Benny & Ray 53 jihad Dee Gilles Rated R

Osama bin Laden. It was a name I'd heard once before, in my Islamic Studies class last year. I never thought that a bit of abstract history could reach out and touch me in such a profound and real way. Bin Laden was the man responsible for the bombings of the US embassies in Tanzania and Kenya in 1998. Professor al-Rahman held him up as an example of extremism turned to evil, someone who corrupted the benign grace of Islam, and turned it into something ugly.

His name was on everyone's lips now. Bin Laden and al-Queda.

04:00. Wednesday. I am wide awake and staring at the ceiling, my mind ceaselessly replaying the events of the past week. Ray sleeps next to me, exhausted by the activities of the last few days.

The body of our cousin Valerie Russo was flown back to Chicago Sunday night, accompanied by her lover Katherine Bradshaw. The body lay in state at Marcantonio's Funeral Home, awaiting the arrival of family from all over the country- people drove or took the train, so the mass and funeral had to be delayed to allow for the longer travel time.

Kit was finally able to get an open phone line after fleeing Manhattan and crossing the river to New Jersey the night of the 13th . It was the worse possible news. Valerie had been in the first tower hit. There was little hope. She called back the next night from her mid-town apartment with confirmation that she had identified Val's body. She had reached Val's mother Marie-Therese, who in turn called Mother. Ray got Mother's hysterical call at Friday September 14 at 23:46.

I am so angry, enraged. Never have I felt so helpless. Not even when my father was murdered had I felt so frustrated. In those circumstances, I could go after a person or people responsible, and bring them to justice. But with this terrorist attack, senseless as it was, with extremists using misguided rationale, there was no specific object of my frustration.

In my life, I've been nave. Man perceives others who do not share his ideology to be a sub-human, something to be eliminated, destroyed. There lies the genesis of evil.

We are barbarians. Every war in the history of the planet has proven that. What a fool I've been to not see that. Listen to me. How I've changed.

Valerie's mother Marie-Therese had taken to her bed upon news of her eldest daughter's death, and it fell on her sisters, Rosalie and Chloe, to make all the funeral preparations. Mother cooked for three days, preparing and freezing dozens of dishes. She sent several dishes by way of Ray over to Marie-Therese's house. And she just kept cooking. Just cooking and cooking, as if it held the grief at bay.

We all did our part, pulling together as a family to support one another. Ray had used his influence with the CPD, along with threats and intimidation, to get Valerie's body out on one of the first flights leaving LaGuardia once the FAA flight ban was lifted.

I was dispatched with Ray's car to pick up several relatives from the train station this weekend, including Ray's brother Paul. Paul was staying in our guest room. The Russo and Vecchio-Moretti houses were full, so anybody with an extra bed offered it. Some friends of Valerie's, people from California whom she'd never met, were staying with Francesca. She had two cousins sleeping on her floor. Friends and family from all over the country got to Chicago and in way that they could.

The mass had been beautiful but profoundly painful. I had selected the music, along with Mrs. Dellfino, the choir director for the church. All the songs were Valerie's favorites. I sang the "Ave Maria", which was extraordinarily difficult to get through. I was tense but forced myself to relax my vocal chords and diaphragm to get it right. For her.

The air had been fraught with grief. Never in my life have I heard so many screaming Italian ladies. It was like an emotional blood-letting. Next to me, Ray had sobbed, sliding to the floor between the pews. I was in no better shape than he. Mother had thoughtfully brought tissues, which she passed out to all of us, but there weren't enough of them. I resorted to using my sleeve.

Marie-Therese fainted half-way through the service. It had to be halted for a few minutes while I helped her daughter Chloe revive her.

One of her cousins sang Lucio Quarantotto's "Time to Say Good-Bye," her favorite song, in the most exquisite soprano. Near the end of it, Francesca let out a blood-curdling scream that set off another wave of keening.

I was so drained by the time the service ended.

We laid Valerie to rest at the St. Donatus Cemetery, and afterwards spent the afternoon at Marie-Therese's house, where we set up two rooms of Mother's food, plus dozens of other dishes. I was ravenous because I had not eaten all day, all week, really. My stomach had been queasy for days, and I'd been vomiting since before the wake. I wolfed down as much food as I could stand to eat.

When Ray and I returned home with Paul, there was a message from Hugh on our answering machine. The city had been in an uproar for days due to the fall-out from September 11. Indians, Pakistani, Saudi, Iranians, or anybody with dark skin and a Middle Eastern accent had been getting harassed, or worse, attacked by angry Americans in the backlash. There was a high population of people of middle-Eastern descent in this part of town due to the colleges. Most were from India.

Two men had died this week, attacked without provocation. This morning, there was a third.

The good, peaceable, and wise Professor al-Rahman, my gentle and always-smiling Islamic Studies instructor, had been murdered sometime in the night, his body lynched from a large oak tree on a quiet tree-lined street near his apartment.

I fell to my knees, feeling the world caving in on me.

Finis