Our loss, too
Guest commentary by C.A. Gilman

In a town that has been divided by traffic, opinions, politics and positioning, it was Khaled and Sheryl Al-Awar who, even with their tragic loss, brought us together this weekend.
More than 500 friends, neighbors, and strangers came to the hilltop chapel at Thacher School to celebrate the life and mourn the death of 18-year-old Tamima Al-Awar. There weren't enough seats for everyone who gathered to be with the Al-Awars in their loss. Some people stood, some sat on the rocky ledge, and some on the ground.
As the bright sunshine beat down, Daniel Zuckerman played a violin sonata; and the Ojai Camerata sang Gregory Haggard's "Requiem." The music was an exquisite offering for this family, their much-loved daughter, and those assembled.
The outdoor chapel overlooked the valley. Bouquets of flowers sat on the stone wall surrounding a simple wooden cross framed by an immense sky. Friends, cousins and sister, Tania, spoke from the podium. Despite their grief, they talked of Tamima's joyful nature, her art and her zestful short-lived life. We reached out to them, smiled with them at their fond memories, and wept openly. We ached for their loss; it was our loss, too.
A Thacher student sang a song. It was a song she had written about Tamima as she saw her from a distance. How brave that girl was to sing through her tears; to sing clearly and strongly so that we all could hear her voice and feel her sorrow.
While Toby Campion led us in the Universal Prayer that Tamima had loved, snow-white doves were released overhead; they circled above us and flew off into the sunlight.
We read, "... In this solemn hour, when our hearts are filled with Your Love, We implore Lord, ... To give peace and harmony to the world ... and that peace may reign, In the hearts of all human beings on Earth."
Sheryl, Khaled, Tania, Tarek and all your family, we thank you for spreading your peace and many gifts among us, and for allowing us to be with you on this day in memory of your daughter, Tamima.
In a world of uncertainties, it takes a family such as yours and a village such as ours to share our love and make a difference.
C.A. Gilman is an author as well as correspondent for the Ojai Valley News.

Thanks given
Bret Bradigan, OVN publisher

My mother was in all her glory at Thanksgiving, ruling a kitchen full of simmering pots and roasting pans with dictatorial panache, armed to the teeth with wooden spoons and whisks and eggbeaters. Aunts and grandmothers were welcome to help, but they knew, by hard experience, to keep their mouths shut and just peel, dice, or cut.
We children would dart in and out, heat-seeking missiles of mischief intent upon picking up a few morsels of giblet stuffing or fruit salad with its freshly whipped cream dressing, or even, prize of prizes, a layer of crispy turkey skin. Sometimes our missions were successful; sometimes they resulted in knuckles burning with pain from the well-timed rap of a serving spoon.
But at the appointed hour, or more usually, an agonizing and seemingly endless 30 to 40 minutes past the appointed hour, the food would arrive at the table, which would groan under the accumulation of steaming platters. We would say grace, and commence upon a culinary orgy of astounding proportions. My mother would take a few moments to sigh and reflect upon her accomplishments, which, with typically 20 or more bloated bellies to her credit, were considerable.
The men had it so much easier on Thanksgiving, as I realized when I reached my teenage years. We would wake early in the cold dawn to the aroma of coffee brewed by my early-rising Mom, tuck into heaping plates of eggs and ham, pull on our Carharts, grab our guns and spend the morning tromping through the woods on deer drives, or for the fortunate few selected by age and experience, clamber up strategically-situated deer stands. Our appetites would increase steadily with the exertion in the crisp, wintry air, often with snow to shuffle through and soak through our clothes. After the hunts, we would pull off our boots, pile up our steaming wool socks to dry on an upturned milk crate over the furnace grate, then pile on the sofas with beers to watch football, hooting and hollering, awash in a sea of testosterone-fueled bonhomie. For the men in our family, it was the obligatory, annual male bonding ritual.
After the feast, we would loosen our belts, let loose a few belchs, and retire again to the couches and recliners, while the women formed an assembly line to clean the dishes. When we were kids, the siblings and cousins would head for our rooms and play darts and gossip and brag. None of us offered to help with the cleanup, nor were we expected to. An anthropologist observing our family would define the moment when we came of age as when the girl-children graduated to the kitchen chores, and the boy-children to the hunt.
It may not have been fair, or just, and it certainly did not meet the criteria of political correctness, but it was our tradition, and that of virtually everyone else in our time, in our region. Who was I to complain?
As I grew (reluctantly, I might add,) into adulthood, I began to realize that the finest rewards are not found in such indulgences.
When my mother gazed around the table at her extended family, together in one place, at one time, for one special occasion, and saw the looks of admiration and awe for her creation on their faces, a smile of such sublime satisfaction would creep across her face that could never be matched by any amount of deer hunting or football watching.
She knew, without saying it, that the value of such moments was increased by their rarity. So next Thursday, I will remember to give thanks for my great good fortune in having such a mother, and to give thanks for those eternal Thanksgiving memories she created.

© 2002 The Ojai Valley News

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