of London redeploying a single coherent force from one colonial struggle to another. History is often driven by economics and circumstance as much as ideology.

The career of Roy Farran illustrates the same complexity. Farran, who came from an Irish Catholic background, became one of the most celebrated officers of the wartime SAS before later serving in Palestine during Britain's struggle against Jewish underground organisations. His role there made him one of the most controversial figures of the Palestine Emergency. Yet he fits comfortably into neither nationalist nor loyalist narratives. He was not a Zionist hero. He was not a Palestinian partisan. Nor was he merely a caricature of imperial authority. He was a professional soldier fascinated by irregular warfare, intelligence operations and counter-insurgency. Like many officers of his generation, he moved between conflicts and absorbed lessons from each.

Farran's story is a reminder that Irish identity, imperial service and Middle Eastern history frequently overlapped. For many people living through the final decades of the British Empire, these were not separate worlds. Irish Catholics served the empire. Zionists studied Irish revolutionaries. British officials compared Palestine with Ireland. The historical actors themselves often moved comfortably across categories that later generations would regard as contradictory.

The strongest challenge to simplistic nationalist narratives comes from the creation of Israel itself. During the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, thousands of overseas volunteers served with Israeli forces through the organisation known as Machal. Among the countries represented was Ireland. The most famous Irish participant was Mike Flanagan from Foxford, County Mayo. A veteran of the British Army who had fought during the Second World War, Flanagan subsequently found himself serving in Mandatory Palestine as Britain prepared to withdraw.

In June 1948, Flanagan and a fellow soldier transferred two British Cromwell tanks to Jewish forces. Those tanks became part of the foundation of Israel's armoured corps. Flanagan subsequently fought for Israel, settled there, converted to Judaism and adopted the name Michael Peleg. His story fits comfortably into neither modern nationalism nor modern loyalism. An Irishman from County Mayo not only supported the new Jewish state but actively contributed to its military survival. Whatever conclusions one draws from that fact, it demonstrates how badly real lives fit into contemporary political narratives.

The relationship between Irish nationalism and Jewish identity is equally resistant to simplistic interpretation. Modern discussions often assume that Irish nationalists and Irish Jews occupied separate political worlds. The historical record suggests otherwise. Accounts preserved within Dublin's Jewish community describe episodes of sympathy and cooperation during the struggle for Irish independence. Stories collected by genealogist Stuart Rosenblatt recount how Michael Collins allegedly found assistance among Jewish residents while evading British forces. According to community tradition, members of Dublin's Jewish community helped conceal Collins from searches and patrols, and one version even describes him disguising himself as an elderly Jewish worshipper on his way to synagogue.

Whether every detail of the story can be confirmed matters less than its broader significance. The story survived because it reflected a deeper reality. Many Irish Jews supported the cause of Irish independence while remaining committed to their own Jewish identity. The most notable example was Robert Briscoe, who assisted the IRA's procurement efforts during the War of Independence before later becoming Lord Mayor of Dublin. Jews and Irish nationalists were not isolated from one another. They lived, worked and often cooperated within the same political and social environment.

This history sits awkwardly beside contemporary efforts to cast Irish and Jewish experiences as fundamentally opposed. The reality was frequently the reverse. Jewish residents helped shelter nationalist leaders. Nationalists found allies and friends within Jewish communities. Irish workers defended Jewish neighbours against fascists in London. Irish volunteers later fought for Israel. Far from pointing neatly in one direction, the history points in several directions simultaneously.

None of this means that modern Irish support for Palestine is mistaken. Nor does it mean that loyalist sympathy for Israel is illegitimate. People are entitled to draw comparisons between historical experiences. The mistake lies in assuming that such comparisons are self-evident, inevitable or supported by a straightforward reading of history. The historical connections between Ireland, Israel and Palestine are too numerous, too contradictory and too fascinating to fit comfortably within any single political narrative.

Irish revolutionaries influenced some of the men who later fought to create Israel. Irish-born volunteers helped defend the new Jewish state. Former members of British forces in Ireland later served in Palestine. Irish workers stood beside Jewish neighbours at Cable Street. Members of Dublin's Jewish community helped protect one of the most famous figures in Irish nationalism. The closer one looks, the less convincing the familiar analogies become. The history of Ireland, Israel and Palestine does not point neatly towards either side of the modern conflict. It points instead towards the complexity of human relationships, overlapping loyalties and unexpected alliances.

Perhaps that is the real lesson. History is rarely tribal. People are.

About the Author

TS Flynn is an Irish-Australian writer and commentator whose work focuses on Irish history, public policy, governance and the Irish diaspora. His writing explores the intersection of history, culture, literature and political memory, with a particular interest in the stories and traditions that continue to shape Irish identity across the world.

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