It was September 2002 when I met Judah. He was a small, wiry kid. His style on a surfboard was somewhat spastic but nonetheless he was a good surfer.
We spoke for the first time stepping on the coral reef of Grajagan, in the island of Java. He was coming in from the surf, emanating the sort of wisdom one has after having spent three days out there. As for me, a bit lost and lonesome and about to venture out for the first time into the sanctuary of waves that, until then, I’d only known through magazines and films.
“You see those over there,” pointing at the giant sea urchins. “Don’t think this is just a pretty coral reef. There are hazards all over the place. Good luck.”
Days before, he had had an altercation with a surfer in the lineup. A group of Portuguese bodyboarders staying at a neighboring surf camp ended up coming to his rescue. The behavior of the Portuguese made him come closer and unofficially consider me as his best friend at the surf camp. That night after dinner, sitting on a scroungy couch and staring at a vintage TV set – probably one of the first in Indonesia – while watching Gerry Lopez zoom through another barrel, Judah confessed that this was his great surf adventure. As any young Israeli, he’d have to withstand three years of military service. That’s why he decided to run away. He’d be punished upon his return home though.
“My name is on that list,” he said. “And when I land in Tel Aviv I’ll be taken straight to jail. I’ll be a happy inmate, as long as the memory of this trip stays within my thoughts.”
His reality was worlds apart from mine. I was close to finishing university and had been dispensed from military service. No army boots would fit these Cinderella feet. My military service had been the time I had spent on the beach, barefoot, with a cheesy red uniform. My arsenal consisted of a pair of swim fins, a blow whistle, a torpedo rescue float and my own surfboard.
I was a fearless soldier with a strong footing on my battle ground, the way only a surfer can develop. I didn’t have to pull any triggers, was paid on time and by summer’s end I would go on another trip. In my backpack I would carry the youthful pride of an ephemeral financial autonomy, which allowed me to pick any destination without providing any explanation to my elders.
In reality I’d soon be called in to what would be my first proper job. The kind which is said to be “for life” and with dental insurance inclusive. Hence, just like Judah, I wanted to explore Indonesia and fulfill my dream of surfing G-Land.
Both of us had a sentence waiting on the other side. For him, jail, followed by an extremely demanding military service and highly likely, the chance of being in the line of fire in a real battle situation where life and death sit face to face for a permanent chess match. As for me? I felt luckier, but that wasn’t reason enough to keep me in high spirits. A nine to five in front of a computer, 22 days annual leave and a grown up’s dilemma where collared shirts and shaving razors were taking over boardshorts and sunscreen. Deep inside we were both doomed surfers. Him more so than I.
During that stay in the jungles of Grajagan with abundant perfection for few other surfers, my friendship with small Judah grew stronger. We shared the same fears of a future with less surfing. He confessed not wanting to return home before surfing Nias, in Sumatra but also mentioned that his Israeli passport could present him with some issues. Even though I wasn’t familiar with the region, I advised him to take the chances. I knew that Nias had been seeing foreign surfers since the late 70’s and surely he wouldn’t be the first Israeli to step on their soil. I told him that tourism had a tendency to broaden views, allowing for cultures to come together while the financial gain that it brought lessened religious extremisms or animosities between nations.
“Judah, I know I’m not the best versed person to talk about religious conflict or diplomatic wars, but I do believe that there are good people all over the world.”
My four day stay in G-Land had come to an end and so had Judah’s. Together we took a long journey to Kuta. We had agreed to stay there for a few days, where we could resist the temptation of surfing due to the lesser quality of its waves. We gave our bodies a rest from countless hours of surfing and we traced down our itineraries for the days we had left.
Without warning, he was walloped by a fever. For several days I took him to the hospital where the doctors tried to prevent any traces of Malaria, even though I believe his fever had been caused by the deep cuts the beautiful yet aggressive wild coral reef had inflicted upon his flesh.
Judah didn’t stick around to hear what the doctors had to say. The delirium made him feel vulnerable and homesickness settled in. He returned to Israel with the promise that one day he’d visit Nias.
I’ve never heard from Judah again. Still, I like to imagine what his life has been like all these years. He did his time and has done whatever he could to avoid going to battle and killing anyone for his country. He took a job as an army chef, polished the rims of his army’s trucks and once he fulfilled his dream to surf Nias and made new Muslim friends.
I like to think of Judah as an ambassador for Peace. I imagine that he hands away some of his old boards to young Palestinians from the Gaza Strip. Not even a heavily patrolled border can avoid them to share the same Mediterranean swells.
Being aware – from historical events – of how hard it is to one day witness peace in that part of the world, I can only hope that they can find it at sea during those moments of silence, all while gliding down a wave.
No bombs.
No sirens.
No hate.
