The Problem with Ireland’s Israel–Palestine Analogies

As Irish nationalists and loyalists project their own histories onto the Israel-Palestine conflict, the historical connections between Ireland, Jews, Zionists, Israelis and Palestinians reveal a story far more entangled than either side usually admits.

By Tim Flynn

Irish people have a habit of finding their own history in other people's conflicts. For Irish nationalists, Palestine often appears as a familiar story of occupation, dispossession and resistance. For many loyalists, Israel represents a democratic society confronting hostile neighbours and political violence. These competing identifications have become so commonplace that they are often treated as natural extensions of Irish history itself.

Yet history is rarely so accommodating. The relationship between Ireland and the conflict in Palestine is not a story of two clearly opposing camps. Instead, it is a web of intersecting loyalties, shared experiences and unexpected personal connections. Long before the modern political symbolism of Palestinian and Israeli flags appeared on Irish streets, Irish revolutionaries influenced Zionist militants, Irish workers defended Jewish communities from fascism, members of Dublin's Jewish community supported Irish nationalists, former policemen from Ireland served in Palestine, and Irish volunteers helped build the military forces of the new State of Israel.

The result is a historical record that sits uneasily with many contemporary assumptions.

One of the most surprising connections emerged from the Irish revolutionary tradition itself. During the struggle against British rule in Palestine, some Jewish underground leaders looked closely at Ireland's experience. The Irish War of Independence demonstrated how a relatively small insurgent movement could challenge a global empire through intelligence networks, clandestine organisation and targeted violence. Among those who took an interest in Ireland's example was Yitzhak Shamir, the future Prime Minister of Israel and a leader of the underground Lehi organisation. Shamir adopted the nom de guerre "Michael" in honour of Michael Collins, whom he regarded as a model of anti-British resistance.

The significance of this connection is often overlooked. Modern Irish discussions frequently present nationalism and Zionism as belonging to entirely different historical traditions. Yet some of the men who would later help create Israel openly admired Irish revolutionaries and studied their methods. British officials recognised the similarities as well. Throughout the Mandate period they regularly compared the security challenges of Palestine with those they had previously confronted in Ireland. The parallels were never perfect, but they were significant enough to be noticed by participants on both sides.

These links do not mean that Irish republicanism and Zionism were identical movements. They clearly were not. Nor do they erase the profound differences that emerged after the establishment of Israel. What they do demonstrate is that the historical relationship between the two traditions was far more interconnected than modern political narratives often suggest.

The same complexity appears when examining modern loyalist sympathy for Israel. In parts of Northern Ireland, Israeli flags have become familiar symbols within loyalist communities. The reasons are understandable. Many unionists identify with Israel as a democratic state confronting armed non-state groups and struggling to maintain its security in a hostile environment.

Yet this identification often overlooks an awkward fact. The Zionist underground organisations that contributed to Israel's creation spent years fighting the British Crown. Leaders such as Yitzhak Shamir were not defenders of imperial authority but opponents of it. The same movement that later became associated with statehood and national defence began, in part, as a campaign against British rule. The irony is striking. Some Irish republicans identify with Palestinians while overlooking the admiration certain Zionist militants held for Irish revolutionaries. Some loyalists identify with Israel while overlooking the anti-British origins of some of its founding movements. In both cases, contemporary politics encourages selective readings of the past.

The relationship between Irish and Jewish communities was not limited to political movements or constitutional struggles. It was also forged in working-class neighbourhoods. Nowhere was this more evident than during the Battle of Cable Street in London in 1936. When Sir Oswald Mosley attempted to march thousands of Blackshirts through the Jewish districts of the East End, Irish and Jewish residents found themselves confronting a common threat. Irish dockers, labourers and trade unionists joined Jewish residents in erecting barricades and blocking the fascist march. Together they forced the abandonment of the procession in one of the defining anti-fascist confrontations of the twentieth century.

What made the event particularly significant was the memory that surrounded it. Within sections of the East End Irish community there existed a belief that a debt of honour was owed to their Jewish neighbours. That memory stretched back to the London Dock Strike of 1912, when Jewish families were remembered for assisting Irish workers and their children during periods of hunger and hardship. Whether every detail of that tradition can now be verified is less important than its influence upon community memory. By 1936 many Irish workers believed they had an obligation to stand beside their Jewish neighbours. The resulting solidarity became one of the most enduring legacies of Cable Street.

Another enduring historical claim concerns the Black and Tans. Nationalist narratives often suggest that, after leaving Ireland, the Black and Tans simply reappeared in Palestine to apply the same methods against another people. There is a kernel of truth here. Former members of the Royal Irish Constabulary and its Auxiliary Division did indeed find employment within Palestine's security forces after Irish independence.

However, the popular version of the story often overlooks important context. The Black and Tans were not transferred intact as an organisation. They had already been disbanded. Many of the men who later served in Palestine were veterans looking for employment within a shrinking British Empire. Palestine offered opportunities that were increasingly scarce elsewhere. This does not negate the continuity that existed between British security policies in Ireland and Palestine, but it does complicate the image of a deliberate institutional redeployment from one colonial conflict to another.

The career of Roy Farran offers another example of how resistant this history is to ideological categorisation. Farran came from an Irish Catholic background and became one of the most accomplished officers of the wartime SAS. Later he served in Palestine during Britain's conflict with Jewish underground organisations. To modern eyes, his career appears full of contradictions. Yet those contradictions were common in the late imperial world. Individuals moved between Ireland, Britain, Palestine and other parts of the Empire with remarkable ease. Political identities, religious backgrounds and military careers frequently overlapped in ways that defy modern expectations.

Perhaps the strongest challenge to simplistic narratives comes from the creation of Israel itself. During the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, thousands of overseas volunteers joined Israeli forces through the organisation known as Machal. Among them were volunteers from Ireland. The best known was Mike Flanagan from County Mayo. A veteran of the British Army, Flanagan later served in Palestine and, following Britain's withdrawal, helped transfer two British Cromwell tanks to Jewish forces. He subsequently fought for Israel, converted to Judaism and settled in the country.

Flanagan's story does not fit neatly into modern Irish political categories. An Irishman from Mayo helped lay part of the foundation of Israel's armoured corps. His life serves as a reminder that individuals often make choices that have little regard for the political narratives later generations attempt to impose upon them.

The history of Irish Jews presents similar complications. Contemporary political debates sometimes imply a natural divide between Irish nationalism and Jewish identity. Yet historical experience points in a different direction. Members of Dublin's Jewish community participated actively in Irish public life and, in some cases, supported the cause of Irish independence. The most famous example was Robert Briscoe, who assisted the IRA during the War of Independence before eventually becoming Lord Mayor of Dublin.

Stories preserved within Dublin's Jewish community also recount how Michael Collins found assistance among Jewish residents while evading British authorities. According to these accounts, members of the community helped shelter Collins from searches and surveillance. Whether every detail can be proven is ultimately less important than what these stories reveal about the relationship between the two communities. The image of Michael Collins receiving assistance from Dublin Jews sits awkwardly beside modern attempts to depict Irish and Jewish histories as naturally antagonistic.

Taken individually, each of these episodes might be dismissed as an historical curiosity. Taken together, they tell a different story. Michael Collins inspired Yitzhak Shamir. Irish workers defended Jewish neighbours at Cable Street. Members of Dublin's Jewish community sheltered Irish revolutionaries. Former RIC personnel served in Palestine. Roy Farran fought Jewish insurgents. Mike Flanagan helped build Israel's armoured corps.

These are not the stories of two separate historical traditions moving in opposite directions. They are the stories of traditions that repeatedly intersected.

None of this means that support for Palestine is misguided. Nor does it mean that support for Israel is illegitimate. People are free to draw whatever political conclusions they wish from contemporary events. What history cautions against is the belief that the past points naturally and exclusively towards one side of the conflict.

The historical relationship between Ireland, Israel and Palestine is richer, more complicated and more contradictory than the political symbolism of the present allows. That complexity may be frustrating for those seeking historical validation for contemporary positions. It is, however, a more honest reflection of the past.

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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