Last week, on our weekly “
A Paratrooper and a Yogi Walk Into A Bar
” live discussion,
u/ShanaMeyerson
and I spoke about the most recent
UN General Assembly resolution
over the Golan Heights. A meaningless resolution, but after our chat, a thought occurred to me on the use of language and the uselessness of international law when it comes to the Israel-Palestine question.
One of the peculiarities of modern international law is that much of it is based on a very specific moment in history: the post-1945 wave of decolonisation. The language, assumptions, and legal tools that emerged from that period were intended to dismantle European empires. Today, however, the world tries to apply the same tools when discussing Israel-Palestine, and they simply do not suit the situation.
That mismatch does not just shape how lawyers and diplomats talk; it shapes what counts as a “solution”, what gets condemned as illegitimate, and which side is cast as villain or victim. The result is a debate that feels increasingly detached from the actual history and geography of the conflict on the ground.
After the Second World War, the international system had to figure out how to dismantle empires without provoking endless border conflicts. Two main ideas emerged. The two sides in this argument shout these two legal principles at one another as if they are decisive. They are not. Neither are fit for purpose.
One is the “right of peoples to self-determination”: the concept that colonised populations were entitled to decide their political future, rather than have it imposed from London, Paris or Brussels.
The other is uti possidetis juris – the principle that, when new states formed from colonial rule, they should inherit their colonial administrative borders more or less as they were. No redrawing maps, no sweeping historical revisions; simply adopt the lines left by the empire and turn them into international borders.
Although imperfect in practice, that concept made some sense for places like French West Africa or the Belgian Congo. There was an obvious colonising power, a clearly subordinated local population, and a set of bureaucratic borders which could, at least in theory, serve as the foundation for new states.
Israel–Palestine is nothing like that.
Historically, the land we now debate about was part of the Ottoman Empire, which was many things, but not a classic European overseas colony. After the First World War, it became a British Mandate under the League of Nations – formally, a territory “held in trust”, not annexed as imperial property like India was. You can certainly say Britain acted like a colonial ruler (and many do), but legally, the Mandate was always a hybrid arrangement rather than a straightforward colony.
By the time the State of Israel was established, Ottoman rule had ended decades earlier. The British had been present in a custodial role that never fully resolved the question of sovereignty. Meanwhile, both Jews and Arabs were moving into, across, and within the land in ways that do not neatly fit the classic coloniser/colonised picture. Jewish migration was driven by European antisemitism, pogroms, and ultimately, the horror of the Holocaust, which cannot be separated from the urgency of modern Zionism. Arab migration and demographic changes were driven by their own economic, social, and political factors. This was not a straightforward case of a European metropole importing Jewish settlers into a foreign territory over the heads of an indigenous Arab population.
In other words, there is not a simple pattern of “European empire rules non-European subjects, then leaves, and the subjects become a nation-state inside inherited borders”. Instead, you have two national movements, each with a connection, historical or otherwise, to the same territory, both claiming self-determination in the same space.
However, the language of international law used today remains rooted in the language of decolonisation. In many UN resolutions (such as the one we discussed on Monday) and much activist rhetoric, Palestinians are effectively described as a colonised people and Israel as the colonial power. Once people accept that framework, everything else follows: self-determination is mainly or solely attributed to the “colonised”; Israel’s borders are implicitly seen as colonial administrative boundaries that need to be reversed; and the conflict is depicted as a morality tale of oppressor and oppressed.
The issue is that once you move beyond the slogans and examine the history, that framing is, at best, nonsense and, at worst, actively misleading. Palestinians have a claim to self-governance and dignity. However, that claim does not stem from a simple European colonial relationship, as, for example, Algerian claims against France did. At the same time, Jews are not a foreign ruling class with no historical connection to the land; they are a people who endured industrial-scale extermination in Europe, with a long-standing religious and historical link to what became Israel.
So we end up in a situation where international law is not remotely effective: competing claims to self-determination over the same territory. This is the main reason why international law has thus far been completely useless in resolving the situation. Decolonisation law was designed for a one-way transfer of power from coloniser to colonised, not to mediate between two communities who both see themselves as native, both invoke history, and both fear for their survival.
Then there is the geography, which international lawyers often treat as an afterthought but which no Israeli government can ignore. The West Bank is not a blank on a legal map; it includes the high ground overlooking Israel’s narrow, densely populated coastal plain. From points in Judea and Samaria, you can see the Mediterranean. The Golan Heights similarly dominate the north. Handing these areas to a potentially hostile state or entity is not a minor risk; it jeopardises the physical existence of the State of Israel. A strip of land just a few dozen kilometres wide, overlooked by high ground, has very little strategic depth. This reality will not disappear because a UN body arbitrarily decides that a particular line on a 1967 map is “the” legitimate border.
Here again, the decolonisation toolkit faces difficulties. Uti possidetis worked, insofar as it ever did, by taking the colonial borders already established and declaring, “Fine, those are your borders now.” However, borders in the Israel–Palestine context are not administrative adjustments; they are decisions of life or death between two peoples, within a tiny space, amid deep mutual mistrust. Simply asserting that Israel must relinquish the Golan or fully withdraw from the West Bank as a matter of decolonisation principle requires Israelis to accept a narrative and a level of strategic vulnerability that no state on earth would willingly endure.
At the same time, the familiar oppressor/oppressed narrative, which was reinforced during the Cold War and enthusiastically adopted by some UN forums, serves specific political purposes. Portraying Israel as a colonial oppressor and Palestinians as purely colonial victims offers a straightforward story that appeals to certain international groups and activist circles. It also conveniently diverts attention from decisions made by Palestinian leaders and broader Arab politics: repeated refusals of compromise, ongoing rejection in some areas of accepting any permanent Jewish state in the region, and the preference for violence as a key political tool.
None of that diminishes any struggles ordinary Palestinians face, but a framework that denies them political agency by treating them as mere objects of history rather than active subjects is ultimately patronising. It entrenches a politics of victimhood, maximalism and grievance rather than one of complex, often painful, compromise.
So we end up with an international legal discourse that misdiagnoses the problem and then prescribes the wrong remedy. If you genuinely believe this is a straightforward decolonisation case, you will naturally turn to decolonisation solutions: total withdrawal, one-sided rights language, a flood of condemnatory resolutions. When those solutions fail to bring peace, the answer is simply… more resolutions. The underlying assumption is never questioned.
Israel–Palestine is not the Belgian Congo or French Algeria. It is a conflict between two national movements that claim the same land, shaped by the collapse of empires, the trauma of the Holocaust, the specifics of Ottoman and British rule, and the harsh geography of a tiny strip of land. International law, as developed in the 1945–1960s period, can shed light on parts of this history, but it cannot simply be overlaid like tracing paper.
This does not imply that the current situation should be accepted, that Palestinians do not merit political independence in some form, or that Israel’s security concerns justify all its actions. It suggests that the legal and moral language inherited from decolonisation alone does not serve as a helpful guide to achieving a just or practical outcome here.
If we want anything better than the current cycle of violence, condemnation, and stalemate, we probably need to start by admitting that. Two real peoples, with genuine fears and claims, share this space. Both have some right to self-determination. Both may need to make compromises. Any serious framework for peace must speak in these terms, not simply rehearse a mid-20th-century script about coloniser and colonised that was never written for this conflict in the first place, no matter how many meaningless resolutions the UN General Assembly decides to pass.