Discount bayswater mulberry sale Outlet com Varsity Stats Granite
YUKON Varnum relied on a freshman to nail a triple to force double overtime and sink two free throws at the end of the second extra period to secure a win over Granite on Thursday.
Freshman Isabel Davis was clutch in her state tournament debut, helping Varnum win 55 50 over Granite at Yukon High School.
“That’s Varnum basketball,” Hadley said. “We want to be attacking from the word ‘go,’ both ends of the floor. Usually it works out pretty well for us.”
Varnum jumped to an early lead with buckets from Christian Wind, who finished with five points, and Nakai Harjo, who added a team high 13 in the win.
Granite stopped the short run and found most of its first half scoring production from senior forward Carlee Murray.
Murray scored 15 of her 24 points in the first half alone, which included three baskets from the perimeter.
Granite pulled out to a 23 22 lead at halftime after the slow start, but the shots stopped falling for both teams in the third quarter. wrap around the porch overhang, as though they were protection from the outside world: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” It took his brother’s death for Farris to fully embrace those words. In February 2015, Deah Barakat was gunned down along with his wife of six weeks, Yusor Abu Salha, and her sister Razan. News of the triple slaying at a Chapel Hill apartment complex reverberated here and around the world as another instance of hatred toward Muslims. A neighbor was charged with three counts of murder but not a hate crime sparking further outrage. The deaths yanked Farris from his life’s trajectory and set him on one he had not anticipated. At 24, he abandoned his courier business and everything else to speak out against hate. He devoted much of his time to renovating a 105 year old rental house his brother had owned in a rundown neighborhood east of downtown Raleigh. Farris named it for his brother. Farris feels his brother’s presence most strongly in The Light House not through things Deah left behind or memories they shared, but through the ideals espoused here. Farris was certain Deah would be alive today had it not been for his faith, and he felt a religious duty to parlay his brother’s story into easing the nation’s fears. Strangers probably would never sit and listen to Farris talk about Islam, but they were willing to pay attention in the context of tragedy. Farris focused on turning his grief and anger into something positive. He needed to see a sapling sprout from fire scorched earth. All around him, Farris saw his community shattered by the tragedy. He saw the consequences of hatred haunt his Muslim neighbors. But he also saw hope in a city that was proud of its diversity and in people struggling to heal. He found new friends along the way. It’s graduation weekend, and the University of North Carolina School of Dentistry is holding its commencement ceremonies this evening. Deah would have been marching today with the Class of 2017. Farris and Layla agonized over whether to attend. Farris worried their presence would cast a pall on the joy of others; Layla feared it would be too much to bear. In the end, Layla decided she had to go. Then, as she does every Friday, she visited Deah’s grave, No. 429, at the Muslim Cemetery in nearby Wendell, and sat, deep in prayer, with her youngest child.”Someone was there to visit him today. There were fresh flowers there,” she tells Farris as he merges onto Interstate 40. and Farris concentrates on driving amid a sea of red taillights. Layla stares at the raindrops on the windshield, rivers shrieking across glass. He had gained weight in the aftermath of Deah’s death and needed a size 46. He had aged on the inside and out. “Did you wear a tie?” Layla asks. She had asked him to wear school colors. Some might call it United Nations blue. But around these parts, there’s only one descriptor: Carolina blue. Layla’s husband, Namee, had bought 272 Summerwalk Circle, a ground level, two bedroom, two bathroom condominium in the Finley Forest complex, for his son to live in while he attended dental school. Layla studied architectural engineering as a young woman in Aleppo and had taken great pride in designing her home. After Deah married Yusor, she helped them set up theirs. Just a week before they died, they’d installed a sparkling new stainless steel sink in their black granite countertop. They beamed with pride like parents with their firstborn. Deah and Yusor’s families had worked hard to make it in America. Deah’s father, Namee, owns real estate and several small businesses including a convenience store. Layla raised their three children and went back to school at North Carolina State University to earn a master’s degree in computer science. Yusor and Razan’s parents, Mohammad and Amira Abu Salha, were Palestinians who lived in Jordan and Kuwait before coming to America. So did the Abu Salha children. Deah and Yusor met as kids and became a couple when they were at North Carolina State. He dazzled people with his charm. Razan, 19, was a runner and the creative one, an aspiring student of design and architecture. Her Twitter profile said, “I like buildings and other stuff,” and her posts were typical of a bleary eyed college student downing venti coffees to study. All three were popular and high achievers, known in the Raleigh area for their charitable work with the poor and homeless. Deah traveled to Jordan to provide dental services for Syrian refugees and was raising money for future clinics. Yusor, too, had flown to Turkey on a volunteer mission to help Syrians and was planning to join her husband on a future trip. They avoided alcohol and, when they came of age, the women chose to cover their heads. Before they were married, Yusor often visited Deah at his condo. Razan was always with her sister as a chaperone it was not deemed proper for Yusor and Deah to be alone together. Yusor looked like a fairy tale princess in her beaded white gown at her December wedding to Deah. They flew to Mexico for a honeymoon and after they returned home as a married couple, they often invited friends and family over. Just days before they died, Yusor’s parents had come over to watch the movie “Selma.”The 1980s condo complex was filled with graduate students and young professionals and for the most part, life was quiet in the shade of tall Carolina trees. But Deah and Yusor quickly became aware of the man living above them in No. His Facebook page revealed a man out of the ordinary. He did not specifically bash Muslims but held organized religion in contempt. A quote he posted said, “People say nothing can solve the Middle East problem. Not mediation, not arms, not financial aid. I say there is something. Atheism.” Hicks harbored a deep love for guns, and neighbors said he showed “equal opportunity anger.” He frequently complained to Deah that visitors to the complex had usurped parking spaces reserved for him and his wife. Deah checked with the management to make sure he was not violating the rules and even sketched out the parking lot for his friends to make sure they never parked in reserved spaces. On occasion, Hicks revealed a gun in his holster. Yusor grew scared. She texted Deah about her fears: Our neighbor is always walking around us with a gun. He’s always looking at me. But they didn’t want to provoke him in any way. Deah assured his wife that their disgruntled neighbor was smart enough not to use his gun. According to the prosecutor’s account, Hicks armed himself with a .357 caliber handgun and walked to Deah and Yusor’s condo. When Deah opened the door, Hicks pulled out the gun and shot him multiple times. Yusor and Razan began screaming for their lives. Both were shot in the head, according to the state medical examiner’s autopsies. On his way out, Hicks pointed his gun at Deah again and shot him a final time in the mouth. The man who was studying to become a dentist died with his teeth missing and his mouth disfigured. Before the sun had set that Tuesday evening, Deah, Yusor and Razan lay cold in pools of blood. They had been killed execution style. A little while later, Hicks turned himself into law enforcement and was subsequently charged with three counts of first degree murder. His trial is expected this year, and if convicted, he faces the death penalty. The events of that night burn brightly in Farris’ and Layla’s minds. They remember receiving texts about a shooting at UNC. Layla called Yusor’s father, Mohammad. She was frantic. She’d heard three people had died and that Deah might have been involved. They dialed their children’s cell phones. Mohammad remembers almost crashing his car on the way. Five and a half hours later, they knew their gravest fears were true.”Deah took the bus home from UNC at 4:50,” Layla recalls. “He and a friend took a photo on the bus. They felt it trivialized the true nature of what they saw as a heinous act against Muslims: a hate crime. They could not accept that their loved ones, who had been previously taunted by Hicks, were gunned down over a small piece of asphalt. The FBI and Department of Justice launched investigations into whether this was indeed a hate crime, though no determination has yet been made. But for the families and the greater Muslim community here in America and abroad, the official classification didn’t matter. He was no longer surprised by the vitriol hurled at Muslims, especially in the aftermath of terrorist attacks perpetrated in the name of Islam. He offered friends and strangers alike an outlet, a place where they could feel connected to the families. He wanted a space where he could try to control the spread of what he saw as rumors and misinformation. Deah had wanted to be adentist for so long. Farris dedicated himself to honoring their legacy by improving relations between Muslims and the community at large. He began speaking publicly and returned to the house that Deah owned in east Raleigh. He put up new drywall, installed modern kitchen appliances and outfitted the bathrooms with bidets. He purchased a Sonos system so that the sounds from an upstairs prayer room could be heard throughout. There’s even a 3 D printer in the office. He hoped people would see The Light House as an example of how to respond to hate; he even dared to hope it would become a symbol for all of America in dealing with the fear and bloodshed that consumed the nation after 9/11. The Our Three Winners Foundation joined a project started by activist and CNN commentator Van Jones to launch a LoveThyNeighbor campaign. Deah, Yusor and Razan had all attended North Carolina State, and their alma mater set up scholarships in their names. It also sponsored a Run for Razan to raise money and inspire young people. Sometimes, she feels she has nothing left in this life anymore. She dreams of being reunited with all her children again and counts the seconds, minutes,
hours, days, months, years. Time feels like a treadmill to nowhere. She watched from afar as her beloved Syria descended into intractable civil war that ripped apart family back home and razed the places she held dear. Then she lost Deah. And in the months that followed, she felt strain in her marriage it’s not uncommon for relationships to suffer in the aftermath of trauma. Layla lost the one thing human beings need to feel grounded. She lost her sense of belonging. She tries to find inner peace by surrendering to God. “Our class is forever bonded by the tragic and untimely death of Deah,” Swift begins. “He led by example and he led by heart. We miss him every day. He is a part of the fabric of our lives.”Swift notes the presence of Deah’s family and asks Layla to identify herself. Everyone stands as they applaud her. Layla does not know where to look or how to act in that moment. Or how to hold herself together. When the processional ends, she makes a frantic dash for the stage to collect Deah’s mortarboard and sash. She accepts a bouquet of roses from the university and clutches her son’s photograph. He had decided long ago that his happiness meant not letting himself feel vulnerable. After Deah died, Farris quit playing basketball for a while because he found it was too easy to explode in a competitive situation. He kept his anger and public grief in check by living the words of Martin Luther King Jr., by doing right by his brother. Tomorrow would test him again. No matter how hard Farris tried, he knew that sometimes, nothing, not even his honorable actions, and maybe not even his faith, could protect him from grief. The UNC graduation ceremony was one of those moments. Amid the laughter and joy resounding in the convocation hall, mother and son find solace in one another. Together, they let torrents of tears flow. AnxietyIn another part of Raleigh, Hanadi Asad pulls back her long dark hair and dons an apron advertising Cajun Joe’s, the chicken franchise her father once owned. She is decorating macaroons and boxing up baklava and other butter and honey soaked Mediterranean deserts for the weekend farmer’s markets. The Muslim community in the Raleigh area is fairly close knit, and Hanadi knows both families of the shooting victims.”It’s a big deal because it’s the Abu Salha family,” she says. “You see the happiness and you see broken hearts in their eyes. I wanted to take away some of their stress and let them enjoy their son’s wedding.”Deah had tapped Hanadi to do the dcor for his wedding, and in her smartphone, Hanadi still keeps the last texts she exchanged with him. On this Saturday morning, the texts are from Yousef. He wants to make sure the cream cheese icing is just right. At first, the Abu Salha family was not sure whether a celebration would be appropriate so soon after their daughters’ deaths. Would people think they were crazy to wear fine attire, eat scrumptious food and dance the night away? But Hanadi understood. How could they allow tragedy to stop their lives? How could they deny their son his moment of joy?Like the Abu Salhas, Hanadi’s family is Palestinian. She was born in Kuwait and was 8 when she arrived in America in 1985 with her parents and siblings. Raleigh was a small Southern city then, still healing from the scars of segregation. There wasn’t even a mosque nearby; Muslim families congregated in private homes to pray. But as Hanadi grew, so did the city around her. Immigration soared in the 1990s fueled in part by agriculture, universities and the tech companies of the Research Triangle and people from all parts of the planet were lured to the greater Raleigh Durham Chapel Hill area. For decades, Muslim immigrant families settled here largely without incident. Although they only form about 1% of the 2 million plus population here, as their numbers grew, they established mosques and schools and became a part of the social fabric. But others refused to surrender their faith. Shortly before she was married, Yusor had tweeted: “Hijab is my constant reminder that we aren’t living for this world.Perseverance”Those became words to live by for Muslim women like Hanadi. They drew strength, too, from the Our Three Winners logo that sported the hijabs of Yusor and Razan. She knows she has an easy way out, but she remains resolute.”Am I going to fear people or fear God?” she asked herself. Her eldest daughter, Raiyan, is 15 and must decide soon whether to cover. Some of her friends already have. But Raiyan likes to leave her long, thick curls on full display. She fights with her father about clothes a pair of leggings had too much see through mesh on the thighs. She enjoys chicken salads at Panera, gets pedicures on the weekends and enjoys shopping with her girlfriends. But a few months after the killings, she quit her job and decided to get entrepreneurial with her true passions: baking and design. She named her business Asali, a combination of her and her husband’s last names and, appropriately, an Arabic word for honey. It’s in chaos with giggling high school girls, cartoons on television and craft projects strewn about the dining table. The pantry and garage are bursting with things for baking and event planning: cake pans, cardboard gift boxes, powdered sugar, vases, flower cutters, ribbons, table runners, candle holders. She’s been hunting for a retail space, one with a commercial kitchen and enough room to host parties. She began growing Asali at a time that felt uncertain. In Hanadi’s childhood, people stared at women in hijabs out of curiosity. Now, people stared at her in a way that made her feel unsafe. She wondered how small town folks who frequented the farmer’s markets would react to a Muslim woman. He listened intently to her conversation with a customer. When she was finished, she asked him: “Do you have any questions?” What she really wanted to ask was: “Are you here to kill me?” That’s how it is these days for Muslims in America, she says. But the man was polite. Sometimes, she notices Facebook friends ranting against Muslims. It offends her, but she never unfriends them. She feels it’s important to know what they are saying. Besides, she is American. North Carolina is home. When Muslims all over America were recoiling, Hanadi refused. She forged forward with Churchillian resolve, determined to prove that Muslims worked hard and wanted the same successes in life as everyone else. She listened to podcasts by entrepreneurs such as Jerry Murrell, the founder of the hugely successful Five Guys burger chain. It was one thing to sell baklava on Western Boulevard, where shops named after Mecca and Medina sell halal meat and restaurants brim with falafel and shawarma. “Is taking off my hijab really going to change anything?” she asks. “They will still hear my name. So where do we stop?”It was important for Hanadi, after she began working from home, that she continue to interact with people outside her community. It was key, she believed, to wiping out ignorance, key for her children’s sake. She hears questions that serve as proof of how much work is left to be done. Are you a Pakistianian? Why does Islam force women to cover their heads? Do you have to marry your husband’s brother if your husband dies?Hanadi has heard these all her life. Sometimes, people are surprised when she first speaks to them. “Oh, your English is so good,” they say. Why wouldn’t it be? Hanadi thinks. I still love you.”Hanadi is raising five children, and she knows it could be her own family who one day faces a gunman’s ire, like Deah, Yusor and Razan did. She tells her own children to emulate the Three Winners in a way that when they die, no one will have anything negative to say. The white dudeOn Fridays at the Islamic Association of Raleigh, one man stands out in the sea of worshippers mainly of Middle Eastern and South Asian heritage. He’s tall at 6 feet 4, and he’s dressed impeccably in khaki trousers, a freshly pressed shirt and bright yellow tie. They thought he might be a crazy dude who was going to whip out a gun at any moment. Wilson understands. He would be suspicious of himself, too. Of the world’s 1.8 billion Muslims, not too many look like him. Wilson met Farris through youth groups after he had been introduced to Islam. Wilson is only a year younger than Farris, and the two quickly grew to be the best of friends. He grew up in Indiana and Texas, the son of a music teacher and a pharmacist. He went to church every Sunday and attended every youth camp. His parents split when he was in the fourth grade, and Wilson divided his time between the two before enrolling at Appalachian State University. He joined Lambda Chi Alpha and lived up to every stereotype of frat boy life. He guzzled beer, dated a lot of girls, dabbled in drugs. He skipped classes his first semester, and only after he was placed on academic probation did he start to straighten up. He graduated with a degree in finance and economics and landed a