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‘Swastika boards’ and ‘surf Nazis’: New documentary explores surfing’s history of antisemitism
(JTA) — When he was 13 years old, Josh Greene moved with his family to San Clemente, California, a city known as one of the best spots for surfing on the West Coast. Greene quickly fell in love with the sport, even holding his bar mitzvah party at a local museum dedicated to it.
As a “skinny, very unathletic” teen, Greene said he endured a significant amount of bullying, including some that “extended itself into antisemitism.” Students at his school would compare his physique to that of a Holocaust survivor.
Surfing provided refuge.
“Surfing was my way to really carve my own niche and find the confidence, courage and physical strength I needed,” he told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
But years after his bar mitzvah, Greene learned that his parents had arranged for the Surfing Heritage and Culture Center to remove swastika-engraved boards that were on display, to avoid disturbing the partygoers. Wanting to learn more, he discovered that the sport’s history is full of Nazi imagery: Particularly in the 1960s, seeing surfboards with swastikas or surfers giving “Sieg heil” salutes was commonplace. Serious surfers called themselves “surf Nazis” as a way to signal their intense dedication to the sport.
An aspiring filmmaker — he received his first “real camera” as his bar mitzvah present — Greene decided to combine his two passions and delve into the dark history.
The result, completed before he graduated from the University of Southern California in May 2022, is a documentary called “Waves Apart,” which chronicles the history of antisemitism in surfing. Directed by Greene, the student-produced film was a finalist in the fall for a Student Academy Award, given by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
“Waves Apart” made its global debut at the Santa Barbara International Film Festival on Thursday, before heading to other Jewish and documentary film festivals in California, Denver, Toronto and Maryland.
After chronicling his own journey with surfing and the bar mitzvah incident in the film, Greene interviews surf writer Dan Duane and Jewish history professor Steven Ross, who provide a fuller picture of Southern California’s history of both surfing and Nazism, and their unfortunate overlap. As Duane wrote in a 2019 New York Times article, that overlap runs deep — The first commercially made surfboards made in California are thought to be the “Swastika model,” sold in the 1930s by the Pacific Systems Homes company, which also made prefab houses. The 1960s surfer icon Miki Dora was known to have painted a swastika on at least one of his boards.
Duane cites arguments that claim early surfers, who wanted to be seen as a rebellious subculture, used the swastika only to irk members of mainstream society. But Duane argues back that their antisemitism was part of a clear culture of racism in the largely white surfer community.
“I’ve heard all the predictable excuses for this stuff, like that the swastika was an ancient Sanskrit symbol,” he wrote in The Times. “Putting a swastika on something to anger people means you know that it angers them and very likely why.”
In his movie, Greene also speaks with Jewish surfers, both his classmates at USC and Jewish surfing legends like Shaun Tomson and Israel “Izzy” Paskowitz. Paskowitz shares a story of encountering a surfer with a swastika spray-painted on his surfboard — which his father, the famous surfer Dorian “Doc” Paskowitz, destroyed out of anger.
“Right as I was about to graduate, we had the first screening of our film, in our school’s theater,” Greene said. “We drew a packed crowd, and it was so rewarding and such a great sign of confirmation about the film’s message and connectivity with our audience. We saw people crying, people smiling at the end, with the way our film ends with a hopeful tone and message for the future.”
That hopeful message is where Tomson comes in. A former pro surfer and now a motivational speaker, Tomson reached the pinnacle of the sport by winning the 1977 World Surf League championship. He won 19 major professional surfing events in total and is a member of both the Southern California and International Jewish Sports Halls of Fame.
Shaun Tomson is a former world champion surfer. (Courtesy of Tomson)
Tomson, born in Durban, South Africa, also had a surfing experience tied to his bar mitzvah that would prove foundational. Tomson’s father took him on a surfing trip to Hawaii, which Tomson called “the Mount Everest of surfing.”
“For me, it was a total representation of what a bar mitzvah is — it’s coming into manhood,” Tomson told JTA. “And here I was, a young boy paddling out in a 25-foot surf in Hawaii, which was a moment for me that changed my life. I came back to South Africa, and my career and my role in surfing changed after that bar mitzvah present.”
Tomson said he has faced antisemitism before outside of the sport — he was called a “Jew boy” by a fellow member of South Africa’s army as a teenager — but never as a member of the surfing community in the 1970s onward.
“While it’s not an excuse, I think there’s just a lot of ignorance,” Tomson said. “When I say ignorance, perhaps it wasn’t actually directed at Jews, it was more just blatant stupidity, and a lack of awareness of what actually happened in the Holocaust.”
There weren’t many Jewish surfers in South Africa when Tomson grew up, but he said he feels a direct link between his identities as a Jew and as a surfer.
“When you’re out in the ocean, there’s certainly a spiritual and a religious connectivity there, which is totally aligned with Jewish values,” he said.
No experience exemplifies this connection more powerfully than the tragic death of Tomson’s son, Matthew, who died in 2006 at the age of 15 as a result of a schoolyard “choking game” gone wrong. Tomson tells the story in the documentary.
Tomson explained that his particular expertise is tube riding — the picturesque but challenging technique of riding inside a tunnel-like wave. Two hours before Tomson’s son died, he called his father to share an essay he had written about how in tube riding, “the light shines ahead.” Just hours later, Tomson received the devastating news.
“So when I was trying to make sense of the world and my life, and why God had done this to me, I went back to my old shul,” Tomson said. “The old shul where I’d had my bar mitzvah. And I look at that lamp of everlasting light that represents the hope and faith of Judaism. And I thought of the words that my son wrote, ‘the light shines ahead.’ And I realized that Judaism’s about hope.”
The film ends on that hopeful tone: The last scene features a group of Jewish surfers at a beach in Malibu, reciting the Shema prayer in the water, before hitting the waves as the sun begins to set. In the last shot, the group sits down to a Shabbat meal on the beach.
“Surfing can be seen as a microcosm for issues like that and I think we would be doing our sport a great disservice if we ignored our own signs of darkness,” Greene said. “I think that by making a film like this, we can dispel ignorance and divisiveness, and instead promote inclusivity, community and equality for all surfers and all people.”
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The post ‘Swastika boards’ and ‘surf Nazis’: New documentary explores surfing’s history of antisemitism appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Slovenia’s last Jewish institution endures through desecration and decay
On a Saturday morning last July, Robert Baruh Waltl watched two processions converge on central Ljubljana. From one direction, near the river, came a column of neo-Nazis chanting nationalist slogans chanting “Long live Slovenia.” From the other came pro-Palestinian marchers singing “from the river to the sea”.
The city, he notes drily, is very small. “You could see both demonstrations at the same time,” he told me over a video call from his office. “Far right from one side, far left from the other.”
In Slovenia, this is what the view looks like from the only Jewish institution in the country.
The Jewish Cultural Center Ljubljana, which Waltl has directed since its founding in 2013, is overextended by design and necessity. In the absence of a synagogue elsewhere, it functions as one. It is also a cultural center, a museum, and, increasingly, a one-man operation.
“If I’m not in Ljubljana,” Waltl says, “there is no one to even open the door.” For more than a decade, the center has run almost entirely on donations, German embassy micro-grants, and cross-subsidies from Waltl’s adjacent performance space, the Mini Theater. The Slovenian government has never provided stable funding. Applications to the Ministry of Culture go unanswered. “They tell us the Festival of Tolerance is the most important anti-racism event in Slovenia,” Waltl says, speaking of an open event organized by him and the community, “and we don’t receive a single euro for it.”
Waltl did not grow up Jewish. He was born near the Austrian border and moved to Ljubljana as a young man to study theater. Then came a letter from the local Jewish community: did he know that his grandmother had been Jewish? He didn’t. He began attending events, cautiously at first. A trip to Israel changed things. He started reading, learning Hebrew and collecting Judaica. Eventually, he underwent a formal conversion — a giyur — at a liberal congregation in Frankfurt. “I said, OK, now I’m so deep,” he recalls. “I will never feel truly Jewish if I don’t take this last step.”
The community he joined had only barely survived the 20th century. Before the Second World War, Slovenia’s largest Jewish population lived in the Prekmurje region in the northeast. Most were deported to Auschwitz after 1941; roughly 90% were killed. In Ljubljana itself, Jews had been expelled in 1515, and the postwar communist Yugoslav government did nothing to restore their memory: cemeteries and schools were destroyed or simply left to ruin. By the time Waltl arrived, the standard answer when Ljubljana tour guides were asked about Jewish history was blunt: no Jews after 1515. “They didn’t know anything about the Holocaust,” he says. “Nothing about anything.”
His response was methodical. He installed the first memorial plaque on the site of Ljubljana’s medieval synagogue. In 2014, at a gathering of young Jewish leaders in Berlin, he met Gunter Demnig, the German artist behind the Stolpersteine project, and brought the initiative home. Today, Ljubljana and surrounding cities have 68 stumbling stones and one large stone commemorating 150 Jewish refugees expelled from Croatia who sheltered in Ljubljana. He co-founded the Festival of Tolerance with Branko Lustig, the Auschwitz survivor and double Oscar-winning producer of Schindler’s List and Gladiator, born in Osijek, Croatia, who brought early credibility and international reach to the project before his death.
For years, the center also served as a functioning synagogue, anchored by a wave of Israeli tourism. After the Jewish congregation of Slovenia lost its premises in 2014 and moved into Waltl’s building, the arrangement found its footing through sheer numbers. According to Walt 50,000 to 60,000 Israeli tourists visited Slovenia each summer and many of these came to services organized by a Chabad rabbi from Trieste, Ariel Hadad. Then COVID hit. The tourists vanished. So did the rabbi. The pandemic forced a theological rethinking: Waltl discovered liberal Judaism through the Central Synagogue of New York’s online programming and began working with a rabbi from Luxembourg, who now visits several times a year alongside a rabbi from Vienna. When there is money to bring them, they come.
Oct. 7 transformed the center’s situation entirely. On November 6, 2023, someone painted a large swastika equated with a Star of David on the center’s front door. The Jewish graveyard was desecrated during the Festival of Tolerance. When Waltl attempted to screen footage from the Hamas attack for the city’s diplomatic corps, hundreds of pro-Palestinian demonstrators gathered outside and tried to set the doors on fire. The screening was cancelled. There is no Israeli embassy in Slovenia, and no other address for the anger. “In their eyes, we represent Israel,” Waltl says. “We represent everything bad happening in the Middle East.”
Today the center carries a 60,000-euro mortgage taken out for emergency renovations after earthquakes damaged the 500-year-old building, leaving water leaking and unsustainable structural issues. Robert thought that he would receive some sort of financial help from the government to keep this, the only Jewish center in the country, running, but he was unpleasantly surprised to have received none. Since Oct. 7 the relationship with the government soured even more: the prime minister and the president used to show up for Holocaust Remembrance Day and Chanukah festivities, but stopped, says Waltl.
This month, Slovenia changed leadership again, with Israel ally Janez Janša returning as prime minister.
Some other signs of hope: The Rothschild Foundation recently awarded a grant for the country’s first permanent exhibition on Jewish history in Slovenia, set to open this September. The German Embassy contributed 3,000 euros. American tourists — a growing presence — help cover operating costs through summer donations. But the structural problem remains unchanged: roughly 150 Jews, one institution, and a government that adopted the expansive International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition of antisemitism, which encompasses anti-Israel actions, while declining to fund the sole organization actually sustaining the community.
“If I say I will stop doing this,” Waltl says, “there will be no Jewish life in Slovenia anymore.”
The post Slovenia’s last Jewish institution endures through desecration and decay appeared first on The Forward.
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Volatility, Hit Frequency, and RTP: Why the Number Casinos Advertise Is the Least Useful One
The return to player percentage looks clean as a casino data point. It gives players a neat number, usually around 94% to 97% for many online slots, and that number feels easy to compare. A 96.5% game appears better than a 95.2% game. The problem starts when players treat RTP as a forecast for their next 50 spins or one evening.
You may find the RTP listed on slot pages on a leading online casino in Ontario, but the number only tells part of the story. Two games can share the same RTP and create different sessions: one may return small wins often, while the other may drain a balance before one bonus round changes everything.
The RTP Trap
Return to player (RTP) measures the theoretical share of total wagers a game returns across a very large number of rounds. In plain terms, a 96% RTP slot returns about $96 for every $100 wagered in the long run. That does not mean one player who deposits $100 should expect $96 back.
The trap sits in the word “theoretical.” RTP comes from the game’s math model. It works across huge samples, not personal sessions. A player can finish far above that percentage, far below it, or with nothing left after a short run of poor results.
Is it useless then? No, RTP can still help. It gives a baseline cost of play. Lower-RTP games cost more on average than higher-RTP games. Still, once a game passes a reasonable threshold, the next question matters more: how does it distribute that return?
Hit Frequency: The Number That Shapes Session Feel
Hit frequency tells you how often a game produces a winning outcome. This often misleads players because any win can count. A spin that returns $0.10 on a $1 bet may still count as a hit, even though the player lost $0.90 in real terms.
A game can feel active because symbols connect often, sounds play, and the screen keeps celebrating small returns. The balance may still fall. In many modern slots, “win” does not always mean profit on the spin.
Hit frequency answers one practical question: how much silence can you tolerate? Some players dislike long dry spells. Others accept quieter sessions because they chase bonus rounds or larger payouts.
The educational site Get Gambling Facts gives a useful distinction: RTP concerns the percentage of money returned over time, while hit frequency concerns how often a machine stops on a winning combination.
Volatility: The Risk Label Players Need More Often
Volatility, also called variance, describes how unevenly a game pays. Low-volatility games tend to return smaller amounts more often. High-volatility games hold more value in rare events: bonus rounds, premium symbols, multipliers, or jackpots.
Here is where RTP becomes less useful on its own:
- A 96% low-volatility slot may give modest returns and longer play from the same balance.
- A 96% high-volatility slot may burn through funds quickly unless the player hits a strong feature.
- A progressive jackpot game may look exciting, but it often places more value on rare top prizes.
The same RTP can hide very different risk profiles. Players who ignore volatility often blame the casino or the game when the session follows its math design.
Why the Same RTP Can Feel So Different
Picture two slots with 96% RTP. Slot A pays small wins on many spins, has a modest top prize, and rarely creates dramatic balance swings. Slot B pays less often but offers a large max win and volatile bonus rounds. The advertised return matches, but the experience does not.
Slot A may suit a player who wants a slower bankroll drop and more regular feedback. Slot B suits someone who accepts sharper losses in exchange for a shot at a heavier payout.
A Better Way to Read a Slot Page
Most slot pages give players more clues than they notice. The trick is to read the details together rather than chase the highest percentage.
Start with RTP. If two games look similar, the higher number has better long-term value. Then check volatility. If the game uses terms such as high, very high, or extreme variance, lower your bet size or expect shorter sessions. Next, look at the paytable. A huge max win usually means the game saves a lot of its value for rare outcomes.
A sensible pre-play check looks like this:
- RTP: What is the average long-term return?
- Volatility: How rough can the session become?
- Hit frequency: How often will the game show any wins?
- Paytable: Where does most value sit?
To Conclude
Casinos advertise RTP because it looks objective, tidy, and easy to rank. Players should read it, but they should not give it more authority than it deserves. For long sessions, volatility may matter more than a small RTP difference. For comfort, hit frequency may explain the feel better than the payback rate.
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Lahmeyer, pastor who says Antichrist will be Jewish, heads to Oklahoma GOP runoff
(JTA) — Jackson Lahmeyer, a pastor who supports Israel and believes the Antichrist will be Jewish, is headed to a runoff in his district’s Oklahoma congressional primary.
The Donald Trump-backed Lahmeyer will face off against Mark Tedford, a member of the state House of Representatives from Tulsa, in the August runoff to decide who will be the Republican candidate for Congress in Oklahoma’s 1st Congressional District.
The runoff will pit candidates with two very different approaches to politics, and Israel, against each other at a time when the Republican Party is divided on multiple lines. Lahmeyer is part of Trump’s MAGA movement, while Tedford is a more traditional conservative. Both men promote a hard line on immigration, but Lahmeyer’s rhetoric has been peppered with incendiary claims about efforts by Muslims to establish “sharia law” in the United States.
While both competitors are also evangelical Christians with training in ministry, Lahmeyer works as a pastor and preaches an end-times theology that includes an Antichrist with Jewish heritage. Lahmeyer is also a vocal supporter of Israel, in keeping with his Christian Nationalist outlook, while Tedford has made few if any public comments about Israel or the war in Gaza.
The two candidates pulled far ahead of the pack in Tuesday’s crowded primary, which attracted 11 candidates to fill an open seat. Tedford received 32.1% of the votes, and Lahmeyer drew 25.9%, according to the Oklahoma State Election Board.
Lahmeyer had been seen as a favorite, but his star fell in the days before the election amid revelations that he had been unfaithful to his wife. (He said the episode, which he confirmed, was a private matter and in the past, and Trump reaffirmed his endorsement following the revelation.)
Few if any of the nine candidates who did not make the runoff are part of the MAGA movement, suggesting that Tedford could see more of their supporters turn to him in November.
“We need everyone who came out today to keep fighting until we succeed,” Lahmeyer said in a statement to local media. “Let’s send a Trump-endorsed warrior to fight for Oklahoma values in Congress.”
The district is solidly red, virtually assuring the primary winner of victory in November. The Democratic candidate, John Croisant, is a Tulsa school board member who has not spoken publicly about Israel or Gaza, issues that are occupying some Democrats.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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