“It hardly needs saying that the term “decolonize” once meant something wholly different than it does now. To put it not a little too bluntly, in the heyday of the anticolonial movement it was the colonies and the colonized that needed decolonizing, not the colonizers, but now even that need, as we like to say, has been “colonized.” Of course we understand that the “decolonize” in the slogan “decolonize your syllabus” is metaphorical, that it means diversify or “decenter” (as we also like to say), but that does little to allay the fact that, formally, rhetorically, it collapses the distinction between colonizer and colonized. Sometimes, decentering oneself and one’s syllabi means little more than absolving oneself of accountability for the colonial past. Just to give it a name, we might call this phenomenon “colonial narcissism.” Early symptomatic expressions of this introjection of otherness to let oneself off the hook can be found in various sources, but if we were to pick one it might as well be Michel Foucault when he said “A whole series of colonial models was brought back to the West, and the result was that the West could practice something resembling colonization, or an internal colonialism, on itself.”1 It is not that Foucault was wrong—innovations in exploitation are portable, forced and free migration complicate the geography of colonialism, domestic police occupations are not all that different from foreign military occupations, the consequences of colonialism are as much psychosocial as they are political and economic, etc.—but that is not really the issue. The “you” in the slogan “decolonize your syllabus” is not addressed to those existentially threatened by police violence and the like but instead to those—the professional managerial class, we might call us—who are its beneficiaries. This misunderstanding, it seems, stems from a kind of primal scene: a foundational misrecognition of the new shape of violent expropriation that emerged with the historical turn from colonialism to neocolonialism. Colloquially, in other words, we consistently elide the difference between the terms colonialism and neocolonialism, but “neocolonialism” was never intended to stand merely for the continuation of the old European system of colonial rule by an indigenous comprador class, now with its European overseers working remotely. When Jean-Paul Sartre coined the term in 1956, for example, the neocolonialist he had in mind was not a cunning European banker or conspiring African finance minister, but instead the sort of do-gooder that we now associate most strongly with NGOs—“a fool who still believes that the colonial system can be overhauled,”2 or, as he had it in 1961, an “enlightened, liberal and sensitive soul” imagining that there were third-way solutions to the otherwise seemingly incontestable revelation that “Europeans have only been able to make themselves human beings by creating slaves and monsters” (84). It didn’t matter whether the reformer was earnest or cynical, colonialist or colonized, indigenist or évolué. It was simply the structure of reform that was the overarching ideological problem. As Sartre put it, “independence granted”—or the colonizer’s recognition of the political, economic and cultural autonomy of the colonized—“is merely a variation on servitude” (102) exacted by “the power and the ferocity of neocolonial trickery” (113). Neocolonialism grasped with new purpose and weaponized what, in 1960, he called “the contradiction of racism, colonialism and all forms of tyranny”—that “in order to treat a man like a dog, one must first recognise him as a man.”3”