Surfing with Jonah: Reading Jonah as a Postcolonial Trauma Narrative

Abstract

Jione Havea observes how over the years Jonah has repeatedly found himself hurled into a swirling sea of interpretative methods, bobbing up and down on waves of traditional, contemporary, mainstream, and marginalized approaches. This article seeks to enter these churning waters and consider how these interpretative waves flow together to form new waves, which invite us to metaphorically surf together with the prophet Jonah, who once more has been tossed into a sea of readings. I propose that several important theoretical perspectives concerning postcolonial trauma theory are valuable for the ongoing conversation regarding what it means to read Jonah in the context of colonization, both ancient and modern. In particular, this article will focus on what postcolonial trauma theorists describe as the ‘material,’ ‘spatial,’ and ‘collective’ aspects of trauma instead of the ‘individual, temporal, and linguistic’ qualities highlighted by earlier (Western) trauma theorists (Visser, ‘Decolonizing Trauma Theory,’ 253)

Keywords

Postcolonial Trauma Theory Book of Jonah Trauma Hermeneutics Postcolonial Biblical Interpretation Cultural Trauma

In his introduction to a special issue of Bible and Critical Theory, Jione Havea (2016:1) observes how over the years Jonah has repeatedly found himself hurled into a swirling sea of interpretative methods, bobbing up and down on waves of traditional, contemporary, mainstream, and marginalized approaches. Regarding the innovative contributions included in this special issue on Jonah, which true to the title of the journal, add a variety of critical voices to the already rich interpretation history associated with this prophetic book, Havea (2016: 1) describes the sea of readings in which Jonah is tossed as follows:

[t]he waves (read: articles) twirl from and in several directions, rolling over different barriers, toward alternative shores, where Jonah (character, story, book) could be received by a growing list of audiences, assisted by various theories (trauma, performance, spatial) and reading strategies (postcolonial, intertextual).

This article seeks to enter these churning waters and consider how some of the interpretative waves flow together to form new waves, which invite us to metaphorically surf together with the prophet Jonah, who once more has been tossed into a sea of readings. I propose that reading the book of Jonah in the context of the trauma effected by colonization, both ancient and modern, may offer a particular good surfing wave – what is known in surfing lingo as a “double-up” wave. Defined by Sean Davey in the Encyclopedia of Surfing (2020) as “two separate waves merged into one; distinguished, as it breaks, into a midface step or a terrace,” a double-up wave is “stronger and more dangerous than a regular wave…but under the right circumstances,” catching this double-up wave may provide the best ride of a surfer’s life.

Given the fact that much of the trauma reflected in the book of Jonah can be said to be the result of imperial invasion, forced migration, and the harsh imperial policies and practices inflicted by one powerful empire after another (Davidson, 2016; Ryu, 2009; Havea, 2013; De La Torre, 2007), I argue in this article that postcolonial biblical criticism in conjunction with trauma hermeneutics, may serve as a powerful double-up wave, which “has rolled over different barriers,” and that may offer the prophet Jonah, as well as its contemporary readers, the possibility of surfing “toward alternative shores” (Havea 2016: 1).

By reading Jonah as a postcolonial trauma narrative, we not only face the legacy of the trauma of colonization reflected in the book of Jonah that has triggered so many painful memories for multiple reading communities since. We also become part of an ongoing process in which traumatized individuals and communities, together with the traumatized prophet, may explore possibilities for recovery, growth and building resilience as we are surfing toward the shore.

1. Toward a Postcolonial Trauma Framework

In recent years, trauma hermeneutics has become a popular lens for reading the Hebrew Bible that emerged in the shadow of a succession of empires,¹ with scholars such as Elizabeth Boase and Sarah Agnew (2016) and also Irmtraud Fischer (2018) turning their attention to the book of Jonah. However, several trauma theorists have made a case for the importance of decolonizing trauma studies that include critically interrogating trauma studies from the vantage point of the gains that have been made in the field of postcolonial criticism. Thus Irene Visser (2015: 253) argues that early proponents of trauma theory such as Cathy Caruth, Shoshana Felman, and Dori Laub, working within a Freudian psychoanalytical framework, were very much focused on the psychological effects of trauma on the individual, including, for example, how a sudden or unexpected tragedy would damage an individual’s ability to find words to voice the traumatic events that had befallen him or her. By contrast, postcolonial trauma theorists call attention to what Michael Rothberg describes as the “material,” “spatial,” and “collective” aspects of trauma instead of the “individual, temporal, and linguistic” qualities highlighted by earlier (Western) trauma theorists (cited in Visser 2015: 253).

A postcolonial trauma framework can be said to take seriously the materiality of the trauma colonization has inflicted, thereby acknowledging the sustained, ongoing wounds of many long years of oppression that include recurring and cumulative traumatic experiences (Visser 2015: 252).² Visser writes how Frantz Fanon, considered a pioneer in the field of trauma studies, quite early on considered Eurocentric manifestations of trauma theory to be insufficient for non-Western contexts, as these approaches did not take into consideration the historical, ideological, political, and socio-economic factors responsible for the ongoing trauma experienced by the colonized (Visser, 2018: 134). The traumatic experiences of non-Western cultures often went unheeded, as a typical Western understanding of trauma and recovery often was assumed to be universally applicable (Visser, 2018: 129).³

By contrast, postcolonial trauma theorists have dedicated themselves to honoring the voices of communities that have been subjugated by colonization, concerning themselves with what Visser (2015: 254) describes as “the trauma of concrete historical factuality: of dispossession, of land loss, and of instances of racial discrimination” (Cf. also Visser 2018: 129). A postcolonial trauma framework hence requires one to consider both indigenous as well as Western perspectives when it comes to interpreting these ongoing, cumulative experiences of trauma, which exemplify the notion of hybridity and multiplicity that are such important concepts within postcolonial criticism.⁴

A second feature of a postcolonial trauma framework is that it highlights the importance of spatiality, with place serving as the locus of many of the painful memories wrought by colonization. The postcolonial trauma novel frequently explores the impact of trauma on both individuals and the community in terms of a character’s relationship to place. Balaev (2008: 149) demonstrates how these vivid descriptions of “the geographic place of traumatic experience” evoke traumatic memories, which “situate the individual in relation to a larger cultural context that contains social values that influence the recollection of the event and the reconfiguration of the self.” In this regard, one should note that the expression of self is “socially contingent” and dependent on a particular place with particular associations. Moreover, in terms of postcolonial trauma theory, identity is “not binarily dependent on a linear re-enactment of a traumatic experience” but rather should be viewed as fluid, generating new articulations of the self as time passes, as new experiences or new insights become available (Balaev, 2008: 162).

Thirdly, a postcolonial trauma framework acknowledges the collective aspects of trauma. In the retelling of a story of individual suffering, postcolonial trauma theory is cognizant of the close link that exists between individual and collective trauma. Balaev (2008: 155) writes that in terms of the postcolonial trauma novel, one may encounter “a picture of the individual that suffers,” but which is presented “in such a way as to suggest that this protagonist is an ‘everyperson’ figure.’⁵ However, even though such a trauma narrative employs a singular (fictional) figure to represent what a group of people, or a particular culture, race, or gender, has collectively experienced, one should not lose sight of the fact that there tends to exist a multiplicity of viewpoints in any given context. Balaev (2008: 155) rightly reminds us that the self is both determined by a particular culture and is made up by the unique characteristics and behaviors associated with individuals. As she argues: “The meaning of trauma is found between the poles of the individual and society.”

The notion of collective trauma is further important for a postcolonial trauma framework given the central role narratives play in contemplating the material reality of colonialism and decolonization, which as was shown above, is closely connected to a particular place. According to Jeffrey Alexander (2012: 4), such constructed trauma narratives play a central role in the shaping of a collective identity, which is associated with the ongoing, cumulative trauma that an entire group of people has experienced due to colonization.⁶ In this regard, Visser (2014: 110-111) maintains that the enduring legacy of colonialism continues until this day, which in turn profoundly shapes a community’s collective identity. By remembering and reconstructing painful memories in what Visser (2014: 111) poignantly describes as “narratives of loss and wounding,” postcolonial trauma narratives offer a collective response to the devastating consequences of colonialism, both “material as well as immaterial,” both seen but also deeply hidden below the surface.

One aspect of meaning-making in the wake of trauma that is particularly relevant for the book of Jonah concerns the role of religion. Alexander (2012: 20) maintains that trauma within a religious milieu will evoke questions of theodicy, raising questions such as whether God is responsible for the trauma or what human beings might have done to deserve such suffering. However, as Visser (2015: 261) points out, the secular ideology of postmodern Western culture tends to suppress or disrespect cherished non-Western rituals and values, negating the importance of customs such as “spirituality, ritual, and ceremony” that find their way into postcolonial trauma narratives. A postcolonial trauma framework thus may be more inclined to acknowledge the importance of aspects such as “faith, awe, and transcendence” for many indigenous communities, which may “infuse the mundane with a richness of experience.”

The following section will offer some preliminary thoughts on how the features of a postcolonial trauma framework outlined above may be helpful for reading the book of Jonah. Viewing the trauma wrought by colonization in “material,” “spatial,” and “collective” terms may not only serve the purpose of documenting the deep wounds experienced by individuals and the community as a whole under the yoke of one empire after another but also help us consider how this book leaves open the possibility for what Visser (2015: 255) describes as “healing, rejuvenation, and personal growth.”

2. Jonah as a Postcolonial Trauma Narrative

From recent postcolonial readings of the book of Jonah, it is evident that the trauma of colonization features prominently, as the imperial context assumed in this book intersects with the colonial contexts in which these interpreters read this book. For instance, Jione Havea (2013: 50), poetically describes how, in his context of Oceania, ‘“Ninevehs’ …still roam in Oceania,” to capture the enduring colonial presence in his context.⁷ According to Havea, in addition to the past colonization of the Aborigines in Australia which still “has not been properly acknowledged and compensated,” countries such as Indonesia, France, and the United States continue to exert a colonial presence in the region of Oceania in terms of economic, ideological, and territorial domination.

In addition, one might consider Chesung Justin Ruy’s (2009: 207) contribution, steeped in the unresolved trauma experienced by his Korean people, who for many years were subjected to colonial rule. His anger is palpable in his tirade against the prospect of Nineveh’s repentance (Jon. 3.7-9), which reveals his real feelings: “However, to the oppressed and the colonized whose lands had been plundered and who were still suffering because of what the colonizer had done to them, this repentance without restitution to the victimized could not be accepted.”

It is this emphasis on the materiality of the deep wounds caused by colonization, both ancient and contemporary, which is responsible for the fact that these postcolonial interpreters’ sympathies lie with Jonah, the prophet who in numerous traditional interpretations is despised for his small-mindedness, for refusing to be happy for God’s infinite grace that extends even to the ruthless Assyrians.⁸ It is the recognition of the incredible suffering caused by a colonial power’s past and present actions, and the desire to hold the empire accountable, that leads Havea (2013: 50) to proclaim: “I stand with Jonah.”

Ryu’s sympathies are with Jonah as well when he interprets Jonah’s silence at the end of the book in terms of the subjugated “whose natural response to their marginalization might be anger,” but who, “find[ing] it difficult to raise their voice.” He rightly poses the question: “What reading of Jonah’s anger and silence might emerge if the situation of the colonized Jewish audience is taken seriously?” (Ryu, 2009: 200). One might say that what Ryu is asking is this: What reading might emerge if the situation of his own colonized people is recognized? Embedded in his reading of Jonah is hence the acknowledgment that at the heart of the “inclusivity of universalism” that is central to many interpretations of Jonah is “a working system of exclusivity which makes the voice of the weak and the marginalized disappear.” But as Ryu (2009: 199) rightly observes, what really “lies behind the claim of universalism might well be the dominance of First-World interpreters.”

The second feature of a postcolonial trauma framework cited above also informs postcolonial readings of Jonah. So one finds in terms of a focus on “spatiality” that the particular place of Nineveh, the epicenter of so many traumatic memories, associated by the Assyrian, and also other empires that have dominated Israel’s world, looms large in the postcolonial interpretations referenced in this essay (Ryu, 2009: 206-207).⁹

And yet, exactly what Nineveh signifies for Jonah’s respective interpretative communities is far from clear. For instance, Tom Bolin has argued compellingly that, read against the backdrop of ancient Greek traditions, Nineveh is not to be understood primarily for its wickedness, as the prime enemy of Israel, known for its cruelty, but rather as the “idyllic great city of long ago,” which long since had been destroyed (Bolin, 1995: 109-113; Bolin, 1997). However, it is also possible, as Ehud Ben Zvi (2003: 151) insightfully has argued, “to interweave the same basic macrostructure (or global narrative meaning) with significantly different meta-narratives.” For instance, it is possible also to interpret Nineveh in the story world in Jonah in terms of the way this city is portrayed in other prophetic books in the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Isaiah and Nahum), which has led to a long list of interpreters making the argument that Nineveh is to be “seen as a symbolic archetypal enemy of Israel and of YHWH” (Ben Zvi, 2003: 151). ¹⁰

Given the multiplicity of reading strategies and interpretative contexts associated with this multifaceted book, one could argue that both these interpretations are within the range of interpretative possibilities. As Ben Zvi (2003: 18) writes regarding the two directly opposed fates of Nineveh as a city destroyed and not destroyed that has formed a central part of his thesis pertaining to the double ending of the Book of Jonah:

Neither of these two fates can be dismissed as irrelevant without losing much of the integrity of the reception of this book in these rereaderships, and concomitantly, much of the theological/ideological message that these communities could have “drawn” from the book.

What is interesting in terms of this multiplicity of viewpoints is that what is understood by Nineveh is by no means static but rather continually evolving as interpreters view through a postcolonial trauma lens, the particular place that serves as the focal point of the suffering for many of its readers.

In this regard, it is significant that even though recognizing the harm inflicted by the empire, Havea warns against demonizing the other, even the Imperial other. Citing Edward Said’s work, Havea (2013: 53) argues that “romanticizing and demonizing are two sides of Said’s Orientalism.”¹¹ Looking at Nineveh from another vantage point, Havea can recognize something that those who have been subjugated do not usually see, nor perhaps want to see, and that is, that Nineveh may not be all wicked (Havea, 2013: 53). This line of interpretation is continued by Rebecca Lindsay (2016: 55) in her postcolonial reading of Jonah. She asks:

Are all the people truly evil and culpable? Every city includes “ordinary” inhabitants. Inevitably, there exist those whose lives are lived in the under-class of any empire. What of those who have been exploited by the city of Nineveh, or perhaps by the King and his great ones? What of the poor, the workers, the children, the women, the powerless?

By falling into the trap of demonizing the evil city, the center of the Empire, a symbol of all empires to come, the complexity and multiplicity of Nineveh is lost. It is by applying the best of their postcolonial tools, that scholars like Lindsay may recognize that “[t]he vulnerable subjects of the city, those who receive rather than perpetrate its evil, are kept voiceless and unseen” (Lindsay, 2016: 55).

Lindsay’s compelling analysis allows us to attend to the category of “class” in terms of a postcolonial trauma framework. Lindsay helps us consider the powerless, disenfranchised entities at the heart of the Empire and in the colonies under imperial rule. For instance, if we were to introduce the category of class in our reading of the book of Jonah, we might consider the plight of the sailors, who found themselves innocent bystanders in the power struggle between the recalcitrant prophet and his God. And one might be more cognizant of the fact that lurking behind the figure of Jonah, fleeing away to Tarshish, is a community of ordinary, men, women, and children, people who have suffered for a very long time under the imperial presence in their land.

With reference to the third aspect of a postcolonial trauma framework–the emphasis on collective trauma – it is thus interesting to consider how Jonah serves as “an everyperson,” representing the anger and frustration of so many ordinary Judean inhabitants who have had to deal with the ongoing presence of the Persian Empire in their daily lives. But this narrative portrayal also acts as a reminder of the many unresolved traumatic memories associated with the intergenerational trauma of empires in other contexts – empires that came and went, but left a trail of destruction behind. As evident in the interpretations of Ryu and Havea, Jonah thus also represents their respective constituents who join the prophet in his anger at God for what is perceived as a lack of justice. As Havea (2013: 49) writes:

I begin with the obvious: a colonial power (read: Nineveh) should not be let off the hook but called to account for its past and ongoing violent actions. This is the implied reason in 4:2 for why Jonah “went on strike.” Jonah knew that G*d’s mercy would let Nineveh off the hook, even if only in the story world, and Jonah fumes not because he hates Nineveh but because G*d spares Nineveh.

Likewise, Ryu (2009: 198) contends that in terms of what his Korean people have experienced, he cannot merely “take part in condemning Jonah’s anger; nor can [he] easily praise God’s universal love.” As Ryu (2009: 198) laments: “As long as the oppression or colonization and its painful memories are ongoing, how can the oppressed hide their anger in learning that their oppressors and colonizers are saved by their God—the God of the oppressed?”

In terms of these interpretations, Jeffrey Alexander’s notion of cultural trauma offers important insights into the collective nature of postcolonial trauma. Alexander (2012: 3) writes concerning the “symbolic construction and framing, of creating stories and characters, that a ‘we’ must be constructed via narrative and coding, and it is this collective identity that experiences and confronts the danger.” In terms of the role of religion, cited above as an important aspect of such symbolic construction, one may well ask what divine portrayal is offered by a particular constructed trauma narrative that represents the collective suffering of the people? Furthermore, in subsequent interpretations of Jonah read through a postcolonial trauma lens, what purpose might such an image of the divine serve in the formation of a collective self?

Indeed, Stephen Patrick Riley (2012: 124) warns readers of Jonah against “the danger of one side claiming God for their purposes alone.” The notion of a God siding with the empire, at the expense of those who have been violated by the empire, is thus challenged by postcolonial trauma interpreters as represented in the following quote by Riley (2012: 124): “The motif of God’s relational character with all creation reminds us that no one can lay hold of the claim to God exclusively.” It remains a danger that a particular group may find itself trapped in what Alexander (2012: 101) describes as “the originating trauma,” by repeatedly returning to it, and feeling compelled to “reproduce” rather than “overcome” “earlier hatreds.” Alexander (2012: 101) references the following examples, to which, of course, others may be added:

Rather than expanded human sympathy for the other, we have Hitler revenging the defeated German people, Serbia’s ethnic cleansing, and India and Pakistan’s bloody-minded struggles against Islamic and Hindu “intruders” today. We also have the Nakba, the construction of the catastrophe that Israeli’s [sic] founding is believed to have created for the Palestinian people, a trauma that inspires the violently anti-Jewish and anti-Israeli struggles by Palestinian people and Arab states against Zionism and the Israeli state. These polarizing, trauma-inspired struggles have fuelled the tragic-cum-primordial narratives that prevent peace between Arabs and Jews in the Middle East today.

In contemplating Havea’s engagement with the book of Jonah, it is evident that even though his reading is firmly rooted in the material reality of the long history of colonization in his region, he nevertheless wants to read the story of Jonah from the other side as well. Even though, as noted above, Havea’s sympathies lie with Jonah, and he joins Jonah in being angry at a God who sides with the former oppressor instead of being on the side of the poor and needy, Havea also wants us to recognize that God emerges, for both the people of Nineveh and for the sailors who have in common that they desperately want to live, as a God who grants life (Havea 2016: 99).

3. Beyond Apathy and Paralysis

When it comes to reading the book of Jonah as a postcolonial trauma narrative that involves recognizing trauma as “material,” “spatial” and “collective,” it is in the final instance important that one does not only focus on describing the wounds of colonization and the accompanying experiences of melancholia, apathy, paralysis, and loss of agency so often associated with the aftermath of trauma (Visser, 2018: 132). Rather, as Visser (2015: 254) observes, in many non-Western communities, one finds a range of responses to trauma that also include a distinct emphasis on “resilience and healing” associated with “life-affirming and activist processes.” As she writes, “Without negating the lasting, profound impact of trauma, postcolonial trauma narratives often also demonstrate that resilience and growth are possible in the aftermath of traumatic wounding.” Reading Jonah as a postcolonial trauma narrative implies thus that one considers also the transformative potential of trauma narratives born from the insistent incursion of imperial subjugation.

But does reading with Jonah as he, and his readers, faces the wounds of his imperial past help to effect change? And what would such a change entail? A change of perspective? A change of reality? For the traumatized and for the perpetrators of trauma? Stef Crapps (2010: 54-55) rightly reminds us that change does not merely extend to what he describes as “immaterial recovery,” in other words, the “psychological healing” that many Western trauma theorists favored in lieu of “material recovery.” Rather, Crapps characterizes the envisioned change associated with a postcolonial understanding of trauma in terms of “reparation or restitution and, more broadly, the transformation of a wounding political, social, and economic system.”

It is exactly this frustration with an overemphasis on “spiritual repentance, ignoring physical restitution” that informs Ryu’s interpretation of Jonah’s silence as an act of “resistance on the part of the weak over against the rhetoric of the strong” (Visser, 2015: 255). Ryu’s article reads Jonah’s silence as representing the silence of future subjugated and colonized people, who “will continue to explore their own locations of silence or resistance in the silence of Jonah” (Ryu 2009: 218).

For Havea (2013: 52), change is possible on more than one level. On the one hand, Havea argues that even though God refrains from destroying Nineveh, God nevertheless “does not release Nineveh from the stigma of being a wicked city,” so keeping the empire accountable as readers are invited to see Nineveh, or at least the actions performed by the empire, as wicked.¹² The idea that God is a God who grants life to those who ask it, even the gentile sailors and the Assyrian foe referenced above, makes it possible for Havea to move Jonah ever so slightly beyond his position outside of Nineveh, where he has been stuck for a very long time in an angry silence. Havea (2013: 105) ruminates about the possibility of Jonah contemplating another point of view:

How might Jonah respond to the cries of the native people of Palestine, “a people not fighting to destroy its neighbor, but a people fighting for the right to be a neighbor” (Ateek 1989, 47)? Could the talanoa of the land and of the native people of Palestine make Jonah rethink his disgust with Nineveh? Could the faces of Palestinians make Jonah appreciate the decisions of the people of Nineveh to repent?

Havea’s question could also be extended to other contexts in which Jonah’s silence in response to the fate of the city of Nineveh may generate a new hearing when read in terms of a postcolonial trauma framework. For instance, it is ironic that the Iraqi city of Mosul, built on the site of ancient Nineveh, since the early 1990s has been subjected to ongoing military violence effected by the US presence in Iraq and Afghanistan. Shortly after the 2003 US military invasion in Iraq, Judith Butler (2004: 34) reminds us about the thousands of nameless, unmourned Iraqis and Afghanis who were killed during the Gulf War: “If 200,000 Iraqi children were killed during the Gulf war, and its aftermath, do we have an image, a frame for any one of these lives, singly or collectively?”

With reference to this modern-day Nineveh, will the silence of Jonah and other readers and our failure to imagine that there were people with lives and hopes and dreams living in that city lead to what Butler describes as the ‘derealization’ of the victims of imperial violence and their disappearance into oblivion?

Indeed, in terms of the book of Jonah, change is associated with learning to constantly embrace shifting perspectives – as reflected in Lindsay’s poignant observation regarding the value of reading the book of Jonah through a postcolonial lens in her context of Australia: “As a text among the prophets, even the prophetic borderlands, perhaps the authoritative socialisation and (trans)formative purpose the Book of Jonah offers to us is found in its transgressive nature, which teaches us to unlearn and reimagine” (Lindsay, 2016: 60).

4. Conclusion

In this article, we have imagined surfing with the prophet Jonah, catching a powerful double-up wave as we read the book which bears his name as a postcolonial trauma narrative. By using a postcolonial trauma framework that attends to the “material,’ “spatial’ and “collective” aspects of the endemic trauma caused by empires, ancient and contemporary, in faraway lands as well as in our neighborhoods, I contend that we are able to unleash something of the transformative potential of this fascinating book.

A postcolonial trauma reading of Jonah, in the first instance, has helped us recognize the deep wounds and scars reflected in the story world of the traumatized prophet and in the equally traumatized communities, past and present, reading the book of Jonah. In this act of reading trauma narratives, empires everywhere are held accountable for what they had done and, quite often, continue to do. However, reading Jonah as a postcolonial trauma narrative also may help future readers move beyond the wounds of the past. As Visser (2015: 255) has argued, such an act of meaning-making does not imply “the erasure or denial of past hurt” but rather the construing of a new narrative that “affirms growth and health to emphasize that recovery, despite traumatic wounding, is possible, and that trauma, although it stands outside precise representation, can be integrated.”¹³

In our mind’s eye, a traumatized Jonah, representing his equally wounded community, may be clinging for dear life to his surfboard as he is riding with us, his readers, the powerful double-up wave represented by the merging waves of postcolonial biblical interpretation and trauma hermeneutics all the way to the shore. In contrast to Jonah who in previous interpretations has been swallowed, drowned, and engulfed, the metaphor of a surfing Jonah suggests a sense of navigating the treacherous waters that threaten to submerge the prophet, who is representing his own, as well as future communities, in pain. In addition, surfing signifies a sense of movement, of riding the powerful and dangerous waves to the shore’s safety. With this image in mind, let us imagine this surfer Jonah emerging from the crushing waves, carrying the “ineradicable scars” (Visser 2015: 255) left by the trauma of living under one colonizer after another but invigorated after his wild ride, ready to catch the next wave.

Footnotes

ORCID iD

L. Juliana Claassens

Notes

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