Whiplash

I'm buying a coffee and I'm reading the names of the dead

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.

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Photo by Robert Bye on Unsplash

“I’m getting a latte with an extra shot of espresso. Or maybe two. I’m exhausted.”

I’m behind a few people in line at the coffee shop, vaguely following their conversations, when my phone lights up with three words: “Cleared for Publication.”

The alerts come from WhatsApp, Telegram, and Facebook, and I brace myself. Those three words are the precursor to the list of the dead, the names and pictures of smiling young men that will follow when I click on one of the apps. My world freezes as the chit-chat continues around me.

“They just told us they want everyone back at the office instead of working remotely. I can’t deal with that. It’s so stressful.”

I read the updates the same way each time. I first look at the names, silently praying it isn’t someone I know directly. Then I look at the cities and hope they aren’t the same city where my sister lives, or my brother, or my friends.

I move up in line, the banter around me maddening, my heart in my throat. 

“Seriously, I am doing everything to get those Taylor Swift tickets. Someone has to have a connection.”

It’s an all-too-familiar feeling. Each day brings me closer to the names that are “cleared for publication.” My sister’s neighbor, my brother’s unit, my nephew’s friend. The alerts appear like tributes in the sky after a day in the arena in the Hunger Games. I look at the faces, the young boys, our heroes, and know that I am just one degree away from them.

“Did you watch Industry? You MUST. I love that show. Also Penguin. Another great one.”

My newsfeeds and WhatsApps are filled with faces—the faces of the dead; the faces of the kidnapped; the faces of devastated families.

It’s a stark contrast to the faceless, mask-covered protesters who also fill my news feeds and march outside this perfectly ordinary cafe on a sunny Tuesday. They are people who don’t want their faces shown or even remembered out of fear or, hopefully, shame. 

“Oh my God, my anxiety is through the roof with the birthday party. I need to up my dosage.”

These daily updates of tears and tragedy tell the story of a people. Each face. Each name. A world destroyed. I am not on the front lines, so I carry them with me, waiting each day. I do my part as much as possible: writing letters, marching in solidarity, displaying signs on my front lawn. But when the “cleared for publication” alert lights up my phone as I’m ordering expensive coffee on my way to work, my efforts seem so inept. Each time I am left with a deep emptiness for a family I’ve never met, but to whom I feel so close to it aches.

“We’re heading to Maine this summer. So excited. And the kids are going to camp. I can’t wait.”

The streets are frightening these days, filled with misguided, masked people shouting about rivers and seas they can’t find on a map or even name. I’m watching a world of insanity and propaganda take over truth, history, and humanity. The ties that I believed made all of us human—the belief in life over death, in peace over war—have been flipped. I appreciate the irony of the IDF holding back a truth to protect families, waiting until the news is “cleared for publication”—compared with a mob that doesn’t hesitate to publish damaging and false information, fueling more death. More suffering. More unthinking, masked students shouting epithets.

It’s my turn to order as another alert goes off.

“What can I get started for you?”

I don’t check my phone yet, instead placing my coffee order with the smiling barista who is wearing a kaffiyeh on her shoulders. I think of my Jewish star hidden under my shirt, of the new list of names waiting on my phone.

“And what’s your name?”

I know I am not alone. In this communal devastation, I feel every part of my people and my community. I feel our strength, our hopes, our belief. That is what is also “cleared for publication” each day. 

I look at the smiling barista and the name falls off my tongue as easily as my own.

“Hersh,”I say.“My name is Hersh.”

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Adina Ciment is a writer and educator from South Florida. Her essays have appeared on HuffPost, Kveller, Tailslate, and Aish.com and she has been a keynote speaker for various nonprofit organizations. Her first book, "Wasn't Expecting This," will be released in December by The Journey Institute Press. She blogs at writingelves.com.

Instagram: @aciment

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This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.