The Violence Europe Could Tolerate: Césaire, Whiteness and the Persistence of Colonial Morality

The Violence Europe Discovered When It Came Home

Aimé Césaire's Discourse on Colonialism is often read as an indictment of European imperialism, but its more unsettling intervention concerns the moral formation of Europe itself. Written in the aftermath of the Second World War, Césaire refused the reassuring distinction between a civilised Europe and a barbaric fascism that had temporarily overtaken it. His argument was not that European colonialism and Nazism were historically identical, nor that the Holocaust can be reduced to a colonial event. Rather, he exposed the contradiction by which European societies could condemn extraordinary violence when inflicted upon Europeans while tolerating, rationalising, and administering comparable forms of violence against colonised populations. The significance of Nazism, in Césaire's account, was therefore not simply that Europe had become violent. Europe had long been violent. The crisis arose when practices developed and normalised in the colonial world were directed towards European bodies (Césaire, 2000; Kelley, 2000). Contemporary scholarship continues to identify important connections between colonial practices and European fascism while cautioning against reducing those histories to a simple causal chain (Bernhard, 2016; Viveros-Vigoya, 2020).
This distinction matters because Césaire's argument is frequently reduced to the proposition that colonialism influenced fascism. That formulation is too narrow. His deeper concern was the moral order that made colonialism possible in the first place. European imperialism had created political spaces in which ordinary restrictions on violence could be suspended without destroying Europe's image of itself as civilised. Colonised populations could be dispossessed, subjected to forced labour, imprisoned, massacred or collectively punished while the societies responsible for those acts continued to regard themselves as the principal custodians of civilisation. Colonialism was consequently not a contradiction that existed outside European modernity; it was one of the conditions through which European modernity defined itself.
Césaire's analysis of Nazism becomes especially powerful when read in this context. His claim that Europeans had tolerated the violence of Nazism until that violence was directed towards them was not simply an accusation of hypocrisy. It identified a structure of moral distance. Violence against colonised people could be acknowledged without fundamentally disturbing European self-understanding because the victims had already been placed outside the full moral community of European humanity. When racialised domination entered Europe itself, the same practices acquired a different moral significance. The identity of the victim altered the meaning of the violence.
Hannah Arendt reached a related conclusion in The Origins of Totalitarianism, where she examined the relationship between European imperialism, racial ideology and totalitarian politics. Arendt's account has been debated extensively, particularly because the relationship between colonial violence and Nazism cannot be reduced to a straightforward genealogy. Yet the broader insight remains important: colonialism gave European states experience in organising political life through racial distinctions, exceptional forms of government and the systematic separation of those entitled to political protection from those who were not (Arendt, 1973). More recent historical work has demonstrated specific connections between European fascist colonial projects and Nazi territorial ambitions, including the influence of Italian fascism's colonial experiments on German plans for Eastern Europe (Bernhard, 2016).
Césaire's point can therefore be stated more precisely: Europe did not discover brutality with fascism; it discovered the moral limits of brutality when fascism turned inward.
That distinction exposes something fundamental about the colonial order. The problem was never simply that Europeans committed violence. All political orders contain violence. The colonial problem was that European violence could be interpreted as compatible with civilisation. Conquest became administration; extraction became development; collective punishment became pacification; the destruction of indigenous political structures became modernisation. The colonised population could be made to bear extraordinary violence without the violence necessarily threatening the moral identity of the society imposing it.
This required more than military power. It required a classification of humanity. The colonial subject had to be represented as sufficiently different for domination to appear reasonable. The colonised were therefore not merely governed; they were described, categorised and judged. Their societies could be represented as primitive, their knowledge as superstition, their political resistance as disorder, and their demands for sovereignty as evidence of immaturity. European political and moral categories consequently acquired an authority that extended beyond Europe itself.
The issue was not simply racism in the contemporary sense of individual prejudice. It was the construction of a hierarchy in which one particular historical experience could present itself as the measure of human development.
This is where the history of whiteness becomes indispensable. Whiteness became more than a description of European bodies. It became associated with the position from which civilisation could be defined. Europe could present itself as universal because the colonised had been constructed as particular. The European subject could therefore appear simply as human, while the colonised subject was racialised, ethnicised and culturally marked. The European did not have to announce, “I am the particular.” He could speak from the position of the universal.
W. E. B. Du Bois recognised the significance of this arrangement in his analysis of the global colour line. The racial organisation of modernity was not simply a matter of interpersonal prejudice; it structured political and economic relations between populations that were assigned different degrees of value and belonging (Du Bois, 1903). Charles Mills (1997) subsequently demonstrated how the supposedly universal political subject of modern liberal thought was historically constituted through racial exclusion. Sylvia Wynter (2003) pushed the argument further by questioning the category of “Man” itself: a historically specific conception of the Western human had come to represent itself as humanity.
The consequence is profound. If a particular historical subject becomes the universal subject, then its assumptions acquire the appearance of objectivity.
This is why the problem with European universalism is not simply that Europeans have repeatedly failed to live up to principles they otherwise possess. The more difficult possibility is that the authority to define those principles was itself historically shaped by a racial order. Europe did not merely formulate moral rules and then violate them. It acquired disproportionate power to determine what counted as civilisation, barbarism, legitimate violence, rationality, development and disorder.
Whiteness, in this sense, became epistemic as well as racial. It became a position from which reality could be judged.
This does not mean that every moral principle developed in Europe is false, nor that morality is nothing more than disguised power. Such a conclusion would reproduce the very universalism it seeks to criticise by assuming that no ethical claim can transcend its historical origins. The argument is narrower and more consequential: the authority to declare particular moral judgements universal has never been evenly distributed.
The colonial world demonstrates this repeatedly. European violence was often described in universal terms—civilisation, order, law, progress—while the resistance of colonised populations was treated as culturally specific, irrational or pathological. The moral vocabulary itself was therefore part of the political struggle.
From the standpoint of a Palestinian writing in contemporary Europe, Césaire's argument acquires an additional force. Palestine reveals what happens when the universal claims of European morality encounter a population historically positioned outside the European centre. The question is not simply whether Europe expresses sufficient sympathy for Palestinians. It is whether Palestinian life is granted the same moral intelligibility through which European suffering is ordinarily understood. The difference is visible in the language through which violence is interpreted: Palestinian suffering can become a question of security, while Palestinian resistance is more readily interpreted through terrorism, extremism or disorder. This does not require Europeans to consciously regard Palestinians as less human. Structural hierarchies rarely depend upon such explicit beliefs. They operate through institutions, categories and assumptions that determine whose humanity requires explanation and whose humanity is simply presumed.
This is the point at which Césaire's historical argument becomes a contemporary one. The colonial problem is not merely that Europe once conquered others. It is that Europe developed a moral system capable of separating its self-image as civilised from the violence required to sustain that image.
The question is whether that capacity has disappeared. It has not.

Whiteness, Extraction and the Colonial Present

The formal dissolution of European empires represented a major historical transformation, but decolonisation did not erase the economic and political relations established through colonial rule. Aníbal Quijano's (2000) concept of coloniality of power is useful here because it distinguishes the historical institution of colonialism from the persistence of the classifications and hierarchies through which it organised the modern world. Ostensable political independence changed the formal relationship between European states and their former colonies without necessarily dismantling the global division of labour, patterns of resource dependence and racialised assumptions about development that had emerged under empire.
The contemporary politics of extraction demonstrates the problem. European governments no longer generally describe African resources as colonial possessions. The language is now partnership, investment, development, strategic autonomy and supply-chain security. Yet the material question remains remarkably familiar: where are resources located, who controls their extraction, who captures the greatest share of their value, and which populations bear the environmental and social costs?
Recent historical research on European integration makes this continuity particularly difficult to ignore. Costenaro (2026), examining European industrial and financial cooperation during the final decades of empire, demonstrates how European economic cooperation became materially tied to African iron, aluminium and other strategic resources. The language of partnership and European cooperation did not necessarily replace the asymmetries of colonial extraction; in important cases it helped reorganise them into new corporate and multilateral forms.
The contemporary struggle over Africa's critical minerals presents a related problem. European economies increasingly require African supplies of minerals necessary for renewable energy technologies, digital infrastructure and strategic industries. Current scholarship describes a renewed international competition over African mineral resources in which African states are simultaneously seeking development opportunities and attempting to avoid reproducing older patterns of dependency and extraction (Matthews & Vivoda, 2026).
The issue, then, is not whether contemporary European investment in Africa is “really” colonialism. That question is too crude. It is whether the material inequalities created through colonialism have been sufficiently transformed for the language of partnership to describe a genuinely reciprocal relationship. Achieving political decolonisation does not automatically produce economic decolonisation. Recent research continues to identify the persistence of production and export structures in which former colonies remain disproportionately positioned as suppliers of raw materials rather than beneficiaries of higher-value industrial production (Chitonge, 2025).
Extraction is therefore not simply an economic question. It is a moral one. Colonialism required Europeans to believe that resources located elsewhere could legitimately be reorganised around European needs. The contemporary version does not require the language of possession. It requires only that European prosperity continue to appear conceptually separate from the conditions under which resources are produced elsewhere.
This is one reason Césaire's concept of civilisation remains useful. Civilisation is never simply what a society claims to be. It is also visible in the relationships through which it secures its prosperity.
The same logic appears in European border policy. The contemporary European border increasingly exists outside Europe itself. Migration control is externalised through agreements with states in North Africa and elsewhere, transferring elements of European border enforcement into countries beyond European territory. Scholarship on EU border governance has increasingly examined these arrangements through the histories of colonial administration, racial classification and delegated coercion (Lewicki, 2024). Recent research on the EU's migration and asylum framework argues that externalisation reproduces older patterns in which European powers managed mobility through intermediary territories, financial conditionality and delegated enforcement (Fotou, 2026).
The Mediterranean is therefore not merely a geographical boundary. It has become a political technology for sorting human mobility. European mobility is largely interpreted as freedom. The movement of a wealthy European across borders is evidence of global connectedness, tourism or economic opportunity. The movement of an African, Arab or Asian person towards Europe can instead be framed as pressure, crisis, illegality or threat. The difference is not simply a consequence of individual prejudice. It is built into the legal and political architecture through which mobility is regulated.
Recent research on the southern European border has explicitly connected these policies to a racialised distribution of vulnerability, arguing that border externalisation and militarisation contribute to conditions in which migrant deaths become increasingly normalised as an unfortunate consequence of European security policy (Vives et al., 2024). Other scholarship has described the Mediterranean as a racialised political boundary in which European security is maintained partly through the exposure of non-European populations to detention, abandonment and death (Mbembe, 2019; Prieto-Flores, 2026).
Achille Mbembe's concept of necropolitics is useful here, although it should not become another fashionable term that replaces analysis. His argument is fundamentally about the power to determine who is protected, who is exposed and whose life can be placed in conditions of permanent vulnerability (Mbembe, 2019). Colonial rule provides one of the historical foundations for this form of power. The contemporary border makes its logic visible: European freedom can coexist with the production of spaces in which other people experience prolonged uncertainty, detention, disappearance or death.
The colonial relationship has therefore not survived because Europe secretly maintained its nineteenth-century institutions. It survived because some of the distinctions through which colonial power operated remain politically useful.
This becomes even more apparent in the resurgence of far-right politics. Europe's contemporary far right cannot simply be equated with the fascist movements of the 1930s. Historical specificity matters. Yet the defeat of historical fascism did not abolish the political possibility of racial authoritarianism nor prevents the reborn of fascism. Far-right parties have gained influence across Europe, while mainstream political actors have increasingly incorporated elements of their positions on migration, national identity and political exclusion. Recent scholarship distinguishes between the electoral growth of far-right parties and the broader process through which their ideas become normalised within mainstream political discourse (Heinze & Off, 2026; Newth et al., 2025).
This matters for Césaire because his concern was never merely the existence of fascist parties. His concern was the moral preparation that makes extreme forms of domination conceivable. Colonialism had already demonstrated that a society could construct a population as inferior, threatening or expendable while maintaining a self-image of civilisation. The political danger begins before a fascist regime formally announces itself.
The most important continuity, then, is not institutional but moral. A population can be excluded without being openly declared subhuman. It can be described as a security threat, an illegal population, an economic burden or a demographic danger. Once that representation becomes normal, extraordinary measures become easier to justify. Contemporary European border policy illustrates this process particularly clearly, as scholarship increasingly shows how racialised ideas of threat can be embedded within apparently technical systems of migration management (Aradau & Perret, 2022; Lewicki, 2024).
This is where the question of whiteness returns. Whiteness does not need to announce itself to remain powerful. In fact, its contemporary effectiveness often depends upon being unmarked. The European becomes simply European; the migrant becomes racial. The European individual becomes an individual; the African becomes an ethnic category. The secular European becomes neutral; the Muslim becomes culturally specific. The European standpoint can therefore continue to function as the default while appearing to have no standpoint at all.
This is why the morality produced through whiteness should be understood as subjective morality presented as universal morality. The problem is not that white people are uniquely immoral. The problem is that whiteness historically acquired the authority to make its own particular assumptions appear universal. Its standards of civilisation became civilisation itself.
That distinction is central to understanding Césaire's claim that colonialism “decivilised” the coloniser. The damage was not confined to the colonised. A society repeatedly exposed to domination develops explanations that allow domination to coexist with its moral self-image. Violence becomes necessary. Extraction becomes development. Exclusion becomes security. Resistance becomes irrationality. The victim becomes the problem.
The colonial subject is then required to explain why their suffering deserves recognition. The European subject does not have to.

Palestine and the European Conscience

Palestine brings the contradiction into the present with particular force because it tests whether European claims about universal human rights remain universal when applied to a population whose political status and history challenge Europe's preferred categories. The point is not to suggest that every European government holds the same position on Palestine, nor that European societies are politically homogeneous. They are not. The argument concerns the broader moral framework within which Palestinian suffering is interpreted.
The Palestinian experience exposes a recurring asymmetry: European political discourse can recognise Israeli security as an immediate and intelligible moral concern while treating Palestinian suffering through the more abstract languages of conflict, terrorism, instability or security. The distinction between civilian and combatant, victim and threat, legitimate defence and illegitimate violence is therefore not applied with equal political force. The result is a hierarchy of intelligibility in which some forms of suffering are immediately humanised while others are filtered through political explanation before they are granted moral recognition.
This is not simply a failure of empathy. It is a problem of moral categorisation. Judith Butler's (2009) work on grievability is useful here because it demonstrates that the political recognition of loss is unevenly distributed. Not every death enters public consciousness in the same way. Some lives are represented as lives whose loss constitutes a profound injury to humanity; others become statistics, collateral damage or inevitable consequences. The question of grievability is therefore inseparable from political power: who is recognised as a life whose destruction should matter?
Césaire's contribution to this problem is earlier but closely related. His argument is that colonialism created precisely such a hierarchy of moral recognition. European civilisation could condemn violence while simultaneously excluding colonised populations from the full moral implications of that condemnation. Palestine therefore presents Europe with a particularly uncomfortable question: can a moral principle be called universal when its application changes according to the political identity of the person to whom it applies?
The question becomes even more significant because Europe has built a substantial institutional identity around human rights, international law and the protection of civilians. Scholarship on the EU's relationship with its southern Mediterranean partners has already documented the tension between European human-rights rhetoric and the strategic interests that frequently shape its external relations, including trade, migration and security (Gunn & Lagresa, 2020).
Palestine exposes the same tension under far greater pressure. For a Palestinian psychotherapist, this is not merely a geopolitical concern. It is also a question about the production of psychological knowledge. Psychology does not encounter human suffering in a political vacuum. It decides, implicitly or explicitly, which experiences require clinical interpretation, which forms of fear are rational, which forms of anger are pathological, which behaviours represent resilience, and which represent dysfunction.
This is where Fanon's work remains indispensable. Colonialism does not simply organise territory or labour; it enters relationships between human beings and consequently enters psychic life (Fanon, 2008, 2018). The colonised person lives within a social world in which the coloniser's humanity is affirmed while their own humanity is repeatedly qualified. Psychological experience cannot therefore be understood independently of the social conditions that produce it.
The implication for psychotherapy is not that every symptom should be converted into a political statement. That would be another form of reductionism. Nor should psychotherapy become a substitute for political action. The more modest and more demanding proposition is that psychological practice must remain capable of recognising when individual distress is produced or intensified by social relations that cannot be treated as irrelevant background.
A Palestinian living through occupation, displacement, military violence or the destruction of their community may experience anxiety, grief, anger, distrust and hypervigilance. These experiences can be psychologically significant without being reducible to individual pathology. To interpret the psychological consequences of political violence without examining the violence itself is to risk asking the injured person to adapt to the conditions that are injuring them.
That problem is not unique to Palestine. It appears wherever psychological suffering emerges within relations of structural violence. But Palestine makes it difficult to avoid because the political conditions are so visible and because the European moral response is itself part of the environment in which Palestinian experience is interpreted.
This is one reason decolonising psychotherapy requires more than adding cultural competence to existing clinical models. It requires examining the assumptions through which psychological knowledge determines what counts as normal, rational, healthy and pathological. The work of Decolonised Minds has argued that psychological practice must take seriously the relationship between individual distress and the structures of power, culture and violence in which people live (AlAli, 2025). The clinical question is therefore not only, “What is happening inside this person?” It is also, “What kind of world is this person being asked to psychologically survive?”
That question becomes politically significant when the therapist belongs to a society whose institutions are implicated in the conditions being described. The psychotherapist is not outside history. Neither is psychology.
Césaire's argument can therefore be extended beyond colonial administration into the production of knowledge itself. If European modernity historically positioned itself as the universal standpoint, then European psychological knowledge can reproduce that position whenever its categories are treated as culturally neutral while the experiences of racialised or colonised populations are interpreted as deviations from the norm.
This does not invalidate Western psychology. It requires it to become historically self-conscious. The same applies to Europe itself. The formal end of empire matters. The defeat of fascism matters. The establishment of human-rights institutions matters. Democratic transformation matters. Anti-racist movements, decolonial struggles and the millions of Europeans who have opposed imperialism and fascism matter. A serious historical argument must recognise these transformations rather than pretending that Europe has remained unchanged since Césaire wrote.
But historical change does not prove moral resolution. Europe can change its institutions without fully confronting the assumptions inherited from the institutions that preceded them. Colonial administrations can disappear while economic dependency persists. Explicit racial doctrines can become unacceptable while racialised border systems continue. Fascism can become a term of historical condemnation while political movements reproduce elements of its racial and authoritarian grammar. Universal human rights can become an institutional commitment while their application remains politically uneven.
This is why Césaire remains relevant. His challenge is not to prove that contemporary Europe is secretly the same as colonial Europe. His challenge is to ask whether Europe has sufficiently transformed the relations through which it once decided whose humanity required protection.
That is a more difficult question. It cannot be answered through European self-description. It has to be answered through Europe's relationships with those beyond its centre. With the migrant at its border.
With the African worker whose country's resources feed European industry. With the population whose land is treated as strategically valuable. With the refugee whose movement is considered a threat. With the Palestinian whose suffering is interpreted through the security needs of another. And with the person sitting in a therapy room whose psychological distress cannot be separated from the political world that produced it. The colonial past therefore matters not because Europe is trapped in it, but because Europe has never been permitted to forget it by those who experienced its consequences.
Césaire's great reversal was to make Europe answerable to the people against whom its civilisation had been defined. That reversal remains necessary. It asks Europe to examine not only what it says about humanity, but the distribution of humanity produced by its political and economic practices. The most serious implication of Césaire's argument is therefore not that Europe is hypocritical. Hypocrisy assumes that a good moral system exists beneath the contradiction and merely awaits consistent application. Césaire demands something more fundamental: an examination of how the authority to define the moral system was itself historically produced.
Whiteness became one of the conditions through which a particular European experience could present itself as universal. Colonialism made that universality material through conquest and extraction. Fascism demonstrated what happens when racialised political violence returns to the European centre. Postcolonial Europe has transformed the vocabulary without completely dismantling every relationship that gave the vocabulary its original force.
That is why the contemporary question is not whether Europe is “still colonial” in some simplistic sense. The question is which colonial relationships have disappeared, which have changed form, and which remain embedded in institutions that now describe themselves through the language of partnership, security, development, democracy and human rights.
Césaire's warning becomes most relevant precisely at the point where Europe believes the historical problem has already been solved. The violence did not disappear simply because it acquired a different vocabulary. Extraction did not disappear because it became partnership. Racial hierarchy did not disappear because explicit racial doctrine became politically unacceptable. And fascistic possibilities did not disappear because Europe learned to remember fascism as something that happened in the past.
What changed was the language through which power could make itself morally acceptable. The task of decolonisation is therefore partly a task of listening: to examine the words through which violence becomes reasonable, extraction becomes benevolent, exclusion becomes necessary, and some deaths become more politically intelligible than others.
Césaire's enduring contribution is to remind us that civilisation cannot be judged by the image a civilisation has of itself. It has to be judged from the position of those upon whom that image has historically been imposed. And from that position, Europe looks considerably less finished than European memory would prefer.

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