"Suffering is actually a sacrifice. This is the lesson of the Jew. They are, like our parents, our spiritual elders."
I recently discovered that someone from a group I had never heard of, Newcastle Mothers for Palestine, had called a publisher of my writing and asking them not to give me a platform.
This was a magazine that has never printed anything other than sentimental surf stories.
Then, after I was supportive of Jews and Israel online recently, I was messaged by an old surfing journalist mate of mine: “You guys have a super solid reputation in surfing, why would you mess with it by sticking up for Jews and fucking Israel?”
Previously, right after the Bondi massacre, when I supported Jews and Israel in a few articles I wrote, I was messaged by two old friends, one in the film industry and another journalist, both with exactly the same question, as if they had copied and pasted it: “Don’t you want to work in the industry anymore? What the fuck happened to you?”
I have to go back quite a way to try to explain what happened to me. Not all the way back to the Garden of Eden, mind you, although that might help.
When I was nine years old, after completing 4-C at Rose Bay Public School, surrounded predominantly by my wild, naughty and super-fun Catholic friends, I was unexpectedly directed, in February of 1971, to join 4-A. It was explained to me that I was “Repeating,” as I had started school too early and needed to be surrounded by kids my own age.
Very quickly, it became apparent to me that the “A” classes were predominated by Jewish kids. My older friends, who had moved on to fifth class, asked me what it was like to be surrounded by Jews, making fun of where they lived, calling Rose Bay “Nose Bay” and Vaucluse “More Jews.”
But the fact was, I fell in love with my new little Jewish friends, not just because they treated me like a much older, wiser, and more experienced person – the first of us to turn ten years old – but because they were all so gentle, quiet, kind and well-behaved.
It was such a different experience for me, short-lived as it was, to be surrounded by unusually calm little academics. I was invited to their birthday parties and met their parents, who were all so nice and generous. Some of their grandparents had tattooed numbers on their arms, and they explained to me that they had survived the Holocaust. When I looked up the Holocaust in our encyclopedia at home, I saw a photograph of a young Jewish girl pulling up her sleeve to show the photographer the number tattooed on her arm. She was the same age as me and looked exactly like one of the Jewish girls in my class, the one I had a crush on.
There were many synagogues in the eastern suburbs, and I often saw Jewish families walking to them on Saturdays. I loved how close-knit the families appeared and never felt threatened by them; no matter how many of them there were, how weirdly they dressed, or how bizarre the men’s hair and hats were.
Having so many Jewish friends, I was upset by anti-semitism, but saw the comfort demonising Jews could bring by joining the mob. I knew there was nothing wrong with the Jews, other than that on average they weren’t quite as athletic as us, while simultaneously being much smarter than us. This led some people to think they considered themselves superior, as if brains were better than brawn.
But something I admired about the Jews, even more than how smart they were, was how they didn’t boast about it or seem to consider themselves superior because of it. In fact, my Jewish friends were always playing down their intelligence and were always willing to help me learn or understand something that confused me, without ever seeming to look down on me. This made me think that that must be what led them to be so smart in the first place: their love of knowledge and willingness to share it.
The other thing I admired about them was how they coped with anti-semitism.
They just accepted all the false accusations as unfair and also somehow accepted that what other people thought of them was none of their business. They continued to do what they believed was the right thing, despite being mocked for it. If they were cautious with money, they were mocked; if they were generous, it was said that it was easy for them because they had taken money from someone else. I could see that they couldn’t win, no matter what they did. They had been cast in their role thousands of years ago, and nothing was going to change that.
But I knew they were considered the chosen people and wondered what it was they were chosen for. It occurred to me that there was a relationship between being persecuted and developing into more by not feeling sorry for yourself or playing the victim. When and if my Jewish friends were mocked, they always discussed it among themselves to see if they thought they had done anything wrong; if they decided they had, they apologised and changed their behaviour; if they hadn’t, they let it go and moved on. “They tried to wipe us out again, we survived, let’s eat.”
One of the worst traps I have fallen into myself and seen others fall into is playing the blame game.
I eventually realised that the only way to break free of the cycle of blame and being consumed by thinking about the one you blame for everything is to accept responsibility for my part in whatever drama or problem was consuming me. And trying my best not to do it again.
The other terrible behaviour that not taking responsibility for my part in something led to was that I would not only play the victim, but I would lie about and demonise others, so that I could get the pity I thought I needed to meet my needs. This inevitably leads to a rapid downward spiral that pulls others in as well.
Being a lifelong storyteller, I recognise the key protagonist when I see one. I believe that when the history of mankind is told thousands of years from now, the Jews will be featured as the key protagonists. This is not just because they are the most persecuted while simultaneously the greatest contributors, but because that is the lesson for all of us and what God chose them to teach us. To keep the faith and continue to do what you believe to be right, not because you want people to like you, but because that is what God has asked you to do.
Suffering is actually a sacrifice. This is the lesson of the Jew. They are, like our parents, our spiritual elders. And even though we don’t always understand them, it doesn’t mean they’re not right. In time, hopefully, we will understand them and accept their role in history. But, ironically, by then, we will no doubt be persecuted for defending them as well.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s call to “live not by lies” is essentially a dare to the human spirit: refuse to participate in what you know is false, even when the cost is personal.
In The Gulag Archipelago, he’d seen firsthand how entire systems of oppression survive only because ordinary people go along with untruths to stay safe. His point is that truth-telling isn’t just a moral stance, it’s an act of resistance.
When you stop repeating the slogans, stop nodding along, stop pretending you don’t see what you see, you inevitably draw fire from the very forces that rely on silence. But for Solzhenitsyn, that persecution becomes a strange kind of liberation, because once you refuse to live by lies, the system loses its power over your inner life.
You may suffer outwardly, but inwardly you become untouchable.
How poetic.