Nationalism, Patriotism, and the Politics of Identity

During our recent political difficulties, it has become increasingly hard to keep up with the lingo—especially the labels. For example, what’s the difference between a colonialist and an imperialist? Are they different? Does it matter? Maybe not, but it’s still nice to know what one is accused of being. The same thing is happening with the word nationalist today. It’s being thrown around constantly, especially in connection with Christian nationalism.

It’s a word I use a lot in class when we talk about things like the American Revolution. I say our revolution was not a nationalist revolution like Mexico’s; nationalism is a byproduct of our revolution. The problem is that most of the class has no idea what I just said. In that light, it seems like a worthy pursuit to actually define and understand what this very loaded and often misunderstood word means. Words are important. And when words are misunderstood, so is the debate.

When I ask students to define nationalism, I usually get a definition of patriotism. The two are similar, but they are not the same. Put simply, patriotism is loyalty; nationalism is identity. Patriotism is normally defined as love, pride, and devotion to one’s country, often expressed by supporting its values, culture, and well being. This definition has become tricky lately, because it assumes we actually share values and culture. The fight over Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime performance suggests that may not be the case. Still, patriotism is generally understood as love of country—flying flags, celebrating athletes at the Olympics, or the ultimate form of patriotism: standing up for the nation when it is called upon to fight.

The nationalism to which I am referring in class, especially in the 18th and 19th centuries, is different. In this context, nationalism means seeing oneself as something distinct from those in the ruling class and wanting to govern oneself accordingly.

This is what happened across most of Latin America. By 1821, the people of Mexico had stopped seeing themselves as Spanish and began seeing themselves as Mexican. “Mexican” is not an ethnicity; it is a created culture and identity. First there were native peoples, then Spanish colonization, then slavery, and then the creation of political boundaries. Over time, these groups blended together into something new: people who wanted to rule themselves and therefore revolted against Spain.

This pattern applied across Latin America and was led by two great nationalist leaders, Simón Bolívar and José de San Martín. These men opposed Spanish rule and promoted a shared identity and culture. Part of what they created was patriotism: a love of one’s country. But nationalism is more than love; it is identity.

A powerful example of nationalism can also be seen in the Middle East. After World War I, the British and French divided much of the region into new nations (called mandates): Iraq, Jordan, Palestine, Syria, and Lebanon. Before this, none of these countries existed as independent nations; the region had simply been part of the Ottoman Empire since 1299. There was nothing ethnically different between a Jordanian and a Palestinian; for all practical purposes, they were the same people. Then the British and French literally drew lines on a map, and suddenly some were Jordanian, while others were Palestinian. What made them different was not ethnicity, but identity.

Figures like Yasser Arafat helped create a Palestinian national identity centered on reclaiming a homeland, just as King Abdullah I did for Jordanians. Before 1920, these were essentially the same people. After nationalist movements formed, they became Palestinians and Jordanians, and they no longer saw themselves as the same. Today, Jordan does not allow Palestinians to live in or work in their country, for the most part. They are no longer the same.

Before going further, I should circle back and clarify why the American Revolution was not a nationalist revolution. If you’ve been following my articles over the past few months as I’ve been covering the events of our 250th anniversary, you may recall that the colonists began the war with England to fight for their rights as British citizens. In the process of coming together to fight, they began forming nationalism as they started seeing themselves as Americans rather than separate British colonists. Nationalism, in the American case, was a byproduct of the revolution, but not the cause.

So far, nationalism seems like a good thing—and often it is. But it also has a dark side.

Nationalism can shift from love of country into the belief that our values and beliefs are better than everyone else’s. In America, this was seen in Manifest Destiny, which justified Westward Expansion and the conquest of Mexican and Native lands.

In the 20th century, nationalism continued to unite people against foreign occupation, as demonstrated in India and Vietnam. But it was also used to exclude, persecute, and destroy those seen as “other.” This was most famously seen with the Nazis, but also in the Bosnian and Rwandan genocides in the 1990s, and in Nigeria today.

It is this darker version of nationalism that the left is drawing on when they label people ‘Christian nationalists.’ The term is meant to be loaded to connect them to fascism and Nazism. At its core, Christian nationalism grows out of the same idea embedded in patriotism, that America should have shared values and culture, historically rooted in Christian principles. Most people who follow this ideology believe America was founded on these principles. As an American historian, I don’t think that claim can be easily dismissed.

Where Christian nationalism becomes dangerous is when it moves from shared values to exclusion—when it claims that other religions have no value, that true citizenship requires a Christian identity, or worse, that those who are different should be excluded or eliminated. The line is crossed when identity becomes hierarchy and belief becomes permission to exclude.

While the term is often used as an insult, especially as the left tends to label anything it disagrees with as ‘fascist,’ I do not think it has to be. Early Americans commonly believed our nation had a special divine mission, and American culture was undeniably shaped by Judeo-Christian principles such as human dignity, moral responsibility, justice, compassion and charity, sanctity of life, forgiveness and mercy, and the rule of law. While these principles were not always practiced equally or consistently, if one believes these principles helped make America great, it makes sense to believe they still can.

Pushing for those principles does not make someone a Nazi. As long as Christians fight for these values without excluding or vilifying those who disagree, the label does not have to be one of contempt.

James Finck is a professor of American history at the University of Science and Arts of Oklahoma. He can be reached at james.finck@swoknews.com. Thanks to the Southwest Ledger and the Lawton Constitution for sharing his column.