Paragon 1: Guzaili

   I walked towards the dimly lit room, attracted by the sound, and stood rooted in the doorway. A rising and falling wail was being uttered by one woman after another, interspersed with pitiful exclamations in English and another language. I was stunned. A ten year old American boy, I had never witnessed anything like what was before me now. My grandmother's living room was filled with middle-aged and older women, almost none of whom I recognized. A few words assembled themselves in my mind from the cacophony of voices: "Poor George!" "Why did this have to happen to him?" "He was such a good man!" These alternated with, and were sometimes drowned by strange interjections in the other language, as some seated in the circle added to the din.    Within a minute my mother discovered where I had gone and dashed up behind me, wordlessly pulling me away. A door which had opened for a moment on another world was suddenly slammed shut. Up until now I had experienced my older relatives as an immigrant group that, more than most, made a point of quickly and throughly assimilating American ways.

This one episode of demonstrativeness was so unlike the Apollonian culture that I had previously associated with my relatives that it made me ponder whether there was another complete realm that the adults hid from the children, a world in which they carried on entire lives and relationships, separate and alien from my mine. Yet whenever I visited my grandmother Guzaili I never felt like a stranger. She always spoke English to us, cooked many familiar American dishes (happily interspersed with some of her tasty Mediterranean ones.) Her home certainly felt like a second home.
When we are children we see the part of the world we want to. Even now I could tell you where the Kellogg's Variety Pack cereals were, and which bin had cookies. But peering back into my child mind I can't tell you if the house had a front door. (It must have, but we always came in through the kitchen.) Nor could I tell you how my widowed grandmother maintained her large household, a ten-room two-story farmhouse and huge family vegetable garden.

   The man being mourned was my maternal grandfather; and his demise was my first close experience of death. But it never occurred to me to contemplate the impact of Guzaili's sudden bereavement and her subsequent life as a widow. I was unaware of any of her personal discomforts. My grandmother always exuded peace and caring, and was devoted to her grandchildren. She was always very proper, but had a great sense of humor. We could easily get her to tell us a story.  One was so shocking that it stands out in my mind even now. (Remember, these were different times.  Family conversation was not always "PG".  Besides, as kids we eagerly lapped up stories of blood and gore)...
   The Turkish (Ottoman) Army occupied much of central Asia and the Middle East through the late nineteenth century.  As with all situations where soldiers are quartered among civilians there are abuses, especially because military people are armed but the citizens are not.  A villager accosted the local army leader and alleged that a soldier had stolen all her freshly-made leban  (goat-milk yogurt) and ate it, leaving none for her and her family.
   Such leaders have unquestioned authority in their purview and civil justice, such as it was, was quickly dispensed by them. With the Draconian logic typical of the times the commander ordered his soldiers as follows "Bring the soldier here before me and cut open his stomach. If there is leban in his stomach, the lost food shall be made up to the woman and she is free to go. If there is no leban, then cut open her stomach and leave her to die!"
  Think about this... We marvel at the courage of our ancestors to emigrate to a strange land, whose language they did not speak, knowing they would not see their parents and relatives ever again. The most they could hope for would be an occasional letter from loved ones in "the old country." Unable to transport more than a minimum of their possessions, they arrived materially poor. Yet with all of this sad deprivation required of them, the story illustrated that the world they left was many times worse.