272 E. WEIZMAN 2015). While offering different formulations of the future state between bi-nationalism (one state that respects the existence of two national groups), confederation or single democratic state options, such plans include calls for ‘co-existence in full equality’, based on ‘recogni­ tion’ and ‘accountability and responsibility’ for the injustice suffered by the Palestinians.13 However, while most articulate fundamental ideological or symbolic changes to the colonial state, the majority still do not explicitly engage with the material aspects of ‘decolonisation’. For example, there is no discussion of the issue of restitution of land and resources from which Palestinians were dispossessed, nor do we find a logic of redistributary economic justice.14 And without material change, decolonisation remains just a metaphor. I do not intend to critique these plans for they may offer the only way forward if they garner necessary majority support from Palestinians, residing within and outside Palestine, and could then be subsequently extended to the settlers. While promoting a vision for a transformed future, these proposals are also a call for the maintenance of the material status quo in which the structures that shape Jewish citizenship/privilege remain largely unchanged. I argue that for Jewish-Israeli activists resistance is paradoxically as much about preservation as it might be about change – and at the same time it also serves as a tool to solve their own crisis of legitimacy. Based on these documents, and previous conversations with activists, it seems that when Jewish-Israeli activists dream of a future, it is one in which their lives remain fundamentally unaltered. They wish to remain on the land, keep their possessions (or part of them), fantasising a harmony between remaining as they are, and not-colonising. It is a manifestation of the desire to address the inevitability of being settlers from birth, and to self-situate oneself on the anticolonial side of history. However, as Kauanui and Wolfe reminds us (2012), despite clear efforts at erasing lines of difference, at joining protest activities, at calling for social and political change, the material structures remain. Settler-activists remain citizens of the settler society, one constituted in violence and with starkly stratified privileges. It is the colonial structure, with its discourse, practices and laws that classifies them. Some activists hope, aspire or expect to be welcomed by the Palestinians as partners. They might come for a few hours or days to join the colonised, in acts of celebration or mourning, organising activities, getting injured or arrested together, loving, donating, volunteering or advocating. They may try to overcome the coerced identity gaps which are momentarily sus­ pended or forgotten but nevertheless stubbornly present themselves. Yet, because material change never seems to be on the table there is always a kind of (white/settler) fragility in the room (Parasram 2019), as most activists continue to refuse and/or avoid genuinely reckoning with the meaning of their position as ‘settlers’, with the structures that maintain this binary, and with the fact that their struggle is a choice. For they do not change the actual definitions and realities of settler citizenship, thus allowing them to live with the paradox. It allows them to choose to be anti-colonial, but also allows them the possibility to always return home to the protections constituted in the Israeli citizenship they hold.15 And so, meaningful partnership on these terms remains irreconcilable. I would like to further interrogate this point by tracing the divergent approaches to the use of violence as a strategy of struggle across these two ‘anticolonial communities’. I believe this discussion is vital in light of the prominence of violence in the settler colonial project, in settler citizenship and identity. Violence, and the discourse around it, stands out as a watershed.